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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Boleyn

B oleyn has always questioned the concept of trust .

She doesn’t understand those who talk about who to trust or how to trust .

Those phrases imply a decision. For Boleyn, trust is not a choice.

It is a sense, every bit as strong as smell or hearing.

She cannot decide to smell the lily unless she were to block up her nose.

She cannot choose not to listen to the seagulls at dawn unless she covers her ears.

To decide to trust or not to trust someone is akin to denying her body.

It should not be done. The only decision to make is whether she trusts herself or not, and that is no decision at all. Of course she does.

But Boleyn is less and less sure of herself.

Her inner circle is in flux, and a single question dominates her thoughts: who is the real Henry?

Does he love her, or just the idea of her?

What kind of man, who has seen war and ruled a kingdom for more than twenty years, marries a girl who has barely started her courses?

Can she trust him now, and can she trust their unborn child in his care?

Then the question follows – if she cannot, what can she do about it?

Since returning from Plythe, Boleyn has not slept well.

She cannot make herself comfortable, no matter how many pillows her maids bring, or how Syndony arranges them.

When she does dream, it is of Howard, and Seymour, and Henry.

In Boleyn’s dreams, he peels his face off to be with his other queens, then wears a mask to be with her.

She tries to tug the mask off, desperate to see what’s beneath the empty eye sockets, but he only laughs and presses her down, his bulk immoveable, his strength immeasurable.

It is in this mood that she visits Bishop More to make her will, Mary at her side. The bishop shows the sisters into his office, a small room added to one side of the sanctuary in Pilvreen. Boleyn goes to sit at the desk, but the bishop stops her.

“In this instance, Your Majesty, it is customary for me to write down your testament. You may dictate to me.”

He shows her and Mary to two less impressive chairs at the side of the room, and his servant brings them flatbreads and wine.

“My understanding is that you cannot share the contents of my will, my lord,” Boleyn says. More looks up from preparing his quills and ink and adjusting his paper so it sits perfectly perpendicular to the bottom of the desk.

“That is correct. You may rely on my discretion.”

She must choose to trust him and, strangely, she does.

More has never been her friend, but he believes in right and righteousness above all else.

He, perhaps alone of Henry’s friends and advisors, cannot be bought.

Mary takes her hand. Boleyn knows how difficult this is for Mary – any mention of dead spouses, of a lone parent being left to raise children, makes her grow uncommonly quiet.

George and Boleyn worry of a return to the weeks after Mary’s husband was taken by the plague, where neither they nor Mary’s children could reach her.

But Mary is the only person at Brynd who Boleyn trusts who has made such a will.

She wants Mary to be her advocate should the bishop try to persuade her out of her decisions.

“In the event that I die in childbirth and my child survives, I wish for my child to be cared for by one person alone.”

More nods. “The king.”

“No. My sister Mary.”

Bishop More and Mary look at each other. A silent conversation, eliminating the pregnant woman who surely cannot know her own mind.

“Sister, are you sure?” Mary says.

“Perfectly. Please write it down, my lord.”

Hesitantly, More does so. Boleyn continues: “Brynd will of course return to the king. My personal estate will pass to my child, held in trust with Mary. My jewels will be shared between Mary, my brother’s wife and the Queens Seymour and Howard.

My plate should be divided between George and his husband, and my parents should they outlive me. ”

Mary squeezes Boleyn’s hand. Boleyn turns to her. “I know it’s unusual, sister. But I’ve seen the way you raise your children. I know you will give any child of mine the attention and fairness they are due.”

“You know I will. But have you warned the king?”

“My will is binding, is it not?” Boleyn asks More.

“It is. Not even His Majesty is able to gainsay it. But he could make life very difficult for your sister.”

“Mary will be the judge of whether he can see the child.”

“It is unconventional. You are, it is hoped, carrying the heir to Elben’s throne,” More says.

“And Henry would be the first to admit that his childhood was warped. I would much rather my child be raised in a loving household, as I was, than in a household of nurses and tutors, only seeing their father when he can spare them a day or two in the midst of his kingly duties.”

More relaxes. “I understand perfectly. If the king objects, I will put those same arguments to him. I am sure he will see their logic.”

“Do you think he will see the logic?” Mary asks Boleyn as they ride back to Brynd. Mary has been quiet ever since the meeting with the bishop, but not in the soft lostness that Boleyn had expected. Her eyes are still sharp, her movements precise.

“I think I will live and he will never need to know, sister,” Boleyn says.

Her own mind wanders to the mines on the other side of the town, where Oswyn even now is trying to break through to a chamber, perhaps the hambre mentioned in the bishop’s ancient book.

She nods at a fruit-seller on the side of the road.

The man nods back, barely bowing, and Boleyn spies a sheaf of pamphlets wedged at the side of his stall.

Is this another attack on her, or something that Syndony has arranged?

She pauses, not wanting Mary to see her insecurity.

Curiosity wins out, as it always does with Boleyn.

“Pass me one of those,” she says to the trader. He flushes, and she might have laughed at his stammered attempts to refuse a queen if they did not tell her what the pamphlet contains. She holds the paper in one hand, reins in the other, reading as she rides.

“You do not look happy, sister,” Mary says.

“Is it any wonder?” Boleyn says, thrusting the pamphlet towards her.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR QUEENS?

In years past the Queens of Elben held the bordweal firm,

right and proper channels of our great King’s divine power.

They were humble, loyal and true.

What has gone so wrong?

Today the bordweal fractures and grows weak. Elben’s enemies

amass. Our men and boys go to war. Our King fights for our

freedom, his strength unchanged, his glory unabated.

It is the Queens who are failing us. They have one role: to

keep the bordweal STRONG. It began to weaken the moment

our King took a wife who was not humble, loyal and true. The

Queen of Brynd has notions above her station—

“Well that’s nonsense,” Mary says, crumpling the pamphlet and tossing it to the verge. “Everyone with a mite of sense knows that the bordweal has been getting weaker for years. Whatever the cause, you are not it.”

“People will still believe it,” Boleyn says, shifting in her saddle. The pommel now presses uncomfortably into her belly. She’s unused to finding riding so difficult.

“What does it matter if people believe it?”

“Don’t be naive, Mary. This isn’t some silly village gossip. I’m a queen now. It matters.”

Mary shrugs, a sharp flick of her shoulders, like dislodging a fly.

“Then get your stewardess’s people to point the finger at one of the other queens. I’d say Howard, since he married her around then, except for some unfathomable reason you seem to be fond of her.”

“If anyone is humble, loyal and true to Henry, it’s Howard,” Boleyn says. “You may have something there though. Would it be too obvious to blame Aragon?”

Mary shrugs. “It might be worth trying.”

Boleyn nods, but she still shifts in her saddle. She should be comforted by this decision, but she cannot set her mind to it. For some reason, the story told to Howard by her nurse comes back to her now – the image of Medren’s eye, broken into six pieces but meant to be united.

“Would it be the right thing to do?” she murmurs.

Fauvel and Mary snort at the same time.

“Cernunnos above, Boleyn, why this sudden preoccupation with what is right ? Have you turned into Seymour? It’s the game, sister. You know how to play it. So play it.”