Page 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Boleyn

B oleyn knew, when she decided to attend Seymour’s wedding to Henry, that she would shock people.

It’s not right – not tasteful – for a Queen of Elben to witness her husband declaring his love for another woman.

Boleyn had never questioned this before, and that bothers her, now she thinks about it.

She has always regarded herself as naturally curious.

She wants to understand how a heart pushes blood through the body.

She wants to decipher the strange Pkolack alphabet.

She loves an experiment, loves testing people as well as things.

As a child, her parents were infinitely patient with her constant stream of whys .

So why has she never before questioned this tradition? It suggests a shortcoming in her. It follows that she must remedy that shortcoming. She is no ordinary woman. She is a rebel, a free thinker. Thus: she will attend the wedding. She will deliver the gift to Seymour in person.

She had told herself that Henry would enjoy seeing her there.

Her contrariness is one of the reasons he loves her, after all.

But she can’t shake the knot that has sat in her stomach since the moment he spotted her in the pews.

His face froze. Like the rivers around Brynd in winter, all icy impassivity hiding a churning current.

He did not find her act of disobedience charming, or lovable.

He did not so much as look at her as he left the sanctuary with his new wife.

The journey from the sanctuary to her own chambers at High Hall is fraught with whispers.

The wing that belongs to her and her guests is in the north-east of the palace, and like all the queens’ apartments, it is on the third of the hall’s six levels.

She still isn’t familiar with the quickest way to reach her rooms – each storey is set around a series of courtyards, balconies and indoor gardens, and each courtyard is overlooked by myriad rooms. Bedchambers, antechambers, laundry rooms, pantries, garderobes and private kitchens, offices, watching chambers and dining chambers and guard chambers.

Then there’s the etiquette of which staircases Boleyn is permitted, as queen, to move through, for some routes are reserved for the servants alone, to allow them to get quickly and discreetly from space to space.

Boleyn is used to such palaces – after all, the Capetian court where she spent her formative years is far grander than High Hall – but she has yet to familiarise herself with its routes the way she has at Brynd.

Another failing. She must come to court more often.

She must be seen here. She is beginning to realise that it would be foolish to rely solely on the king’s love.

The court is awash with colour. The songbirds in their cages, dangling from every oriel window, glitter gold, red, yellow and turquoise.

Lap dragons wind around their mistresses’ necks, shimmering green.

Then there are the people. Queen Aragon’s supporters, dressed in violets – the closest to royal blue they are permitted to wear – keep their distance from Boleyn, as do Parr’s supporters with their white gowns, hose or handkerchiefs.

Queen Howard’s allies, sporting clothing of silver, bronze or gold, are warmer towards Boleyn.

Perhaps they feel that she, like their own queen, is being unfairly maligned by rumour.

Boleyn doesn’t spy any of Cleves’ supporters, which isn’t entirely surprising, but a few courtiers drift past her wearing the bright yellow that Seymour has chosen as her colour.

These are the people who skirt her, smirking as though their new queen has won a great game against Boleyn.

Boleyn clenches her fists inside her sleeves and raises her head still higher.

“Your Majesty?”

Boleyn pauses. A thickset man wearing a black cap and the red robes of an advisor stands, panting a little, in the doorway she’s just come through.

Cromwell. The last time she saw him was just after her wedding, and she doesn’t think she made a good impression.

She’s surprised, then, to spy a square of deep green fabric pinned to his doublet.

“Master Cromwell?”

“May I accompany you to your rooms?”

She nods her acquiescence. Cromwell is taller than her by some way, but despite his stature and build, there’s something insubstantial about him, as though the bulk of his being lies in intellectual rather than corporal matters.

“How wonderful of you to support your former lady-in-waiting today,” he says as they pass through a doorway and into an orangery filled with ripening grapevines.

“I’m glad you think so. I fear you may be alone,” she says.

“Not at all. Queen Seymour seemed very appreciative.”

