Page 36 of The Queen’s Witch

“The king wishes to set aside his wife and marry again.”

“Marry again! Who?”

“His council wishes him to choose a French princess.” I would not give her Anne’s name.

Agnes leaned forward eagerly. “And the queen? How will he rid himself of her? Poison?”

“Some say so.”

“Perhaps he will have her burned.” She chortled. I hated her.

When I had no fresh news, I invented. Isolated as she was, Agnes would not know the difference. I made up ladies who were caught in bed with handsome stable boys, jousting knights who died pierced through with lances, poisonings and banishments, estates lost to scheming brothers, sprinkling throughout the names of actual courtiers who supposedly were witnesses to or sources for my inventions.

“They all be foul as carrion,” Agnes said with deep satisfaction. Then she surprised me. “And the whore Anne Boleyn? Has the king tired of her? What be her fate if he marries a French princess?”

She already knew more than I suspected. I said, “Most likely he will discard her as he discarded her sister Mary.”

“Most likely. Anything else?”

“No.” I wanted to talk of anything but Anne, although from all I overheard, Henry’s fascination with her persisted as strong as ever. “Let me wash and comb your hair.”

She guffawed. “Why? Do my stink offend ye?”

“No.” I was used to her smell, the smell of the cottage, the smell of my new life. None was satisfying, but Agnes thought my petty services could cause me distress only because she had never known service to Anne Boleyn.

She scowled. “Go and cut me a stout stick to lean on. I will get out of this bed and walk.”

“Agnes, I do not think—”

“I do not give a fart what ye think. And when ye go into the forest, stay away from that sarding abbey.”

“Why do you hate—”

“Go!”

13

Bredham

I was glad to escape into the sweet, mist-drenched forest air. In addition to Agnes’s stick, I needed more of several herbs and roots, and I did not care how wet I got. Various paths took me past the village, deeper into the forest. When I had found all I needed, I went back through a light rain to the muddy road and found myself on the north side of Bredham Abbey. Yarrow bloomed among the roadside weeds, and I stooped to dig its roots.

Someone ran toward me.

A ward protected me, but this stranger was no threat. A girl, no more than fourteen, slightly built. She wore the dress of a religious novice, with a sodden hood slipping from golden hair above a pale face of startling beauty.

“Oh, come! Come quick! Help me!”

“What is it?”

“My lady abbess! She is ill!”

“Is there no—”

“She is ill! Come quick! I know not what to do!”

“I am not—”

“Come quick! My lady abbess is ill!” She clutched my sleeve and tried to tug me forward. When I did not move, she started to cry, wailing like a baby.