Page 70 of The Queen’s Witch

Last night in the kitchen I had overheard that the queen had summoned Smeaton to her privy chamber to play on the virginals to her and her ladies. Had Anne said something to him then?

Had I made Mark Smeaton bold enough to climb that secret passageway?

Or had my amatory magick given him an unconquerable desire?

The thought sickened me. I had given him up years ago, but it seemed that some part of my heart, unknown or at least unacknowledged, had clung to hope. After I freed Grandmother, after I returned home, after . . .

There would never be an after.

I thought myself too agitated for sleep, but the drain on my new powers had been too great. The Goddess granted me the mercy of dreamless slumber. I slept until noon of the next day. By that time, the royal party, their hosts, and half the other guests had gone hunting.

And whatever had happened in the queen’s bedchamber was done.

For the rest of the long stay in Winchester, I saw neither Mark nor Anne. More guests joined the royal party: a French courtier, the duke of Norfolk, and the duke of Suffolk, notorious for his brutality in battle. I had not so much as a glimpse of any of them. There was so much to be done in the kitchens that I worked from before dawn until after dark.

When the Progress finally reached Southampton, I briefly glimpsed Mark, riding just to the rear of the king’s gentlemen. In this harbor city, Their Majesties were lodged in the magnificent house of Sir Richard Lyster. Years ago I had lived in Southampton, working as a scullery maid. Now I was a scullery maid again, although laboring in a much grander kitchen. The work was no different—until our last day in Southampton, when a page was sent to bring me to the queen.

“Wash the grease off your hands,” said the boy, no more than twelve years, with a curl of his hairless, impudent lip. “And have you no other gown? That one is filthy.”

“I have another, sir.”

“Then go put it on. I will await you away from this turd-hole.”

Dressed in my stained and grease-spattered best, I left the turd-hole where this cub’s food was prepared, and he led me through a maze of rich corridors to the queen’s lodgings. In her privy chamber, ladies sat stitching. In the bedchamber, Emma was tying the sleeves of Anne’s gown to the bodice. Anne did not dismiss her. I curtsied deeply.

“Elyn, you are to resume your duties as my taster, beginning this day.”

“Yes, Your Grace. May I ask why?”

Emma snapped, “You may ask nothing!”

“Quiet, Emma. I choose to answer Elyn. There are renewed threats of poison against me by evil wishers, and I want the protection of a taster. The king has agreed.”

It was the king who had said bringing a taster on Progress would insult their hosts. What had changed? Unless . . .

No. It was too soon. Anne had lain with Henry one night and Mark the next, not even three weeks ago. She could not know yet whether she quickened with child.

But she might know whether she had missed her courses. Would she risk disappointing him if there was no pregnancy? Or was it worth the risk for the renewed attention and tenderness from His Majesty? Or perhaps the threats of poison were real, and Henry was persuaded that a taster was indeed needed?

But it would be to Henry’s advantage if Anne died; he could then choose another wife. I still did not know what had made Anne send for me so urgently to Wolfe Hall, but clearly something—a word from the king, a letter she had found, a spy with reliable information about Henry and Jane Seymour.

A final, terrible possibility occurred to me. Anne knew that I could detect poison in food, not by tasting but through spells. Was she attempting to safeguard herself? Did she suspect that an overzealous supporter of the king might try to poison the unloved queen? Although not, of course, if she carried a child who might be a prince.

Too many possibilities, and I could be sure of none.

“Elyn?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of course yes. Why do you stand there looking so stupid? A page will fetch you for dinner. Meanwhile, clean yourself. You reek.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

No sign of the fear she had shown at Agnes’s cottage, nor her faint unease when I passed her the amatory charm in the Winchester garden. Along with her other conflicting qualities, her maddening changeability, Anne Boleyn had always possessed courage.

It was at Bramshill House that the world shifted yet again.

Southampton, Portsmouth, Portchester, Beaulieu Abbey, Salisbury, back to Hurstbourne Priors. The Progress had made a great loop through southern England. At each manor, each castle, each palace, I had knelt beside Anne’s chair and spelled her food. There was never poison. At each meal, the king had sat beside his queen and ignored her. At each hunting or hawking, he had ridden beside her as little as possible. As far as I knew, he never lay with her.