Page 5 of Six Wild Crowns

As soon as Boleyn thinks she cannot stand the pain any more, that she must,mustscream, 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’ssymbol 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. Thedivine 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.

There is one final piece of the ceremony left to complete, though, and it must take place tonight, while the magic from the binding ceremony is still strong. It’s why Henry and Boleyn must leave immediately for her new palace of Brynd.

She clasps George and Mary to her. “Come directly in the morning,” she whispers to them, inexplicably sad.

“Have fun tonight,” Mary says. “Enjoy him all you can.”

George, who for all his ribaldry is sometimes more insightful thantheir sister, whispers in her ear as he hugs her farewell, “Remember this is for you and the king. Try to forget about everyone else.”

Boleyn quickly changes into her travelling clothes – a kirtle and petticoat beneath a fur gown, split at the front to reveal the silk.

“Pack my wedding gown away to be brought on to Brynd,” she tells the maids. They eye the material enviously. A single yard of it costs their yearly wage. Boleyn had better check the gown’s still intact when it arrives in her retinue tomorrow.

Henry helps her into the royal carriage, and the horses – six dappled chargers – spring away as soon as the door has closed. They must reach Brynd before nightfall, and as such they take the scrind road – the most direct route between High Hall and Boleyn’s new home, and one of six charmed, long ago, to convey those who travel upon them more swiftly than other paths. Henry settles himself opposite her, and for a moment Boleyn feels unaccountably nervous. They are here, husband and wife, at last. The performance can drop away – she doesn’t need to play the queen. He has chosen her above all others.

“Alone, my love,” he says.

“Alone,” she echoes.

The carriage jolts against a stone, and she braces herself against the wall. Outside the window, High Hall recedes. From this distance, the palace looks squat, ugly. Wooden houses, punctuated by the occasional inn, are strung out along the road like garlands. It is lined with subjects. Her subjects, now. They should all be cheering the passing of the newest consort, but these people are quiet. It’s only the occasional child, overcome by the ceremony and the grandness of the carriage, who shouts out happily. Boleyn permits them some grace: the people of her territory have been suspicious of their consorts ever since Queen Isabet. She will need to earn their joy.

Gradually, the houses ebb into countryside – fields of wheat and corn and livestock. In the distance, the Holtwode clouds the horizon.

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