Page 51 of The Queen’s Witch

Sister Ursula, who was not as deaf as Sister Margaret but seemed to have been robbed by age of all discretion, said loudly, “Then it is so good, Master Roger, that you donated so much of your wages to Father Canfield to aid the poor. He told me.”

Roger looked vexed, and Cecily said severely, “Ursula, Father Canfield should not have told you that and you should not have announced it now.”

Ursula was unfazed. “I have known John Canfield since he was a naughty little boy. Much naughtier than you were, Master Roger. Oh, look, venison with the apple dressing!”

Cecily seized on the change of subject. “Yesterday Roger shot a deer. Sarah, please have some of the apple dressing. Margery makes the dish wonderfully well.” She smiled at the young lay sister, who set the platter on the wooden table and squirmed with pleasure.

Roger said, “Tomorrow I will try for rabbits. I would like to leave you well provisioned when I join my company on Tuesday.”

“Remind me to give you the book we spoke of,” Cecily said. “I do not know how much time you have for reading, but you will enjoy this poem by the Scottish priest William Dunbar.” She smiled mischievously, an expression I had never before seen from her. “It is called ‘In Praise of Women.’”

“I will read it here before I go,” Roger said. “I would not like to have something of such value as poetic praise of women soiled by camp life.” Then he turned the conversation to topics that, unlike reading, were within the reach of everyone: the herb garden, a shipment of ale arrived at the village, a fawn glimpsed in the forest.

Roger was not vain, not arrogant, not greedy. I felt more drawn to him than ever.

After dinner, Cecily said to her son, “Please walk with Sarah to her cousin’s cottage. The night is cloudy and dark.”

I said quickly, “I can go alone.”

“Roger will accompany you,” Cecily said. “There are reports of a boar in the forest.”

There were always reports of a boar in the forest, but Cecily looked adamant. Women like her did not walk abroad at night unaccompanied, and she assumed the same for me.

Roger and I were silent for much of the walk, until he said, “My lady mother says your cousin is ill natured. It is good of you to care for her as she recovers from her injury. When she is well, will you return to your home?”

How to answer that? I chose the simplest answer. “Yes.”

“Where is your home? Your accent is East Anglian.”

“Yes. Norfolk.”

“Austere country, but beautiful in its own way.”

I did not want to make polite conversation with Roger. I wanted to step forward and lean against his chest, feel his heart beating against mine. I wanted to ask him if he was going to marry Elizabeth, if he felt the same pull toward me as I did toward him, if he . . . if he what? There was nothing I could ask him that would lead anyplace except where I must not go.

Grandmother.

So I stayed motionless and said “Roger—” at the same moment he said “Sarah—”

We both stopped.

“I can go on alone from here,” I said coldly. Coldness was my only defense. I could not see his face in the darkness, but after a long pause his answer held both stiffness and bewilderment.

“As you wish.”

I did not wish. Necessity is not wish. I curtsied hastily, walked away from him, and did not look back.

A week later, Samhain dawned clear and bright, with frost riming the bare branches of trees until the sun burned it away. All day, Agnes remained uncharacteristically silent, sitting in her chair with eyes closed except when demanding food or ale. She ate and drank everything I brought and then called for more. I forced myself to choke down a heel of bread.

Eventually, after a day that surely held more than the usual number of hours, Agnes opened her eyes and smiled.

“Soon now.” Her smile widened. “Did ye just shudder?”

“No.” Did I? My mind was a constant shudder.

It lacked an hour until midnight when Agnes rose from her chair, leaned on her stick, and opened the door. “Follow me.” A flash of light appeared at her feet. It softened to a misty ball, moving slowly forward to light our way through the forest. In clearings, a waning moon shed additional light, not strong enough to dim the stars shining high and cold. Agnes hobbled slowly, clearly in pain, but unwilling to expend her power until whatever came next. I walked slower still, deliberately stumbling. Once I tried to turn and run. Pain shot through my head, bringing me to my knees.

“Get up,” Agnes said. “Come.”