Page 96 of The Queen’s Witch

When I did open my eyes, leaves hung directly above me. I lay half beneath a thick hedgerow, a field of grazing sheep on my other side. Roger sat next to me with a cloth wrapped around his head and dried blood on the side of his face. Nearby a warhorse in the trappings of the royal army peacefully cropped grass.

Roger said quietly, without preamble, “You did that. The storm.”

I said nothing. His face showed no fear, only confusion.

“You are not a cunning woman. You are a thrice-braided witch.”

Would he strike me, kill me, if I said yes? I was so weak, all power expended.

He said, “Are you then bound to the devil? Tell me, Sarah.” And then, with anguish, “Please tell me.”

It was the anguish that made me answer honestly, perhaps my first completely honest answer since leaving Tydd Saint Stephen. “I am a thrice-braided Sister, yes, although I was not yet one when at Bredham Abbey. And I truly do not know if I am bound to the Dark One. There was a pact, but it has been fulfilled. These matters are more . . . more complicated than Christians imagine.”

He was quiet a long moment, staring at the scraggly grass. The crow flew away; the only sound was the horse’s rhythmic chomping. I remembered Pipkin—was he all right? A quick, silent spell sensed him nearby.

Finally, Roger said, “You saved my life. Why?”

I had no strength for lies. “I think you know why.”

He looked at me then, and swiftly, as if compelled, he bent and kissed me where I lay. I wrapped my arms around him, and then we both lay on the ground, damp clothing pressed together, his mouth hard on mine. Desire burned in my breasts, my loins. Wild desire such as I had never felt for Mark, not even once. Desire I had never felt for anyone—

No. That was wrong. I had felt it once, in a midnight forest, for the naked human form of the Dark One, on a sacred day and during a sacred rite that Roger did not, could never, know anything about.

All desire vanished.

He felt the change, drew abruptly away, and sat up. “Sarah, I am so sorry . . . I . . .”

I must say it now, or we would both be lost. Now, when he felt he had wronged me. That was the only advantage I had. “Roger, hear me. Take your mother and son and go north, as far north as you can, even to Scotland. Your mother told me once that her family is from the far North. She will stand the best chance of safety there.”

And so will you.

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“The rebellion will reform, is already reforming, in York. This time we will be stronger, better planned, led by one Robert Aske. He is cousin to Queen Jane, and so the king will pay him heed; Henry will not kill him. We will have a better chance at making the king understand the strength of cleaving to the true faith and stopping this slaughter at monasteries, especially now that Anne Boleyn, who led him astray, is dead.”

The abyss between us, wider and deeper than I had even imagined.

Roger continued. “Sarah, I must go to York. Will you go to Gysbourne Manor and safeguard my mother and son? Use your . . . your powers to keep them from harm? Tell my mother what has happened and where I have gone. She trusts you, Sarah.”

Astonishment gave me strength enough to raise onto one elbow, the better to see him. “Do you trust me? Knowing what I am?”

“I hardly know. I hardly know even myself any longer. What I feel for you . . . and Elizabeth dead only a few weeks . . . I am monstrous.” He put his head in his hands.

I looked at him, this principled and tender soul in this strong masculine body, and I knew I must speak now, or lose all will to speak at all.

“I cannot return to Gysbourne Manor. I must leave Lincolnshire.”

He lowered his hands. His gaze turned stony. “From fear of the rebellion?”

“No. Because there is something I must do, and little time left to do it. Please believe me when I tell you I have no choice, and ask me no questions.”

I had left him little to say. I added, “Leave me now. I will be fine. I can protect myself.”

Roger nodded, his face gone hard with disappointment and rejection and guilt, and picked up his gauntlets from the grass. Blood smeared Cecily’s careful embroidery. He stood, moved toward the horse stolen from the soldier who had tried to kill him, and put his boot in the stirrup.

I could not bear to watch him go. I closed my eyes but then said one thing more, since neither could I bear to let him ride away without knowing it.