“My apologies,” she says, and after a moment Aragon nods stiffly.
“My own butterflies have been working on our behalf also,” Cleves continues, keen to redeem herself.
“And?” Aragon says.
“And while Cromwell and Wolsey are working hard to conceal the truth of Boleyn and Seymour’s betrayals, word is spreading both in Elben and out. There is scepticism, of course, but people are questioning now. In Brynd most of all. I do not think Mary Boleyn will have a happy reception there.”
Aragon leans back, looking pleased with herself. “And my own spies have been busy also. I revealed the truth to my nephew’s ambassador several moons ago. He will have seen to it that my right as Queen of Elben is known in Quisto.”
“I am shocked, Queen Aragon,” Cleves says.
“Why?”
“You consider it safe to reveal our secrets when you are not certain of the recipient’s loyalty?”
Lelij begins to chew on Cleves’s hair.
“You question that Quisto’s ambassadors are loyal to me over our husband?”
“I question whether a man is loyal to a woman over another man. Has Capetia’s willingness to enter into an alliance not taught us that?”
Aragon raises an eyebrow. “Yes, well your loyalty to women is certainly well known.”
A dozen retorts clamour to be spoken, but Cleves catches Howard’s eye once more and swallows them. “You are more trusting than I, and from a strategist like yourself that surprises me. That is all, sister.”
Aragon softens a little. “In every game there comes a point where the hand must be shown. The trick lies in moving one’s pieces into place in time. I merely see my nephew as one of those pieces.”
Howard coughs. “Besides, is that not what Boleyn died for? To make us trust each other?”
Cleves smiles, swallowing bile. “Trust. Yes. I trust you, sister. I trust that you know what is right.”
But she does not. Trust is such a little word, but to Cleves it heralds death.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cecilia
It’s not that she wants to hurt the panther. She’s not a monster. In fact, she had rather hoped to transfer the creature’s affections to her, with time and food. She is adept at achieving such switches in loyalty: anything can be bought for the right balance of love and cruelty. But she never wanted it scarred. Scarred pets are so unsightly.
But she needs to understand the woman Seymour, and her usual methods are not working. The first day she brought Seymour back to her palace, tied and gagged, she attempted friendliness – their common ground as women, as queens. It did not work. She tried starving the girl of light as well as sustenance, locking her in an old well deep in the palace’s cellars. Still, Seymour said nothing.
Then it was time to bring out the needles. Broad wounds, deep wounds, hot or ice-covered needles. Even one tipped with a poison that makes its recipient hallucinate horrors. Still, silence.
It would be admirable if it were not so frustrating.
There is nothing else for it. She has the doctrini bring the panther to the dungeon where Seymour is shackled. It struggles against its chains, thrashing like a demon. By the time the doctrini has secured it to the wall opposite Seymour, it has struck four lines across his face. As the man retires, straining beneath a bag of gold coin, Cecilia approaches the muzzled beast.
The panther bares his teeth at her. She bares her teeth back.
Cecilia goes to her needle collection, laid out on a simple wooden table in Seymour’s view.
“You love her, don’t you?” she says to the beast. It growls again, every muscle in its body tense.
“The more pertinent question is – does she love you?”
Seymour stirs, her bruises delightfully purple against her brown skin. One of her eyes is swollen shut; a regrettable loss of control. Cecilia is usually more delicate in her persuasions.
Cecilia selects a slender steel needle, one she sometimes uses for making kid gloves or hidden pockets. Then she opens a chest filled with bottles, each one stoppered and waxed.
