Chapter Twenty-Two Cleves
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cleves
It is two nights before Cleves hears word of Seymour.
She knows that Cecilia’s ship was destroyed by the bordweal, and all she can do is hope that this was Seymour’s doing.
All she can do is drive from her mind the images of Seymour losing control of the bordweal and being destroyed alongside the vessel.
Johana wakes her at midnight. “I have them,” is the first thing he says as he slips into her bedchamber and she locks it behind him. “But there is a problem.”
“She is alive?” Cleves says, then wonders why this should be the first question upon her lips. Johana pauses. “Yes,” he says.
“Where is she?”
“Right here.”
Johana goes to a corner of her chamber, knocking on it in a specific pattern, pum pa pum pum. An answering knock, and then a panel in the wall slides back. First to step through is the Feorwan servant, Clarice. They bow to Cleves, then hold an arm out to help someone through.
There she is. Seymour’s once fine gown is stiff with dried salt, her hair loose and wild. She looks very different from the polite, contained queen Cleves met on a hill not far from here. She looks more worn, and more regal, than the woman Cleves danced with.
The two stare at each other. That dance – the last time they were in the same space – pregnant between them.
“How fare you, my angry queen?” Cleves says at last.
There it is – the flicker of a smile at the corner of Seymour’s mouth.
“I knew you would help me,” Seymour says. “It was as if my sunscína was reassuring me. The bordweal – that was you?”
“It was us.”
Seymour’s mouth opens, a soft “O”. Perhaps Cleves imagines it, but she is sure there is a little disappointment in Seymour’s eyes. The next moment, Seymour covers it: “Are you telling me that you and Queen Aragon set aside your squabbling for long enough to work together?”
Cleves laughs. “I am full of surprises, am I not, Queen Seymour?”
“You’re not the only one,” Clarice says, their jaw clenched. Seymour shoots them a look. Interesting. Cleves has never seen these two at odds before.
“What has happened?” she says.
Seymour cannot look at Cleves. “We … I … the Dowager Queen is our prisoner.”
“I see,” Cleves says.
Clarice juts their chin. “I did not agree with this course of action, but Her Majesty believes that Cecilia can be useful.”
“She can be,” Seymour says. She turns to Cleves. “She wants power, that is all. If we can offer her some, then I truly believe we could wrest her loyalty from her brother.”
“And if we have Elbenese royalty behind us, then we stand a chance of bringing the people to our side,” Cleves says.
Seymour becomes animated. “Yes, exactly.”
“How much does she know?” Cleves says, holding up a hand to stop Seymour from growing too excited.
“She only knows the truth of Medren, and that I am trying to finish what Boleyn started.”
Clarice nods. “That’s why we kept her on my ship. So she wouldn’t know about your involvement, or the other queens’.”
Here Clarice’s eyes flick to Johana, leaning inconspicuously against the wall next to the secret door. He holds up his hands. “I am merely here to help my cousin and my country’s interests. Pay me no mind.”
Cleves must think quickly. If Aragon and Seymour are right, then Cecilia thinks she is cleverer than she truly is, and eager for knowledge that she can use to her advantage.
“Can she remain on your ship?” Cleves asks Clarice. The Feorwan shakes their head. “I must return to my country.”
“The king is causing your people more trouble than usual, I understand.”
Clarice and Seymour dart a glance at each other that Cleves cannot read: is this an ongoing argument between the two of them?
Well, it is by the by. Cleves turns to Johana.
“I have a little hunting lodge deep in the Gealdrum Forest. It was built since my marriage, so the Dowager Queen will not recognise it, and with enough security – and a good steward – we can house her there for the time being.”
Johana shakes his head. “I am no gaoler.”
“You are the only one who knows all,” she says. She does not say, The only one I trust, for she trusts no one wholly but herself.
Johana groans. Clarice shrugs at him. “It is difficult when you are their only friend. You get handed a lot of shit.”
Clarice agrees to take Johana back to their ship, and from there Johana will make arrangements to convey Cecilia to Gnottel Lodge under cover of moonlight. Once they are gone, Seymour seems to collapse into herself. Cleves watches her, as disinterestedly as she can.
She might have expected Seymour to be thinner since she became a fugitive. Instead, Seymour looks stronger in every way, even when she is exhausted. Cleves’s stomach twists.
“You are tired, I think?” Cleves says.
“I am content.”
Seymour’s back is straight. Something twists again in Cleves, lower than her stomach now, and she almost laughs at herself. Why does she, the woman who can take a thousand insults and not be angered, have such a weakness for women made of fire?
“Oh, my angry queen has returned,” Cleves says.
“No.”
Cleves does laugh this time. “She brings a viper to my door and she is the one who is angry.”
“At least you still have a door,” Seymour says. “I have given all for the cause. Can you blame me for taking risks?”
“Not at all. But then you must not blame me for being cautious.”
Seymour looks very much as though she would like to blame Cleves, but Cleves has business to attend to if she is to keep the king’s sister under house arrest.
“You are tired,” Cleves says again. It is not a question this time. “Sleep in my bed for now, and we will find a better hiding place for you soon.”
Seymour looks as though she wants to refuse.
“We can talk later,” Cleves says.
“No,” Seymour says, but she sways on her feet.
“Come …” Cleves begins.
“I must know how we wield the bordweal,” Seymour says.
Cleves takes her by the shoulders and steers her towards the bed. She had forgotten how tall Seymour is.
“I swear on my gargoyle’s life that I will tell you, once you are rested.”
They sink onto the edge of the bed.
“But—”
“Sleep now, my queen.”
Seymour shakes her head. “I must know whether you have broken the chains between our husband and us.”
Cleves sighs. She is not going to get Seymour to rest until she has answers. “I do not think so. We used the spirit stones to conjure the divine power, much as our combined presence at Brynd conjured it at the Moon Ball. But I have felt no remnant of the power since.”
She does not admit that the lack of that power is now a physical ache within her chest. She craves it, as those in perpetual pain crave the ecstasy of the h?mdran flower.
“But it can be done,” Seymour whispers. Her eyes are almost closed. Cleves lays her down upon the bed and draws blankets over her gown. She resists the urge to stroke a stray lock of hair away from Seymour’s face. She is neither lover nor mother to Seymour, but a friend and a peer.
“Rest now, my tired queen,” Cleves says. She stands, brushing down her gown.
Seymour, eyes already closed, runs her hands over the fur blankets.
“It has been a long time since I have slept on a proper mattress,” Seymour says.
“So sleep. You do not always have to be fighting.” Cleves moves away, from both the bed and the image of Seymour entangled in her sheets.
The thought is very tempting, especially since Cleves’s bodice is already loosened.
But there will be time enough to try for a tumble later.
She likes her women passionate, not exhausted.
“I ask only one favour,” Cleves says, as Seymour nestles deeper into the sheets.
“What?” Seymour says. She looks up at Cleves from beneath long lashes.
“Do not drool on my pillows.”
Cleves slips from her own bedchamber and leans her back against her door. One breath, two, then she is in control of her senses once more.