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Boleyn watches as Henry produces a set of keys from a leather pouch, and passes one to the bishop.

The key is made of garnet, and it fits into a box beaten from copper plates and engraved with flames.

The bishop unlocks the box and withdraws from it a length of tattered cloth, once vivid purple, now faded to grey.

The binding cloth of the dowager queen, one of Henry’s stepmothers.

As she watches More burn the old cloth in the dragon’s flame, Boleyn imagines a day long hence when her son will replace her binding cloth with a fresh one as he marries his own beloved queen.

She stirs, trying to shift a sudden light-headedness, and focuses on More’s voice.

“And so King Aethelred found six wives, humble, loyal and true, and through their marriage he passed to them a portion of his new divine strength. Through their marriage, and through the castles of Cernunnos, the power of the bordweal was formed, and Elben’s enemies were expelled.

And ever since that day, so long as Elben is ruled by an heir of Aethelred and the six castles are occupied by queens humble, loyal and true, the power of Cernunnos has flowed from king to queens to bordweal, and thus we have thrived.

Heahthrima eCynn. Haethrima eHaehfaeder!

” Glory to the King. Glory to the Highfather .

More’s sudden shout echoes around the sanctuary, making Boleyn’s sister-in-law, Rochford, jump.

Boleyn wills George not to descend into juvenile laughter as she raises her arm for the next part of the ceremony.

More takes fresh purple cloth and binds Henry and Boleyn’s arms together. The bishop is rougher than he needs to be, the cloth so tight around her forearm that the circulation begins to wane.

“With this cloth, I invoke the ancient magics of this country. Lord Cernunnos, with this marriage the six palaces of Elben are filled. Grant us safety and protection, we beg of you. Beteoth tufolgestaella, Haehfaeder. ”

Something clouds Henry’s features. Boleyn doesn’t like the implication either – this reminder that the king must fill the six palaces, that he must have six queens, or the kingdom falls.

His other marriages were of convenience, that’s what he’s always told Boleyn.

This union, though – this is a love match.

He and Howard may have a meeting of bodies; he and Aragon may have a meeting of minds, but he and Boleyn – they have both.

She clasps Henry’s hand, but there’s still a shadow across his features that she cannot shift.

The Bishop holds the dragonflame lantern beneath their bound arms. His eyes are closed, as though he’s silently communing with Cernunnos.

Boleyn fights the urge to laugh. George, in the front pew, is losing his own struggle.

While she may defend Elbenese beliefs to the Capetians, the god has never been tangible to Boleyn the way He is to most. She has never heard Him answer her when she’s praying as Mary has.

Nor does Boleyn like it when the good she has made happen is attributed to Cernunnos.

It should be enough that He protects Elben.

Let the mortals have their own victories.

But as Boleyn stands in the oppressive beauty of the sanctuary, she feels the heat from the lantern and the divine magic begin to work upon her.

A heavy, floral scent fills the room. The cloth seems to flow across her skin, even though it doesn’t move.

This is the start of the true bonding, where the king’s inexhaustible strength is meted out to the consorts for the good of the kingdom.

Henry watches her. Of course, he’s been through this ceremony five times already.

He knows what to expect. He had warned her that it would be uncomfortable, and that no matter what she feels, she cannot make a sound if the bonding is to work.

But god help her this isn’t uncomfortable – this is torture.

She had imagined the divine power would make her strong, but she has never felt weaker.

Beneath her skin, she is being twisted, stretched, snapped, suffocated.

The pain is a fever, engulfing. It is the bite of a hundred dragons.

It is the bone-deep memory of overhearing her parents agreeing that Mary was the beautiful sister.

Henry exhibits no discomfort. Maybe her experience is different to his. Maybe the pain is reserved for the consorts. She clings to his gaze. Their love for each other is her lighthouse. As long as she has sight of him, safety is within reach.

As soon as Boleyn thinks she cannot stand the pain any more, that she must, must scream, it’s over. She wills her legs, damp beneath the impossible heaviness of her gown, to hold her up. The bishop extinguishes the flame and unwinds the cloth. Henry catches her as she stumbles.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his hands gentle but strong. “You won’t fall; I have you.”

