Page 38 of The Queen’s Witch

“Two hundred years gone, when that whoreson the king took it from us!”

Two hundred years ago. Was any of this true? I said carefully, “Who was the king?”

“Edward the Third! Ye be ignorant as a eel!”

“Yes,” I said. It seldom paid to argue with Agnes.

Her expression suddenly changed. She chuckled and said, “Ye will go to Mass at the abbey.”

“What? No, I will not!”

“Anything I ask,” Agnes said. Glee shone on her face like slime.

“But . . . why?”

“I wish to know the sermon. So ye will go on Sunday. Ye will tell Abbess Cecily that ye liked whatever sermon the sarding priest babbles. That ye miss church services. Get yerself invited for ale or whatever they drink of a Sunday. Do it, girl. We made a pact.”

She did not say, witnessed by the Dark One. She did not have to.

On Sunday I slipped inside the abbey chapel, built against the south wall, just as the tower’s one bell stopped pealing. Grandmother had educated me about the Mass and even taken me a few times so that I would understand the people who came to her for small magicks. I knew the motions of the service, giving it tolerance but not belief. However, the chapel at Bredham Abbey surprised me.

Although bright sunlight streamed through the colored glass, it illuminated a mostly bare interior. The benches were old and worn; the altar cloth moth-eaten; the statue of their goddess, Mary, had one hand broken off. What surprised me most, however, was the people, nuns and villagers. Only seven nuns, counting the novice Elizabeth, arrayed in a row like so many black crows. Only a few dozen villagers, mostly old.

Elizabeth saw me enter, jumped up, and waved. The nun beside her gently pulled the girl back down to her bench. The priest entered, looking as if he had just ridden in from somewhere else, and began the service. I had no Latin for the rituals, but the sermon was in clear English: The Lord God would deal harshly with heretics, all of whom would burn in hell after death, if not sooner. As, for instance, the demon William Tyndale, who sought to undermine the Most Holy Church.

I remembered Anne reading a book by Tyndale, her dark eyes intent.

When the priest was done thundering, four nuns sang, again in Latin. The other two must be lay sisters, a lesser religious rank that did rough work and participated in prayers but not the singing of the “holy office.” Elizabeth, too, stayed silent. Perhaps she had not, or could not, learn the words. Abbess Cecily’s voice was high and strong, soaring above the other three.

I left with the villagers. Some stared at me suspiciously. Some nodded, probably wondering what Mistress Snayth’s kin was doing at Mass. Elizabeth ran up to me breathlessly. “Sarah! Good day!”

“Good day, Elizabeth.”

“My lady abbess was not sick.”

“Yes.”

“I thought she was. I was scared.”

“I know.” How much mind did the girl possess? Beautiful and stupid—a dangerous combination.

The abbess approached. “Good day, Mistress Lond.”

I curtsied. “And to you, my lady.”

“Have you come to see Elizabeth?”

She was protective of the girl, and suspicious of my intentions. I said, “No, my lady. I came because it has been too long since I attended church.”

The abbess studied me. I could not tell if she believed me, but I knew she would at least pretend belief, to encourage me to return. That was her calling.

“We are most happy to see you here, mistress. May I ask why you have not come sooner?”

“My cousin did not wish it.”

“Ah. Mistress Snayth.”

I looked at the ground. “Yes.”