Page 65 of The Queen’s Witch

So that was her intention. Henry, tired of her and—so said alehouse whispers—unable to perform in her bed, must be helped to father another child on her. A son, her savior. But why now, at this moment, with such haste?

Knowing I could not ask, I got off my knees. “We are agreed. Amatory magick.”

“And whatever else I require that does no harm to anyone royal.”

“I may sicken others for you, as I have done before, but I will not kill.”

“Nor, I suppose,” she said mockingly, “turn anyone into a toad.”

“No.”

She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Tell me what is required. You once mentioned an ‘officiant.’ Have you found one at Windsor?”

“No. It is difficult, with the new religion persecuting witches.”

“So I should imagine,” she said, cool despite having advocated that same religion when it succeeded in elevating Henry above the pope. “So how, then?”

I said slowly, “I know of one person who can officiate. Where does the Progress go next?”

“Thruxton, and then Hurstbourne Priors.”

I knew of Hurstbourne Priors. It lay a dozen miles from Bredham and was yet another manor house against which Agnes Snayth held some sort of grudge.

I said, “This is possible. But you must ride out alone from Hurstbourne Priors into the forest.”

“A queen cannot ride out alone. I will bring my brother. He can be trusted.”

I blinked. “You will tell Lord Rochford about this?”

“I can tell George anything.”

Perhaps, but who else might George tell? Lord Rochford being present filled me with misgiving, even though I understood that his company would make Anne’s riding into the forest accepted by the court. Still, I did not like it. I began, “But—”

“Do not question me, Elyn. Now, about your presence at Wolfe Hall. You will say that you came here to bring Emma some herbs she needed for a female complaint. Then, since you are no longer required and I do not want to spare a rider for your return to Windsor, you will help in the kitchen, saying little or nothing to anyone about anything, save for the reason of your arrival.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“We reach Hurstbourne Priors on the morning of September eleventh and stay there only one night. You must arrange your ceremony for that afternoon.”

“I will leave the Progress at Thruxton and rejoin it at Hurstbourne Priors, if Your Grace can invent a fiction for my absence that will account for—”

“No fiction is necessary. No one will miss you. Make whatever preparations are necessary.”

We discussed—bargained over, and no two merchants could have haggled more closely—what would happen, how, and when. At the end, Anne said, “I trust this ceremony will in no way harm me?”

“No, Your Grace,” I said, hoping this was true.

“Then it is arranged. Now leave me and send Emma.”

The kitchen was happy to have another pair of hands. I scrubbed pots and platters and floors after what must have been a gargantuan meal. When I was sent outside to bring a basket of uneaten food to the stable grooms, I saw the king in the middle distance. He walked in one of the gardens with a woman not tall enough to be Anne and dressed in blue, a color Anne never wore. The woman’s eyes were downcast under an old-fashioned gable hood. Henry halted, they turned slightly, and I saw her face. The daughter of the manor, Mistress Jane Seymour.

So I had been right those months ago: She had caught the king’s fancy, and now he sought her as his next mistress. Maybe she was already? Was that why Anne had sent for me, had agreed so abruptly to my thrice-braided ceremony? But the king had taken mistresses before, including Anne’s cousin Madge Shelton, and Anne had merely disdained to notice.

This must, then, be something more, something dangerous enough to frighten Anne into a pact with the Sisterhood. Was Henry’s wooing of Jane Seymour that serious? No, it could not be—she was so plain, so retiring. Henry must have told Anne he would no longer bed her, and thus Anne’s need for amatory magick. But no, the king still needed a lawful male heir, not a bastard like Bessie Blount’s son.

But . . . Jane Seymour? Who had been around court for years without attracting his notice?

No. A dalliance, merely. Henry craved the admiration of women, perhaps even more so as his girth increased and his handsome looks faded, and this little mouse was available on a tedious Progress.