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CHAPTER NINE

Boleyn

B oleyn has to give Lady Seymour credit – she barely reacts to the news. Boleyn catches the barest flicker of shock, and then she masks it.

“This is the most wonderful news.” Seymour smiles, then focuses on Boleyn’s wine glass. “May I?”

She plucks the glass from Boleyn’s grasp and exchanges it for hers. “I think yours was a little dirty. Please, have mine.”

Seymour moves away from Boleyn, towards the edge of the room, towards the door. Boleyn is minded to let her go – let her send the news back to Aragon as swiftly as possible – but then she decides to have a little fun.

“What do you think I’m carrying? A prince or a princess?” she asks.

Seymour freezes, staring at Boleyn like a stuffed fowl.

“Only Cernunnos knows such things.”

“But if you were a betting woman, Lady Seymour, although I must say you don’t look like one. Which would you pick?”

Seymour’s hand – the one holding the dirty glass – trembles.

Interesting. If Seymour were truly as dull as she appears, she wouldn’t hesitate to answer Boleyn.

Her dithering suggests that she understands the bind she is in: predict an heir and she betrays Queen Aragon, who could not give Henry a living son.

Predict a princess and she will anger her new mistress.

Mary steps in. “Really, sister, allow your new lady to settle before you begin to taunt her.”

“A question is not a taunt, Mary.” Boleyn finishes her wine. “Come now, Lady Seymour, I won’t hold you to your prediction.”

Something settles across Seymour’s expression, like a veil falling.

“Whether it is a son or a daughter, any child of Queen Boleyn and King Henry must be a force to make all of Elben proud.”

Boleyn laughs despite herself. “Very good. I see I’m going to enjoy you.”

Boleyn turns away, not wanting anyone to see her interest in her new lady-in-waiting. In one exchange, she has become a riddle that Boleyn would rather like to solve. But by the time Boleyn has settled back on her throne, Seymour has fled the room and Boleyn’s mind has moved on to other matters.

The crash of worries engulfs her more often than she would like to admit.

She informed Henry of the pregnancy the night she discovered it herself, and his replies have been effervescent, doing nothing to quench her anxieties.

He is so sure it is a boy. So sure she will carry it to term.

And while she is as certain of his love as she has ever been of anything, his persistent joy makes her think she needs something else in her armoury, to mitigate any disappointment should something untoward happen to the babe.

Something else, like a new stratagem, better and more daring even than her plan to take Lothair.

The day after Seymour’s arrival, Boleyn makes her first trip to Pilvreen.

It has been too long since she galloped Fauvel, and the mare is delightfully skittish.

Urial, the dragon gifted by Queen Cleves, flies beside her, twisting and snorting playfully in the sea gusts.

Boleyn imagines how regal she must look on her golden horse with her silver dragon, her guards trailing in their dust.

The town of Pilvreen lies a mile to the east of Brynd and owes much of its wealth and employment to the castle.

But as Boleyn proceeds into the high street, all she sees is distrust in the people she passes.

She had been prepared for this attitude: the resentful doffing of hats, the murmurs of “Your Majesty”, as quiet as they can manage.

While the other five territories venerate their queens, Brynd is different.

Memories do not fade in Elben, and the massacre of Pilvreen casts a shadow centuries long.

The sanctuary is the only building that survives from that time, its stonework patched and pockmarked – scars of the battle that raged here.

Bishop More is standing in the porch, as though he expected her, even though she sent no warning of her visit.

While she has only told Henry and her family of her pregnancy, she is in no doubt that the news will have spread by now to the more influential courtiers and holy men of the country.

Maybe even to the foreign courts. Perhaps this is More’s way of greeting a pregnant queen.

“Your Grace,” she says, dismounting Fauvel.

“Your Majesty.” He bows. “An auspicious time for you to come. I assume you are here to give thanks for our king’s victory over Lothair?”

“Indeed. And…” Boleyn notices how he draws away from her when she looks as though she might put a hand on his arm. “I was wondering if I might ask a favour.”

“I am entirely at your disposal.”

“I wish to have access to your library,” she says.

He tenses. “My library?”

“I’m an inveterate reader, you see,” Boleyn says.

“You won’t find much poetry in my collection, I’m afraid.”

He turns away, forcing her to follow him into the sanctuary – his territory.

“I don’t want poetry. I understand you have one of the finest collections of historical texts in Elben. I am interested in reading them.”

“I’m not sure…”

“That it’s appropriate for a woman to read such texts?” She keeps her tone friendly, but it’s clear from her expression who is the monarch.

“I meant no offence.”

“I take none,” she lies. “My desire to read your collection stems from a wish to see if there is anything in there that might allow us to strengthen the bordweal.”