She is left with the exhaustion that comes after a migraine, but the ceremony isn’t over yet. The bishop folds the binding cloth carefully and places it in the copper box, where until moments ago the dowager queen’s cloth sat.

“What tokens have you chosen, Your Majesty?” More asks her.

With fumbling fingers, Boleyn produces the objects tethered to her belt.

It’s traditional for each queen to commission a number of tokens on her wedding day.

They become a proclamation of the kind of consort the people can expect her to become.

Her first, the stag, is one that makes Henry smile.

He thinks it’s the representation of their first meeting – the race through the woods; the way their hands touched as they both took hold of the dead beast’s antlers.

But it’s more than that – it’s a promise, from queen to king.

For Henry is the embodiment of Cernunnos on the island, a birthright imbued in his blood, passed from father to son.

In taking the god’s symbol for herself, Boleyn is sending a message – she’s ready to be Henry’s equal.

She speaks the words that she has spent many nights writing, George and Mary, Mark and Rochford advising. “With this stag I pledge my strength to you, my king,” she says.

Her other tokens are more obviously controversial.

A quill, fashioned in silver and pointed with a crimson garnet.

More’s eyes narrow when he sees it. His seat is in Pilvreen, after all.

She had to get special dispensation to mine the garnet, and now that she looks at it, it seems to shift, to congeal, as if remembering the blood that once suffused it.

A sound passes around the chapel – a sigh, like the expelling of a final breath.

Boleyn’s family cannot understand why using the Pilvreen garnet is so important to her. They don’t understand that she is trying to reclaim it from the legacy of the queen whose treachery created the garnets. That in using these gems, Boleyn is spinning their bloodied beauty into something pure.

“Words cannot help but betray truths, both open and hidden, so with this quill, I pledge my truth to you, my king.”

Henry’s eyes glitter.

Her final token is a thunderstorm: a cloud of obsidian, flecked with silver raindrops. It’s unlike anything any other queen has conceived of – with them it’s all flowers and rabbits and religious symbols. But Boleyn is not like other queens.

“With this storm I pledge my fertility to you, my king. For the flowers cannot bloom without the rain, and the sun never shines brighter than after the thunder.”

Henry’s smile this time is slow, almost rueful, as though he has turned a new page of a favourite book and discovered one final surprise.

It is now his turn to pledge his troth. When Boleyn has asked him what token he plans on giving to her, he has been evasive.

Now, a servant brings him a velvet cushion upon which rest two items: a nugget of gold, and a crystal sphere in which flutters a fairy.

“Oh, Henry,” Boleyn breathes.

“I told you I would find something that would do justice to my love for you,” he says.

He rests the gold and the crystal in his palm.

The divine magic that always plays across his muscles floods to his hand, forming an orb around both objects that shimmers with the light of the bordweal.

Boleyn has never seen him use his magic in this way.

She does not watch the orb, but her new husband’s face.

The way his eyes are closed in concentration, the way his throat pulses as he swallows.

When the orb dissipates, what remains in Henry’s palm is a plain poesy ring.

As Henry slips the band onto Boleyn’s finger, she imagines she can feel the fairy trapped inside beating against its golden cage.

If Henry were to swear an oath on this ring and Boleyn were to accept it, he would be bound by the fairy within to honour his oath or suffer the most terrible of deaths.

Of course, no one makes such oaths any more, for fear of accidentally falling foul of them.

But the symbolism is plain for everyone present to see.

It is truly a kingly gift, for only the kings of Elben possess the magic to make such jewellery, and they have not done so for centuries.

Henry says, “I accept your strength, your truth and your fertility, my queen, and pledge my own in return. Together let us protect our kingdom in unity with the six palaces, an island fortress eternally impenetrable.”

The solemnity in the chapel lifts. Boleyn’s family breaks into applause. The consorts’ ambassadors lift their veils, and the new queen sees clearly, for the first time, the Lady Seymour, Queen Aragon’s gift. She looks quite sickly, her brown skin shining with sweat.

Boleyn forgets her, allowing herself to be caught up in the happiness of the moment. Her siblings crowd around her and Henry’s hand remains on her waist as he talks to the bishop. They’ve done it. She’s a queen.