She thinks her hand may be fused to the wall, fused to this apparition, but then she is pulled away, the skin on her palm tearing, leaving a crisp layer of darkness on the wall, like a water print, that is soon burned away.
Cleves holds Howard’s face between her hands.
“Howard, can you see me?” she says.
“I can see you,” Howard says hoarsely.
“What happened?”
Howard begins to tremble. Cernunnos’s presence is still within her, a scornful rebuke.
“It was not the divine power we needed to retrieve the binding cloths. It washispower.”
Cleves seems to sink. “Of course it would be,” she says. “Of course it would be. That is why Cromwell did not take more care.”
The brilliance of the hiding place reveals itself. Neither they nor any of their followers will be able to access the cloths here, for they can never, will never, wield Cernunnos’s specific power – the power that is his alone, not Medren’s, weaker though it is.
Henry is always cleverer than her, always ahead, even when he thinks her harmless. Howard had thought that, because Seymour triumphed on account of Henry underestimating her, that Howard might be able to triumph the same way. But Henry does not make the same mistake twice.
“What do we do now?” Howard says.
Cleves pats Howard’s arm. “We find another way. We grow cleverer still.”
She cradles Howard’s head as Legh once did. “And we try to learn how you just wielded Medren’s power, you brilliant child.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Cleves
Cleves is never uncertain. She knows her mind. But Howard has unsettled her. She does not like that she is so shocked by the young queen being able to conjure a power that none of the rest of them can. She does not like what it says about her –her, the queen who should know just as well as Howard what it is to be underestimated and scorned. It niggles as she travels back from High Hall, Johana at her side.
“Did you enjoy your time spent with the noblemen of High Hall?” she asks him, keen for distraction.
“As a pig enjoys the slaughter,” he replies airily.
“Do not tell me you prefer spending time with men who have integrity, Johana, or I shall not recognise you.”
“I do not care a damn for integrity. I should merely like a man with a sense of humour that doesn’t revolve solely around breasts and cocks. Is that too much to ask?”
“Strange, I thought you enjoyed cock.”
“Somecock. I do have standards.”
“Maybe if it was served to you alongside a good Elbenese apple.”
They do not look at each other, but she can tell that he is smiling as broadly as she. She glances over at him.
“Did you truly not enjoy it?”
He shrugs. “I came to Elben to be of service to my favourite cousin. I was of service. Thus – I am content.”
His words are so devoid of his usual scalding wit, so free of the manipulations she has navigated at High Hall, that her heart twists. She reaches out to him, across the gap between their horses, and he catches her hand. They stay like that, their hands rising and falling with the horses’ gait.
“This is nice,” he says, so softly she almost does not hear him.
The sun is high in a clear sky, and the trees are puffy with buds and blossom. It must have rained overnight, though, because the welcome chill of a dewy morning is still in the air and the horses’ hooves pat the ground rather than knocking it.
He’s right. She has always been adept at making easy conversation, but it has not been safe for her to form attachments without some level of guile. She had almost forgotten what a comfort such friendship can be: a sheltered cove in a stormy sea.
