Page 62

The king watches them, frozen, then steps back, his arms outstretched, as though this was entirely his idea.

Princess Tudor shakes her head at her partner, and he leads her out of the dance.

Parr quickly follows suit, although when Cromwell tries to talk to her, she answers in monosyllables, her gaze fixed to the dance.

Only Cleves and Howard remain on the dance floor with their own partners, although no one spares them a glance.

At a signal from Wyatt, the candles around the room are extinguished, leaving the only light that of the dragons on the ceiling.

The dragons representing Boleyn and Seymour twine around each other, their scales glowing gold and green, casting an otherworldly glow on the faces of dancers and audience alike.

When the dragons next spout flame, the meaning of the gossamer overgowns becomes clear: beneath the flame of the Annysse dragon, the overgowns reflect a single shade – the bruised turquoise of the bordweal.

The queens that were once distinguished by their individual colours are now unified.

There is a slow, deep power to the moment that winds around Boleyn and Seymour alone.

Neither of them had anticipated it. They had hoped only to create a public spectacle – one that would set the rumour mill of Elben turning with whispers of the truth.

But the power building between them now is more than spectacle, more than a trick of dragonlight on gossamer.

Sparks, blue, silver, green and copper, exactly like the lights of the bordweal, fly from their interlaced fingers and whisk around the hall, charging every onlooker with feral illumination.

A smell permeates the room – the sea on a summer’s day.

Seymour recognises it: it is the smell of Her .

Medren. Anyone who has watched the bordweal from the coast on a winter’s evening recognises it.

It is old magic. Magic that should be Cernunnos’s – magic that should be for the king to wield alone.

And yet here it is, formed of two queens, dancing alone in the middle of their enemies.

It is seen, and felt, by every person in the hall, royalty, nobility, servants and performers alike.

The poets among them will try to capture that feeling in their art in years to come, and fail.

The servants of Brynd, newly understanding their mercurial queen, will attempt to speak of it with their families over bread and broth, and fall silent in contemplation.

The nobility will gossip about it in public, and dream of it in private, wishing that they, too, could have been invited into that magic and knowing that they would not have had the courage to accept.

The atmosphere in the hall shifts, as more and more people begin to understand the truth.

A kind of energy forms around the room, like the most dangerous current; peaceful on the surface but deadly beneath the waves.

Through it all, Seymour keeps her eyes fixed on Boleyn, drinking in the steadfastness within her delicate frame.

You are my everything , she thinks. I would follow you into the abyss.

Boleyn smiles up at Seymour, and mouths, “I know, sister.”

Seymour is so engrossed in her, that she almost forgets the other queens. It’s only when someone taps her on the shoulder that she breaks away from Boleyn. Cleves is there, holding her hand out for Seymour’s. “This looks like fun. May I join you?”

She has stuck her flower behind her right ear.

Seymour moves from Boleyn’s arms to Cleves’s.

Seymour spins her, their hands meeting at the end of her turn, fingers sliding into each other’s grasp.

Then comes the part where Seymour pulls Cleves towards her, their bodies pressed together, the top of her head, short hair curled to bounce around her ears, caressing Seymour’s cheek.

“You are shining very brightly, my angry queen,” she whispers in Seymour’s ear.

Over her head, Seymour watches Howard approach Boleyn, her flower tucked into her coronet, peeping from her curls.

She offers Boleyn her hand. They dance, twelve down to four – two coupled queens beneath the glow of dragons, and though Seymour has never felt more exposed, she has also never felt more alive.

Henry is whispering furiously with Wolsey now. It is only when Cromwell approaches them and points it out that Seymour sees it too – the divine magic that usually swirls around Henry is deserting him. It is reaching for the queens.

The music shifts one final time, growing in intensity, and the formation of the dance changes too.

Usually, at this point, the six couples would form a circle.

It is the only moment that Boleyn has tried to keep the same.

She reaches for Seymour on one side and Howard on the other.

Seymour spots Master Wyatt behind Queen Parr, whispering in her ear, and a moment later she too steps into the circle, taking Howard and Cleves’s hands.

Only Princess Tudor continues to stand to one side, her glower a thin mask for fascination.

Henry approaches the circle, his expression the same as when he spied Boleyn at his wedding to Seymour; the same as the moment he realised Seymour had lost his child, and the night that child was conceived.

She must keep dancing.

Henry orbits the floor, one hand splayed towards them, the remnants of his divine magic sparking across his palm.

Across the circle from her, Seymour sees Howard falter, as though her shoulders have been lashed.

Henry is right behind her. Seymour wills Howard to stay on her feet, to hold the line, for they are women.

They are used to pain. A crackle of light flashes from Seymour’s chest to Howard’s. Howard stands tall once more.

The five queens step from side to side – in one beat, out the other – their hands always joined, the four who wear their overgowns united in the colour of their dresses.

Five dragons weave on the ceiling above them.

Boleyn has designed this climax to build to fireworks – a suitably impressive ending, but she didn’t need to.

The queens are alight with whirls of colour, the divine magic, Medren’s magic, dancing for and around them.

Beyond the light, the king’s advisors stride to the front of the crowd, as though they can shield what is happening from the rest of the audience. Henry mutters a quiet command to two of his guards. The men draw their swords and inch towards the queens.

The sparks between the dancing women sizzle and spit, growing in ferocity as the music reaches its final notes, bathing the musicians in eerie light.

And as the last note plays, the dragons above them breathe a long, burning flame into the centre of the room, turning the lantern hanging there into a shower of molten copper.

The guards use the climax as cover, moving forward to tear Boleyn from her place in the circle.

Seymour tries to pull Boleyn out of the way, but she doesn’t need to.

The sparks of the bordweal, of the goddess, rise to protect her.

The guards’ armour glows red with heat as they touch Boleyn, and the men are thrown back, cracking against the remnants of the masqued castle.

Silence descends. The queens break apart, and something of the spell of the dance breaks too.

The weight of treason settles back on Seymour’s shoulders.

Parr scurries to Princess Tudor’s side. In the renewed light of the lantern dragons, the hall looks messy.

A draught is flowing in through the open door.

And the king is staring with unbridled hatred at the woman Seymour would die for.

Boleyn, what have we done?