Page 59 of Six Wild Crowns

“It’s my gift to you,” Boleyn says.

Howard snaps the book shut, and hands it back to Boleyn. “Oh, thank you, sister, but I cannot accept it.”

Boleyn laughs. “Are you so good at giving gifts that you can never receive them?”

“Please don’t think I’m ungrateful,” Howard says, taking Boleyn’s hands. “It’s only that – I have no use for it.”

Boleyn frowns, unable to work out this odd creature. “It’s a book. It isn’t meant to beused. It’s meant to be enjoyed. If you have too many of them then place it with your other books and simply pretend you have read it.”

“I don’t have any books,” Howard says. Her voice is carefree, but she draws her knees into her body.

Boleyn’s disbelieving laughter is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it when she sees Howard’s expression. The lap dragon nestles into Howard, sensing his mistress’s discomfort.

“You were never taught to read?” Boleyn asks.

“They tried,” Howard explains. “My cousins’ tutors did try to teach me. But I can’t… I’m not clever, like you or the king. The letters all mix together on the page.”

“But what about my letters? You read those, don’t you?”

“One of my ladies reads them to me, and then takes my dictation.”

Boleyn stands under the pretence of walking to the other window, unwilling to let Howard see her shock. It is constantly a surprise to her when high-born ladies, from families with means, are not educated. Her parents had been so forthright about the importance of all three of their children being taught to the same standard.

Howard follows her. “Please can we still be friends, sister? I know I’m stupid and silly…”

“Don’t say that,” Boleyn snaps, even though she was thinking it herself only moments before.

“It’s true though. Henry says so all the time.”

The blood that was thundering through Boleyn’s head goes quiet. She feels herself go very still, as though she is on the precipice of those falls outside her window, clinging to the edge.

“He says what?” she whispers.

Howard falters. “It’s all right,” she says, hands outstretched. “He doesn’t mean it as an insult; he’s just being truthful. He says lots of lovely things to me as well.”

Boleyn can’t answer her. She has never denigrated her husband. She has only ever worshipped him. She loved him, she married him, because she thought he was different to most men. He reminded her of her father, the way he admired her bookishnessand the way she enjoyed hunting, the way he laughed when she teased him instead of becoming angry. But this man, this man who insults one of the women he is supposed to love – this is not the man she thought she had married.

“How old are you?” she asks Howard.

“I’ll be sixteen soon.”

Boleyn sinks onto the bed, one hand clutching the post, one cradling her stomach. Henry is thirty-three years old. He married Howard when she was thirteen, and he thirty-one. She is the same age as his daughter, Princess Tudor.

“People say I’m very mature for my age,” Howard adds, sitting beside her.

“Do they?” Boleyn replies faintly.

The baby stirs. Boleyn reaches out a foot and pushes the side of the cot. It rocks gently. She can’t think clearly.

“Can some wine be brought?” she asks. Howard runs to the door and calls for the best wine in the palace. It is brought in a pretty silver cup and jug. Boleyn sips at it as she thinks.

“I will understand if you wish to return to Brynd,” Howard says, hovering over her, pulling at her lovely hair.

“Why do you say that?”

Howard smiles brightly. “No one stays at Plythe very long. When I heard Henry stayed with you for a sennight the other month, I nearly fainted with jealousy.”

“Does he not stay that long with you?”

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