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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Seymour

S eymour has grown to despise letters. She receives them weekly from her brothers.

Edward’s missives are full of commands to place herself in front of the king as soon as he returns to Brynd.

He has married uglier women than you, sister , he writes often.

It’s the closest to a compliment he will ever give to Seymour.

Thomas’s letters are more realistic: If he wants to play with you while Queen Boleyn is with child, let him.

You’ll receive some trinkets and you’ll do the family some good if you perform well.

But it is not these letters that cause Seymour most anguish. It is the one she must write, and soon.

Your Majesty, most kind and gracious Queen Aragon, she writes, When last we spoke you gave me a task…

She scrunches up the paper and tosses it into the fire.

She has already burned a dozen sheets trying to explain why she has not yet killed her new mistress.

She knows that her letters are likely being monitored, probably by more than one party.

Boleyn herself; Wolsey; maybe even her brothers.

Nothing can be stated baldly, but she needs to be frank enough to placate Queen Aragon.

She has tried lying: intimating that she will do it, one day; that she’s biding her time.

She has tried reasoning: suggesting that to kill Boleyn would place Aragon herself in danger from the king.

But none of it rings true, and her words wither as they drop from her pen.

Seymour throws her quill down, then bangs the table. If she could only confide in her brothers, they would be able to craft something contrite. But Thomas is still abroad and Edward is probably scheming his advancement at High Hall. She must deal with this alone.

She smooths another piece of paper.

Queen Aragon, she writes, knowing she will burn this page alongside the others, You have turned me into a traitor, madam, whatever path I choose. Either I must betray you, you who gave me a safe haven, or I must betray Queen Boleyn, who—

Seymour pauses. She cannot write what she truly wants to write about Boleyn, even on a piece of paper destined for the flame.

If Queen Boleyn were simply pregnant, I think I could do what you ask. But the way she carries herself, hand on stomach, cheeks flushed, eyes fervent, is a poem. I cannot destroy a poem. Please do not make me.

Seymour stares at the drying ink. She disappeared the glass of poisoned wine the day after her arrival, the same way she once heard Thomas talk of wayward diplomats being disappeared in far off lands.

A gentle push from a cliff, the ocean a raging, silent accomplice.

The remaining leaves are still hidden in her window seat.

She sometimes wonders whether she could still do half of the job, for Princess Tudor had informed her, when she gave her the leaves, that if turned into a paste and rubbed over the stomach they can bring about miscarriage.

But even if she had the courage, how could Seymour manage to gain access to Queen Boleyn’s naked belly?

Sometimes she catches the queen watching her, and she sees the question form in Boleyn’s mind every time: what kind of spy are you? If spying were Seymour’s task, she is indeed doing a poor job of it. She asks no questions. She goes exactly where she is told. She does not try to ingratiate herself.

Perhaps… perhaps she could be a spy, though. She must give her former mistress something of value. Would Queen Aragon accept knowledge, in place of death? Does Seymour even possess the skills to gather such knowledge?

She makes her way upstairs with new determination.

Winds, ferocious as the wild dragons that fly over Uuvek, buffet the tower.

In the queen’s antechamber, servants are roasting spiced apples over the fire, so the whole room smells of caramel and aniseed.

For once, Mark Smeaton is not playing an instrument but is sequestered beside the queen, along with his spouses and Mary Boleyn.

Gaming tables have been set up along one side of the chamber, and most courtiers are busy gambling or playing cards, or the more aggressive beadulác .

In another corner, Mary Boleyn’s children crouch over spinning tops.

Outside, a shard of lightning hits the tower and is absorbed through the stones, a living web of white light.

The vibration shivers through Seymour’s body from her skull to her feet.

When she first came here, Seymour had hated the sensation.

There is much about Brynd that she has grown to enjoy. Love, even.

Seymour tarries beside the hearth until the first of the apples are ready, then follows the servants over to the queen, under pretence of waiting for food.

“What do you make of it, Lady Seymour?” Boleyn says as Seymour approaches.

She stands and spins, her dress splaying out around her.

It’s the scarlet fabric Seymour picked out.

She was right – it does suit Boleyn. The shade lends the queen’s dark hair a warm sheen.

It’s thin material too, emphasising the hint of a bump.

“It is beautiful, Your Majesty. But then you would look beautiful in anything,” Seymour says truthfully. There is a change in Boleyn, though. She seems more brittle. Fevered, even.

“Careful, George. Lady Seymour is going to steal your crown for most charming courtier,” Boleyn says. Mary, Mark and George laugh. Seymour joins in, pretending that she isn’t the object of their joke.

“Sit here and tell me all your secrets,” George says, offering her his chair.

Seymour does as she’s told, feeling as though she’s stepping into a dragon’s lair.

“My sister has us studying old maps,” Mary tells Seymour.

A parchment is stretched between Rochford and Mark, not so much a map as a blueprint.

Brynd’s craggy edges and maze-like rooms are drawn in detail.

Seymour wonders if there might be any secrets hidden there that Queen Aragon would find interesting.

“I am considering digging an ice chamber,” Boleyn tells her. She points to a staircase that leads from the basement kitchens into the foundations of the castle, above the chamber where the lightning is held. “There’s an old tunnel that once led towards Pilvreen. We could dig out from there.”

George selects a roasted apple from the servant who’s been hovering nearby, and offers a spoonful first to Mark, then Rochford, since their hands are occupied with the map. “It’s winter, sister,” he says as he does so. “Why on earth would anyone want ice now?”

“It’s not for now, it’s for summer, you dullard.”

