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Henry joins her in the morning, striding into her chambers and saying, “Where is my daughter? Bring me to her this instant!” so loudly that servants and courtiers alike laugh in admiration.

Boleyn brings Elizabeth to him. He holds the baby to the window, beaming at her with pride.

He shifts Elizabeth into one arm, and picks Boleyn up in the other, kissing her hard and long.

She tries not to cry out when he touches her itching arm.

“My warrior of a wife,” he says, staring down at her. “How I’ve missed you.”

She stifles the words that rise to her lips: If you missed me, why have you not come to me before now? She does not want an answer. She does not want an argument. She does not want to think.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” is all Boleyn says, reaching across to Elizabeth.

“Beautiful,” he says, still looking at Boleyn. She adjusts her corset, so the bandage covering her ribs isn’t so tight. His eyes move across to Mary.

“Lady Mary, either my eyes are playing tricks on me or you are no longer wearing black.”

Mary twirls in her deep green velvet. “What better time to come out of mourning than my beloved niece’s blessing, Your Majesty?”

Henry laughs. Boleyn laughs. They are so merry.

The blessing takes place in the sanctuary, where less than a year ago Boleyn thought she was marrying the best man she could ever meet.

The route from her wing up to the sanctuary is strewn with purple rose petals.

Elizabeth is dressed in her blessing gown – a long white length of lace, embroidered with the same rose petals, stitched into the fabric with such care that not a single one has been torn or discoloured.

The sanctuary is bursting. Every noble in Elben is in attendance.

As Bishop More makes the mark of Cernunnos on Elizabeth’s forehead, Boleyn looks at them all from her place at the front of the sanctuary.

There are no queenly favours on display today, out of respect for the occasion, but Boleyn doesn’t need a square of fabric or a coloured sleeve to remember who is allied with whom.

Let them look upon her perfect child, and remember that of all the queens, she fell pregnant the quickest, and can do so again.

The celebrations begin in earnest after the blessing. The guests flood into the gardens, jostling for a place at the front of the tiltyard’s wooden barriers. Boleyn is shown into the royal viewing tower. Lord Wolsey arrives soon afterwards, taking the seat beside her.

“Is Henry not…?” she begins.

“His Majesty asked me to keep you company.” Wolsey bows.

Boleyn tries to smile, but inside she is a whirlwind.

Once, she might have feared that Henry’s love for her was waning.

Now, she finds she cares less about that and more about what his absence might mean for her and Elizabeth.

His favour may be poisonous, but it is necessary to secure Elizabeth the life she deserves as a royal princess.

Without him right there, she can fool herself into believing that she no longer loves him.

Sensing her turmoil, Mary leans over from the row of seats behind her and squeezes her shoulder.

The trumpets sound and the first riders, anonymous in their armour but for the heraldry on their shields, ride into the tiltyard.

The crowd cheers and boos. This is what most of them have been waiting for all day.

“You may be interested to know that I have received twenty offers of marriage for the princess,” Wolsey says casually.

The first rider is unhorsed. The crowd cheers. It’s an excellent start to the entertainment.

“Is that a good number?” Boleyn says, keeping her eyes on the field of combat.

“If I remember correctly, the king received seventeen for Princess Tudor.”

“I should feel very fortunate, then, to be victorious over Queen Aragon.”

“Well.” Wolsey frowns at her tone. “Perhaps not victorious. But I thought you would be pleased.”

The truth is, Boleyn cannot bring herself to like or feel pity for Queen Aragon, but she now has a taste of what she must have felt all those years ago, when it became clear that she was no longer Henry’s favourite wife.

When it became obvious that his devotion was dependent on her providing a male heir.

“And are you pleased, Lord Wolsey?” she asks.

“I serve Elben,” Wolsey says. “The more alliances we can forge, the stronger our kingdom will be.”

“Will you accept any of them?” Boleyn asks. Two more riders canter into the arena and bring their horses to a halt in front of her tower. They raise their jousting poles and she acknowledges them. Once they have cantered on to their respective sides, Boleyn turns to Wolsey fully.

“Are you going to marry my daughter off before she is out of her cradle?”

“Oh, certainly not,” Wolsey says. “I have sent word to the kings of Capetia and Pkolack with news of how much interest we have received. We will wait to see if they throw their hats in the ring before deciding.”

Boleyn grips the balcony of the viewing tower, a flush rising up her throat.

“Sister,” George says loudly. “I think someone we know is about to joust.”

She glances at her brother. He’s staring at her intently.

Keep your counsel , he’s saying. For all that she wishes to eviscerate Wolsey, she knows that George is right.

Just because Boleyn was fortunate enough to fall in love with a king, it does not follow that any child of hers would be given the freedom to choose who they marry.

She has always known this, but it feels different now she is hearing Wolsey talk about her daughter as though she were no more than a fine breeding mare.

Boleyn forces herself to follow George’s direction.

The man riding into the tiltyard is, indeed, familiar.

He is taller than his competitors by a clear head.

His shield is nondescript and his face hidden, but everyone knows who it must be.

If his stature wasn’t sign enough, the purple-green magic swirling across his armour would be.

