Page 15 of The Queen’s Witch

I let out a long breath, thinking furiously. “Alice, are you sure that Mistress Anne’s women have left her? And the nurse?”

“The cook said to the guard, who said to the smith, who told Peter—”

“Never mind. Listen to me, Alice. I must go now. You can manage here, and by tomorrow your mother can leave her bed and direct you.”

“I do not want Mam! I want ye!”

“You will be fine. You know I am a nurse. I must—”

She gave a sudden shriek.

I whirled toward the open door, expecting to see a bear, or at least the pig loose. Instead a man stood there, dressed in livery, his face surly. “Are you Elyn Bryn, the nurse?”

“I am.”

“The same that nursed Mistress Haddon, two brats, and the baker, and saved all their lives?”

“She did!” Alice said, having recovered from surprise and eager to share in this excitement, whatever it was.

“Come with me,” the man said. “Bring whatever you need to nurse. The castle summons you. Be quick.”

No one had ever been quicker. I gathered my herbs and roots, my fungi and barks, and made a bundle of my blanket, few clothes, comb, and tooth cloth. The man waited outside. Wordlessly, he led me along the track through the forest, over the drawbridge, and into Hever Castle.

A courtyard faced the manor house. Within, the great hall was very plain, lit by two windows with open shutters. A huge arched fireplace and, above it, a coat of arms. At the far end stood a raised platform holding a large polished table. To my right, I glimpsed a passageway to the kitchen.

A young page met us, received a nod from the guard, and said to me, “This way, Nurse.” He led me to the family’s apartments. Here was the richness missing from the great hall: windows of colored glass, tapestries, carved tables and stools, a gallery so long that I blinked at both its airy length and the many paintings on the paneled walls.

Mistress Anne Boleyn lay in a dim bedchamber, the bed’s brocade hangings looped back. A frightened-looking, very young girl held a silver cup of ale to her lips, which Anne batted away, splattering the girl. Anne rasped at me, “You!”

“My lady, I am Elyn Bryn, a nurse,” I said with as much confidence as I could. “I nursed Mistress Haddon, the Clitherow children, and Master Scrope, and none died.” This was not due to my nursing but to the mysteries of the Goddess, but that I did not say.

“The nurse left,” the ale-drenched girl said to me. “And Mistress Boleyn’s maid and all the—”

“Yes,” I said. “The cook has not left, has she? Go to the kitchen and bring me both hot and cool water. And broth.”

The affronted page said, “I fetch and carry food for Mistress Boleyn.”

“You go, then.” I had no time for the niceties of servants’ prerogatives.

Mistress Anne shook with chills. I opened the shutters, letting in the June sunlight, making sure it did not hit her eyes. I felt her forehead. She had begun to sweat but as yet had no fever. Those who died of the Sweat usually did so within twenty-four hours of first sweating; there would be little sleep for me this night either. I brought out a root for wakefulness, put it in my mouth, and chewed. A burly young man who bore a striking resemblance to Alice Haddon carried in the water; rough jobs at the castle must be done by village folk. He set the buckets in the doorway and beckoned me. Leaning close—I could smell him, leather and male juices that brought sharp memory of Mark—he whispered, “If she dies, ye will be blamed.”

I nodded. On the bed, Anne moaned.

I set a tisane to brew and spelled Anne for pain. Although her moaning lessened, her sweating did not. It was difficult to force her to drink cool water, but I was stronger than she—even had she been well, I would have been much stronger, she was so slightly built. Forcing open her lips, I made her drink. Her dark eyes glared at me in helpless fury. This was not a woman to cross.

If she dies, ye will be blamed.

And I might lose my life. If not, I would lose my Third. Who was not some insignificant Boleyn relative from a minor branch of the family, but a lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine of England. Was this why the Dark One had told Mother Redcap “Hever”? My neck shivered. But nothing mattered except that I free Grandmother from her monstrous daughter, my mother. And for that, I needed Anne.

Mothers and daughters. Mistress Anne’s mother had not stayed to nurse her. Had I fallen ill with the Sweat, Grandmother would never have left my side.

I pulled a stool beside Anne’s bed to sit and watch over her. Sometimes she appeared to sleep, but I could not be sure. The room darkened, and the page brought wax candles and lit them. The serving girl brought a plate of food for me and fresh broth. She whispered, “If ye put a sapphire in her hand, the Sweat will stop, but his lordship took all the jewels with him.”

“Ah,” I said. Mother Redcap had taught me not to argue with stupid superstition. It never did any good.

At full dark, Anne’s fever began. This was the dangerous part of the disease. Her thin face, with its little pointed chin above an unusually long neck, became infused with color. Her black hair matted with sweat. Sweat poured from her, even as I rubbed cool cloths over her face and arms. It was then that I saw the tiny beginning of a sixth finger on her right hand. The ignorant considered this the sign of a witch, but that was nonsense. I had felt Anne’s untaught ability, but she was no cunning woman, let alone a thrice-braided Sister.

I spoke another healing spell, but it had little or no effect.