Page 41 of The Queen’s Witch

I looked at Cecily, who nodded.

To Elizabeth I said, “How did you come to your chamber? Elizabeth, sweetling, can you stop crying long enough to tell me how you came to be here?”

“Sister . . . carried me.”

She did not have the falling sickness; those who were so afflicted did not remember their fits. I said, “Where do you hurt?”

“Head. And . . . belly. I am dying.”

I turned to Cecily. “How old is she?”

“Barely twelve.”

That surprised me; I had thought her older.

Cecily’s eyes suddenly widened. “No, she is too young.”

I laid my hand on Elizabeth’s belly. She winced. “Elizabeth, does blood come between your legs?”

She covered her face and screamed in fear. Swiftly I sat beside her on the narrow bed. “Sweetling, you are not dying. I promise you. This comes to all women, and Abbess Cecily will explain it to you. For now, I can make you a tisane to help the pain.”

“I am dying!”

“You are not dying. You are becoming a woman, and this is a necessary step to becoming marriageable.”

Her sobs stopped so abruptly that I was startled. “Marriageable?”

“Yes. It comes to all women.”

“Now I can marry Roger?”

This was not progressing as intended. I repeated, “You are not dying.”

Cecily took command. “Elizabeth, lie quietly. Mistress Sarah and I will return with something to help you, and then I will explain. Lie quietly.”

The nun who had fetched me from Agnes’s cottage followed us into the corridor. Cecily said, “I never thought . . . Elizabeth is so young. I intended to explain the curse of Eve next year.”

“Twelve is unusual,” I said, “but I have seen it before.” I had not, but I wished to reassure Cecily and, through her, Elizabeth.

“Then she is not afflicted with falling sickness?”

“No.”

“Merely afflicted with fear, an ordinary faint, and my stupidity.”

It was not said lightly; her face showed that she blamed herself for not recognizing Elizabeth’s affliction and reassuring the girl. This was a woman who took hard her own failures. I said, “If you bring me hot water, I will brew her a tisane.”

“Sister Beatrice, please bring hot water. And ask Sister Joan to find fresh bedding and women’s moss.”

“Yes, Mother,” the nun said, but she was unable to resist adding, “but a priest is still needed to remove the bewitchment.”

Abbess Cecily turned to her and said kindly but firmly, “I have told you that this abbey does not welcome any who deal in spells. Please do as I say.” And to me, as Sister Beatrice crept, chagrined, from the room: “I have a cramp ring, sent to me by a friend at court, blessed by the queen. Queen Katherine, I mean, not the usurper who dared imitate that sacred rite. It may prevent further faints.”

I nodded and turned away, not wanting my face to reveal the chill of these revelations. Abbess Cecily forbade cunning folk and their spells, but believed that cramp rings blessed by an anointed queen could prevent convulsions. She had a friend at court, who sent her news of what occurred there. And Anne had blessed cramp rings, a queen’s prerogative—had Katherine been sent from court? Had she recently died and I had not heard of it?

Cecily said abruptly, “You are very young to be a healer.”

“Unlike Elizabeth, I am older than I look,” I said, in a tone that allowed no further discussion. “My lady abbess, there were but seven of you at Mass on Sunday. Did many nuns die during the last Sweat?”