Page 16 of The Queen’s Witch

Like Mistress Haddon, she began to rave.

Mistress Haddon’s raving had merely alternated curses with prayers. Mistress Anne’s was far different.

“He wants . . . but, Wolsey . . . oh, Henry, why cannot you see . . . Qui duxerit uxorem fratris sui rem facit inlicitam turpitudinem . . . Wolsey, I will bring you down, I will—” something too garbled to understand “—for the love of God, my lord . . . Je serai reine . . . George, where are you, where . . . Do not, do not . . . Mary, you whore . . . Katherine . . . Wolsey . . .”

The raving descended to gibberish, through which flashed the occasional coherent word or phrase. Anne tossed restlessly. Hours of fever and delirium, until I was sure she would die.

Then, well before dawn, she woke from a doze, looked at me with complete clarity, and said, “Whoever loves least holds most power.” Immediately she fell into a deep sleep.

I felt her forehead. The fever had broken. Mistress Anne Boleyn would survive.

By dawn I was so befuddled from lack of sleep that I tripped and dropped a pan. It clattered to the floor, and Anne woke.

“Who are you?” Her voice was weak and thin, her face uncertain. “Where is Emma?”

“I do not know who that is, my lady. I am Elyn Bryn. I have nursed you.”

Her expression cleared. “I remember. I . . .”

“You had the Sweat, but now you are on the mend.”

She gazed at me. Even as she was—weakened, stinking, unable to lift her head—her dark eyes compelled. Finally, she said, “I remember. The forest. Who are you?”

I had not wanted to do this so soon. But the household was stirring, and I might not be alone with her again.

“I am a cunning woman, my lady. I—”

“A witch.” Her voice, still thin and weak, nonetheless held no fear.

“No,” I said, “a cunning woman.”

“Whatever you are, you have cured me. But why . . . in the forest . . .”

“Why did you recognize me when you rode into Hever? You felt our affinity then, did you not? It is no danger to you. We cunning women can . . . can advance in rank”—surely that was something she would understand!—“when we ally with those who are fated for us. That is what you felt. There must be a ceremony to bring the alliance into being. You—”

“You dare to think that I would ally with you? An inferior person of low rank? Are you mad?”

“No, my lady. I am not mad.” Footsteps outside the door. I spoke quickly. “The alliance is beneficial to both people. It does not bind us to the Dark One, despite what you may have heard. When my magicks are more powerful, I can use them in your service. I can help to bring down Wolsey.”

Her eyes widened. I did not know who Wolsey might be, but that name was the most useful thing in Anne’s ravings, and I seized upon it. Before she could say anything, if indeed she had intended to reply to my effrontery, the door opened and the page bustled in, leading two men. The older was richly dressed; the younger wore royal livery; both were mud-spattered from hard riding. The page said, “My lady, Dr. Butts and a messenger, both from His Majesty.”

Dr. Butts took in the scene and exploded. “Who are you? The nurse? Why is Mistress Boleyn not swaddled? Have you been giving her water? Do you know nothing of sweating sickness? You will kill your patient, you stupid woman!”

“I am not dead,” Anne said. “I am better.”

He moved to her bedside. “By the grace of God. But now I am here, His Majesty’s own physician, sent by the king to attend to you. I will provide the proper treatments, and you will make a full recovery. First, you must be bled.”

“No. I am recovering now. Leave me.”

“But the king sent—”

“Leave me now.” Quiet, but with a deadly edge.

Dr. Butts flushed and backed out of the room.

The second man, waiting against the wall, was summoned by a quick glance. He stepped forward and drew from his doublet a sealed letter and a small package. “From His Majesty.”

“Thank you, William. You may hand them to my nurse. His Grace is not ill?”