Page 49 of The Queen’s Witch

“It is not right. Not Christian. Our Lord Christ preached love and forgiveness, not brutality. Not even against heretics, who must be led gently back to the Church.”

“I do not quite understand . . .”

“In Gloucester a woman was hanged as a witch simply because her neighbor’s infant died suddenly. So many are being misled, away from the true teachings of Rome. If this terrible scourge spreads, this cruelty . . . I apologize, Sarah. I should not inflict my distress on you.”

I nodded, not sure how to answer. She had never before called me just Sarah. And I was one of the heretics she thought she was leading gently back to the Church. That was the worst of my situation: deceiving this generous woman, who, in her own way, was as innocent as Elizabeth.

The abbess said briskly, “Now tell me what you need for your tisane.”

“I have most herbs with me, but I require fresh succory, not dried.”

“Take what you wish from the herb garden. I will soon request seeds from a much larger religious house that graciously sends them each harvest. That is precisely why I sent for you. I wish to first discuss what additional plantings we should have for you. It is such a blessing that God has sent Bredham a genuine healer.”

“I will think about various seeds as I pick the succory.”

The herb garden, as I already knew, lay on the same side of the abbey as the chicken yard. I picked succory and eyed the chickens. I did not want to sicken them all to death. But if I did not . . .

In the shadow of the abbey wall, I lifted one bird in my arms and cursed the flock. Immediately, I felt better—there, it was done. I conferred with Cecily, made the tisane for Sister Philippa, and added a spell to improve her breathing. The spell would last only a day, but better a day than no magickal help at all.

Headache now gone, a warm glow suffused me all the way home, as if I had again tasted one of the fine French wines at court. The glow did not come from aiding Philippa. But I had already made my peace with the necessity of minor malefic magick if I was to become thrice braided.

In August, an unnatural, terrifying light appeared in the night sky, brighter than the stars. One end elongated into a blur, a sort of tail, with a faint blue cast. Such lights were ill omens, and in the village mothers kept their children inside, lest they be cursed. Men gathered in small groups, heads close together, and attempted in hushed voices to determine what the light prophesied.

“It be an omen of the fall of princes,” said the baker.

“Be quiet,” the butcher snapped. “Do not ill-wish the king!”

“I never ill-wish our good king. But that thing in the sky be a warning to shed his whore. She be the curse on him.” He had said too much, and glanced around fearfully. But there was only me, Agnes Snayth’s peculiar cousin, supposedly too far away to hear the men.

Nonetheless, the chandler dropped his voice even lower. “I hear that Lady Anne be a witch. She bears the mark.”

The butcher intoned, “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

“It be her that cursed the harvest. All this rain.”

“The fall of princes,” the baker repeated. “May God protect us.”

They all crossed themselves and stared into their mugs of ale.

Anne. Her name was everywhere.

Agnes attempted the most difficult of the great magicks, divination. I caught and killed the dove whose blood was mixed with spelled water to make the divining pool. The Dark One did not appear, but His presence suffused the cottage with unholy light, and I shuddered. Demons flew up from the pool, shrieking. Whatever appeared in the bloody water, only Agnes saw it, and as soon as she did, she fell into such a deep sleep that I thought she had died. It was, however, only the exhaustion of all power. She continued to breathe, albeit shallowly. I heaved her onto her bed as the spell abruptly ceased. Thrice-braided Sisters have died attempting divination. All night I sat beside her.

She slept until dusk the following day and woke stiff, hungry, and cross.

“Broth, Alysoun!”

She never called me by my true name; I think she did not realize she had done so. I held the cup of broth to her lips.

“Too cold, ye stupid girl!”

I heated it, and she drank.

“Agnes, what did you see?”

“Death.”

I said carefully, “Whose?” Perhaps it had been her own. Or mine. Or the king’s, Katherine’s, Anne’s, the Princess Mary’s . . . the fall of princes.