Page 33 of The Queen’s Witch

Immediately she recognized what I was, and we stared at each other. Her eyes narrowed in her deeply wrinkled face under sparse hair, the same iron gray as the trap, which was cruel even for an animal.

“Well, girl, do not . . . stand there. Open . . . the cursed thing.”

That she could not do so herself was a measure of her pain, her age, and the amount of power she had already expended to become a hare. Yet I could sense spells thick around her; she had already magicked for herself as much relief as she could. Even the most powerful of witches must live in a body, and all bodies were subject to injury and pain. I bent beside her, studied the mechanism, and wrenched apart the unholy thing.

She made no sound, but her eyes closed and her whole ancient body shuddered. Freed, her leg looked even worse. I doubted she would ever walk again unaided.

“How may I help you, Mother?”

“I am not yer mother, ye bobolyne! Can ye do nothing? Take me home!”

If I lifted her, I risked doing more damage to the bone. Uncertain, I said again, “How should I—”

“Bull’s pizzle! Are all new ones so stupid? I will do it myself! Then follow the yew path!” She grabbed her leg, forced the bone back into alignment, and fainted.

I pulled winter hose, thick and warm, from my bundle and tied it to a straight, stout stick laid along the leg. Quickly, before she could revive, I got her body onto my blanket and dragged her to an immense yew tree. A faint track led deeper into the forest. Hesitating—was this the right path? I could not see through the trees—I heard her voice behind me.

“Well, keep on, girl. Be ye feeble-witted?”

I kept on until we came to a tiny, dilapidated cottage under a large oak. The witch spoke some words in the old tongue that, I guessed, undid whatever ward she had placed on the cottage. I opened the door and dragged her in.

“Bed,” she gasped. She was losing strength.

“I will have to lift you.”

“How else?”

Not lightly built, she nonetheless presented no challenge for the arm strength I had developed scouring pots. I laid her as gently as I could on the low bed, whose leather straps creaked under her weight.

Again, we stared at each other, and I did not look away.

“Who be ye?”

“Christopher Lond.”

She snorted. “Do not act bobolyne, girl. Not with me.”

“Sarah Lond.”

“I doubt it. No matter. Ye will stay here and serve me.”

For six months, I had bargained with Mistress Anne Boleyn, placed unseen wagers with myself on her actions, played dice with my future. I had lost, but I had learned. At the very beginning, when Anne raved with the Sweat, she had spoken true: Whoever loves least holds most power. I said, “In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for not turning ye into a toad!”

Could she do it? I did not know how much thrice-braided power she had. But if she did turn me into a toad, I would not be able to counterspell. I was only a cunning woman. But this existence I led that was not life, this aimless wandering without hope, would at least cease. At that reckless moment, being a toad without memory or feeling did not seem so bad.

I said, “If I am a toad, I could not serve you, could I?”

She studied me, and then she smiled, a broken-toothed smile that curdled my stomach. “Ye do not care, do ye? Well, then, name yer price. What do ye want? Not a man, I can tell that much. A virgin ye are, and ye do not care one way or the other. Riches I cannot give ye, and ye already know that. So what is yer price?”

“Twofold. You will teach me what you know. And when the time comes and I call on you, you will perform the ceremony to tie my thrice-braided cord.”

She blinked; I had surprised her. “Why?”

I said nothing.

“I asked ye a question, girl. If ye want to be thrice braided, why were ye not tied when ye became a cunning woman?”