“They are. My mother-in-law is kept busy with my niece.”
“She is nearly one now.”
“Just turned. And already running my mother-in-law in circles.”
“Very good.”
Cleves has only had sight of the Princess Elizabeth once, briefly, in the days before the Moon Ball, so she does not know why she is so relieved at this news. She cannot, of course, talk freely of the princess or the old stewardess of Brynd, Mistress Syndony, in this place, but Syndony’s secret network of family agents was in place long before Boleyn’s fall, and has remained strong even with Syndony in hiding with her young charge.
Cleves peers at the plants Edith is potting up. “Roses. Are these for the royal wedding then?”
“The new queen favours them, so His Majesty has ordered the sanctuary full of them.”
“Quite an undertaking.”
Edith casually looks around to be sure they are not being overheard. She returns to her work, and Cleves makes a show of smelling some jasmine climbing up a nearby wall.
“To the king’s face, Mary Boleyn is shown all due deference,” Edith says.
“And in his absence?”
“Despite the general dislike of Queen Boleyn, no one favours the match. Those who despised Boleyn fear that the whole family is tainted with treachery. Those who loved her despise Mary for her betrayal.”
“And yet he is set upon it,” Cleves says.
“Perhaps he truly loves her.”
“Or perhaps if she has no friends, she will be easier for him to control,” Cleves says, raising an eyebrow.
“There is more.” Edith draws closer to Cleves under the pretence of inspecting the petals of the nearest rose bush. “Bishop More has come to stay at High Hall. He spends much of his time in his rooms. When he does come out, he is not himself. Some say he is dying.”
“And what do you say?” Cleves asks.
Edith shakes her head. “There’s something strange going on here. I cannot put my finger on it, nor find out anything more. Only a few servants are permitted into the bishop’s rooms and they are all loyal to Cromwell. I can get nothing from them.”
“Cromwell?” Cleves says. She had not been particularly interested in this news before – what is an ailing Bishop to her? – but now she is. Cromwell and More have never been allies. Has that changed? The thought makes her uneasy. When a wolf like Cromwell takes an interest in someone like More, it can only be for one reason: he is hungry for a kill and senses weakness. But what is the manner of More’s weakness? she wonders. Captive crones and a dying bishop. What is Cromwell brewing in the secret parts of this palace?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Howard
Howard knows something of desperation. The festoons and garlands that adorn every rafter and door at High Hall reek of it. She has never attended any wedding at High Hall but her own, but she has heard about plenty. This kind of decoration is not normal. Usually it is only the sanctuary and the new queen’s rooms that are so festooned. This is excessive. The palace drips with wealth and opulence, all of it cold and empty.
Howard is not brave, like Boleyn. She has no intention of attending Mary’s wedding as Boleyn attended Seymour’s. She does not wish to incur Henry’s wrath. She is at High Hall for something far more important than a chance to see the traitor sister. What a triumph it would be for her to find them. An end to their secret war against Henry without a sword drawn.
But not attending the wedding publicly does not mean she cannot attend it in secret. With Tylney in charge of bringing Florin into Plythe’s household, Howard made her way with a small retinue to High Hall, arriving on the morning of the royal wedding. She dispatches Ursula as her ambassador as soon as they arrive, then changes into a gown of dark damask that moves like shadows.
There is a cove just above the sanctuary, hewn from ancient rock and covered in irregular carvings – the result of centuries of lovers wishing to mark their presence, Howard assumes. Henry once told her that the cove was intended for certain members of the royal family toattend service, but given what Howard knows now of the history of the palace – that it was originally a place for the six Queens of Elben to convene – she wonders whether it had a different purpose.
Howard settles into her hiding place, waiting for the ceremony to start, watching as the guests assemble in the pews below her. She wonders whether her wedding gift will work as intended.
The choir, a group of younglings with exquisite voices, begins to sing. Howard was among them once, when she was but a girl. It was how she caught Henry’s eye. It has been a long time since she sang with the same abandon she once did.
The pews are emptier than they were at Howard’s wedding, although that is perhaps simply because the many girls with whom Howard shared a bedchamber insisted upon attending. Howard recognises few of these guests – Mary’s two children, a girl and a boy, sit quietly in matching black outfits. But Howard cannot see Mary’s charming brother George or his spouses. Where are her parents? Howard heard that they moved to the family home of Hever in the wake of Boleyn’s arrest, but she assumed they would be in attendance. Is their absence a sign of Henry’s displeasure, or theirs?
Henry arrives next, the light from the stained-glass windows making the play of the divine power across his skin look even more dramatic. And then there is Mary, walking slowly up the aisle. She has seen Mary Boleyn a few times, at the Moon Ball, but has never spoken to her. It is interesting, Howard realises, that she remembers each instance of seeing the woman, despite their lack of formal introduction.
She is undoubtedly beautiful, and even more so today in her wedding dress. Her sister’s was red and indulgent, from what Howard heard. Mary’s is black. The colour of mourning. The colour of grace. Both attributes suit the woman, for she looks, as she has her hair dressed in a glorious crown of plaited curls and iridescent black ribbon, every inch the woman who knows she has sold her soul, and who is already feeling the cost.