More looks almost coquettish – it doesn’t suit him. “Surely the bordweal has just been proven to be as strong as ever?”

She refuses to fall into his trap: he must want her to confirm her pregnancy to him. She sidesteps.

“Strong enough to see off Lothair’s ships. Perhaps not strong enough to do what comes next.”

“What do you mean?”

She follows More to a chapel that sits in a nook off the eastern cloister.

Eight shrouds are lined up in front of an altar.

On the altar, on a cushion, sits a severed hand.

This must be the hand of the famed Torthred, a beloved saint of the region, who was martyred in the massacre of Pilvreen.

Boleyn does not know how to act. Is it wrong for a queen of Brynd to acknowledge the relic when it was a queen of Brynd who caused the saint’s death?

More bows to the hand, then begins sprinkling the shrouds with holy water.

Boleyn hesitates at the chapel’s entrance, eyeing the sheets.

The fabric is shaped oddly, as though the figures beneath are not whole.

“What happened to these people?” she asks More.

“The Holtwode crone, Your Majesty. These were the men who hunted it.”

“Bless them for their sacrifice,” Boleyn says, making the sign of Cernunnos. She turns away from the bodies, but cannot find her thread. She is sure that one of the bodies is missing its head. She has mercifully not suffered from morning sickness, but the sight turns her stomach.

“You were speaking of what comes next, once the king has defeated Lothair,” More says.

“Yes. Why are we content to merely defend ourselves?” Boleyn says. “The king has god-given strength beyond any human, and he gives some of that to the bordweal through the consorts. But what if he could take on even more of Cernunnos’s power?”

More raises an eyebrow. “You wish to see the king risk his life in yet more foreign wars? Are Alpich and Lothair not enough?”

As More turns to leave the chapel, Boleyn steps into the doorway, blocking him.

She has to be careful now, given More’s affiliation to Queen Aragon.

For all she knows, he may be aware of Quisto’s involvement with Lothair.

He may be devoted to Cernunnos above all, but he is not impartial when it comes to matters of politics.

No one is, no matter what they may claim.

She and he may be aligned in wishing to further Elben’s cause, but it does not follow that they will agree on how to do so.

“I do not like bullies, Your Grace,” she says.

“Elben should not have to live in constant fear of the bordweal failing. If we can make a show of strength beyond the protections, beyond paltry countries like Lothair, then perhaps those who covet our island will think better of their aggression. It is not enough that we simply take back our ancestral lands from Alpich. Elben deserves to be greater. It deserves more respect.”

“A most admirable aim,” More says. “But I doubt that my library would be of use. You may be better served by the records at High Hall.”

“I think not,” Boleyn says.

There’s a long silence. She enjoys watching the bishop squirm. If George or Mark were here, they would try to fill the void. But Boleyn knows how to wield silence.

The bishop breaks first, as she knew he would. “Anything that is in my home is yours. Only… may I issue a warning?”

“You may. I may not listen, though.”

“You call it my library, but it is not mine alone. Many generations of bishops have added to its collection. And among those texts are some dangerous ideas.”

“I am perfectly capable of discerning which ideas are useful and which are not.”

The bishop bows. “I don’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

Boleyn wants to push the point – What do you mean to suggest then?

– but she knows she’s won. Best not humiliate him further.

Besides, she’s pathetically grateful to leave that haunted chapel with its maimed corpses.

More leads her through the sanctuary and into his library.

It is a vast room. Every wall is lined with books and ancient scrolls.

The few windows are narrow, to limit sun damage to the parchment.

In the centre of the space, a wheel-like machine bears a dozen small tables, upon each of which lies an open tome.

More shows Boleyn how the machine moves, so that a scholar may study several texts at once.

“I should like to read anything pertaining to the bordweal magic,” Boleyn tells More, running a hand along one of the shelves.

“Particularly anything written at the time that the bordweal came into effect. If I can understand exactly how the magic works, perhaps I can work out how to wield the king’s power more effectively. ”

“Very little survives from that time,” More says. “Much of that knowledge was burnt in the massacre, unfortunately. The only texts I possess from around that time are here.”

He leads her to a dark corner, where the books are noticeably older – many of them have peeling covers or discoloured pages.

Boleyn trails a finger over their spines.

She feels as though she could reach back through the ages to speak to their authors.

Eventually, she picks a selection, using More’s increasing irritation with her choices as her guide.

As she mounts Fauvel, the books wrapped in beeswax cloth and stowed in a saddlebag, More bows. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Your Majesty. I truly do.”

“For the glory of Elben, Your Grace,” she replies.

His eyes follow her as she rides away.