Page 91 of The Queen’s Witch

When Cecily was not in the doorway of Elizabeth’s bedchamber, she spent long hours on her knees at her prie-dieu, praying to her gods. We took meals together. Cecily was unfailingly concerned for my comfort, my health, and the state of my soul, although I was excused from Mass in the estate chapel in order to stay with Elizabeth.

Cecily did not leave Gysbourne Manor, but the servants went often to the village and told of growing anger toward Henry: the taxes, the dissolution of the monasteries, the executions. A wagon arrived to take Sister Philippa, the timid little nun that Cecily had brought from Bredham Abbey, to a safer religious house somewhere farther north.

A few days later, Roger returned.

He strode into his wife’s bedchamber, where Elizabeth lay asleep. I stood from my chair in the corner and said, “Stop, Master Ainley. Do not go closer.”

He whirled. “You.”

I tried to keep my voice steady and could not tell whether I succeeded. Seeing him again affected me more than I had anticipated. “Yes. Your mother brought me here as healer. I am sorry to say that Mistress Ainley’s illness can be contagious, and perhaps you should not . . .”

He ignored me, moved to Elizabeth’s side, and touched her hand. She did not stir. I could see his face, its expressions warring. Concern, regret, guilt. His voice was thick when he asked, “Can she hear me?”

“Not now. But she is only asleep, not . . . She will wake in a few hours, and you can talk to her. But you can contract this illness, sir.”

“You are keeping my mother from this chamber?”

“Yes.”

“And you are . . . With your particular arts . . . can you . . .”

“I am easing her as much as I can.”

A long silence; he understood.

I said, “I am sorry I cannot do more.”

He glanced at the doorway; no one stood there. Softly, he said, “I am grateful for anything you can do, for both Elizabeth and my mother. You cunning folk do much good.”

It is not as if you are a full witch. He had said that in the forest near Bredham Abbey. And Mark, at Hever Castle: ’Tis not as if ye be, or will ever become, a thrice-braided witch. Yer small magicks be harmless. So many men feared the power of the great magicks. Perhaps they were right—my great magick had caused Mark Smalacombe’s death.

In the years since I had seen Roger, so much had changed for both of us. To the alertness of a soldier, he now added the confident bearing of master of a landed estate. In his sun-browned face, his green-flecked eyes looked lighter, sharper. His wide shoulders now wore velvet instead of leather.

Again he touched Elizabeth’s wasted hand. “Sarah, I must leave again tomorrow. I have no choice. Will she . . . How long . . .”

“I cannot say for certain. But soon.”

“I will return home as soon as I can.”

“Can you not delay whatever—”

“No. I cannot. Please send word when she wakes.” He strode from the chamber without glancing at me again, and in his avoidance I read more than he could know. He felt it, too, the pull between us that had never waned. He wished to deny the feeling. His wife was dying, his mother could be arrested if Cromwell’s men brought their oath of loyalty to Gysbourne Manor, and if there was rebellion, I would give odds that Roger would be among those defiant.

Please, Goddess of Light, keep him safe.

Roger returned when I sent word that Elizabeth was awake. Elizabeth, excited and happy, lay propped on cushions. I left the chamber, moving far enough down the passage that I could not hear what they said, returning only when Roger called out that Elizabeth was coughing up blood.

The next morning, he left at dawn. Cecily looked more strained than ever. Elizabeth babbled happily, incoherently, a mass of words in which the only clarity was her joy and his name, repeated over and over.

A week later, Elizabeth was dead.

This time, Cecily knew how to reach Roger, and he arrived the next day. She tottered out to meet him, and I saw his shock at her rapid deterioration.

“Does my mother, too, have the white plague?” he demanded of me at the first opportunity.

“No. She cannot sleep from worry and grief, but I do not believe she is ill.”

“And James—”