He doesn’t look down at her as he says it, and his voice is level, agreeable. Still, a shiver runs up Boleyn’s spine. A distant cousin curtseys to Boleyn and she takes her time noticing the woman, thankful for the excuse not to answer Cromwell. When they keep moving, Cromwell changes the subject.

“The king told me of your research, Your Majesty.”

“Research?”

“Your desire to strengthen the bordweal and increase the divine magic?”

“Ah. Yes.” Boleyn smiles at Cromwell, determined to hide how wrong-footed she is that Henry has been discussing her with his advisors. She rebukes herself. Of course Henry’s discussed her. It shows how much he respects her, that he’s taken her research seriously enough to talk about it to others.

“It’s a desire I share,” Cromwell says. “I have long wanted to read the bishop’s books on the matter, but he is not fond of me.”

“I’m not sure the bishop is fond of anyone other than the great god,” Boleyn says.

“When the king told me that he had destroyed one of the books…” Cromwell places a fist over his heart in an exaggerated fashion. “There’s something distressing about the thought of ruining a book, isn’t there?”

Boleyn wonders whether Cromwell is trying to goad her into criticising Henry, which she will not do. Instead, she says, “I had no idea you were such a proponent of dangerous literature, Master Cromwell. You have become ten times more interesting to me.”

Cromwell laughs. Somehow, they have arrived at her guard chamber, although Boleyn could have sworn they were on the wrong floor.

On the opposite side of the room, armed guards stand on either side of the gilt double doors to her privy chambers.

Groups of courtiers and servants, all in green, stand when they spot her.

Cromwell holds up a hand, warning them not to approach for now.

It dislodges something in one of the pockets of his doublet.

“I wonder if I might assist you in your endeavour,” Cromwell says, lowering his voice and gesturing to her belly.

“You will soon have your hands full with other matters, but I believe in your aims. We both know that our enemies are only waiting for the right moment to invade. If there is anything that can strengthen the bordweal and aid our king in Elben’s foreign wars, we must find it out. ”

“And you wish to be the man to find it,” Boleyn says. “And to take the credit, no doubt.”

Cromwell presses his hand to his chest again. “How can we talk of credit when the safety of our country lies in the balance?”

“Indeed,” Boleyn says. She reaches over to his doublet and pulls from the pocket five squares of fabric: violet, white, silver, yellow and the orange of Cleves.

“Ah,” Cromwell says.

Boleyn hands him the squares.

“Loyalty above all, Master Cromwell.”

“I am loyal. I am loyal to the king.”

Henry doesn’t need anyone to pin their allegiance to their clothes. Their obeisance to him is a given.

Boleyn turns away from him, nodding to the waiting courtiers to approach. Cromwell blocks them.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I did not mean to appear dishonest.”

“Then you should not be dishonest, sir.”

He bows. “There is much I would do to gain access to Bishop More’s library. Is there no agreement we could reach that would be beneficial to both of us?”

Boleyn regards him coolly. The truth is, she rather likes Cromwell.

She regards him much as she regards Syndony: more worthy of her time than people born with wealth and status but lacking wit.

And a Cromwell in her debt could be extremely useful.

He has a network of spies and messengers almost as extensive as Wolsey’s.

If Syndony cannot find out the origin of those rumours, Cromwell might be able to.

And if he’s the originator, then this might be sufficient for him to stop them.

“I will think on it, Master Cromwell,” is all she says, as she sweeps past him towards her private apartments.

Her family is waiting for her, gathered around a game of beadulác . George and Mary are staring intently at their board, Rochford, Mark and Wyatt standing behind them. Mary’s children sit at the window with their tutor and grammar books.

“I’m taking very good odds on your sister,” Mark tells Boleyn as she approaches the gaming table. She holds the back of Mary’s seat, rocking gently from foot to foot to ease the discomfort in her back, making her hipbones click oddly.

