Page 89 of The Queen’s Witch

The young face all at once did not look quite so young. There was iron in this girl. “Yes. If it is the only way I can continue serving God.”

“The abbey might be seized and closed anyway, for its assets.”

“No. We are too small. We own no lands, and survive on the largesse of our patron, who now may withdraw his patronage. He does not even live near here.”

“Why would he withdraw patronage? And who is your patron?”

Her eyes widened. “Do you not know? Our patron is Sister Cecily’s son, Master Roger Ainley of Gysbourne Manor. That is where Sister Cecily went. Now that she is no longer here, Master Ainley may not pay to maintain—sir? Are you unwell?”

“I am well,” I forced myself to say. “I thank you for the information. Where is Gysbourne Manor? I will take my message there.”

“North of here. Near Louth. Tell Sister Cecily’s family to take her away from Lincolnshire.”

“I thank you again.”

“Go with God,” the novice said. “I will pray for your safe travel.”

I reached the town of Louth on Lughnasadh, the sacred celebration of harvest. If anything was needed to convince me that the North was not London, this was it. Offerings to the Goddess were made openly on the wolds. Among the dancers who joined the celebration were local men and women who that very day had attended Mass at Saint James Church. At the feast, I traded my male clothing for a donated kirtle and coif. The cunning folk recognized me for what I was, and for the first time I enjoyed the deference due a thrice-braided Sister.

One old woman took me aside to urge caution. “There could p’raps be spies for the heretics even here.”

“I understand,” I said. Though to Cromwell, these northern followers of the pope—papists, they were beginning to be called—were the heretics, in Lincolnshire, those of the new religion were heretical. Speech twisted—like so much else—to serve the king. Papists and the Sisterhood were both affronts to Henry’s power, and I, of all people, knew how ruthless he could be to those who did not bend to his will.

There were nights I still dreamed of Anne, kneeling on the scaffold, the French swordsman raising his blade behind her. I always woke mourning the queen to whom I was bound but whom I had not loved, mourning the man I’d loved but to whom I could not be bound. But that night I slept well, and a few days later I reached Gysbourne Manor.

It lacked the grandeur of the country estates I had seen on last year’s Progress, let alone the royal palaces. Of modern design, without moat or keep, the three-storied stone manor house, the gardens, and the fields looked well cared for, but neither fortified nor elaborate. It appeared the home not of ancient nobility but of a rising family who had begun as merchants or artisans.

Before I even reached the door, a figure emerged.

“Sarah! I saw you from an upper window!”

She did not embrace me; embraces had never been Cecily’s manner. But the face framed by her coif, a face still beautiful but thinner and much aged, glowed with pleasure. It warmed me, even more than had the shared Sisterhood at Lughnasadh.

I curtsied. “My lady.”

“How come you here? When I saw you last . . .”

“Yes. I have come to seek work for a few months, before I must go away again.”

Cecily, always quick, saw that I did not wish to talk either of why I had been arrested eighteen months ago or why I would leave here a few months hence. She might ask more later, but for now she accepted my lead.

“Of course, my dear. There is a place for a healer here. I think you must be a miracle from God. My daughter Elizabeth is ill.”

“Is her illness . . . Is she with child?”

“No. Nor is it the Sweat nor black plague. It is . . . You must see for yourself. You are a gifted healer, Sarah. Help her if you can. But first—you must be tired and hungry. I will call for food and drink.”

“Afterwards. I should like to see Mistress Elizabeth.”

We were back to our old roles, Cecily in command, me a treasured aide.

She led me upstairs, through rooms furnished well but not elaborately. In a bedchamber overlooking the gardens, window shutters open to the summer air, lay Elizabeth. One look and I knew what ailed her. My breath tangled in my throat.

“Sarah!” She struggled to sit, failed, sank back among the pillows. “I . . . know you.”

“And I you, my lady.”

“I . . . married . . . Roger.”