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CHAPTER FORTY

Boleyn

F rom the outside, the Palace of Daven reminds Boleyn of a tortoise; ancient, slow and dying.

When she is shown into the vestibule with its vast tiled walls and the towering tree that vibrates with the gnawing of the gealgena dragon within, she sees nothing to change her mind.

She can see how the Seymour who came to Brynd nigh on a year ago might have felt at home here.

She wonders whether she would still find peace in this fading grandeur.

Boleyn would much rather have been having this conversation at Brynd, ideally through the sunscína .

Mindful of how Seymour once came across Aragon and Parr, she tried to do the same, haunting her folly for days until they appeared in the glass.

But no sooner had they seen her than they left without uttering a word.

Boleyn had been forced to resort to inviting herself to Daven by the traditional method – a politely imperious letter brooking no refusal.

At least it is no wrench to leave Brynd now.

Bishop More’s insight is proving correct, and Boleyn suspects that he plays at least some part in that, questioning her role in both the mine explosion and the executions in that mild way of his.

The residents of Pilvreen now stare at her, openly hostile, when she ventures into the town.

Even her own household falls silent when she passes.

Only Syndony does not turn her back on Boleyn.

Instead, she came to her chamber one day with a plain glass bottle and urged her to drink it when her monthly course is due.

“It’ll keep up the pretence, and keep you alive,” she told Boleyn.

But a missed course will not fool Henry’s spies for long.

Boleyn is shown into Aragon’s receiving chamber, with its vast window overlooking a wide beach, and beyond that a gentle sea cradled within a finger of land, so very different from the wild ocean at Brynd.

The queen herself sits stiffly in her throne.

Her lap is covered in blankets and furs that reach to the floor, and in her hand she holds a guirnalda , the beads of her faith.

Boleyn observes her pet monkey clamber up her gown and onto her hood with a shudder.

A girl about Howard’s age stands next to her, a hand on her shoulder.

They make a pleasing picture, framed by the window and the statues that line it – undoubtedly the effect they were aiming for.

Boleyn’s eyes fall on the hand-held mirror sitting on a table next to Aragon – her sunscína .

“Salutations, Queen Boleyn,” Aragon says. “Forgive our humble manner of greeting you. You hardly gave us time to prepare after receiving your letter.”

“Thank you for welcoming me into your beautiful palace,” Boleyn says, feeling how falsely her words ring. She must play the game of courtesy if she is to win Aragon over, and she must win her, or there will be no alliance against Henry.

“A beverage for our guest,” Queen Aragon says to a nearby servant. “She must be thirsty after her long journey.”

The two women smile at each other as the drink is poured and offered to Boleyn.

Boleyn takes the goblet, large and heavy with sapphires.

Inside is a thick red wine with a heady aroma.

It would be all too easy to have sprinkled a little powder into it.

This is precisely why Boleyn did not wish to meet Aragon in person.

It is hard to build an alliance when one person has already tried to have the other killed.

Boleyn raises the goblet. “To our continued and everlasting friendship,” she says. She takes a deep breath, hoping that Aragon is wise enough not to murder a queen in her own palace, and drinks the goblet dry.

Queen Aragon’s laughter cuts through the haze that has come over Boleyn. She isn’t used to such strong wine.

“Staking everything on one throw, Your Majesty?” Princess Tudor says.

“Quiet,” Aragon says to her. “That was a gracious show of trust, all things considered. Please, Queen Boleyn, come and sit beside me.”

The seat is lower than Aragon’s throne – designed for a lesser mortal, so that the difference in status can never be doubted.

Boleyn should rightfully demand a chair of equal height and grandeur, but today she is a diplomat, like her father.

Her father would sit without complaint or pride. So she does.

“Leave us,” Aragon demands, and the servants and courtiers milling around the chamber leave instantly. Only Princess Tudor remains.

“You too,” Aragon tells her daughter.

“But, Mother…”

Aragon quells the protest with a look. The princess glares at Boleyn as she leaves her post.

“You have a very good daughter,” Boleyn comments when they are alone. “I only hope that mine grows up to be as loyal.”

Queen Aragon purses her lips. There is little she can say that wouldn’t be beyond the bounds of courtesy – after all, Aragon never wanted Elizabeth to be born at all.

