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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Boleyn

B oleyn has never ventured to the west side of Elben before.

Her family’s estate is on the border of Queen Aragon and Queen Parr’s territories.

She is used to cliff edges and mottled heather.

But the countryside leading to Plythe is gentler, every hill a sigh.

The houses are made not of stone but of wattle and daub, edged with carnations and covered in clematis.

The climate, too, is different. Sheltered from the gales of the Sea of Hreónessa that batter Elben’s east coast, Plythe’s air is fresh but dry.

Dozens of carriages trundle behind her, bringing Boleyn’s clothes, jewellery, presents for Queen Howard, food for the journey, servants and pets.

They can be heard across the many hills of this part of Elben – more effective than any herald with his trumpet.

And from the hills, people flock to witness the queen astride her fine, golden mare.

Newlyweds asking her for a fertility blessing.

Youths looking to lay eyes on the king’s true love.

Grandparents looking to lay eyes on his whore.

They gift her flowers and bread, songs and insults, and in return Boleyn makes sure to give each one a smile and a coin, even those who stare boldly, their hats remaining on their heads.

Boleyn didn’t make friends as a child. They flocked to her and her siblings, like dogs to their masters.

It was always the way with the Boleyns, even at the Capetian court where she was the outsider, subordinate not only to the queen and princesses but also to most of the ladies-in-waiting.

She simply waited and they came to her, intrigued, jealous.

So for Boleyn to be seeking out Queen Howard in this way is alien to her.

She is unaccountably nervous. She tries not to scratch the patch of skin on her ribcage, aware of her household’s eyes on her.

The skin is now flaking off, despite her ointments, leaving unsightly and painful grey flesh beneath.

She thinks of Queen Howard’s reputed beauty.

Howard. Mary. She’d wager that neither of them has to contend with such matters.

“Is there a hunting forest near here?” she asks the guards flanking her on their stately geldings. She wants to feel good at something. She wants to kill.

“Yes, Your Majesty, but—”

“Then let us make a detour.”

The guard hesitates a moment, then rides back through her train, shouting instructions.

No doubt they are under orders to keep her from doing anything too dangerous while she’s carrying Henry’s child, but few people have the courage to say no to Boleyn.

It is, after all, why she is riding to Plythe rather than holed up in a carriage.

She waits, her eyes closed, face upturned to the grip of the afternoon chill, while most of the household sets up camp and a small contingent prepares to head north with her to the hunting grounds of Braeden Forest.

“Someone really should sculpt you like that,” a voice says, startling her.

She opens her eyes to see Wyatt, perched uneasily on his own horse.

He alone of her little Bryndish family chose to accompany her.

Rochford, Mark and George remain at High Hall to join Mary and her children as they pay their annual pilgrimage to her husband’s grave.

“Do I make a good muse?” she asks him, raising her arms like the statues of the Capetian palaces.

“Now you’ve ruined it,” he says. “I was thinking of how to describe you in a poem. A queen usually so full of action in a rare moment of tranquillity.”

“You are the one who ruined my tranquillity.”

“And I do get so much pleasure from irritating you.”

She tsks fondly and turns away from him as the guard returns with her bow and a quiver of arrows. She settles the quiver over her pommel, so that it rests against her knee.

“Your Majesty,” the guard says, “A crone has been spotted in this vicinity. I really must advise caution. Perhaps we could wait until my men have driven it out?”

Boleyn gathers her reins. “If we leave the crone well alone it should not bother us.”

“But…”

“Either you can accompany me or I will ride alone,” she says.

With a heavy sigh, the guard signals to his fellows to fall in line. Wyatt is watching them, his usual smile vanished.

“May I join you?” he says.

“You’ll find no poems,” Boleyn warns him.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

They reach Braeden within the hour – Fauvel is swift and tireless and desperate to stretch her legs after the long, slow journey thus far.

Boleyn only brought a handful of hunting dogs, thinking to gift them to Queen Howard, but their baying is as glorious as the wind in her hair.

Her hunting dragons remain at Brynd, but Urial will serve in their absence.

