Page 69 of Six Wild Crowns

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play stupid.”

Boleyn laughs bitterly. “Indeed. If I lose my wits what will I have left?”

Mary steps back, studying her sister. “What has happened?”

“Noth—”

“Nothing, again. Fine. Do you need me to fetch a physician?”

“No.”

Boleyn runs her hand along the wooden panelling and goes to the window. In the distance, she can glimpse the turret of the folly just above the treetops.

“I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself,” Mary says, more gently now.

“I miss him, that is all,” Boleyn says. It’s a cruel thing to say to her sister, who has missed her own husband every moment of the past three years, but it will at least end the conversation. Except this time it doesn’t.

“Would you like me to write to the king and ask him to visit?” Mary says, rubbing Boleyn’s back.

“Why should you write to my husband?” Boleyn says, laughing at the notion.

“I take care of my family above all else. If a little impropriety will help you then I am not afraid of judgement,” Mary says.

Boleyn shakes her head. Henry cannot see her like this. It might disgust him, and there is no coming back from disgust. The thought rocks Boleyn: she always prided herself on marrying a man who loves her for her mind, not her beauty. So why is she so concerned about him seeing her ribs?

“Are you certain?” Mary says.

“When am I ever not certain, sister?” Boleyn says, trying to dismiss Mary with a flick of her hand. “I am not a mewling child in need of constant companionship, and if I were I am perfectly able to write to my husband myself.”

“Cynn æ hredsigor?” Mary says.King and victory.The family motto.

“Hredsigor,” Boleyn repeats. No king. Only victory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Seymour

Something’s very wrong. Seymour realises it on the journey to Brynd, as the fenlands of her home morph into woodland and then thick forest. She tells the driver to ride as far and as fast as he can on the remains of a ruined scrind road that once followed the coastal path, so eager is she to reach Boleyn. They travel through the night, but by midnight, once the old scrind magic has worn out and they are moving more slowly, she realises her mistake.

“Stop the carriage!” Seymour calls out, hammering on the door.

“What’s the matter?” Clarice asks, woken from their doze. Seymour can only shake her head as the groomsman opens the door and she stumbles out into frostbitten dark, finally releasing a torrent of vomit onto the edge of the path.

No one says anything, they just quietly offer their mistress water and bread. Clarice brings a cloth to clean her mouth. They have to make two more stops for Seymour to bring up the remainder of her dinner, and by the third time, they all know what this might mean.

“It must be something I ate,” Seymour explains weakly, but she has no doubt that by the time they reach Brynd, the king will have been informed of her condition, even on his warship heading forthe ice-ridden islands of Thawodest. He’ll be thrilled. A second pregnancy. The possibility of a new heir. A confirmation of his virility, after only one girl child to show for so many years of trying. Seymour should be returning her servants’ secret smiles of congratulation. She should be joking weakly about cravings. Clarice sits next to Seymour in the carriage, holding a dampened towel against her forehead. All Seymour sees is her mother, lying clammy on her birthing bed. All she hears is her shallow, birdlike breaths. The inevitable, terrible enacting of balance: life produced; life taken.

By the time the carriage trundles past the port of Garclyffe, the sun has risen and the sound of wind-buffeted seagulls echoes clear and shrill across the cliffs. From Garclyffe, the road curves away from the coast and towards Pilvreen instead of leading directly to Brynd. A little further on the forest recedes and they come to a crossroads. Ahead: the road to her old home at Daven. To the left: Pilvreen. And to the right: Brynd.

“I think someone’s coming this way,” Clarice says, craning their head out of the carriage, one arm still pressing the cloth to Seymour’s forehead. Seymour pushes Clarice’s arm away and looks out too, relishing the wind’s bite. Two figures are approaching down the road from Brynd, both on horseback, a silver dragon frisking in the air above them. There is no mistaking the figure who rides in front, even from this distance.

“Boleyn,” Seymour whispers, smiling for the first time in hours.

Boleyn is wearing a green, feathered cap and velvet riding gown, and uses one hand to guide her mare while the other clasps her stomach. Behind her, the stewardess of Brynd sits astride a palfrey.

“Sister!” Seymour shouts, then must swallow another wave of nausea.

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