Page 81 of The Queen’s Witch

I said, “I will leave for Wolfe Hall tomorrow.”

“And kill Mistress Seymour by witchcraft. Say it.”

“And kill Mistress Seymour by witchcraft.”

It was Anne, not I, who suddenly shuddered. Her eyes would not meet mine. “Leave me now.”

I could sneak into Anne’s bedchamber at night, spellbind her body, and summon the Dark One to begin my battle with Joan.

No, I could not. Greenwich was not Winchester. There was no secret passage into Anne’s bedchamber. The queen slept with guards outside her room and ladies within. And even if I succeeded in finding her alone, I could not imagine Anne agreeing to my ceremony until I had fulfilled my half of the bargain she had forced me to accept.

All I could do was delay. Take days to make the journey to Wolfe Hall. Sicken Jane Seymour, but not unto death. Tell Anne that I had not used a strong enough spell, or that Jane had an unusually strong constitution. Or perhaps that Jane had untapped magickal ability of her own and had spelled herself back to health. Promise to try again, delay again. As I stalled, perhaps the king would act, pressure Anne to declare their marriage unlawful on some grounds—he had, after all, bedded Anne’s sister Mary, who fell within the ban on consanguinity—and allow Anne to retire quietly to a convent.

But that would make Elizabeth a bastard. Anne truly loved her little daughter. Would she sacrifice Elizabeth’s right to the throne to save her own life?

Would she sacrifice her ambition?

But if Henry had a lawful son by another wife, Elizabeth would not become queen anyway. And Anne could live to raise her child.

So, delay I must. Given time, Anne might yet realize that retirement to a convent was her only sane choice. And once she was no longer queen, once she lived somewhere far from court in one of the religious houses that had agreed to practice Cromwell’s reforms, she would not be so closely guarded. I could contrive another chance to persuade her to my ceremony.

Late into the night my mind busied itself with such ideas: malefic magick to harm but not kill Jane, or to somehow force Anne. Threats and plans. The next day, again disguised as a boy, I called Pipkin, put him in my pocket, and set out for Wolfe Hall. At a market, I bought provisions for the journey and then lingered at a tavern on the edge of London. It was there I learned that Mark Smeaton had been arrested for adultery with the queen.

Two men at a far table, but not too far for my spelled hearing, both eating hugely, discussed “the queen’s pretty music boy.”

“He spent much coin on horses and fine clothes. Where did come the money? He be no better than us, for all his fine airs. A cobbler’s son, I heard.”

“I heard a whore’s son.”

“Do ye think he really—”

“Hush,” the other man said. He glanced around, but there was no one present except a very old man snoring by the hearth and a boy clear across the room, bent over his bread and cheese.

“Are ye done with that ale?”

“Why?”

“There be a crowd outside the palace gates. Waiting for news. I want to go.”

“News of what?”

“No way to know ’til we go there, lubber-wort! But word be the council meets on a grave matter.”

“What grave—”

His friend punched him on the shoulder, drained his ale, and thumped the tankard on the splintery table. They left together.

Mark. Arrested. For whatever had transpired at Winchester? No, that was months ago, and the king had clearly believed Anne’s miscarried babe had been his own, as perhaps in truth it had been. So why this arrest?

All at once, from nowhere, vivid memories of Mark filled my mind. His smile, his singing, his smell, the feel of his hand on my back, my cheek, my breast. Whatever he had become, whatever he had done, in Tydd Saint Stephen I had loved him. A girlish love, perhaps. And unlike Roger Ainley, Mark had been but a boy. But his were the only caresses I had ever known.

I must know what was happening at court, what it might mean for Mark, how it might affect Anne.

Shoving the last of my bread and cheese into my bundle, I hurried back to the palace. A crowd had indeed gathered beyond the gate, but nothing more was known. Tomorrow there was to be a tournament attended by both king and queen. I would not be admitted to the palace tiltyard, but serving men and women, grooms, pages and messengers would gossip to other menials, who would talk to those outside the palace walls. By tomorrow evening, there would be, must be, news.

28

London