“I see,” Cleves says. She eyes a bowl at the edge of her desk that she rather wants to throw at a wall. “That is excellent news indeed. And does this treaty involve more than pretty words of friendship?”
Johana waves a hand airily. “Oh, some warships and a few dozen war dragons. And in exchange we receive favourable trading routes through Elbenese waters and a good price on the exquisite crystal that is so prevalent in this meagre little island.”
Warships and dragons. Henry is planning further conquest then – the question is: over his queens, or over other countries? Or both?
“You do not seem to be as happy as I might expect,” Johana says, his head tilted.
“I am merely surprised that no one thought to inform me of these negotiations,” Cleves says.
“Ah, the same way you do not think to inform your relatives of, well, anything?” Johana retorts. They are both speaking lightly, like children walking across ice.
“What do you suppose I should be informing you of? How large my prize sow’s litter was last month? Where I source my wine?”
“Queen Aragon tells all to her country’s diplomats.”
Cleves bites her lip. She knows from her butterflies that Henry had made overtures towards Quisto – a new alliance between them – and that Queen Aragon’s royal nephew had refused all negotiations. At the time she had assumed it was merely because Quisto believed it had the strength to take Elben when the time was right. Now she wonders: is it because Aragon, that damned prideful woman, had asked her nephew not to?
“We cannot stand by you if we do not know we must,” Johana says, looking at her directly at last. Cleves’s heart is pounding too fast, but she does not let her smile slip.
“I will keep that in mind, cousin, if I ever have something to share that might be considered of interest. Now, if you please.”
He salutes her smartly, then shuts the door behind him. Cleves growls as she sits. His boots have left dirt on her lovely desk. Lelij mewls from his bed in the corner of the room, and she pats her leg so that he knows he can curl up against it as she works.
“Why does everyone want to be friends so suddenly?” she asks the gargoyle. He snorts.
“Precisely. It is tiresome,” she says.
She tries to lose herself in her work: to push aside Johana’s pointed comments, and the news that her kingly brother now has more reason to be loyal to her husband than he does to her. She tries not to think of the fallen queen who is missing across an ocean, and all the many treasons she might confess if seized.
For a while, she is able to forget. There are dozens of letters containing nothings that require answers containing equal amounts of nothings. There are accounts and receipts and invoices that must bepaid, for she has never been indebted to anyone and is damned if she’ll let a moon pass without paying her bills. The people she employs need the money far more than she.
There is a report from her master of husbandry into the crone that has taken up residence near the Fietherford, and another from her steward outlining the costs of renovating the castle’s stables. She usually finishes reading her correspondence before inviting more, but this morning she lays a handful to one side to make space for her paper and inkwell.
She does not address the letter, for it will not be delivered by any of the usual methods, and it is better if no one knows the intended recipient, should it be intercepted.
Please you to set your butterflies upon Lady Arundell, as you did Lady Paston. I will compensate accordingly.
She pauses. Should she ask what she wants to ask? Surely the recipient will already be hunting for information. She would have heard if there was any news. To ask outright would be to show her cards.
She closes the letter and warms the wax to seal it. A single droplet falls upon the parchment before Cleves sets aside the heated wax in its brass cup, and opens the letter once more.
Have you heard news of our mutual friend from the east? I am concerned by their silence.
“You’re a fool,” she mutters to herself as she closes the letter once more and presses a blank seal into the wax with such force that it splatters.
Lelij grunts again at her feet.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Howard
Howard tries not to look at Culpepper over the following days, but she is always aware of his presence. He seems to be everywhere she goes. If there is dancing, he is requesting every lady’s hand but hers. If there is music, he claps politely from the back row of seats, in accordance with his status. If there is hunting, he is the person who delivers the killing blow upon the boar. He never speaks to Howard unless she addresses him, although sometimes she feels his gaze upon her.
What would Boleyn do?It is her constant refrain. But she does not have Boleyn’s strategic mind. She cannot see three or four steps ahead in a game ofbeadulác, so how is she supposed to see her way out of this trap?
The palace is mercifully empty during the day while most of Henry’s court and Howard’s servants are busy preparing for a dragon-baiting. Howard can see the arena from her bedchamber: the barriers being erected around a circular pit; the thrones on which she and Henry will sit. Culpepper, as the chief organiser, is in the centre of all of it. She watches him laughing with the workers as he directs them. One of her noblemen approaches him and he bends his head to the other man, at once showing deference to his superior status while also encouraging the earl to lean his head in too – an intimacy entirely engineered by Culpepper. She cannot decide if Culpepper knows the brilliant game he is playing, or whether it is instinctive, easy amiability. When the twomen have finished talking, they part ways with a mutual slap on the back, and Culpepper turns to his task without any indication that he knows that he has just gained favour with one of the most influential men in Howard’s territory.
In the afternoon, the whole palace trips across the gardens to witness the sport. Howard’s arm is slipped through Henry’s, and she turns her face up to the brittle sun that is never far from this side of Elben. She loves this about Plythe: how open it is, all wide windows and wider views. The trees and forests of Brynd or Mathmas, or the claustrophobia of the destroyed palace of Hyde are not for her.