The king.

Henry kicks his charger and it springs across the field, racing towards his opponent.

The rider on the other side sits gallantly, but Henry is forward in his saddle.

Boleyn has seen that stance before, when he is hunting, when the lust is upon him.

As the men careen towards each other, Henry punches his jousting pole into his opponent’s chest with a spark of divine magic.

It’s a clean hit, a strong hit. The other man flies from his horse.

Henry lifts his visor and holds up his arms in victory. The crowd cheers and cheers their king. Boleyn blows him a kiss, but her eyes keep flicking towards the unhorsed rider. Two servants are dragging his prone body from the tiltyard. One of his legs appears to be the wrong way around.

There was a time when Boleyn would have delighted in this show of Henry’s strength – Cernunnos’s strength, according to their religion.

She would have taken him to bed immediately, delighting in his ferocity, tamed for her.

Now she wonders whether he has ever been tame.

A strange thought flits through her mind: that the man might still be alive if she had borne Henry a son.

After the jousting, there is feasting. Henry and Boleyn sit in the Great Watching Chamber with the most important nobles and ambassadors, while the rest of their guests dine in the banqueting hall.

The cooks have outdone themselves, and Henry is attentive. He feeds Boleyn oysters dripping with seawater, then offers her a dish made of chickpeas cooked in spices.

“I’m perfectly capable of holding my own spoon, you know,” she says at last.

He rests his forehead against hers, intimate. “I wanted to make sure you ate these dishes.”

“Why?”

“They’ll make it more fun tonight when we try for a prince.”

He nuzzles into Boleyn’s neck, but she can only stare down at her chickpeas. Eventually, Henry claps and cries, “Bring in the dessert!”

Four servants enter, carrying a tray bearing a cascade of spiced fruit cakes, decorated with sugared nuts, marchpane roses and candied columbines that twine around the cakes.

“Do you like it, my love?” he whispers into Boleyn’s ear. His hand is on her thigh. He squeezes.

Boleyn takes a slice and declares it the best she’s ever had. Before she can finish it, Henry laughs. “My darling wife is still eating for two!” The rest of the table titters. She puts down her spoon.

“Shall we go for a stroll, just the two of us?” Henry says.

He is all courtly gallant, tucking her arm into his, making sure she’s not too cold as they walk through the banqueting hall. Boleyn stares straight ahead as they pass Wyatt and go out into the night.

“Are you happy?” Henry asks her as they wander through the herb gardens.

“I am. I am the most happy I’ve ever been,” she lies.

“That’s all I want.”

He takes Boleyn in his arms then, kisses her and lifts her up, carrying her into the shadows of the hedge.

Pinned against the foliage, Boleyn can just glimpse the Tower from this angle.

She buries her face into Henry’s chest. She is safe.

She is safe with him. She is different from the other queens – he will not treat her the way he treats them.

“Boleyn? What’s wrong?” he says.

“Nothing. I’m only… I’m only sad that we cannot spend more time together.”

He tilts her head up.

“You know that everything I do, I do to protect Elben.”

She searches his expression in silence, sure that if she looks hard enough, she will uncover whether he knows that he is lying, or whether he has been duped too.

“You were the one who wanted me to go to war,” he says.

“I know.”

“Thawodest will fall to us soon. The power of the bordweal is so strong in me.”

Is it? she thinks. Or is it strong in me? In Seymour? Which queen’s power are you taking to make yourself so magnificent?

“When you conquer Thawodest – what will you do then?” she asks.

“Nothing without consulting that ferocious mind of yours, my darling.” He smiles, his hand stroking the top of her bosom.

He digs out one of her breasts and takes the nipple in his mouth.

Branches scrape against her neck. She used to crave this – Henry knows just how to bite her nipples to arouse her.

But now her breasts respond to his touch differently.

Mixed with the familiar arousal is the deep push of milk.

She twists away from him before he can taste what is meant for Elizabeth.

She worries that she is being prudish, which she has never been before, must not be now.

“What if I asked you to stay with me?” she asks him.

“I want that, Boleyn. You know I do.”

She tries to be coquettish. “Why do I sense a but , husband?”

He rubs her nose with his. “ But the bordweal needs me to be a good husband to all my queens.”

Boleyn tries not to think of the other queens. Howard, her too young body yielding to him. Seymour, oh god, Seymour and what he did to her.

“I need a son,” he is saying. “You understand that, don’t you? If I cannot put an heir of my own in High Hall, Elben will be taken by a foreign king. It will be ripped apart while Quisto and Capetia war over who should have the spoils. We cannot let that happen to this island. To our people.”

She nods, watching his face carefully. “Without you, without a king, without the power the great god gave to you, the protection wouldn’t work. We queens would be nothing.”

There’s the briefest of hesitations. That’s all the confirmation she needs. Seymour was right. He knows.

“Kiss me,” she says.

He does. He’s so tender, so perfect. She sees now that her power over him was only ever an illusion, but as she lifts her skirts and hooks a leg around his waist, guiding him into her, she gives in to the fantasy one last time before it vanishes.

She doesn’t let him see her tears, and she does not think.