Chapter Twenty-Nine Cleves
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cleves
When Johana comes to her with the simple words, “She knows”, Cleves is rather pleased with her reaction. Namely, that she manages to conceal all true emotion.
“I have known of Seymour’s rebellion against the king for nearly a year now, and kept the secret to myself for as long. But your servants and Seymour could not keep my involvement a secret for longer than a few days. It is remarkable, cousin.”
Johana scowls. “If I did not love you, I would turn you over to the king myself. I have played servant for days. Do you know what that does to a man’s self-worth?”
So Cecilia knows that Cleves is allied with Seymour.
It follows that Cleves should meet with the Dowager Queen.
People like Cecilia and Aragon only make bargains with fellow royalty, and though Cleves does not like it, she knows how to play that game.
Such a visit aligns with the other plan that has been forming in her head ever since she and Johana realised that the binding cloths are the key to releasing Medren’s power: she must go to the viper’s nest. To High Hall.
And she must get there before Mary Boleyn’s royal wedding.
The benefit of having a small household and a smaller court is that it does not take long for her retinue to be readied, and it is a simple matter to avoid bringing any nobility with her. It is well known that her ways are odd, and that she prefers to travel with animals rather than humans.
It is nearly midnight when she reaches Gnottel Lodge.
The new moon lights the clearing in which the house sits, the little drawbridge pulled up across the moat.
Gnottel Lodge was built for merriment – weekend parties and the like.
Here, Cleves’s role is benevolent hostess.
Now, though, she feels like a gaoler. There is something deeply uncomfortable about that raised drawbridge.
It puts her in mind of another time, when a woodland house intended for banqueting became a fortress besieged.
Only that time, she was the one trapped inside.
To her surprise, Cleves finds Seymour and the king’s sister sitting in companionable silence beside a fire.
The domestic sight – Cecilia at needlework; Seymour dozing over a book – makes her pause.
Johana follows her with Lelij, who bleats plaintively when he spies the warm fire.
Cecilia looks up, and a predatory smile spreads across her face.
“Has the Queen of Cnothan sent me new fodder?” she says.
Cleves could laugh. She does not know who she is.
Cleves wonders whether she should have some fun, but then decides that would be ill-advised with this woman.
Seymour was charmed by the trick; Cecilia would not be.
Cleves settles for removing her travelling cloak, revealing a gown of royal purple, cut sleeveless in the Ezzonid style.
She does enjoy watching first puzzlement then realisation break across Cecilia’s face.
“You are Queen Cleves?” she says bluntly.
“For several years, yes,” Cleves replies.
Cleves knows what will happen next, and she is not disappointed.
It is the same when anyone who has heard tell of the “ugly queen” meets her.
Their eyes travel across Cleves’s face, and then down her body, searching for proof that she is as repugnant as the rumours say.
There are two kinds of people: those who trust their eyes over the rumours, and those who trust the rumours over their eyes. She wonders which Cecilia will be.
“How did you trick him?” Cecilia says at last.
Cleves cannot help but glance to Seymour, who is watching the exchange with studied disinterest.
“Trick who?” Cleves says.
“You are perfectly attractive. Why does my brother say you are not?”
So Cecilia has more wits about her than Cleves had thought. That is interesting. Cleves hands her cloak to a servant and takes one of the spare seats, closest to the fire.
“I am interested that you should think I would be the trickster,” she says, patting her lap in invitation to her gargoyle. “Who is to say your brother did not trick me into coming to this island only to humiliate me for his own purposes?”
“Hmm,” Cecilia says, sitting back down herself. The two women regard each other, like duellists circling after their first parry. Cleves wonders whether Cecilia is as aware of Seymour watching them as Cleves herself is.
“You must be hungry after your long journey,” Cecilia says.
She raises a hand, summoning a servant. It is a double test: she is trying to ascertain how far they are from Cnothan, and marking herself as the senior royal.
Before Cecilia can order anything, Cleves tells the servant, “The Dowager Queen is hungry, and I would welcome some wine.”
She smiles at Cecilia. Cecilia smiles back.
Johana ruins the moment by snorting. He pulls a chair across the room and places it beside Seymour. “May I join you in watching the tournament?” he asks.
