Page 68 of Six Wild Crowns

“Never mind the fireworks. We must put our sister in the most beautiful gown anyone has ever seen. More memorable even than her wedding gown,” Mary says, trying to make Boleyn smile. Boleyn increases her pace, leaving the rest of them behind.

As she skirts the castle’s walls, Boleyn becomes aware of Wyatt, walking just behind her. By the time they round a corner of damson trees to reveal the nursery, modern red brick tacked on to the grey of the castle, the others are no longer in sight, having tarried where Boleyn and Wyatt walked quickly.

The nursery has been built on a patch of land abutting the castle and overlooking the orchards. It’s a traditional square, set around a central courtyard, with enough rooms for the child and their nurses and tutors, as well as enough space for future siblings. Boleyn pushes away the thought of more children. All around the nursery’s guttering, stone gargoyles ward off forest demons.

Boleyn goes through an archway and crosses the courtyard to a set of double doors that lead into the baby’s suite. There’s no furniture in the rooms yet, but the walls are already covered in decorative paintings: dragons wind around vines and the great god Cernunnos stalks between the beams. Boleyn commissioned an artist from Capetia to emulate murals she’s seen in their palaces, and he’s done an excellent job. Wyatt is still at her elbow. Still silent.

“Struck dumb again, Master Wyatt? For a wordsmith you are surprisingly bad at employing them, it seems.”

“All right, Your Majesty, I’ll be your pincushion.”

She turns to him at last. He smiles thinly, and unbuttons the top half of his jacket, pulling the fine fabric apart to reveal a white shirt and, beneath that, the hint of his chest.

“Needle me with your woes, my queen. Stab me with your anger. I’ll take any wound delivered by you.”

“I thought it was only men who were supposed to stab?”

“She jokes. A bawdy joke at that. Come on, give me more.”

Boleyn looks around the room. It has so much potential, so much promise, but it’s still empty. Still cold.

“I’m not sure I have the weapons I thought I did, Master Wyatt.”

“This from the queen who took down a crone. I assure you, you have weapons aplenty.”

Boleyn clenches her jaw and swallows tears. Wyatt steps closer and folds her hand in his own. Slowly, as though afraid a stray breath will frighten her into running, he brings Boleyn’s hand to his lips, and kisses it. Once, twice.

“Careful,” Boleyn whispers. His jacket is still undone.

“Careful yes? Or careful no?” He turns her hand over and kisses the inside of her wrist, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I…”

“Sister?” Mary is at the door, her hand across it, blocking the entrance from prying eyes. Her gaze darts between Wyatt and Boleyn as they pull apart. Wyatt turns away from everyone, hastily buttoning his jacket. When he turns round once more, his face is natural, as though he didn’t just try to seduce a queen. As though the queen wasn’t tempted.

“Forgive me, friends. I must return to the palace. Inspiration has struck!”

“For the play?” George says, peering over Mary’s arm.

“Her Majesty has helped me to see how to find my way to an ending.” He bows to Boleyn. “Thank you.”

She tries to match his composure. “I want to be credited if you’re going to steal my ideas.”

“I make no promises.”

And he’s off, doffing his cap at Mary, surely too cheerful for the others not to notice that something has just happened.

“Such a handsome man,” Rochford sighs. “Shame about the poetry.”

“Sister,” Mary whispers, threading an arm through Boleyn’s and drawing her into the next room. “What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“What I saw wasn’t nothing.”

“It was nothing, Mary. Nothing happened.”

Mary shakes her. “You have a family, Boleyn. Don’t mess this up.”

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