Page 70 of Six Wild Crowns

Boleyn doesn’t reply until she reaches them. There is a brittleness to her smile that Seymour can’t read.

“Sister! We did not expect you until later today,” Boleyn says.

“We drove through the night,” Seymour says.

“Then you must go on to Brynd and rest immediately, so that we can celebrate your visit tonight.”

“Where are you going?” Seymour asks her, ignoring the mentionof celebrations. Boleyn cannot know it, but Seymour has nothing to celebrate.

“The miners at Pilvreen have broken through to a new cave,” Boleyn says. “The foreman wants me to see what they have discovered.”

“And you must go now?”

“I must.” Boleyn’s gaze is intense, as though she wants to convey some hidden importance. Seymour bites her lip. The thought of a comfortable bed and the heartwood fires of Brynd is tempting, but…

“May I accompany you?” she asks. Boleyn hesitates, deciding whether Seymour is worthy of whatever secret this cave is harbouring.

“Certainly,” Boleyn says at last.

A horse is brought for Seymour from the rear of her retinue; a gelding that is fresher than those who’ve been pulling the carriages. Seymour climbs into the saddle slowly, stiff after the night spent in the carriage.

“Come, then,” Boleyn calls. “Let us see if we can reach the mines before luncheon.”

As they ride, Seymour’s head clears a little, the fresh air whisking away her tiredness and nausea. Boleyn talks of everything and nothing all the way through Pilvreen: her plans for the Moon Ball, her observations on the Palace of Plythe, the preparations she is making for the baby. It is only when they reach the other side of the town and the jarring sound of metal on rock greets them, that two things occur to Seymour: Boleyn has neither asked her about herself, nor has she said a single thing of substance. Seymour supposes she cannot speak freely in front of the stewardess.

The first shaft opening of the mines is just inside the forest’s perimeter, set between two natural rocks that look like pillars. The opening is narrow. The only things stopping it from being impossibly claustrophobic are the lamps burning inside the entrance.

“How often do you visit?” Seymour asks Boleyn as they dismount. Boleyn pauses as she reaches the ground, closing her eyes, hinged over. Before anyone can ask her if she’s all right, she replies:

“Not as often as I would like. Shall we go in? My stewardess here will look after the horses.”

Syndony waits in the clearing with the dragon Urial while Boleyn and Seymour pick their way across tree roots and stray rocks. The foreman – Oswyn, Boleyn calls him – looks between them with wide eyes. He had not bargained for two queens.

“Don’t worry about Queen Seymour, she’s perfectly capable,” Boleyn says, smiling back at her. “Shall we?”

She ducks inside the entrance, darting more quickly along the shaft than should be possible for a woman so pregnant. Seymour follows her rather more cautiously. Inside, candles set haphazardly into the walls light a slim passageway that leads deep into the rock. Tree roots emerge like snakes from the compacted soil.

As they move deeper into the mine, Seymour can feel the weight of the earth bearing down on her. The sound of hammers and chisels reverberate around the passageway. Sometimes the rock groans beneath the onslaught of the miners’ tools.

“How much further is it?” Seymour asks.

“This way,” Oswyn says, pointing towards an opening she hadn’t spotted. The crevice is so narrow Seymour tears her gown getting through it. She bites back an exclamation – it’s not Oswyn she wants to shout at, it’s Boleyn. What is she doing? How does she think this is appropriate for a queen? But Boleyn doesn’t look back. Seymour wonders if she ever has.

At last, when even lamplight can’t penetrate far through the darkness, Oswyn stops at a fissure of freshly tumbled rock and says, “It’s through here, Your Majesties.”

“Thank you, Oswyn, you can give me the torch now,” Boleyn says.

“Are you not coming with us?” Seymour asks.

Oswyn shakes his head. Seymour notices the way his hands jerk upwards and then down again, as though he were about to make a sign – a superstition, or the sign of Cernunnos, perhaps – and then caught himself.

“I… can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“When my men and I tried to pass through, something stopped us. I don’t think the caves through there are meant for the likes of me,” is all he says.

Intrigued, Seymour peers through the opening. Boleyn is standing in the middle of a cavern. Her torch glances off a craggy, crystal ceiling. She entered without any problem. But then again, Seymour can’t imagine even the most magical of doorways saying no to Boleyn.

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