Page 31

Her third arrow hits the crone in the eye with such force that it pierces its skull, its brain and protrudes out of the back of its head.

It falters, stumbles and falls, inches from her.

Boleyn slips off her horse’s back and approaches the dying creature.

Its flesh is already cold, as though it is crafted from earth and wood and clay, not blood and sinew.

Boleyn isn’t superstitious, but this creature is altogether wrong.

Its breath is laboured, its remaining eye, small and red, watches her, but it cannot move.

She pulls a small hunting knife from her belt and kneels.

“You cannot win against me,” Boleyn whispers. “Now rest.” She pulls the knife across the crone’s throat. The creature gives one final, rattling gasp.

The guards and Wyatt find her kneeling over the corpse, her hands covered in its blood. She locks eyes with Wyatt, and sees something shift in his expression. She is no longer the haughty queen to him. No longer the mistress to tease. Now – now she is the one he wishes to hunt.

Boleyn and Wyatt ride side by side in near silence, in the wake of the hunt.

Her thirst for sport sated, Boleyn is eager to reach Plythe before nightfall.

Still, it’s sunset when they crest a hill and spot the River Kyttle winding languidly below them.

It is flush with narrowboats and fishing boats, moving in an orderly manner from dyke to dyke.

Carthorses trudge along the banks pulling houseboats.

On the far bank, a watermill’s wheel revolves.

And below the water’s surface, dozens of pale shapes meander.

The whales of Swegan. Were Boleyn to dive into the river, she would hear no sweeter song than the whales’ speech.

It is their vocal cords, after all, that string the lute that brought her here.

“Does nothing happen quickly in this damn county?” Wyatt says.

“Evidently not. You should fit right in,” Boleyn replies, then with a laugh she urges Fauvel into a canter down the hill.

They aren’t far away now. Boleyn lets the retinue stay on the main road, on the hills above, while she follows the river.

She has read stories about what she will soon see.

Her mother, who was once a lady-in-waiting here, has told her tales of the marvel of the palace and the Kyttle Falls.

Even if she and Howard despise each other, it will be worth the journey to see this place with her own eyes.

As the smell of the sea grows, so does the sound.

A low roar that undercuts the rumble of the carriages above her, and then, gradually, drowns them out.

Then Boleyn turns one final river bend and they are laid out before her, like a curtain being drawn back on a painting: Kyttle Falls, and the Palace of Plythe.

The falls tower over Boleyn, as tall and thunderous as the lightning tower at Brynd.

And at the top of the falls, a series of stone arches stretches from bank to bank, forming a bridge that leads, at the very centre of the river, to the gleaming points and many windows of the Palace of Plythe itself.

The palace perches on the very edge of the falls with a fragile grace that makes it seem eternally on the brink of toppling.

Boleyn flushes with the impossibility of its elegance.

Ahead of her, the riverside road splits.

One branch climbs the bank in savage turns.

One branch burrows through the rock in a more gentle incline, eventually coming up into the open air close to the coast on the other side of Plythe.

And a third, final branch of the road curves out over the river, skating the froth, until it comes to a thick, stone pillar that soars from the base of the falls.

A steady stream of wagons makes its way towards this pillar, depositing goods meant for the palace – food, livestock, fabric, candles – inside the stone, whereupon a mechanism powered by the plummeting water drives the goods up, inside the pillar, into the heart of the palace.

“This is one sight to which no poem can do justice,” Wyatt says, having caught up with Boleyn.

He and she stare at Plythe, then silently follow the winding, fall-side road.

At the top, they reunite with Boleyn’s retinue, and travel together the final steps to the first of the palace’s river arches, upon which sits a gatehouse.

At the entrance, a small gathering of shapes shelters in the shadows of the porch.

Boleyn pushes Fauvel into a tired trot, and as the gap between her and her companions widens, a figure detaches itself from the gatehouse and runs along the path towards her.

“Sister!” the shape shouts in a high voice, waving its arms. “Sister! You’ve arrived!”

As she runs out of the building’s shadow, Boleyn sees Queen Howard for the first time, and has to cling to Fauvel’s mane to steady herself.

Howard has a slim waist and wide hips. Her skin, deepest brown, is smooth and gleaming.