“I think we both wish the best for our daughters, do we not?” Boleyn says.

Aragon inclines her head. “Of course.”

“Lord Wolsey is already plotting Elizabeth’s marriage. At least my brother George had some say in choosing his spouses. I doubt Elizabeth will have that luxury.”

“It is the price of being a princess,” Queen Aragon says. She holds her arm out, and her monkey clambers down it, batting at the guirnalda now looped around her wrist. “Your brother had a choice because he is not a prince. Or even a lord, if I remember correctly.”

Boleyn clenches her fists in her lap. She tries another way of sweetening Aragon. “I understand you have made Daven very prosperous since your marriage.”

“I have the wealthiest territory in Elben, yes.”

“And that was all through your own management. I am full of admiration. You have enriched Henry’s coffers significantly.”

Aragon looks at Boleyn through narrowed eyes. “Enough, Mistress Boleyn. Your attempts at charming me are clumsy. Let us speak honestly. My daughter, who as you have noticed is loyal to me, is guarding the door and will ensure that no one overhears us.”

She gestures to the table of wine. “Since we’re without help, would you be so kind as to pour me a drink?”

Boleyn does as she says, bringing them both goblets.

Boleyn has no intention of touching hers – her head is already thick from the first. Aragon, however, drinks hers as though it’s honeyed tea, closing her eyes and taking deep inhalations between each sip.

Boleyn tries not to notice as she tells her what she knows about the queens and the goddess.

Aragon doesn’t pass comment, only listens, eyes mostly closed.

If she’s shocked, she doesn’t show it, but that means nothing.

She is a stateswoman – she will have learned not to betray her emotions.

“So do you think it possible for the six castles to form an agreement?” Boleyn finishes.

“Well, you certainly won’t catch Queen Parr without my involvement,” Aragon says. “She follows me in all matters political.”

“That is not an answer,” Boleyn says. If the oracle is right, she needs at least one of them on her side if she is to defeat Henry, otherwise she may as well not even try.

Aragon finally opens her eyes. She studies the goblet in her hand.

“My husband gifted this to me as a wedding present,” she says.

“It is very beautiful.”

“It’s made from Gythean silver. Do you know how precious that is?

It’s only found in one place in the known world.

At the very top of Mount Sancasias, where the old religions thought their gods dwelt.

Only the very strongest can climb that high without losing their minds.

It’s called the god’s metal. I think it might be the finest gift a king has ever given a queen, don’t you? ”

“Our husband can be very generous when he is pleased.”

“He has never been anything but pleased with me.”

Boleyn sits back in her chair and looks around at the walls.

The portrait she’s looking for sits above the fireplace – a huge painting of Queen Aragon, holding her daughter the Princess Tudor as a baby, her little round head covered in a bonnet embroidered with roses and pomegranates – the symbols of Elbenese and Quistoan royalty.

“I do admire that portrait. Although I wonder – could Henry not spare the time to stand with you and the princess?”

Queen Aragon flushes, and Boleyn knows she has her.

“Elben was at war with Capetia that year,” Aragon says. “He had to attend to his military duties. You would have been too young to remember.”

Boleyn pours more wine for them both, but when Aragon tries to take the goblet, Boleyn holds it out of her reach.

“If this lie is allowed to continue, the princess will be shipped off to goodness knows where as the consort of a stranger, when she could inherit Daven from you and rule as an equal sovereign.”

“I was shipped off to goodness knows where to be the consort of a stranger, madam, and I do not regret my life.”

Aragon tries to take the goblet once more, and once more Boleyn holds it out of her reach.

“And what of your future? If Henry does not have a male heir, then what happens to Elben?”

“My nephew…”

“Do you truly think that Capetia will permit a king of Quisto to take the most valuable trading post in the known world? There will be war, and you and the princess will be little more than playing pieces in their games of conquest. And we both know what happens to women who become entangled in such games.”

“Quisto will protect me,” she insists.

“Don’t you wish for a better life for your daughter?” Boleyn says.

“Never question my love for my daughter.”

“I’ll question it when you refuse to remove the man who is standing in the way of her greatness.”

“I have been happy. Tudor will be happy also.”

“And what if your daughter wishes to marry women? Elizabeth might be allowed, but do you think, as the eldest daughter, that she will be permitted to? She’ll be expected to have sons of her own.”