Page 48 of The Queen’s Witch

He smiled. “Yes. You are perceptive. But I think it best that you do not visit the abbey today. I regret to say that you look bad, Mistress Lond. Are you ill?”

“No. Yes. Will you please tell my lady abbess that I ail?”

“Yes.”

Watching those strong shoulders walk away, I called after him, “I wish you and Elizabeth all happiness.”

Roger turned and looked at me sharply. “Elizabeth and I are not betrothed. She is a child. Be kind to her.”

Then he was gone, and I stumbled back to the cottage.

Agnes was furious. She spelled me to detect lying, found that my account was true, and spat. “Tomorrow ye will sicken all the fowl at the abbey. Every last sarding chicken! Do ye hear me, you stupid fool?”

I did not, could not, argue. Staggering to my blanket, I fell into sleep like one drowning at sea.

Someone had nailed to the abbey door branches of blackthorn and holly, blackthorn being the old superstitious ward against witches. Had Roger betrayed me, or did someone else suspect me? If so, that person did not know that holly belonged to the Sisterhood.

Beatrice opened the door, saw me, and slammed it closed. Mystery solved. So that grim, tenacious nun had not left the abbey after her illness. Agnes would be disappointed.

The door opened again, and Elizabeth ran out. “I saw you from the window! Roger has gone!” She put her head on my shoulder and sobbed. “He did not kiss me farewell! He left too early!”

Awkwardly, I patted her back.

“He did not kiss me farewell!”

I had no comfort to offer. A strange nun, in the garb of a lay sister, emerged from the abbey. I said, “Elizabeth, who is that?”

It took a few repetitions before she would cease sobbing and mumbling about Roger. Finally she said, “Sister Philippa. Sister Joan went away, and Sister Philippa came from . . . I forget. And Roger went away without kissing me farewell!”

Sister Philippa, a lay sister who looked about the same age as Beatrice but more delicately built, advanced timidly toward us. “Mother Abbess asks, will you kindly come in?” She sneezed and gasped for breath.

I removed Elizabeth’s arms from around me, took her hand, and entered the bare hall. To Sister Philippa I said, “How long have you been sneezing and coughing?”

“My whole life, healer. But only in August and September.”

When certain wild plants came into flower and seed. And Abbess Cecily must have told her I was a healer, although no one here ever called me by that title. Philippa had a strong accent unknown to me, and I wondered from what abbey she had been sent to replace Joan.

I said, “I can make you a tisane that will bring some relief.”

She smiled, her smile as tentative and timid as the rest of her. “I thank you.”

Beatrice, lurking in the hall, did not protest. So perhaps she did not suspect me of magick. Not yet, anyway. Her suspicion and general dislike sprang from her nature, not from any evidence.

Elizabeth led me to Cecily’s closet, Beatrice and Philippa trailing behind. The abbess sat bent over papers but rose as I entered, her face troubled. “Mistress Lond. I trust you have recovered from your illness?”

“Mostly, my lady. I thank you.”

“Sister Philippa, please bring us ale. Elizabeth, go with Sister Beatrice for your instruction.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, saw Cecily’s expression, and left with Beatrice. Philippa scurried away. I said, “My lady, I believe I can make a tisane that will aid Sister Philippa’s sneezes and coughs.”

“That will be wonderful,” she said, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “I fear I have not been attentive enough to Sister Philippa. She is . . . a fearful person.”

I nodded.

“Although she has reason to fear, as do we all. This supposed reformation of the Church . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze returned to the papers on her table.

I said, “Has something occurred to trouble you, my lady?”