Seymour smiles up at him. “Should we take bets, my lord?”
“It is bold of you to assume that I have money with which to bet. I am, after all, merely a third cousin of the King of Ezzonid.”
Bread, cakes and fruit are brought, along with a jug of fine white wine from Gkontai, one of Cleves’s favourites.
“Rather than spectating, would you care to join us, perhaps?” Cleves says to Seymour and Johana.
Tempted by the smell of food, Lelij climbs off Cleves’s lap, stretches and turns his attention to Seymour.
Haltrasc watches him nuzzle his mistress and growls half-heartedly – territorial, but not so much that he can be bothered to rise from his snug place by the fire.
“First you take my panther’s affections; now you make a play for my gargoyle,” Cleves says.
“I believe the panther was a gift,” Seymour says, scratching Lelij’s muzzle. “And besides, I do not believe that anything with a soul can truly be stolen: it merely gives its heart elsewhere.”
There is much that Cleves could say to that, much that she wants to say.
Where do you give your heart these days, Queen of Hyde?
Or: I am a thief and should like to test your claim.
But Cecilia and Johana are here, so she merely says, “I know little of hearts or souls, so I will bow to your expertise, my angry queen.”
She slices a piece of hard cheese, ignoring the way Cecilia is looking between her and Seymour, as though she has stumbled upon a great secret and cannot wait to share it.
Cleves returns her attention to her. “So, Your Majesty. Now we have caught you – or stolen you, whichever way you would have it – what are we going to do with you?”
“I am shocked that you do not already know,” Cecilia says.
“If anyone were to ask me, I would say get rid of her,” Johana remarks, taking a bite of an apple. He chews, then looks at the fruit appraisingly. “Truly, these are the only delicious thing to come out of this country.”
“That is one option,” Cleves agrees.
“Cecilia believes in her brother’s great love,” Seymour says. “Perhaps we could bargain with him for her safe release.”
Something passes between Seymour and Cecilia then – Cleves realises that this was a barb on Seymour’s part. She does not believe that Henry will save his sister. But Cecilia does. Cleves wonders how she can use that.
“I assume you desire a throne of your own,” Cleves says. “Perhaps your brother would be willing to give up his grasp upon Elben in exchange for his sister taking … shall we say Brynd?”
Cecilia scoffs. “You think to exchange a kingdom for a castle?”
“A stolen kingdom for a freely given castle,” Cleves says.
Cecilia appears to consider this. “He will not like it,” she says at last.
“No, I don’t imagine he will.”
Johana takes another bite of his apple. The crunch echoes around the room.
Cecilia flicks her hair behind her shoulder. “Shall I write to him to begin the negotiations?” she says.
Cleves is almost disappointed. Cecilia has capitulated far too easily to be sincere.
She is in some respects extremely clever, and in others hopelessly transparent.
But Cleves plays along; she may as well allow Cecilia to think she has the advantage.
“Why don’t you take a few nights to think it over?
It is no small negotiation we are asking you to undertake. ”
Cecilia stands, smooths her gown. “Good night, ladies,” she says, and sweeps from the room. Johana spreads his hands. “I am confused. Am I a lady or am I invisible?”
Seymour leans towards Cleves. “She is lying, of course.”
“Of course,” Cleves says, leaning in too.
Johana looks between them. “I think I must be invisible. I shall take myself outside, ensuring any little butterflies that may be lurking nearby are safely tucked away.” There is a stifled sound from just beyond the door, and Johana raises his eyebrows at them as he leaves.
Alone with Seymour, Cleves finds herself emboldened and terrified all at once.
It is strange: attractive women do not usually frighten her.
Usually, she knows precisely what to say and do once she is alone with them.
But then Seymour has always held a different space in Cleves’s mind.
Cleves still remembers reading the letter from her informant, and learning of the lady-in-waiting who had been sent to kill her mistress, and who had instead fallen in love with said mistress and seduced a king.
Did Seymour realise, Cleves wondered even then, just how remarkable she was?
“I have brought trouble to your door,” Seymour says. They are still leaning towards each other. It is imperative that no eavesdroppers hear them.
“It is your way, is it not?” Cleves says.
“I thought you might be angry with me for saving Cecilia. But you do not seem to be angry, or sad, or pleased … All I ever seem to do is amuse you.”