She can see immediately that George is in the lead.

He is surrounded by discs of copper and bronze, each one stamped with a different image – dukes, knights, queens, cavalry and foot soldiers.

On the board is another pile of discs – some bronze, some copper, the images turned down so they’re not visible.

George holds aloft a thicker, golden disc, ready to hit the pile and see how many he can flip.

“How was the wedding?” Mary says, her eyes never leaving the board.

“We saw her getting into her carriage,” Mark says. “What a drab little gown for a drab little queen.”

“If she’d been wearing anything more elaborate you’d have scorned her for trying too hard,” Boleyn remarks. “You don’t need to insult her for my sake, dear.”

“I was insulting her because she deserves it,” Mark says, but Rochford quiets him with a hand on his sleeve. The group’s focus returns to the game at hand.

“If I take this, you’ve lost, sister,” George tells Mary.

“ If is a large word, brother,” Mary says. “I will not surrender if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Cromwell wants my help,” Boleyn tells them as she leans over Mary to study the size of the discs in the pile.

“Does he indeed?” Mary says. “He’s an interesting man, isn’t he? I don’t think there’s a single subject he does not strive to be an expert on. I once asked him about the properties of the Hildew Mountains and he ended up giving me a lecture on gunpowder.”

George throws his king… and the pile remains intact. Rochford and Mark groan.

“Ha!” Mary shouts. She brandishes her own king, taunting George with his possible defeat, then throws it, flipping every disc so that George’s queens are displayed neatly next to Mary’s cavalry. Mary collects her winnings, ungracious in victory.

As the others pack up the game, Wyatt says, “You never did say how the wedding went.”

Before Boleyn can respond, George snorts.

“Can you imagine her in bed tonight,” he says, then does an impression of a limp fish.

“Especially after our little firework sister,” Mark says.

“Stop it,” Boleyn says. She watches Rochford, who is primly sorting George’s beadulác discs back into their box, eyes downcast. She has more in common with Seymour than she does with the Boleyn family, and she knows it.

“Stop it,” Boleyn says again. “Seymour was my lady-in-waiting not so long ago. She was our friend.”

“Some friend, taking your husband from beneath your very nose,” Mary points out.

“Maybe she had her reasons,” Rochford says quietly.

Boleyn can’t bring herself to agree with Rochford, because even though she understands Seymour’s reasons, she cannot give her blessing to Seymour’s deception of Henry. But her silence and the chill that permeates the room is enough for the others to drop the topic.

Mark springs across the room, plucking a lute from a hook on the wall. He strums it experimentally.

“An excellent instrument,” he says.

“Wasn’t that the one Queen Howard gave you?” Wyatt asks.

George snorts again. “It’s all she’s good for, from what I hear. Music and whoring.”

Boleyn turns on them. “And what do they say I’m good for, do you think?”

Mary looks stricken. “We’re on your side, sister.”

Boleyn stares at them, blood pounding in her head. Inside her womb, the baby kicks and squirms. Wyatt coughs softly, moving to the side of the room, removing himself from the family argument.

“I know you are,” Boleyn says. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be on theirs too.”

She walks silently to the chamber that serves as her office. It’s a round room, set in one of the turrets. A bookcase occupies one wall, and a desk and chair the other, set beneath the only window. Boleyn sits at the desk, calls for ink and paper and when it is brought, she begins to write.

To Her Majesty Queen Howard of the Palace of Plythe, in the twenty-seventh year of the reign of our husband, the great King Henry, eighth of his name.

My dear sister,

One of my company just played a tune on the lute you so kindly gave me at my marriage to our husband, and it made me think of you.

It seems strange that we have never met, even though we are so intimately connected.

I have heard much about you, and I am in no doubt that you have heard much about me.

Shall we meet each other and work out for ourselves who we each are and what we think of each other?

Yours in expectation,

Her Majesty Queen Boleyn of the Palace of Brynd