Page 68 of The Queen’s Witch

“Yes, Your Grace. I understand that.”

“Then remember it well, Alysoun, daughter of Joan, daughter of Frances.”

I helped her to her feet, although she refused to lean on me as we left the cottage. Instantly, her brother was beside us. “What did you do to her? You will hang; you will—”

“I am fine, George,” Anne said. “It was . . . nothing.”

“Drink this.” He handed her a flagon.

For just a moment she stared at it—confusing this wine or ale with what I had drunk in the ceremony? Then she drank, and some color returned to her cheeks. “Take me back.”

He helped her mount. Then, with just a single look at me, she wheeled her horse, and they rode away.

I would remember that look the rest of my life. Fear, yes, but also respect, from the queen of England.

My surge of power had faded, but I knew that now I could call on it when I chose.

I went inside to see if Agnes lay dead in her chair.

Agnes was not dead. Most likely she would not wake until tomorrow. I rolled her off her chair onto the floor, lifted her to bed, covered her with the filthy blanket, and threw another stick of wood onto the fire.

I would never have to see Agnes again.

I walked to Bredham Abbey. From forest cover, I watched the abbey for a long time. No one appeared. Cautiously I approached.

The door, which had appeared closed, stood open a finger’s breadth. It had been forced—by whom? Inside, the rooms had been stripped of all furniture, cooking and serving items, anything useful. What was not useful had been strewn around among ashes dumped from hearths, shutters torn from windows, books torn and sodden, and the stink of piss and dung. Already weeds had begun to creep in through unshuttered windows. No one save looters had been here for months.

Where had they gone: Abbess Cecily, dour and suspicious Sister Beatrice, the other three nuns I had last seen in February? Had Cromwell’s men reported immorality or religious laxity here and so dissolved the abbey? Had Cecily been told to swear that the king and not the pope was head of the Church in England? She would not have sworn such an oath, that much I knew. Had Cecily been executed?

I could not bear to picture that, and neither could I linger in Bredham to find out. Tomorrow morning the Progress would leave Hurstbourne Priors for Winchester, and I must be with it to complete my bargain with Anne. Already the September light was fading.

All during the long walk, some of it lit only by spell light, I exulted. I had done it. I was a thrice-braided Sister. I would fulfill my pact with Anne and afterward remain with the court to protect her. No harm must come to the queen from her many enemies. Not before Samhain, when I would need my Third.

On Samhain I would battle Joan, free Grandmother, and so free myself. Naught could halt me now.

Part II: Thrice-Braided Witch

A threefold cord is not easily broken.

—Ecclesiastes 4:12

23

Winchester

The king’s Progress reached Winchester on September 12. Set on the edge of the city, amid rolling hills and goodly forests, the bishop’s palace of Wolvesey boasted a cathedral to rival any in England. Anne and Henry lodged at the palace, her rooms above his. Bishop Gardiner made them welcome with many flourishes and much pageantry. After the more modest accommodations at Hurstbourne Priors, Winchester echoed London. The servants chattered of good hunting, great hawking: “Likely, Their Majesties will stay longer than planned. Did so before.”

Dinner matched anything served at Whitehall or Greenwich. Dish after dish went from the kitchens to the great hall as musicians played. Guests now included Lord Chancellor Thomas Cromwell and Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer, who would consecrate three new bishops in Henry’s and Anne’s presence. This was a triumph for Anne; all three bishops favored reforms to the Church.

After dinner, a masque was held outdoors on a water course. The autumn night was lit with hundreds of torches; host and honored guests sat on a raised dais under a waxing moon.

Servants were permitted to watch the masque from the other side of the water course. It seemed to me a silly thing, with barges built to look like hawks and swans, bursting open to reveal lords and ladies magnificently costumed, miming a story I did not know. Musicians played both on barges and on shore. Mark Smalacombe, now Smeaton, sang a song, accompanying himself on the virginals. It was one he had composed for me at Tydd Saint Stephen. Did he did not remember that? Or was he so hardened against me that he did not care?

“O sweet is night in autumn

When my love comes to me,

Time doth stop its woodsmoke course