Clarice takes a deep breath and closes their eyes, as if summoning a deep spell. “Lidigarla g restavarla.”
Cleves wants to write it down, but knows she must not – the parchment might fall into the wrong hands. She summons her ownknowledge of Old Elbenese, from her early years on the island, when she sought to understand its traditions. “Let me see.Garlameans royal, if I understand. Maybe queen?Restais fromretten, which translates as to go back or return. AndVarla…” Cleves knows she has heard the word before, but she cannot recall its meaning.
“Turret,” Clarice says suddenly. “Or – castle? My grandparent used to sing me an Old Elbenese song when I was a child. That was the only word they knew the meaning of. I should have remembered it and connected the two.”
“Good,” Cleves says. “The queen returns to the castle.”
She frowns.
“What is it?” Clarice says.
“There is one word I do not know.Lidi. I will consult my books.”
They lapse into silence again, both considering the strange voice’s instruction.The queen returns to the castle.It is so simple. Too simple. Why say it at all?
“Could it be a riddle? The devout are often fond of oblique statements,” Cleves says.
Clarice shakes their head. “It was said with urgency. I am sure they were trying to help.”
Cleves isn’t certain she agrees. For all that she believes in Medren and her divine powers, she refuses to put her whole trust in anyone other than herself. Even the rightly religious can be manipulated. All gods have their schemes. Has Cernunnos’s theft of Elben not proven that?
Without another word, she slips out of her chamber.The queen returns to the castle. That is a queen’s place: their home, their fortress. Cleves is already in hers, and she never intends to leave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Howard
She wakes in Henry’s arms. Usually he would be up far earlier than her, leaving her in a mess of sheets to confer with Cromwell or Wolsey, to make plans for foreign expeditions and foreign treaties and political manoeuvres beyond her ken. But this morning her head is still upon his chest. She feels small like this, like a cradled child. But he likes to hold her, and she still wants to please him. She thinks about Voda Kelaverinn’s suggestion:Tell him what you enjoy.
It is all very easy to say, but to do? She enjoys what her lovers enjoy. Giving them pleasure gives her pleasure. What is wrong with that? Does that not make her the perfect woman?
She shifts in Henry’s arms, and the pain that has throbbed gently in her chest ever since his duel with the dragon glances through her like a needle. She has tried not to think on it in the days since the dragon-baiting, for what does dwelling help? She knows what it must mean, of course: he is using her vitality, her youth, her life for his own glory. She knows what Boleyn and Seymour would say to this. Perhaps even Cleves, although she does not know the woman well: how dare he use her so?
They are right. And yet – is this not the pledge she made when she married him? There is a pleasing simplicity in the transaction. If she’s honest with herself, the facet of that moment that truly hurts is that he would use her up for sport when he used Boleyn and Aragon and Blount for war. Is her life only worthy of petty conquests?
Goldfoot keens from the adjacent chamber. He never likes to be separated from her but knows well enough now that when the king is at Plythe, he is not permitted to sleep in the same room.
“Your hellfire lapdragon,” Henry mumbles, his eyes still closed.
“Mmm,” Howard says, nestling deeper into the crook of her husband’s arm. Goldfoot keens again, louder this time.
“I’ll throttle it,” Henry says, turning away from her and drawing the blanket up over his head. She is left, half-naked, half-chilled, on her side of the bed.I’ll throttle it. Words said by a dozing king are more dangerous than threats shouted by a beggar. She slips from the bed as quietly as she can, sliding her feet into silk slippers. She does not mind the freshness of the morning on her naked body, but she never could abide cold feet.
Her chamber and Henry’s are separated by a door concealed within the panelling. It used to creak, which would inevitably lead to Henry calling her back to bed, but she has had it oiled recently. Perhaps it is a small rebellion, but perhaps she is only ever meant for small things: petty conquests, little treasons, sweet ditties sung to a handful of people.
Goldfoot is perched upon the windowsill, snarling at something on the other side of the glass. Sparks hit the lead lattice.
“You must be silent,” Howard whispers, closing the partition behind her and holding out her arm for the lapdragon. Goldfoot spreads his wings to their full, not very impressive, width and bares his teeth at the window.
“Are you fighting with your reflection again …?” Howard says. Her eyes catch upon the even smaller dragon on the other side of the window … and on the paper secured to its leg. She shoos Goldfoot away and lifts the window latch, offering her wrist to the pyttelwyrm. It utters a shrill cry of fear at the prospect of being brought within Goldfoot’s range. Such dragons, crossbred long ago with fairies through dark magic, are too flighty to be kept as companions, but they have a fierce sense of direction. She has sometimes wondered whether Goldfoot has a little pyttelwyrm blood in him: his iridescent colouring has something of the fairy about it.
“Hush,” she says again, undoing the message as quickly as she can with one hand. As soon as she has it, the pyttelwyrm takes off once more, fleeing the lapdragon. Goldfoot preens his scales, satisfied with his victory.
Howard unfurls the parchment. On it is drawn a complicated cipher. She hates that this was deemed the most effective way ofcommunicating between queens. She struggles with letters when they are separated, never mind when they are intertwined. This one is not so bad: a sun and a moon. No, not a moon: a C. The sun is easy enough to understand: the rays are fully coloured, indicating the sun at its zenith – midday. The C must be: “Cleves,” she whispers. Cleves has urgent business with them. Has something happened to her? Or has she had news of Seymour?
Howard must find a way of ensuring privacy from Henry and his household. She has never spoken to the other queens with the king at Plythe. The thought makes her underarms prickle with sweat.
“Howard?” Henry calls from the other room.
