Page 43 of The Queen’s Witch

“May I see Abbess Cecily?”

“‘May I . . . may I,’” she mocked. “Do you think that if you talk fine, you can mix with your betters? Go away, girl.”

I pushed past her and deliberately stumbled, nearly knocking her over. That was not necessary; a mere touch would have done. But sinking to my knees, my face turned away, gave me time to whisper the spell. And, truth be told, I enjoyed making her stagger.

“Have a care, you stupid clumsy oaf!”

“My apologies,” I said, rising up and calling out, “my lady abbess! I have brought something for Elizabeth!”

Abbess Cecily did not appear, but Elizabeth did, running into the hall. “Something for me? A gift?”

“Yes,” I said. “For when your courses return each month. If you chew this feverfew, it will ease the ache in your belly.”

“Thank you!” If she was disappointed that her “gift” was no more than a common plant, she showed no displeasure. Someone—Cecily?—had grafted good manners onto her naturally sweet disposition. For a ridiculous moment, I wondered what Henry’s court would have been like if he had fallen in love with someone like Elizabeth, mild and unambitious and simple, instead of Anne Boleyn, with her fiery and ambitious and unpredictable ways.

Then, for a longer moment that took me by surprise, I wondered how different my own life, and Grandmother’s, would have been if Joan had been as motherly as Cecily.

Beatrice said, “You gave Mistress Elizabeth your weeds. Now leave.”

I gave a mocking curtsy, accepted Elizabeth’s childish hug, and returned to Agnes’s cottage.

Along the way, the beauty of forest and fields glowed brightly. I felt the warm summer breezes caressing my face, listened to the birdsong, breathed deeply of the forest fragrances. A glow warmed me from within, strengthening every time I pictured the unpleasantness that would strike Sister Beatrice a few hours from now. Purging from both ends, stomach cramps, headache. All deserved, all of my doing.

Then I caught myself. I was reveling in having caused harm, however minor. Mother Redcap had warned me about the “joy of malefic magick.” Was this what she meant? But . . . my act was minor. I would not be seduced to the Dark One by such a little transgression. I was stronger than that. And, really, Agnes had left me no choice. My quest to free Grandmother left me no choice. Sickening Beatrice was justified by the greater good.

Agnes observed my glowing face, smiled, and sent me to the village for mutton and news. I overheard directly from a royal messenger on his way to the Welsh border that, even while on Progress, Henry had granted Anne more lands. Her power over him held strong. She was still casting dice to win the crown.

The next day, as I expected, I was called back to the castle by a lay sister, looking frightened. She blurted, “Reverend-Mother-asks-ye-to-come-illness-we-have.”

“Yes,” I said, “I will come.”

The long summer twilight had just begun, the sky clearing after rain. There is no sweeter smell, save for the salty tang of the North Sea. As we hurried along, I said, “Who is ill?”

“Sister Beatrice.” She did not look at me as she spoke; clearly it was I, not the gathering dark, that frightened her. Could she be . . . no. I detected no trace of cunning ability. She just seemed a girl frightened of anything new.

“Ah,” I said. “And your name?”

“Sister Joan.”

My mother’s name. Agnes and I had argued over her latest order, and I had lost. She had told me what to do, but not to whom. The moment the nun said her name, I made my admittedly irrational decision. I needed a victim. Sister Joan would do.

Cecily met me at the door. “Thank you for coming so promptly. Sister Beatrice has been taken ill. Did you bring . . . Ah, I see you did. Do you need hot water?”

“Yes, please.”

“Joan, heat water.”

Beatrice’s cell smelled terrible. The other lay sister carried out a reeking bucket, which was unfortunate because as soon as she had gone, Beatrice vomited again, leaning over the bed and spewing onto the floor all that was left in her, a greenish slime.

“I am sorry you ail,” I said. “I will mix a tisane to help.” To Cecily I said, “This cell is very cold. Can she be moved to a chamber with a hearth, and have a fire kindled?”

“I am afraid not.”

Elizabeth, who appeared suddenly with a cloth over her nose, said, “I will cut more firewood!”

“You will not,” Cecily said. “Mistress Lond, Beatrice does not wish to move. I have asked. She believes that only in her cell, which Father Canfield blessed on his last visit, is she safe from evil spirits.”

I nodded as if I believed this. When Joan reappeared with hot water, I followed her into the corridor on the pretext of needing air, and watched her duck into her own cell for a quick, kneeling prayer to a statue of their goddess, Mary.