Page 79 of The Queen’s Witch

“The singer is superb, is he not, Your Majesty?”

“He is.”

“Perhaps we can persuade him to remain here with the royal musicians.”

“A good thought.” He was not looking at her but at the boy. Always the king appreciated fine music.

Emboldened, Anne leaned toward him. “I wish we may discuss it further. Will you come to me tonight, my lord?”

He jerked his head in a scowl, clearly astonished. She moved quickly to press her lips to his.

He was quicker. He raised his arm and pushed her away. “You forget yourself, madam!”

The court heard him, and froze. Only the innocent boy sang on. Henry rose, and instantly Henry Norris was beside his king to lend a strong arm.

“Enough,” Henry called, and walked across the hall. The boy fell silent, looking frightened. Henry stopped beside him, whispered, and passed a gift. I did not see what he gave the child, but a huge grin split the little face and he made a deep, only slightly wobbly bow. The king laughed, and the court broke into applause and cheers.

Anne rose with dignity and walked from the room by another door—just as I had seen Katherine do years ago.

Saint Matthias, who was not one of the original twelve apostles, had been chosen by lot to replace Judas the treasonous betrayer. Matthias had simply been the person there when need arose. Eventually, uncertain tradition stated, he was martyred—beheaded, or stoned, or pierced with a lance. Or perhaps not. His end was not recorded accurately because, by that time, he was no longer important.

Shrovetide celebrations marked the start of Lent. For these, the king was again in London, and he did not take Anne with him. Queens had always attended Shrovetide, and her exclusion caused much whispering in both court and kitchens. Lent began more subdued than usual, with less dancing, music, gaming.

Much of the court moved to Whitehall, including Anne. But not Mistress Seymour. She remained still at Greenwich.

Anne did not demand I prepare more amatory magick. I continued as her taster, since now more than ever, she feared poison. She refused me all opportunity to speak to her privately. She spent time with Princess Elizabeth. She danced and sang and walked in the wintry gardens. She spent extravagantly on clothing.

“Meg, look at this!” Anne held up a bolt of rich damask. “Is it not beautiful?”

“It is,” Lady Lee said.

Anne and her ladies were gathered in the queen’s privy chamber, Anne showing them yet another shipment of goods she had ordered from the king’s mercer. Cloth of gold, bolts of velvet, satin, damask. Kirtles, nightgowns, cloaks already made up by her tailor. Lady Lee admired a nightgown trimmed with gold braid. Ribbon, fringe, gowns, and caps for Princess Elizabeth were all heaped on tables and floor in rich, expensive profusion. For weeks, Anne had immersed herself in fabric and stitchery. A lure for Henry, or a condolence for his long absence?

According to kitchen gossip, Lord Cromwell had given over his lavish apartments at Greenwich to Mistress Seymour and her chaperones, Edward Seymour and his wife. The king’s visits to Greenwich became more frequent.

“Elyn,” Anne said, waving her long fingers at me. I crept from my corner, took the goblet of wine from the table by her side, and spelled it before sipping. Immediately, I knew.

“Do not touch it, Your Majesty. It is tainted.”

“Poisoned?” Lady Lee said in horror.

Mistress Zouche said, “But how could the taster know that when she hasn’t yet tasted it?”

I had blundered and must think quickly. The poison I had detected was strong. “I can smell it, my lady. A good taster often can. Here, sniff it yourself.” I held out the goblet.

“No.” She looked frightened.

“Emma,” Anne said calmly, although the vein in her temple throbbed, “dispose of the wine, scour the goblet, and send for the knight marshal.”

Exclamations over velvet and brocade ceased.

I was not present for the queen’s interview with the knight marshal of the queen’s household, but Emma grudgingly told me the outcome. “The bottle was freshly opened. It came in a large shipment of wine from France. Most of the other bottles had already been drunk and no one was poisoned, but the knight marshal gave wine from that bottle to a cat and it died in agony.”

I pitied the cat but said nothing, waiting.

Emma regarded me steadily before saying, “The taint was not intended for Her Majesty. No one could have known that particular bottle would come to her chambers.”

“No,” I said, “you are right. The mischief, or accident, occurred when the wine was bottled in France.”