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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Seymour

I f Seymour was in any doubt as to the king’s intentions when he left to wage war on Alpich and Thawodest, she is left in no doubt by the time she returns from the font.

Their courtship is quick, carried out mostly by letter.

She’s glad of it. Her appearance is hardly likely to sway him to want her, and it gives her more time to craft her replies.

I can be my true self with you , he writes often. She wonders how often he writes the same to Boleyn and his other queens.

The more you write to me, the more grateful I am for your love , she writes to him. You know that I am a poor, broken soul, and your radiance mends me.

But he is the broken one. Boleyn, with all of her vigour, her family a fortress against the world, shone on him. Now, Seymour thinks, he wants to be the one to shine.

The proposal comes a full three hours after she receives Edward’s triumphant letter, barely legible, informing her that the king had asked their father’s permission for her hand.

She is sitting beside Boleyn in her antechamber when the messenger bursts in and hands it to her.

She turns it over, realising too late that Boleyn will recognise Henry’s handwriting.

“Would you care to go for a walk, Lady Seymour?” Boleyn says, her face unreadable. Only the slightest waver in her voice betrays her feelings.

Seymour flees. She cannot bear to witness her queen’s pain. Even though she has Boleyn’s blessing, in so far as she is willing to give it, she knows that welcoming the king’s courtship is a betrayal of one of the few relationships she holds dear.

My dearest Lady Seymour,

I write to you from the cliffs of Mathmas.

My days are spent at the port, readying our warships for the long voyage to Alpich.

My nights belong to thoughts of you alone.

You can be in no doubt of my regard for you.

Your gentleness and empathy have won my heart, in a way I did not think possible after the loss of my beloved Queen Blount.

There is nothing that I cannot tell you, nothing you will judge me for.

You know, from our letters, from our conversations, from your own diligent service to two of my wives, that being a queen is no easy task. It can be painful and tiring. It will drain you. But there is great joy to be found in a life of service to Elben, if you are willing.

You say you are broken. Permit me to make it my life’s work to mend you.

Become my Queen of Hyde, as soon as the war allows me to return to High Hall?

I know my courtship has been hasty – if we had all the time in the world I would woo you as you deserve to be wooed.

But the bordweal weakens with every day that Hyde sits empty.

I must marry soon to keep our kingdom safe, and there is no woman I wish to marry but you, my beloved.

Send your reply by this messenger.

Henry

With the letter is a gift – half a golden medallion. It’s a thoughtful betrothal present, for it is a nod to a tradition of Plythe, the territory where Seymour grew up. If he is following the usual custom, he will keep the other half of the medallion.

She sends her reply immediately, then retires to her room for the rest of the day, unable to face Boleyn and her family. There is no celebration for this victory.

Edward crows over his success as she dresses in her new royal chambers at High Hall.

She’s chosen yellow for her wedding gown.

Not quite gold, which would be too gaudy, but something jolly and inoffensive.

A small train, and slashed sleeves. The cut of the bodice is in the old, boxy style, beloved of Elbenese mothers.

Edward had sniffed at the choice, but Seymour stood firm.

When she had finally told Boleyn, the morning after the letter, she had simply nodded and said, “Distinguish yourself from the other queens, Seymour. Carve your own public image.”

It was not difficult to know what kind of queen she should be. The king has a certain view of her, and it suits her to promote that view. The quiet queen, to stand against Boleyn and Howard. The submissive queen, to stand against Aragon. The vacant queen, to stand against Cleves and Parr.

Clarice brings a selection of jewels, each laid out on a cushion of yellow velvet.

“Lord Thomas sent you these as a wedding gift,” Clarice says, pointing to a necklace of sapphires and diamonds that looks heavy enough to break any neck it adorns.

How very like Thomas. Her brother couldn’t be bothered to journey back from his ambassadorial position in the Uuvek court for his sister’s wedding, but he could spend a fortune that he doesn’t have on an extravagant gift.

Seymour ignores Thomas’s present and selects the least impressive of the jewellery: a simple set of pearl earrings and a matching bracelet. Queen Seymour is not extravagant. She merely owns the jewels: she rarely wears them.

“I knew all my training would be worth it,” Edward says, incapable of standing still. He addresses her maid. “Can’t you clean her hair? It looks so dull.”