Good, Cleves thinks. It is working then.
“The world, life – these things always amuse me.”
“And what we are doing – plotting against a king, leading our country towards civil war – is that also amusing to you?”
Seymour is looking at Cleves in a way she does not like. As if Seymour knows something of Cleves. As if she knows something of soldiers and the cries of battle in the night.
“Well, if our little princess is to be believed, her brother’s love for her will circumvent all need for civil war, will it not?” Cleves says. She laughs at her own joke.
Seymour’s expression clouds, and Cleves sees that she has been too opaque.
She pulls gently at one of the stray locks of brown hair peeking from beneath Seymour’s hood.
“I am committed to this cause, if that is what concerns you,” she says.
“But we cannot all be so serious all of the time, my angry queen.”
Seymour goes still then, like the eye of a storm.
She touches Cleves’s face. A brief touch, like a lapdragon’s kiss.
“You speak of my anger as though it is a rare beast, Queen Cleves, but to me you are the strange one. I cannot understand how you are not angry. How do you remain in such good cheer through everything that has happened to you?”
“What has happened to me?” Cleves laughs. “Born to a royal throne. Married to a king. Queen of my own castle, with wealth and lands aplenty. What do I have to be angry about?”
There is a pressure upon her chest. She has never told anyone of that time in her life, and she never, ever will. It is hers to remember; hers and her family’s. No one else shall ever hold that power over her.
Seymour frowns, her hand dropping into her lap. “Ezzonid was a troubled country when you were a child, no?”
“That was a matter for my father and his people. It did not touch me.” Her voice must be colder than she intended. Seymour lets out a little sigh of frustration.
“In any case, I am not always so serious,” Seymour says. She is so charmingly earnest. Cleves takes her hands and pulls her to her feet.
“Prove it then,” she says. “Dance with me.”
“But there is no music,” Seymour says.
“Is there not?”
Cleves likes issuing challenges like this: daring people to play the fool as Cleves has played the fool during her marriage.
The reaction she receives shows her the measure of a person more than any conversation.
For an instant, she thinks Seymour will fail the test. Then Seymour straightens her shoulders, offers her hand to Cleves and bows.
“May I, my lady?”
Cleves takes the proffered hand, and they draw closer.
Cleves leads Seymour slowly across the room, their steps light upon the flagstones.
As they move, Cleves tells Seymour of her theory about the binding cloths, and that destroying them might be the key to ending Henry’s theft.
Seymour makes little answer. She pulls away and takes the lead, lifting her arm so that Cleves may spin beneath it.
They come together once more, palm against palm, chest to chest, and Cleves no longer knows who leads and who follows.
There is no flautist, no fiddle, no harpsichord, but – oh yes – there is music.
Seymour brushes her thumb across Cleves’s knuckle. The sensation, gentle though it is, sends shivers across Cleves’s entire body. “I think you are angry too, in your own way,” Seymour says. “I only hope that you do not keep it so bottled up that it eats away at you from the inside.”
Cleves looks up at her. “You are mistaken. There is no anger in me. You have enough for the both of us.”
Seymour hesitates, then bends down to whisper in Cleves’s ear, “Well, if you ever wish to scream, I will willingly listen to you.”
Cleves is on a precipice, the wind all around her. The ocean looks so very inviting. Seymour’s hand strokes little circles on her back that she can feel through her bodice. Her breath on Cleves’s earlobe conjures long nights and warm skin.
She steps back from the edge. “I must go,” she says. She cannot quite bring laughter to her voice. Seymour drops her hands. “Now?” she says. “I thought you … I thought you might stay the night. That is – is it not dangerous to travel in the darkness?”
“Not in my territory,” Cleves says. She is on more certain ground now. “Besides, I wish to reach High Hall in plenty of time. We would not wish Mary Boleyn to receive an unsettled wedding gift now, would we?”
Seymour does not return Cleves’s smile, but turns towards the fire.
“Go well,” she says, her back to Cleves.
“I will return with news of the binding cloths,” Cleves says, the words a plea. Seymour does not reply.
As Cleves mounts her horse, Johana silent on his beside her, she does not look back at Gnottel Lodge. Safer by far to look ahead. Only ever ahead.