Howard
On the day Voda Kelaverinn is due to leave Plythe, Howard sits in her receiving chamber with her ladies all around her. Goldfoot, her little dragon, is nestled in her lap, his hot breath curling a few stray threads of her silk gown. She idly scratches at a patch of bare skin on her scalp, hidden by her curls. Lord, but it itches.
Her receiving chamber is not as dramatic as Boleyn’s was at Brynd, but it brings Howard an immense sense of peace. It sits at the side of the palace, and the windows are in the newer style: a series of arches that bounce across the room, each one looking out upon the River Kyttle and, beyond, the Swegan Sea. In the mornings, like now, the sun skates over the water below instead of assaulting the windows. In the few pauses between her ladies’ conversations, the songs of the Swegan whales vibrate through the stone, filling the space with a mournful tune that undercuts the laughter.
“What think you, Your Majesty?” Ursula says.
They are looking at her expectantly, hands paused over their needlework or prayer books. Howard shakes her head. “My thoughts flew away with me. What were you discussing?”
Lady Tylney leans forward from her window seat and pretends to whisper in Ursula’s ear. “She was thinking of His Majesty,” she says, and the others grin.
Howard strokes Goldfoot. “Am I truly so predictable?”
“You are in love,” Lady Tylney says. Howard hopes her smile does not betray the sudden clench of her stomach. It is true that she owesHenry everything. She may be a nobleman’s daughter, but the king plucked her from obscurity nevertheless. She should be his: heart, body and soul. Until Boleyn, that was the truth around which she had shaped her queenly self.
“We were talking of the strange religions gaining traction abroad,” Ursula says, her eyes wide and earnest.
“What strange religions?” Howard says.
Ursula closes her prayer book, covering the title with the palm of her hand. “Their preachers are women, Your Majesty. They speak of ancient goddesses.”
The women fall silent. Howard and her ladies have never spoken of such matters before. They do not have a map for how to navigate such subjects. Howard must be the mapmaker.
Lady Tylney’s nervous laughter cuts through the hush. “I told her not to talk of such things,” she says. Ursula blushes. The other women continue to stare at Howard.
“I am mistress of Plythe alone, not of anyone’s soul,” Howard says eventually. “I am glad that we can all speak freely within these walls. We are old friends, are we not? We love each other through all.”
There is general agreement, and the conversation moves on to safer subjects. A love scandal in a foreign land, impropriety at court and shared girlish memories of girlish shared bedchambers. Adjusting Goldfoot so that his sleeping form is draped over her shoulders, Howard rises and goes to the window. If she stands right at the edge, she can see the courtyard. There is the carriage, all arranged to take Kelaverinn to Sweillan. She wonders whether he will take all of the books he made her commission. It is not as though she will ever read them. They were all for him.
“I heard that the King of Capetia greeted Mary Boleynvery warmly,” Howard’s half-sister, Legh, says. She is lying on her back on the floor, like she used to do when they lived with their aunt. Howard wants to tell her to sit up, but she does not wish to unbalance the easy company they all keep.
Susanna Horenbolt looks up from her easel in the corner. “That is old news. When I served Queen Cleves, we heard tell she was his mistress for a time.”
Legh sits straight up, covering her mouth in shock. “Did you serve Queen Cleves, Susanna? Really? You have never before mentioned it!”
Susanna dips her head behind her easel as the other ladies laugh.
“Let us be kind,” Howard murmurs, but they do not hear her.
There he is. Voda Kelaverinn walks slowly towards the carriage. He carries a single bag made of tired brown velvet; the same one he arrived with. Howard tries to spy whether he has any servants with further belongings, but she can see none.
“Your Majesty?” Lady Tylney says.
“What?” Howard is sharper than she should be.
Tylney motions towards the steward hovering in the doorway. He picks his way around Legh, who is back to lying on the floor, and presents Howard with a letter. Howard does not need to ask who it is from. The Voda is the only person who has ever formed a handwriting style solely for her ease of reading.
“Is it a love letter?” Ursula says, more to the other ladies than to Howard herself.
Howard breaks the seal, hoping that her pointed silence will indicate her displeasure.
Your Majesty,
I take my leave of you with all the fondness and gratitude in the world. Teaching you has been an honour: your remarkable memory and open spirit are every tutor’s treasure. If I may be so bold, you have made being separated from my family bearable, for you put me in mind of my daughters.
I shall pray for your present and future happiness, dear queen.
V. Kelaverinn
