Page 37 of The Queen’s Witch

I sensed it then, the emptiness in her. She was what the Christians called a holy innocent, and only one thought at a time could she hold in her simple mind.

“Stop crying,” I said, and she did. Rain mingled with her tears, but being told what to do steadied her. I thought of Alice Haddon at Hever, but Alice had been much more capable than this girl.

“Come quick. My lady abbess is ill!”

I let her tug me toward the abbey.

Seen close up, it looked unkempt. Weeds straggled close to the walls. The heavy wooden door stood open, and the stone-floored hall was cold and bare. The novice led me to a chamber with a barred window looking out on the forest. The window had no glass, and the rain pattered pleasantly beyond the open shutters. On the opposite side of the room, a nun sat at a scarred table, writing by candlelight.

She rose as we entered. “Elizabeth?”

The novice bobbed a curtsy. “I found someone to help you, my lady abbess!”

The abbess, a tall, graceful woman in middle age, said, “Help me?”

“Because you are ill!”

“I am not ill.” She turned toward me. Her voice was musical, with the speech of far-North nobility. I had heard that accent in Scots messengers at court. She turned toward me. “You are welcome, although I fear Elizabeth has misunderstood. I ate something that must have gone bad, and I expelled it. I am sorry she has brought you on such false pretenses, mistress, but Elizabeth’s intentions were good. Are you a healer?”

Elizabeth said, “She was digging up flowers.”

I curtsied. “I am a healer, yes.” How else to account for gathering roots in the rain? And something about this woman fostered frankness. “Sarah Lond, my lady.”

“Lady Abbess Cecily Ainley. We have troubled you unnecessarily. Please accept my apologies.”

Elizabeth, bewildered, said, “My lady abbess is ill.”

“I am fine, child. You are wet; go change your stockings and hood.”

“Yes, my lady.” She scampered from the room.

Abbess Cecily studied me. “I have not seen you before.”

“No, my lady.” I wanted to leave quickly. I remembered the Church’s growing hostility toward the Sisterhood in the South and West of England, where the new religious reforms were spreading most rapidly. “I am here for only a short while.”

“Yes? And with whom do you stay?”

If I lied, she might easily learn of it in the village. “With Agnes Snayth, my lady. She is my cousin. She sustained an injury, and I am caring for her while she recovers.”

Her expression sharpened, although her manner remained courteous. “Yes. I thank you again, Mistress Lond. Let me show you out.”

All the way to the cottage, my curiosity burned. Agnes inspected the plants and walking stick I brought her, grumbling about the smallness of the roots, the unsuitability of the stick, the length of time I’d been gone. As I set my herbs and roots before the fire to dry, I said, “I visited Bredham Abbey.”

“What? I told ye—”

“It was not intentional. A young novice grabbed me in the forest, babbling that the abbess was ill. She was not; the novice was mistaken, and I left. Why do you hate the abbey, Agnes? And why does the abbess dislike you?”

“What did she tell ye? Lying whore!”

“She told me nothing. She merely looked . . . uneasy when I said I was staying with you. What is this about?”

“It be about their theft of my manor, may plague take them all!”

“Your manor?”

“Galey Manor! My father be heir, and his father and his father’s father afore him, and they took it!”

I turned from my herbs and faced her. “When was that?”