“No fighting, children,” Mary says. She turns to Seymour. “This is what I had to put up with as a child, Lady Seymour. Is it not a wonder that I’ve retained my sanity?”

Seymour smiles again, her heart twisting painfully. Her family is so unlike the Boleyns. Her brothers’ jibes are always intended to hurt.

“Are you not worried that the tunnels will cave in?” Rochford says once she’s swallowed her apple.

Boleyn simply looks at her. Seymour runs a hand over the parchment. “Do you like maps, Your Majesty?” she asks.

“I like exploring.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when you leave Brynd?

” Seymour says. The way Boleyn and her siblings glance at each other tells her that she was too obvious.

Even she can see that it was a clumsy attempt to get information.

Trying to cover her shame, she continues, “The very first Lord Seymour was an architect. My family’s home is full of such drawings.

When I was a child I used to pore over them and imagine finding hidden rooms.”

George and Mary aren’t very good at hiding their smirks. Boleyn, though, tilts her head, staring at Seymour. “And what did you imagine finding in those hidden rooms?”

The truth is: nothing but solitude and escape. But she says: “Oh, what every girl dreams of. Fine jewels. Dresses. That kind of thing.”

Boleyn’s mouth twitches. Seymour is suddenly very sure that she did not dream of finding dresses or jewellery as a child.

“What else?” Boleyn says.

Seymour casts around for something that might impress the queen.

“Ancient things, Your Majesty, beyond common knowledge or power. A holy relic, or the Steorran sword. Or… or one of the sunscína .”

Mark looks up. “What is a sunscína ?”

“It’s an old wives’ tale,” says Mary. “Six glass discs that the queens of Elben used to communicate with each other.”

“How did they work?” Mark asks.

“They didn’t, silly; they’re a myth,” George says, pinching Mark’s chin.

“Can you imagine the queens of Elben talking to each other willingly?” Rochford says. The group laughs.

Shortly afterwards, Boleyn decides to go for a walk, refusing all offers of accompaniment.

Seymour slips out of the antechamber after her, knowing that her absence won’t be noticed.

She follows the queen from a distance. Servants hurry to bring Boleyn’s hooded cloak and gloves.

Seymour does not receive the same treatment, and has no opportunity to find Clarice or return to her room.

She must face the chill air or risk losing Boleyn’s trail.

Tucking her hands into her sleeves, Seymour follows Boleyn through the herb gardens and up a flight of steps into the orchards.

She keeps to the side, and flits between trees.

As ice sinks into her extremities, she throws up a prayer to Cernunnos that Boleyn is indeed hiding something of value to Queen Aragon, otherwise her impending death from winter fever will be in vain.

Boleyn comes to a halt very suddenly, sinking to the ground as if at prayer. Seymour wonders, at first, whether she is digging something up. Then Boleyn’s shoulders shake, and Seymour realises that she is sobbing.

Without thinking, Seymour darts to Boleyn’s side, pulling a handkerchief from her dress pocket.

“Your Majesty,” she says, kneeling. “Can I help? Are you well?”

Boleyn accepts the handkerchief, tear-blurred and tear-confused. “Lady Seymour?”

“Should I fetch help?”

Boleyn shakes her head, one arm pressed across her stomach, the other frantically wiping away tears.

Seymour must be the last person Boleyn wishes to see.

And yet Seymour desperately wants to be the one Boleyn confides in – a desperation beyond her desire to spy for Aragon.

A memory surfaces of another woman, stopping very still in the galleries of Wulfhall, hands cradling her swollen belly.

“Is it the baby?” Seymour whispers. “Do you need a doctor?”

And there is the memory again. Mother? Mother, do you need a doctor?

“What do you care?” Boleyn says, though her voice heaves with repressed grief.

There is nothing that Seymour can say to make Boleyn trust her.

Silently, she pulls off Boleyn’s gloves and holds the queen’s hands in her own, thumbs stroking Boleyn’s knuckles.

Their knees touch through their gowns, the morning’s rain seeping through the fabric.

The wash of the sea mingles with the sound of the wind through fruit trees, though the clearest sound of all, to Seymour’s ear, is her own heartbeat.

“Oh!” Boleyn says, pulling one hand from Seymour’s and clasping her belly. Her expression is radiant, her joy spilling through what had moments ago been despair. “Oh, I felt it!”

Seymour can’t help but smile back. “Is it the first time?”

“Yes. The first kick. There it is again!”

Boleyn laughs through a fresh wave of tears then, impulsively, says, “Would you like to feel?”

Seymour nods. She has no interest in the baby, but she knows she is sharing in something important. Boleyn places Seymour’s hand over the right side of her swell. Their misted breath mingles. After a moment, Seymour feels it – the tiniest pulse, right against her palm.

“I was certain I’d lost it,” Boleyn whispers. Her expression is so open – so sad and hopeful and vulnerable.

“But you haven’t. It is so alive,” Seymour says. Like you , she thinks.

She and Boleyn smile at each other. Boleyn looks down at Seymour’s dress, and her mask falls back into place.

“Why are you not wearing a cloak, Lady Seymour?” she says.

Seymour falters. “I… I don’t really feel the cold. I felt like some fresh air.”

The lie lands between them, obvious and ugly. Boleyn stands and smooths her dress. “I am sorry that you followed me for nothing,” she says, looking down at Seymour. “I’m afraid you will have only good news to send to Queen Aragon.”

She strides back towards the castle, leaving Seymour still kneeling in the damp.

The next day, work begins on digging out an ice chamber.