Her features are delicate, apart from her lips, which are plump and kissable, and her hair, which is a glory of curls.

She is, undoubtedly, as beautiful as all the rumours said.

She is also, undoubtedly, just a child.

Howard comes to a stop at Boleyn’s stirrups, looking up at her with a wide smile. She is still wearing silken slippers, meant for the clean floors of a palace. They will be ruined on the pebbles. Boleyn tries to return the smile, but she cannot.

Howard is clearly naive, spendthrift, improper, silly.

A child .

“You look tired, sister,” Howard says. “Come inside and rest.”

“Yes, thank you,” Boleyn manages to say. “It’s been a long journey.”

Howard walks beside Fauvel, hand on the horse’s neck, until they pass beneath the gatehouse and into the first of several long, narrow courtyards set over the river.

The walls are extraordinarily high, partly to defend from any unexpected flooding, and partly to provide some shelter from the noise of Kyttle Falls.

Only a few narrow slots serve as windows through which Boleyn can spy the river.

Still, despite the shelter, they have to shout in order to be heard.

Seymour would hate it here, Boleyn thinks with a smile.

The gathering at the gatehouse turns out to be a mixture of Howard’s ladies-in-waiting and servants, milling together without thought to rank or propriety.

When no one brings her a step, Boleyn attempts to dismount by herself; a task she would usually be able to accomplish with ease, but which she finds increasingly difficult as her pregnancy progresses.

“Let me help you,” Wyatt says, catching her as she slips awkwardly from Fauvel’s back. His arms are unusually strong for a man who spends his life writing, his grip around her waist firm and warm. She steadies herself on him as she lands and finds herself braced against his chest.

“There,” he says quietly. “I have my uses after all.”

It is the gentleness of the quip, more than his strength, that sends a jolt of unwelcome desire through her. She moves away from him, more quickly than is natural.

“Come in,” Howard says, pulling Boleyn towards the palace. “You must be exhausted. I want you to sleep immediately so that we can spend all morning together tomorrow.”

Boleyn follows her into an airy vestibule.

Here the windows offer views on one side of the falls, and on the other out to the Swegan Sea.

The floor is made of an intricate pattern of different shades of polished wood; nothing like the floorboards of Brynd or even the elaborate tiles of High Hall.

Sunset streaks through the western windows, a peach sky over charcoal water.

As they make their way through the palace, Howard peppers Boleyn with inanities.

The most interesting thing about Howard, as far as Boleyn can tell, is her lap dragon.

As a rule, Boleyn dislikes the idea of lap dragons, even though they’re all the rage among the nobility and royalty of Elben and Capetia.

Boleyn prefers her pets on the larger side – big dogs, horses and the like, and of course her own dragon Urial.

But Howard’s lap dragon is, like its mistress, small and exquisitely beautiful.

Its body is no bigger than one of the songbirds caged at High Hall, although its neck and tail are long and slender.

Its soft, golden underbelly gives way to deep purple and blue scales on its head and along its back and wings.

It twists its way around her arms and neck and waist in a constant flicker of motion.

Boleyn is shown into a delightful suite overlooking the falls, with a large fireplace and plenty of cushions on the window seats. On and around her bed are a dozen or more gifts – fabrics, trinkets and more musical instruments, and even an elaborately carved cradle.

“I had them made up especially for you and the baby,” Howard explains. “I thought they would make you happy, since you said you liked the lute.”

Boleyn clears her throat, hating herself for having been so unkind. “This is too much, sister.”

“I enjoy giving gifts. I give things to everyone,” Howard says, fluttering into the room and plucking the string of a harp.

Boleyn stifles a sigh. She has only spent minutes in Howard’s presence and can’t imagine wanting to spend any more than that with her, despite coming here intending to fashion a friendship.

Still, while she is already planning her escape back to Brynd, she cannot do so for at least a week without appearing rude.

She will have to bear it for now, then she can safely keep Howard at a distance until they meet again at the Moon Ball, the festivity where the great and mighty of Elben congregate to celebrate the bordweal and honour Cernunnos.

She invites Howard to sit with her on the window seat.

“You like beautiful things?” she says, stroking Howard’s lap dragon, which croons.