Page 55 of The Queen’s Witch

Then, in 1533, he married Anne, despite having a wife living. She was crowned in June, and in September she gave birth to a princess she named Elizabeth.

Cecily, aghast at the king’s bigamy or adultery (it could not be both), was further distressed by the steps Henry took to safeguard his new marriage. By law, it was now high treason to speak against the king, his new queen, or their offspring, such treason punishable by death. All must swear an oath to recognize Henry as head of the Church of England, and Lord Thomas Cromwell was now charged with ensuring all obeyed. Failure to swear was also punishable by death.

“His Majesty cannot do this,” Cecily said. “He goes against God Himself. He cannot do this!”

But he did. The first hangings for treason included Elizabeth Barton, the Holy Maid of Kent. She had prophesied that if Henry married Anne, the king would die. Anne had hated Mistress Barton. On every point, it seemed, Anne Boleyn had won. I did not see how I could ever claim my Third.

The abbess and I both plunged into despair, though for different reasons. Each Samhain I dreamed of Joan torturing Grandmother. I woke sweating and gasping, and now my nose filled with the stench of burning flesh—how could that be? It was but a dream. But it did not seem one. It seemed a true reflection of a reality I could not comprehend.

Throughout the years, Roger’s visits lightened Cecily’s grief and fear, although his presence only deepened my sense of the unattainable, of things lost. Eventually, he left the king’s service and, when roses bloomed in 1534, Roger and Elizabeth married. Fifteen now, she sat by his side, paler and more slender than ever, but radiating pure joy. “Now,” Cecily said as she kissed Elizabeth, “you are truly my daughter.”

Envy pierced me like a lance—but was it envy of Elizabeth’s role as wife or as daughter? Neither role I had ever had, and underneath, I must have desired them.

Immediately after the ceremony, the nuns and I watched Roger tenderly lift Elizabeth into the horse litter he had prepared for their journey north, to her estate. The baggage wagon was already loaded, the hired guards mounted. He would be a good husband to Elizabeth, kind and attentive. And if more was lacking, she was not capable of understanding that. Was I? I had never seen any marriage of happiness and fulfillment. I had seldom seen marriages at all except those at court, and few seemed to have brought contentment. Would Mark and I have been happy? Now that I knew Roger, had watched his patience and kindness and good sense with his mother and new wife and various travelers who had sheltered at the abbey, I was no longer sure. Not that it mattered; both Mark and Roger were lost to me.

Nonetheless, the wedding woke vivid memories of Mark. The two of us walking in the sea-tanged twilight, sitting under an oak as he sang to me, lying on a bed of moss as his hand explored my breast and I thrilled from lips to loins . . . Had he returned to Tydd Saint Stephen or gone on to London? Did he play his lute and sing for one of the troupes that traveled through England? How could I simultaneously long for the embrace of two such different men? What did that make me?

I did not blame Roger for marrying Elizabeth. If he, the bastard son of a disinherited abbess, was ever going to have a place in the world, this marriage was a necessary bargain. I knew all about necessary bargains.

As the horse litter, with Roger riding beside, moved away, I slipped into the forest to dig roots. My store of yarrow needed replenishing. Fiercely I dug enough to equip a dozen cunning women, then burned most with green willow in a small fire. The smoke made my eyes tear until water ran down my cheeks.

Summer gave way to autumn, then winter. News came that Anne had miscarried of her second child. Cecily prayed for the souls of both mother and infant. I nursed old Margaret until, after a lingering illness, she finally died. I cut wood, weeded vegetables, made tallow candles, scrubbed and laundered, lived as a lay sister without a habit or a calling. When Cecily gently questioned me, I told her that although I had no calling to the religious life, I was content. What was one more lie among so many, especially next to my failure to free Grandmother? I was no closer to becoming thrice braided than when I had walked out of Greenwich Palace for the last time.

Then, in February of 1535, Lord Cromwell’s men came to Bredham Abbey, and all changed once again.

“Open in the name of the king!”

Noon of a cloudy, raw winter day, and no one had left the abbey since Sunday because a wild boar rampaged the forest. It had already killed a village hunter. Cecily, Beatrice, Philippa, and I stood in the cold hall, listening to the fist pounding on the heavy wooden door. Cecily said calmly, “Sister Philippa, climb to the upper storeroom and look out the window. Tell me what colors and arms are borne by the men outside.”

I said, “I will go.” Philippa was afraid of heights, as of so much else. Without the bell tower, never repaired, although the fallen stones had been hauled away, the window in the upper storeroom gave the best view.

Four riders, cloaked and muffled against the cold. Two rode fine horses and two the lesser mounts of servants. I recognized Cromwell’s badge and described it to Cecily.

“They come from His Majesty’s chief minister,” the abbess said. “Beatrice, open the door.”

The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges. Cold air rushed in. The four men followed.

“Are you Lady Cecily Ainley, abbess of Bredham?”

“I am. And you, sir, are who?”

“Richard Crekett, authorized by my lord Cromwell to inspect and report on this abbey. His Majesty King Henry has ordered that all religious houses be assessed for false superstitious practices, such as the veneration of false relics. Also for moral laxity.”

Cecily said coldly. “We have no relics here, nor moral laxity.”

“That is for me to judge, madam, not you. I will examine every member of this abbey separately. Summon them all here, now.”

“All” meant me and five nuns—Cecily, Beatrice, the elderly and tottering Ursula, and the two lay sisters, Margery and Philippa. Cecily said, “And do you wish to question the village man who hunts for us?”

“No. Only those who live here. You”—he gestured at Margery—“bring ale, bread, and cheese. Make my men comfortable in the kitchen, which I assume is at least warmer than this tomb. You women wait there as well. You, madam, show me to a chamber where I may perform my examinations, and see that a fire is built. I will begin my questioning with you.”

Cecily obeyed with such icy courtesy that it amounted to a slap. I do not think Master Crekett noticed.

The two soldiers herded us to the kitchen. Philippa, pale and wide-eyed, clutched my hand. Beatrice scowled. Ursula sat close to the fire with her rosary, praying. Margery scurried around cutting up bread and cheese to carry to the abbess’s closet. The men lounged against the wall, drinking ale.

These men came from court, yet I did not recognize Richard Crekett or his silent lieutenant, which meant they had come into their positions after I left. I did not think I was in danger; I was not a religious. Only Beatrice had come over the years to suspect me of magick, but she would not say anything that might endanger the abbey. I was willing to swear allegiance to Henry, or anyone else, as supreme head of the Church. It was not my church. But I trembled for the others, especially Cecily, the pure of heart.

As it happened, there was no oath swearing, not then. When I was led into Cecily’s closet, Master Crekett had finished his meal, leaving crumbs and spilled ale, and his lieutenant was building up the fire. It was the warmest I had been in three months. I dropped a curtsy.