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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Seymour

C romwell’s charming request that Seymour return to Hyde is still bristling through her when her carriage crests a hill and she sees the Palace of Plythe, balanced between cliffs over the raging River Kyttle.

It’s nearly sunset, and every window glimmers with candlelight and the reflection of the sun and the water beneath, turning the palace into a shimmering arch, as though it were made of glass.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she whispers. She has been here once before, as a girl, when the palace was occupied by a dowager queen who favoured the Seymours. The swell of that first sight is a layer of sediment, placed in Seymour the girl, that has formed Seymour the woman.

She keeps forgetting that Clarice is not beside her to reply.

The port abutting Cnothan Castle offers the easiest route for Clarice to reach their family in the Feorwa Isles.

She and they will be reunited at Hyde, several weeks hence, just before the Moon Ball.

Perhaps Clarice will bring her family too, and their ships, and their knowledge.

Seymour is starting to think like Boleyn: knowledge gives power, and power, when wielded correctly, gives happiness.

Howard waits for Seymour at the gatehouse, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.

Seymour tries to reconcile the girl she has spoken to a handful of times in the sunscína with the girl before her.

She does not know Howard as well as Boleyn does, but even Seymour can see a difference in the way Howard carries herself from the frantic bird of their first conversation, a few months ago.

The difference lies in the certainty of her footfall as she approaches the carriage, the way her smile is now bestowed like one of her gifts, not thrown out as protection.

Her lap dragon winds its way up her body and nuzzles into her neck, blowing puffs of smoke into her hair.

Seymour reckoned on Howard being more easily persuaded to join the cause than Queen Cleves.

Her only concern was how to get Howard alone without being overheard.

Now, though, she wonders whether she might find the endeavour more difficult.

Howard no longer seems quite so eager to please as she once was.

“You look radiant, sister,” Seymour says as she steps out of the carriage.

“As do you,” Howard replies.

“Tell that to my bones,” Seymour replies, stretching her back with several satisfying clicks.

Howard laughs and leads Seymour into Plythe.

The palace is more modern since Seymour’s last visit.

Howard has installed a new form of flooring that creates beautiful patterns from different forms of wood.

Warm cherry sits next to more sedate oak in exquisite designs of dragons and flowers.

Paintings of women and men in flowing robes have replaced the iconography of Seymour’s memory.

Howard brings Seymour into the banqueting hall, where a bearded man waits for them. He wears the robe and bound headdress of the Uuveks and stands with his hands clasped in front of him, as though he could wait for an eternity without growing impatient.

“May I introduce my tutor, Voda Kelaverinn,” Howard says.

“Ah, you are the scholar Queen Boleyn spoke of?” Seymour says.

“Vadoum Boleyn wrote to me on the recommendation of her father,” Kelaverinn says. “She said that she had an intriguing student for me, if I was up to the challenge.”

“You’ve never told me this before,” Howard says, grinning. “Intriguing?”

“She said that the student was eager to learn, with an excellent memory, but had not the wherewithal to learn your alphabet through the traditional manner of teaching.”

They stop talking as servants show them to their seats at the high table.

Howard insists on putting Seymour at the centre, flanked by herself and Kelaverinn, and makes a point of placing the pickled cucumbers directly before Seymour, having heard they are a favourite of hers.

Once all the food has been served, Seymour turns to the tutor.

“So you do not teach in the usual manner?”

“I teach according to the pupil’s needs, not my own.”

Howard leans forward, spooning cloudy eggs onto her plate, followed by the rose syrup they were poached in. “I owe Queen Boleyn so much.”

And there is my way in , thinks Seymour. She does not relish the thought of manipulating Howard, but she relishes the thought of the king’s visits to Hyde even less.

They eat the rest of their dinner in companionable conversation, describing High Hall to Voda Kelaverinn.

“I am interested in this notion of inner sanctums,” he tells them. “The use of architecture to provide security to the king and his queens, and to maintain the hierarchy of your society.”

Seymour has never been spoken to like this by a man.

She is used to the condescension of her brothers and father, the manipulative charm of the king and the superficial, polite interest of George Boleyn and Mark Smeaton.

Kelaverinn’s manner is entirely different – he is a gull, diving for knowledge, and the nature of the water he dives in does not matter to him in the slightest.

“It goes beyond the building,” Seymour tells him. “The grounds around High Hall have a similar structure. You have concentric circles – one might contain a wilderness, or the fishponds that feed the hall, or knot gardens – but to get to the next circle you must pass through one of very few gates.”

“It’s true,” Howard says, feeding her lap dragon a morsel of lamb. “And each gate is guarded.”

“All day and all night?” Kelaverinn asks.

Before Seymour can stop her, Howard says, “More heavily at daytime, but even at night there’s a rigid schedule. Henry showed it to me once, when I was worried for his safety. There’s only a few minutes in every hour that each gate is left unguarded.”

“And let me guess – your impressive memory means you can recall the precise times?” Kelaverinn smiles.

Seymour suspects that Howard would happily relay the entire schedule if it meant impressing the older man. Before she can do so, Seymour places a hand on her sleeve. “Sister, I am tired, but in the morning perhaps you and I could find somewhere quiet to talk?”

Perhaps sensing Seymour’s urgency, Howard calls for her early the next morning.

They take a staircase down into the bowels of the palace, where Seymour never went as a girl.

It is on this lower floor that goods for the palace are deposited, having been lifted through a giant stone pillar from the base of the river.

The queens sidestep the scurry of hand-held carts carrying cured meats, sacks of flour and vats of yoghurt and wine towards the pantries.

