Page 78 of The Queen’s Witch

But I could, and I knew that once she had calmed, she would send for me. There were only two things she might ask, and one I would not, could not, do.

As always, Anne’s body recovered quickly. No one dared speak of the miscarriage in her presence, or mine. But the guard ward of a thrice-braided Sister greatly enhances hearing. I knew what was said in the kitchen, in the palace corridors, in the great hall, in the long gallery. Anne’s failure—for so it was perceived—was punishment from God for her adultery while Katherine was queen. No, it came from her foolishness in hunting when she was pregnant. No, it came from a defect in her blood that she could produce only one living child, and that a girl.

The king had said to Cromwell, within the hearing of others, that the marriage had been made by sorcery; Anne had seduced him with witchcraft.

Anne herself now blamed her uncle and me.

“The duke of Norfolk gave me a terrible shock when he burst in to tell me Henry had died of the fall from his horse. The shock, of course, disturbed my womb. And you, Elyn—you did not protect me. You caused me no good when I most needed you. Why should I not banish you from court, or denounce you as the witch you are?”

“I think, Your Grace,” I said carefully, truthfully, “that such a denunciation would harm you as well as me. I would not want you to take such a risk.”

She gazed at me, unwavering as a wolf watching prey. But Anne had her spies, and she must know the temper of the court, of the king. She would not rake up more talk of witchcraft.

I added, “As for banishing me, I go or remain at your pleasure. But if you send me from court, I cannot prepare what you are going to ask of me.”

A gamble, but when her pale lips parted in astonishment, I knew my guess was right. She read my words as divination, and she wanted magick of me. But, please the Goddess, not the death of Jane Seymour. I would not do that.

Or . . . would I?

Goddess help me, I might do it. Grandmother was more to me than Mistress Seymour. Revenge on Joan was more. And Mistress Seymour, and everyone else at court, would not hesitate to sacrifice me if it aided their aims.

But Anne said, “You see true. I do want something of you. I want more amatory magick. It worked last time on Henry, and I must again become pregnant by him.”

So she was unaware, or wished to pretend unawareness, that I knew it was Mark Smeaton whom she’d kissed with a mouth smeared with my amatory potion. But Henry had bedded her the night before Mark, and Henry clearly believed the lost babe had been his. Her ruse had succeeded. But to make such a double deception succeed a second time . . . she would not dare. This time the magick would indeed be used on the king, who otherwise did not come to her bed at all.

“Do it, Elyn.”

“Yes, Your Grace. But it will take time to find the necessary ingredients.” Natterjack toads were not plentiful inside palaces, and in winter they burrowed underground until April. This was February.

I said, “And will you then commit to my further ceremony?”

“I commit to nothing until you give me what I need.”

What she needed was a male child, and that I could not give her. But I could press her no further at this moment. We had reached the end of this haggling, two peasant women jostling over the sale of turnips. Done? Done!

I said, “I will need leave from the palace for a few days, to the countryside.”

“Then go now.”

I curtsied and left the chamber. Anne looked terrible. Drawn, tired, dull eyed. My magick would need to be powerful indeed to get Henry into her bed.

I spelled a toad from its burrow, killed and boiled it in the king’s hunting preserve. No hunting party disturbed me. Each of the last few winters had been colder than the previous, and this, too, was taken as a curse on England. Anne, in one of her fits of generosity, had given me a fur cloak and fur-lined boots as a New Year’s gift, but nothing about preparing this magick was easy or pleasant.

By the time I returned to the palace, the king had removed to Whitehall for the session of Parliament. The queen and her ladies, including Jane Seymour, remained at Greenwich. Henry returned frequently to Greenwich but he did not visit Anne, nor did he dine in the great hall.

Anne held her head high, laughed and flirted, but I knew her impatience. Weeks were slipping by, and I killed more toads, making charms fresh each time she told me to do so. But she had no chance to use them, no chance to try for a fifth pregnancy. Her gaiety held an edge of desperation with even her most faithful courtiers: Henry Norris, Sir Francis Weston, her brother George, and a passel of men who divided their time between the queen and her rival. Jane Seymour had been dismissed from Anne’s service and held her own court, although she proclaimed she was doing no such thing and was embarrassed by so much attention.

Anne was at least honest about her ambition.

And finally her chance came on February 25, the feast day of the Apostle Saint Matthias.

27

Whitehall Palace

After the gargantuan feast to honor Saint Matthias, the king and queen sat side by side under the cloth of estate at Whitehall, listening to an extraordinary boy singer. The child, nine or ten, had not only a sweet voice but a powerful one, and the court, quiet for once, listened intently. He had been well taught. His repertoire included several songs Henry had written, but none about love. The canny leader of this traveling troupe knew better; most of the king’s love songs had been written for either Katherine or Anne. The child sang of spring, of battles and heroes, of England, but not of love.

Henry listened, smiling, his leg in fresh and not-yet-reeking dressings propped in front of him. On the arm of his chair, one plump hand tapped time. Beside him, Anne, dressed in the crimson velvet that most became her and the diamond-and-ruby necklace Henry had given her long ago, ventured to engage him.