“There is a way to bolster the bordweal. To ensure the survival of Elben and of our people. A way to end the unrest in our great kingdom. I have given all I can to protect you,” Henry says. “Now it is time for my queens to do their duty.”
Howard grips the arms of her chair, steadying herself.
“How may we serve you, Your Majesty?” Mary Boleyn says.
“Not me: Elben.”
“My apologies.”
Henry goes to her, kissing the back of her hand as a sign of his forgiveness for her error.
“I can be stronger,” he says. “I can channel more of the divine power. But Cernunnos requires a sign of loyalty from my queens.”
Here it is.
“The blood of a Queen of Elben, spilt upon the binding cloth that ties her to me, and thereby to Cernunnos, will multiply my power tenfold. A hundredfold. Elben will be invincible.”
A stunned silence descends upon the hall. Not even Henry’s most loyal advisors can look up from the floor. Howard glances across at his sister. Cecilia is very still. No one, no one apart from Henry, is enjoying this moment.
Henry looks to the dais where his loyal queens are seated. “You know I love you all, my darling wives. But I am a king first and foremost. It is my duty to love my country more than life itself. Will you make this greatest of sacrifices for our kingdom?”
The very floorboards seem to hold a breath. There is no air in the hall.
This is her moment.
Howard forces herself to her feet. “I will be glad to serve my country and my king, Your Majesty.”
Parr stands next. “My life’s work is to be useful in all that I do. What greater use can I offer than this?”
Aragon takes Princess Tudor’s hand, gripping it tightly as she says from her seat, “As the first and most loyal of your queens, it is only right that I humble myself to further the glory of you and our country, my husband.”
Howard looks to Mary Boleyn, the only one of them who has not prepared for this moment. Her sister was always the paler of them, but now Mary is ashen. She was always the more substantial of the sisters, but now she is ghostly. Her eyes flick from Henry to two children who stand among the guests, their fine cloth of gold garments marking them as royal children. Mary’s children, from her first marriage, made royal through her second. At last, she stands. “Whatever you wish, Your Majesty,” is all she is able to utter. What a price to pay for a few moons of queenship.
Howard is led into a line. Cleves is pushed to her right, Parr to her left. Lord Wolsey, old and shaking, emerges bearing a tray of six boxes. The boxes containing the binding cloths. Cleves cannot take her eyes off them, and Henry notices. He sneers, comes close to her so that only she and Howard can hear. “You thought you could steal yours, did you? I knew you would attempt it. Once again, I have outsmarted you, my lady. And the most delightful part of it is that your brother has washed his hands of you. Your death will not even be mourned in your own putrid country. My people will piss upon your grave, as they piss upon Isabet’s.”
Howard has to stop herself from laughing. Powerful men and their need to be right. It makes them so very short-sighted. Howard cannot quite believe that she once thought him the cleverest man in the world.
The boxes are opened, one by one, and the velvet binding cloths are pulled from their innards and tied around the queens’ necks. Aragon’s is so old that it bears almost no resemblance to the vivid purple of Mary Boleyn and Seymour’s cloths.
In the rafters above them Goldfoot, set loose from his mistress, lets out a mournful cry. Howard does not dare look at him lest it betray their secret, but she takes comfort from Cleves’s presence beside her. She thinks of their conversation at the last Moon Ball. Of the simple sentence that made Howard laugh delightedly.
Come, sister. Do not let them see that you are more than your beauty. It will confuse them.
She will not let them see. She is a little queen and a mighty songbird. She will keep her wings furled until the last moment.
Henry’s eyes are wet. There is nothing performative about it. As they all realised long ago, he believes himself a loving husband. He believes that what he must do for the sake of the kingdom is his sacrifice as much as theirs.
Cromwell hands him a silver knife, the blade glinting in dragonlight. Henry holds it loosely, and Howard cannot work out whetherhe is genuinely doubting what he thinks he must do. Maybe even he knows that if he kills all his queens – including those who he believes to be faithful – he will never again be able to see himself as a good husband.
“Your Majesty, may I beg you to take me first?” Howard says. Her voice is tremulous, the perfect pitch of sweet and terrified. Men like Henry tend to fall in love with a voice like that. Henry looks at her in astonishment.
“My queen? You wish for this?” he says.
“I am ashamed to say it, my liege, but I am scared that if I am not first I will not hold my mettle. I will humiliate myself.”
Keep those wings furled.
Henry nods, crying freely now. He kisses her, long and hungrily. Goldfoot caws from above.