“This way,” Howard says, following Haltrasc and her lap dragon down a quieter passage.

Here, the overture of the falls is deafening.

The passage ends in a small iron door. Howard unlocks the door with a key from her belt and ushers Seymour onto a slippery, narrow ledge directly beneath the waterfall.

Haltrasc pads along the ledge towards a wider platform, the lap dragon fluttering above him.

Seymour follows them rather more unsteadily, clinging to the rock and trying not to think about the drop.

She may be able to swim now, but no body could survive the crush of the falls.

Once Seymour is standing on the platform, her back leaning against the rock wall, her face upturned to the spray, she appreciates what an excellent spot this is for a secret conversation.

No one can follow them, there are no nearby windows for eavesdropping, and the waterfall covers every other noise.

Seymour begins to talk, her mouth close to Howard’s ear, for even though no one else can hear, she can’t make herself speak treason and blasphemy any louder. She tells Howard about what she and Boleyn discovered in the cavern, and of the oracle’s prophecy.

“The prophecy says that all we need is five queens united to break Henry’s hold on Elben,” she tells Howard.

“But then who would rule?” Howard says.

“We would. Just think, Plythe would be yours ,” Seymour says, thinking of Cleves’s attachment to Cnothan, and her own love for Hyde.

“It is mine now.”

“It is his. He allows you to use it in exchange for your submission. In exchange for your body.”

Howard frowns at her. Seymour, feeling the influence slipping from her, presses her point.

“Boleyn needs you to do this for her,” Seymour says.

Howard draws herself up, until she is almost as tall as Seymour. “I am grateful to our sister, truly I am. But what you and she are asking – it is too much.”

“I cannot live like this,” Seymour says, catching Howard before she can return to the palace. “Every time he comes to me at night…”

Howard shakes her off, then seeing Seymour’s desperation, softens. “I will think on it, I promise.”

She makes her way back to the door, and Seymour must be content with that.

They return to the public rooms, surrounded by servants and courtiers.

It feels to Seymour that they are all watching her.

Was their disappearance noticed? Can Howard be trusted?

Seymour wills the day away. She thinks of Clarice, who must even now be on the verge of landing in Feorwa and beginning the overland journey to their family’s homestead, hoping to find them there before they depart on their summer voyages.

In the afternoon, Howard retires to her music room with a few chosen friends.

Seymour sits in a chair in the corner, eschewing the more prominent seats offered to her.

She scratches the back of her hand. It’s been itching more and more lately.

When she returns to Hyde, she will ask a physician for more of the paste she was given to treat the Queen’s Kiss poison.

“May I sit beside you?” Voda Kelaverinn says.

She nods, glad of his company but hoping that he won’t wish to talk at length.

Thankfully, Howard immediately invites her courtiers to sing and play for their entertainment, and there is little opportunity for conversation.

Howard sits in front of Seymour and Kelaverinn, laughing and encouraging as she fiddles with her hair.

“Are you and Vadoum Howard very close?” Kelaverinn asks Seymour in a lull between songs.

“Not very,” Seymour admits. “I had hoped we might be, but I think I was mistaken.”

Howard shifts in her chair. Her lap dragon climbs up her chest and watches Seymour over its mistress’s shoulder.

“There is a riddle I heard while on my travels through Alpich,” Kelaverinn says. “What is the sapling with no leaves, the prize with no worth, that once lost cannot be found?”

Seymour has never heard the riddle before, but she can deduce the answer. Youth .

“I have no aptitude for riddles,” she says.

“Have you not?” Kelaverinn says mildly.

Howard stands up suddenly, blocking their view of the room with her back.

Her lap dragon takes flight, puffing its discontent at the sudden loss of its seat.

“It is my turn to play,” she announces. There is a barb in her voice that leaves Seymour in no doubt that Howard overheard their conversation.

Howard sits at the harpsichord, the one that must be inlaid with Plythe’s sunscína , and strikes up a tune. It’s a familiar jig, played often at family or local dances. Seymour has never liked it, finding the words too jarring alongside the jolly music.

There was a maiden who loved to dance

Upon the green of Cnorgleo Town.

With dainty feet she pranced and pranced

And her green gown did spin all around.

Beatrice was the maiden fair

Whose dancing was beyond compare.

Beatrice ne’er did stop to sleep

For the music it carried her onwards.

There came a lord to Cnorgleo Town

A mighty man with gold and land.

He was a man of some renown

Three score armies he did command.

The lord he stood at the Fietherford

And there he spied the maiden fair.

He lay down shield and he lay down sword

And to love her for ever did swear.

They wed one morn on a summer’s day

Before god and King and Cnorgleo Town.

Then off they went all bright and gay

To their castle before sundown.

The maid did dance and the lord did love

To watch her move before his gaze,

He locked her up in a tower above

And visited her always.

And so the lady danced for him

Her heart, her life she gave freely.

She danced until her light did dim

Then he mourned her very deeply.

As Howard finishes the song and snaps the harpsichord cover closed, her eyes rise to Seymour’s.

Seymour realises that she has made a fundamental error.

She had assumed that Howard viewed the king the same way that Seymour and Cleves viewed him – that conjugal relations are at best a chore and at worst a festering wound that eats into the mind and soul.

She thinks she could have even persuaded Howard if she, like Boleyn, truly loved and desired him, but could recognise the injustice of what he is doing.

She was wholly unprepared for Howard’s viewpoint: she has always understood her queenship as a transaction.

And in that simple misunderstanding, Seymour has lost.

“Very well,” Seymour says. “I understand.”