Page 46 of The Queen’s Witch

The village alehouse hummed with news. Queen Katherine had been sent from court and forbidden to visit her daughter, some said at the wish of Lady Anne Boleyn. The son of a lord had been gored by a wild boar and died in agony. In the village, a woman had miscarried of her babe. Agnes chortled at all of it.

I was not summoned to the abbey. By now Beatrice, like Sister Joan, had probably left. Agnes’s plan to strip Bredham Abbey of its nuns was succeeding. Eventually, Elizabeth came to Agnes’s cottage to see if I also ailed. From far down the path she called, “Sarah! You are not sick!”

She had not come alone. With difficulty I broke my stare at the man accompanying her. For a terrible moment, I thought it was Mark Smalacombe: hair the same shade of brown, same strong and wide-shouldered body. He wore wool and leather, a dagger on his belt, bow and arrows at his back.

“This is Roger,” Elizabeth said, and if before I had thought her lovely, now she shone like silver moonlight on the sea.

Roger made a brief bow. “Mistress Lond.”

I curtsied.

“You are not sick,” Elizabeth repeated. She patted my shoulder.

“No, I am well.”

Roger said, “Elizabeth was concerned.” His voice had the same refined accent as his mother; he would not be out of place at court.

I smiled at Elizabeth. “I thank you for your concern.”

Agnes, from her chair within the cottage, shouted, “Come in! Both of ye!”

“I thank you, no,” Roger said. “We must return. Mistress Lond, the abbess desires you to visit her at the abbey.”

Agnes, leaning on her stick, appeared in the doorway and said to me, “Go, child.”

“I cannot, today,” I said. I needed them to leave. They did not belong here, near Agnes. Elizabeth was too innocent, and Roger was too . . . I did not want them near her. His eyes, light brown flecked with green, seemed to see much.

Elizabeth pouted. “You must come, Sarah! Roger goes away soon!”

“Come tomorrow, then,” Roger said. “My mother wishes to see you.”

No longer “the abbess,” now “my mother.” His gaze did not leave my face.

Agnes said, “Sarah will come to the abbey tomorrow! Early!”

Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Yes!”

Roger nodded to me and touched Elizabeth’s shoulder, a full head span below his. “We must return now.”

She put her hand over his. Gently he pulled away, still watching me. After a few steps, Elizabeth ran back, threw her arms around me, and whispered, “I will marry Roger. It is a secret!” She whirled and ran back to him.

A new, unwelcome feeling swept over me. Was Elizabeth’s secret whisper true? Perhaps. Elizabeth was beautiful, simple but with a very sweet nature, and a family of wealth had placed her at the abbey. Such girls were sometimes sent to convents, lest they produce heirs who were also simple. But Roger was the bastard son of a woman whose family had cut her off from riches and rank. He might think betrothal to Elizabeth, once she was old enough, a stroke of fortune. But . . . would her lack of mind satisfy him? Did he desire her, as I had once desired Mark and Mark had desired me? Could Roger love her?

I had actually forgotten Agnes. When I entered the cottage, she cackled. “Oho. Ye should see yerself. Ye want him, do ye? Good. I can make use of it.”

I loathed her. I loathed my bond to her.

“I will not go to the abbey tomorrow.”

“Ye will go. And ye will spell that fine-mannered boyo into sickness.”

“I will not.”

“Then we will have a summoning of Him who will exact the penalty from ye!”

I kept myself awake all night as Agnes, old and infirm, could no longer. Even a thrice-braided Sister was subject to her body. Before dawn she lay heavily asleep on her bed, mouth open, snoring loudly. In the dark I hovered over her, made my offering, and whispered the spell to send her into deeper, daylong sleep.

Instantly she woke, and then I could see her: An unearthly red glow illuminated the bed. The next moment her walking stick flew across the room and slammed into my back, the pain felling me to my knees.