“Goodbye, brother,” she whispers, kissing him on the lips as the strength ebbs from him.
She stands and raises the bloody knife. “The king is dead!” she shouts.
Time itself seems to pause. The chaos of the hall ebbs.
She addresses the beast, its claws hanging with gore. “Stop, More. Come to me now. I am the Tudor line.”
She is beautiful. She is magnificent. She shall be king and queen both. She wields the knife as she would a needle.
Why is the beast not obeying her? Why are Cromwell and Wolsey and Brandon – especially Brandon, who she could make her consort if he plays his cards right – exchanging glances? As though they have a secret that she does not.
“Someone bring me Mary Boleyn,” she says. If she gives enough orders, they will accept her as their leader. She will kill Mary Boleyn, and take the Palace of Brynd for herself, and from there work out how to expand her control over the rest of the island. Now she has saved Howard, the other queens will have to accept her.
As one, the men shrug off their robes. Cromwell does so willingly; Wolsey is slowest of all.
Cecilia stamps her foot. “Why are you not listening to me?” she shouts.
Brandon rips his shirt down the front, revealing a stomach taut from long hours in the saddle and in bed. “I am sorry, my lady,” he says.
The men curl inwards. They convulse. They grow, like smoke and rage, welts wriggling across their backs. When they stand, there is not one beast, but four in the banqueting hall. Their scaled bodies reek of musk. Their eyes are the only remnants of the humans they once were.
“Brandon,” she says, keeping her voice steady. “Brandon, I order you—”
The creature springs towards her, fixing his jaws around her waist. His teeth puncture her beautiful gown, ruining the embroidery she laboured so long over. Pearls scatter across the floor as he shakes.
Don’t they understand? She is a queen, goddamn them. She is a queen.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Cleves
Keep running, Johana had told her.Keep running.All she has ever done is run, even when she thought she was a bastion. She runs now, keeping low as she dodges between soldiers and courtiers, monsters and men, trying to reach the far side of High Hall’s vast banqueting hall, and the great doors that lead to safety.
In the midst of it, she spies Howard gather Goldfoot’s body to her chest and crawl away from the siblings as they battle for control of a country that was never truly theirs. She feints to one side as Brandon turns into a monster, his tale lashing dangerously close. She reaches Seymour as Cecilia’s body is flung, doll-like, across the hall. She lands, eyes open, in front of Cleves and Seymour.
At the sight of the monsters and their dead monarch, courtiers and soldiers alike scatter, discarding their weapons and rushing for the doors. Cleves cranes her head above them all, looking for the others.
“Howard needs us,” Seymour says, able to see far more easily than Cleves.
They join hands and run for their young sister. Everywhere she looks there is spattered blood, for the rage is upon the monsters. All she can hear is the drumbeat of boots and her childhood, looming, looming. Through it all, she thinks: where is my power? No light flickers across her skin. No phoenix-warmth spreads through her veins.
Howard is edging around the side of the hall, but she has not escaped the creatures’ notice. The one that was More turns towardsher. Cleves has never trusted the influence wielded by mortal men who pledged themselves to Cernunnos, even before she knew the truth. He towers over Howard now, the very embodiment of that influence. Such men get too much satisfaction from putting women in their place. And Howard is all alone.
Not alone. Aragon and Parr, on the other side of the hall, are racing towards her. They reach her at the same time as Cleves and Seymour. Five queens, tired and bloodied, together.
The banqueting hall falls eerily quiet.
They are hemmed in. The ancient stone wall of the original palace on one side, and four monsters between them and the great doors.
The only noise is the rasping breath of the beasts.
“Why do we not have the divine power?” Parr is saying. “I thought it would be ours to command.”
“I had it momentarily,” Howard says. Her face is streaked with dirt and tears. She is still clutching Goldfoot. “But I could not keep it.”
Aragon hits the wall with her fist. “It is a godly power. Just because it is now ours does not mean we will be able to command it easily. We must master it over time, as with any skill.”
Cleves stands before them, her arms spread like a shield, as the monsters gather. “Well, that is inconvenient,” she says. “I rather think we might need it to get out of here alive.”