He is a little bigger than a hunting dragon should be, nor is he the right colour to blend in with the trees, but he is wiry and swift and has an endearing nose for blood.

She sends him high with a flick of her wrist as they enter the forest’s embrace.

It does not take him long to spy something of interest, his neck weaving from side to side as he hovers some distance away; the tell-tale behaviour of a dragon that has spied prey.

Now it will be her dogs’ job to flush the creature out.

Boleyn turns to laugh at her companions, and almost expects to see Henry there, his face as hungry as hers, for the hunt, for each other. The way his eyes sparkled in surprise as they watched her pull ahead of him. It’s been a long time since he enjoyed any surprise she threw at him.

She turns her attention back to the hunt as they go deeper, following Urial’s path.

It’s not long before the hounds pick up the scent and the guard jumps off his horse to examine the tracks.

“It’s the crone. We may have more luck in the other direction.”

Boleyn lets out a long, low whistle, telling Urial to look for other prey.

They force the hounds to abandon the crone’s scent, and ride west through the woods instead of east, but wherever they go, they cannot seem to find any tracks but those of the crone.

Urial calls mournfully from above, unable to find another mark.

Eventually, the guard looks up at Boleyn.

His voice quivers: “I think it is following us.”

“But that’s not what they do, is it?” Wyatt says, his voice higher than normal.

“No. No, it’s not.” The guard eyes Boleyn’s stomach, as though the baby is to blame. Ridiculous superstition.

“Well, if it is hunting us, we had better hunt it ,” Boleyn says, whirling Fauvel round and urging her to follow the hounds before the men can stop her.

Realising she won’t be refused, the guard and Wyatt are soon riding on either side of her.

The humans are all silent now. The hounds’ baying increases.

“It is near,” the guard says.

“We don’t want the dogs getting hurt. Put them behind us,” Boleyn says.

The guard does as he’s told, his eyes wide.

Something moves in the trees ahead, and a moment later the crone appears, staring straight at them.

It’s a huge beast – as big as Fauvel. It moves with a muscled heaviness, and its claws, bent backwards, remind her of a human walking on all fours, knuckles pressing into the earth.

A pair of tusks protrudes from the crone’s lower mouth, sharp on one side, like knives.

But it’s the eyes that set Boleyn’s heart racing.

They look slowly at each human in turn, before settling on her.

It knows that she’s the leader of this pack.

Silently, Boleyn pulls an arrow from her quiver and notches it. She doesn’t raise the bow though, not yet – to do so would initiate a charge.

“If you’re frightened, stay behind me,” she tells the men.

The guards do not move, but nor do they advance to help her. Only Wyatt forces his horse to stand beside Fauvel.

“What can I do?” he says.

“Stay still,” Boleyn replies, grateful for his courage even though he’s useless to her.

With one smooth movement, Boleyn brings up her bow and releases the arrow. It flies straight at the crone’s head, but at the last moment the beast swerves, and the arrow embeds in a tree behind it.

“Damn,” Boleyn says.

The crone charges.

Fauvel bolts through the trees. Boleyn ducks beneath low-hanging branches, keeping her head close to the horse’s neck, the pommel digging painfully into her bump.

The beast crashes through the forest behind her.

Above her, Urial roars, and a blast of flame warms her back.

Bless the creature, he’s trying to protect her, but crones do not fear fire.

In the distance, Wyatt calls her name, but she is alone in the hunt now.

She looks back, and for an instant she’s struck by how human the monster looks.

The hunger on its face, the thrill of the chase…

The baby stirs in her stomach, shifting over, making her lurch.

Enough.

Boleyn takes control of Fauvel’s reins and swings her right, left, weaving between trees, supporting the mare’s balance with her calves.

The crone is more cumbersome, and before long there is space between them again.

When she has enough of a lead, Boleyn pulls Fauvel round to face it.

She plucks three arrows from her quiver and aims them at the beast’s heart.

The first arrow hits its chest, and it huffs but keeps coming. The second arrow pierces its neck, and an arc of blood sprays the trees around them, mottling Fauvel’s golden coat. It keeps coming. It is nearly upon them. Fauvel shifts.

“Steady,” Boleyn tells the horse.