Page 50 of The Queen’s Witch

But Agnes said, “Hoos? Are ye an owl, then? If ye want to know, do yer own magick!”

She knew I could not. And I knew, from her failure to meet my gaze, from the embarrassed set of her mouth, from the sag in her old shoulders, that although she had sensed death, she did not know whose. The divination had failed. Despite being thrice braided, her abilities were not strong enough to complete even hazily that most dangerous of spells.

Eventually, the strange light in the sky went away. If death had come for any princes, they were not English. A servant to a courtier traveling from London to his country estate stopped at the village alehouse, and his tidings were much repeated. The king and all his court were in good health.

The abbey sent for me to attend a minor illness of Sister Margery. Abbess Cecily looked drawn and troubled; she had lost flesh. Had she received a letter from court with news unknown to the traveling courtier’s servant? I found occasion to be alone with Elizabeth and asked if she knew what troubled the lady abbess.

Elizabeth wrinkled her pretty face. “Money.”

I nodded encouragingly. “Any other matter?”

“The chickens all died. There is no more chicken stew. We eat porridge, but not me. Because . . .” Her effort to remember twisted her pretty face. “. . . because I am still growing. I need meat.”

“And so you do.”

“I received a letter from Roger.”

“A letter?”

“Yes. My lady abbess read it to me. He says I must be a good girl and mind my lady abbess.”

The sort of note one would send a child. But Elizabeth evidently did not know that; she glowed with happiness.

The autumn balance of night and day came and went; evening fell earlier. Leaves fell from trees and lay sodden on the forest floor. Between showers, the air smelled of woodsmoke and apples. It was October, and Samhain was a fortnight away.

Samhain, the end of my servitude to Agnes.

Samhain, the night my mother would again torture Grandmother, and I still helpless to prevent it.

Samhain, when the boundary between this and the Otherworld thinned and sometimes broke.

“On Samhain,” Agnes said, “ye and I together will truly destroy Bredham Abbey.”

16

Bredham

If I could have fled the cottage, I would have done so. Our pact held me there as days became nights, nights became sleepless dawns, and panic rose, a silent and relentless tide threatening to engulf me. I dreamed every night, sometimes of Grandmother or Mother Redcap and sometimes of Anne, my Third so far out of reach. I could not bear my dreams, and yet it was not a relief when I awoke in the fetid dark of Agnes’s shuttered lair.

Was this how Grandmother had felt during her last months living with Joan? Agnes was neither my daughter nor my mother, and yet we were bound together by a tie greater than either of us.

Abbess Cecily summoned me to the abbey. Sister Margaret had a minor ailment but was so old that even minor illness could be fatal. After I attended to the old woman, I was invited to dinner, and I accepted. It would mean a little more time away from Agnes.

I had not realized that Roger would be there.

Our eyes met as soon as he entered the refectory, Elizabeth hanging on his arm. I ducked my head to hide my flushed cheeks—what business had I blushing like an innocent? What business had I experiencing such a pull toward this man, such a rise of desire as I had never expected to feel again? Yes, he was handsome and strong, but so were many men. He was the Christian son of a noblewoman. A bastard son, yes, and a noblewoman renounced by her family, but still of her blood. And I was a cunning woman trying desperately to become a thrice-braided Sister. We were divided by rank, religion, education, needs. He would need to marry as well as he could; I needed to free Grandmother from Otherworldly torment.

We actually talked very little. I sat quietly, listening to him—did I hope he would disappoint me with arrogance or vanity or greed, characteristics of most of the men at court? It would have made things easier.

Cecily blessed the unusually plentiful meal and then asked Roger if he and Elizabeth had had a pleasant walk to the village.

“Yes!” Elizabeth said. “I bought a hair ribbon!” She tugged at the blue ribbon threaded into her golden hair. “And we met a traveler from . . . from . . . I forget.” She looked at Roger.

“From Winchester. He said their harvest suffered badly from all the rain.”

“As it did here,” Cecily said. “This winter we must give what we can to the village poor.”

Roger said, “You have precious little to give, Mother. Do not short yourself.”