“The king’s sister, ordained by God.”
Seymour smirks. The last time someone looked at Cecilia like that, she sewed their eyes shut.
“Have a care,” Cecilia says, passing the poisoned needle between her fingers like a coin trick. “Tell me what you are not telling me.”
The panther whines again, and Seymour’s bravado is punctured.
“What have you been told about Queen Boleyn’s death?” she asks.
“Many things.” Cecilia doesn’t want to admit that everything she has been told has felt wrong in some way, even in More’s missives.
“Have you been told that she leapt to her own death?”
“I have.” She does not say that of all the things she had been told – execution, magic, the power of Cernunnos, at Henry’s hand – this had seemed the unlikeliest cause of death. Cecilia cannot fathom anyone throwing away their own life.
“She did so because she discovered something about the true nature of the bordweal.”
“Tell me.”
Seymour looks at her panther, lying submissive beneath Cecilia’s knee.
“Boleyn and I came to understand that the god we’d worshipped all our lives – Cernunnos – was an imposter. The true power of the bordweal comes not from him, or any king, but from the goddess Medren and from the six queens. The palaces of Elben were built long before High Hall, and whichever women command them command the bordweal. Your brother is using the power of the goddess – through his queens – to wage war on the world and to make himself invincible. The truth is, without his queens he would be nothing.”
Cecilia leans forward, examining Seymour’s expression. She can find no sign of deception.
“Who knows about this?” she says.
“Only Boleyn and me,” Seymour replies, a little too quickly for Cecilia to credit it. Still, she lets that lie go for now. She has greater questions to ask.
“You say my brother knows that his power is based on a lie.”
“Oh, he knows.”
Cecilia doesn’t have to wonder how long Henry has known for. She knows precisely when he was told.
“So you went to the Hleaws because they worship this goddess you say is the true source of the bordweal’s power?” Cecilia says, rising and going to the window, trying to think clearly.
“Yes.”
“No.” Cecilia rounds on the prisoner. “Do not mistake my getting up to mean that your beast is no longer in danger. You were seeking allies.”
“Yes.”
Cecilia comes close to Seymour now. Her heart is pounding in a particular way: the way it does when she fucks in the audience chamber, hoping for someone to see her; the way it does when she perfects a particularly difficult stitch.
“And this goddess. She contains the power of the bordweal. And whoever commands one of her palaces will command the power of a goddess? With no need to marry him?”
Seymour stiffens in understanding. She cannot bring herself to say yes, but she doesn’t have to. Cecilia laughs. She tosses the poisoned needle into the air, not caring where it lands, and spins, arms outstretched, to the door of the dungeon. Flinging it open, she speaks to the guard outside: “Commandeer a ship immediately.”
The guard bows. “To go where, Your Majesty?”
“To return to my homeland, imbecile.”
She turns, drinking in the hunch of Seymour’s shoulders. “I’m going to get myself a palace.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cleves