The maid curtseys to him but glances at Seymour, unsure how to react. The normal hierarchies are in flux – for the moment, her brothers and father still control her. But in a few hours she will be superior to them. Not that she can ever imagine them remembering that and behaving accordingly.

“Do as we discussed,” she tells the maid. “The flowers will make it look better.”

The maid sets about threading buttercups and snowdrops through Seymour’s elaborate plait.

“The ambassadors are outside already,” Edward says. “Let’s see what gifts they’ve brought.”

He flings open the door without checking she’s ready, and swings his arm wide to invite those outside in. Having been an ambassador herself less than a year ago, Seymour is all too aware of how she must appear, especially compared to Boleyn’s enormous train and glorious length of loose, dark hair.

Seymour promised herself that she wouldn’t think of Boleyn today, but there she is, filing in last, taking a space at the back of the room.

She is dressed in her trademark velvet green, with an emerald silk veil over her face and her hair hidden beneath her hood.

There is no crown upon her head to mark her as a queen, but from the way she holds herself, even with the swell of her belly, no one could mistake her for anything but royalty.

Seymour stifles a strangled sound. Today is a joyful day. Today is not a farewell.

Why is she here?

“Come forward then,” Edward says loudly, ushering Aragon’s ambassador towards Seymour, oblivious to the twisted smile the woman gives her.

“Oh, queen-in-waiting,” she says. “I bring you a gift from Queen Aragon of the Palace of Daven. She wishes you long life in your marriage.”

She curtseys and passes Seymour a crystal vial that throws the dim light of the room into glittering circles on the walls. Inside is a golden liquid.

“It’s a perfume,” the ambassador explains. “A very special perfume, from a flower called the Queen’s Kiss .”

There’s the sting. The very flower whose leaves so recently flayed her hands. Seymour makes the obligatory thanks, grateful that her face is bland enough to mask how she really feels. With any luck, the ambassador thinks that she’s too stupid to understand the jibe.

The other gifts are given, and Edward snatches at them greedily, examining them and exclaiming over them as though they were for him.

From Queen Howard, a clavichord. When Seymour lifts the lid to look at the keys, the room gasps in admiration at the fine painting on the inside – a representation of the Palace of Hyde, seen from beneath the waves.

Seymour presses one of the keys, and it emits a sound like a fledgling bird, almost too quiet to hear in this big chamber with so many people.

Seymour smiles. It’s a sweet, thoughtful gift from a queen who apparently has heard enough about her to know that she wouldn’t have appreciated anything louder.

From Queen Cleves’ ambassador, Seymour receives a large, hooded crate that’s carried by four servants. Beneath the cloth is a jet-black panther. It raises its head from its paws and looks through amber eyes at the many faces staring down at it.

“An obsidian panther, Your Majesty,” Cleves’ ambassador says, “to wish you fortitude.”

Seymour kneels to examine the creature. The crate has a plaque attached above the door, engraved with the creature’s name: Haltrasc .

“What does the name signify?” she asks.

“It is from the language of Her Majesty’s country,” the ambassador says. “Loosely translated, it means Holdfast .”

Seymour opens the door and takes up the leash attached to Haltrasc’s studded collar. She half expects the panther to pounce on her immediately, but he simply stretches, yawns and pads out of the cage as though he were a sulky child forced outside for a walk.

“Hello, Haltrasc,” Seymour says, already smitten.

Cleves’ ambassador hands her a piece of dried meat, and she holds it out to the panther.

He chews on it, his amber eyes never leaving Seymour’s brown ones, then he presses his silken head into her palm, encouraging her to scratch his ears. Seymour laughs delightedly.

“What a beast,” Edward says appreciatively.

He leans down to stroke Haltrasc, and quick as lightning the panther whips round and nips his fingers.

Edward cries out, more in fury than pain.

He raises his arm to strike, and Seymour pushes the panther behind her.

She has witnessed her brother throw animals across the floor in a rage before.

“No!” she says, louder than she’s ever spoken before. “He’s only nervous, brother.”

“Vermin,” Edward spits.

“He is a wonderful gift,” she tells Queen Cleves’ ambassador, passing Haltrasc back into his crate. “Please thank Her Majesty on my behalf.”