Page 90 of The Queen’s Witch

“Yes. I was there, remember? Does your head ache?”

“Yes . . . I married . . . Roger.”

Cecily said quietly, “What do you need?”

I told her, and she summoned a servant. Elizabeth’s eyes closed. The thin blue lids fluttered, then opened again. She had lost even more flesh than Cecily. Always pale, now her face was white as willow ash, but her sunken cheeks rosy red. Worst of all, the cloth she twisted in her fingers was stained with blood. I could make her more comfortable, but there was little else I could do for her. The white plague consumed its victims from within, wasting them to nothing.

When Cecily returned, I took her in the passageway and asked if she too had felt any change of health.

“I sleep poorly and have little appetite.”

“Do you cough? Tire easily? Have difficulty drawing breath?”

“No. Worry plagues me, for Elizabeth and for Roger. Sarah—it is the white plague, is it not?”

“Yes. My lady, you must not go into Elizabeth’s chamber. Nor must the servants. Nor Roger.” I stumbled over his name, but she did not notice. “White plague does not spread as easily as the Sweat or the black death, but it can infect others. You must go no farther than Mistress Elizabeth’s doorway. Nor must the servants.”

“And you—”

“I can protect myself.”

“Healers have been known to die from white plague.”

“I will not. I ask your trust, my lady.”

She looked at me with those clear, innocent eyes. “I have always trusted you, Sarah.”

“Thank you.” I said no more, and even that was hard to say. She trusted a person I no longer was, perhaps had never been.

After spelling myself with my most powerful protection ward—the reason why thrice-braided Sisters often lived to very old age—I made a tisane to soothe Elizabeth’s throat and help her breathing, and aided her to drink it. I spelled her to relieve pain, and then another spell to send her into deep sleep.

Cecily hovered in the passage. I said, “Roger should not go into the chamber either. You must tell him that.”

“He is not here. What about James?”

“I do not know who that is.”

“No, of course not, forgive me. Roger and Elizabeth have a son. James is not yet a year old. We have kept him away from his mother as much as possible, and he does not seem ill in any way—will you examine him for disease?”

A son. Roger had a son. It was a moment before I could speak. “Yes, of course. The child should be kept away from Elizabeth.”

“She will not like that. Sarah, should I . . . Is it time to send for the priest?”

“No, not yet. But if Master Ainley is far away, perhaps you should send word to him.”

“I think he is nearby, but I do not know where. He has business that often keeps him from home.”

Her voice was freighted with worry. We gazed at each other. I said carefully, “Times are perilous.”

“Yes,” she said, and in that small bleak word, I heard a dirge of meaning.

32

Gysbourne Manor

Elizabeth grew weaker as August became September. She did not understand her condition and spoke of feeling better soon. Sometimes a feeble mind is a blessing. Nor did she realize that my tisanes and spells eased her discomfort, nor that her increased bloody coughing meant that death was not far off.

Cecily knew. At least I was able to set her mind at ease about James. The white plague takes a long time, often years, to weaken its victims, but I did not think James was infected. A beautiful baby, lively and friendly, he looked so much like Roger that it hurt me to look at him. Elizabeth cried when I said she could not hold him, but soon she was beyond that desire, or any other, sleeping through most days and nights, feverish when awake. Her cheeks took on a deceptive, cruel flush like the rosiness of health.