Page 35 of The Queen’s Witch

She guffawed. “Ye be a dalcop after all. But yea, we have a pact.”

“And it must be sealed in the presence of the Goddess.”

Her sunken eyes narrowed; a nasty smile came and went on her lips. “Are ye sure ye want that?”

“Yes. I do not trust you.”

She laughed again. “Then draw the shape on the floor.”

I took a coal from the hearth and drew a circle. Having the Goddess witness our vows would ensure that neither of us could break them, not without penalty that I did not think even this practitioner of malefic magick—for I was sure that is what she was—would risk.

The Sister told me to open the door. She summoned her familiar, a toad that hopped in from the weedy garden. As she began a spell in the old tongue, an owl hooted beyond the window; that must be her Third. A mist formed, a representation of the Goddess, who knows all, and I knelt by the circle. Within the mist flew small black dots; I did not know what they were. I knew so little. Nonetheless, I recited my pledge. “I, Alysoun, daughter of Joan, daughter of Frances, daughter of Camma, the descendant in blood of Ælfwynn of olde, make this vow: From now until Samhain, I will do whatever is asked by this thrice-braided Sister, save for causing grave bodily harm to others, in fair exchange for her teaching me and, should the time come, bestowing on me the grand ceremony to tie the thrice-braided cord.” I added the sacred words that Grandmother had taught me.

The witch said from her bed, “I, Agnes Snayth, daughter of Clemence, daughter of Matilda, daughter of Sywe, descendant in blood of Bodhmall of olde, make this vow: I will teach this cunning woman and tie her thrice-braided cord at any time she asks, in fair exchange that she do whatever I ask of her from now until midnight of Samhain, save only causing grave bodily harm to others. A thrice-braided cord holds strong.” She spoke the sacred words, and the mist before us thickened, darkened.

And gave off a terrible stench.

“No!” I cried, but it was too late. A dark shape, barely visible, took wavery form within the mist. The laugh of the Dark One rang throughout the cottage, that terrible, monstrous laugh I had heard once before, a sound that was everywhere and nowhere.

The mist vanished.

I choked out, “The Goddess . . . you . . .”

“I what?” Agnes guffawed. “Did ye think that only the Goddess can witness a bargain? The witness summoning was mine to do, and I chose. Now, girl, make me a tisane for healing and go kill a chicken for dinner. I trust ye can cook.”

I did not answer. Stumbling into the yard behind the cottage, I caught a scrawny chicken and wrung its neck with much more force than needed to end its pitiful little life.

Samhain lay six months ahead, in an uncertain future, and I had sold myself into servitude in exchange for a thrice-braided ceremony I had almost no hope of realizing. Had I been spelled into such a pact?

No. I had spelled myself, drunk on that most treacherous of poisons: hope.

For the next months, as summer unfolded in forest and field, I served Agnes Snayth as I had served Grandmother: cooking, washing, tending the fire and kitchen garden, fetching water from the spring. I gathered herbs and roots and fungi in the forest. Her leg healed with the slowness of the very old, although my tisanes and her spells kept the pain at bay. Agnes liked the cottage very warm and the shutters closed, so I chopped firewood, kept up the hearth fire, and sweated. At every opportunity, I darted outdoors for cool air.

We took each other’s measure.

“No one from the village comes to you for spells or healing,” I said. “Why not?”

“Why be that yer business?”

“I merely wondered.”

“Well, do not wonder; work. Build up that fire!”

She began to teach me—never without nasty comment on my inability as a mere cunning woman to use the rituals she described. I memorized them anyway, including the old language. Slowly I realized that, although thrice braided, Agnes was not a particularly powerful witch.

She surprised me one rainy afternoon by saying abruptly, “Ye learn quickly. And ye have much natural ability. I can feel it.”

“Thank you.” Stupidly, and despite my dislike of her, I warmed at the praise.

“It be no compliment, ye saddle-goose. Who did ye talk to in the village?”

At least once a week she sent me to Bredham village to buy provisions, doling out coins as if they were cups of her blood. Bread from the bakehouse, a jug of ale, a small twist of sugar, or a farmer’s cheese at the Saturday market. We needed these, but I came to realize that Agnes needed gossip even more. Though isolated and scorning everyone, she nonetheless hungered to know what went on beyond her cottage. I obliged her by spell-hearing and repeating village news, rumors, observations, all to keep her as bound to me as I was to her.

“The butcher’s daughter had the banns read for her and Farmer Gilcrist’s son.”

“Faughh, do ye think I care about the butcher’s daughter? What else?”

I learned that what she wanted was scandal, evil, pain, both local and among the great. The village of Bredham lay on a road running east and west toward Wales, and travelers stopped at the inn or the alehouse. I spent my own coin at the latter, lingered long over my cup, and spell-heard what I could.