Page 66 of The Queen’s Witch

It was not my concern. My concern was strong amatory magick to bring Henry to the queen’s bed and make him able to perform there.

My concern was my thrice-braided ceremony, finally in my grasp.

As soon as the Progress reached Thruxton, I slipped away, Pipkin in my pocket, and headed southeast. Hurstbourne Priors lay some eight or ten miles away, but the road was well marked. I gathered what I needed along the way and spent the night wrapped in a blanket, well warded, in a thicket. Starting out before dawn, well before noon I reached Bredham Abbey.

It looked deserted, but I did not go close enough to be sure. Cromwell’s inspectors were advancing ahead of the royal train, looking for corruption or heresy in religious houses, wanting them closed, sold, or demolished so that their revenues and lands could go to the crown. Some smaller abbeys and priories had already been dissolved. Was Bredham among them? What had become of Cecily? I must find out.

But first, Agnes.

As I walked to her cottage, my chest tightened. What would I do if she were no longer there, if she had moved or died or been imprisoned or hanged as a witch? I had not informed Anne of this possibility; it was important that the queen have confidence in me, more than I had in myself.

Smoke came from Agnes’s cottage.

She sensed me before I reached the door, flinging it open as she leaned with one withered hand on her stick. A long moment while we stared at each other: an old thrice-braided Sister barely upright and a young cunning woman, bound together by a pact with the Dark One.

“So ye’ve come.”

“I have. My Third will be here tomorrow. You will conduct my ceremony.”

“I will be glad to be finished with ye.”

“And I with you.” Hatred crackled between us.

Agnes stank. I could not compel her to wash, but I cleaned the cottage and began my preparations, the culmination of over seven years of striving, of misery, of hope defeated again and again.

But not this time.

22

Bredham

Queen Anne and Lord Rochford thundered up to Agnes’s cottage on magnificent coursers, Anne handling the powerful horse as well as her brother did his. Both wore what passed for court simplicity, she a velvet cloak over her damask gown, he in taffeta doublet, silk hose, and a heavily padded and embroidered codpiece. As soon as Agnes heard the horses, she straightened in her chair and chortled.

If she planned some trick or artifice to ruin my ceremony, I would kill her.

I went outside. Lord Rochford dismounted, scowled at me, and reached for his sister. She slid off her mount into his arms and looked around with distaste. I curtsied deeply.

He said to me, “If you harm her even a small bit, I will have you tortured in ways you cannot imagine.”

“I will not harm her, my lord. But you must wait in the forest. You cannot witness this.”

“So I have been told.” He grabbed both horses’ bridles and led them away.

Anne was very pale, but the determined set of her delicate jaw, the hard gleam in her dark eyes, said she would not back away from what lay ahead. “I have but little time. The king and the others have gone hunting.”

“This will not take much time.” I brought her into the cottage, and to Agnes.

Agnes’s eyes grew wider than I thought possible. She seemed speechless, for the only time since I had known her.

I said to Agnes, “This is my Third.”

The queen said, “You do not bow?”

“I cannot . . . my legs . . .”

“No matter. Elyn, this is who will anoint you or whatever you call it? Her?”

“No, Your Grace. She merely does the summoning.”