Page 1 of The Queen’s Witch

Prologue

1536

The bell tower of the church woke me, ringing to call worshippers. I lay under an oak, its brown leaves still clinging to branches but quivering in the November wind. Pipkin nuzzled my boots. He was cold, hungry, and perhaps still frightened by all that had occurred last night. I gave him a piece of dried apple from my pocket, then picked him up and burrowed him in my pocket for warmth.

At the edge of the forest, I stared at the tall spire of the massive church, visible for miles, standing alone on its isolated hill. Villagers walked in small groups to the papish feast services of All Saints’ Day. Would any of them enter the north transept? I pictured some yeoman’s wife of faint natural ability, unable to understand why such unease came over her at the threshold of the north chapel, such reluctance to enter. Perhaps she glanced up at the ceiling, carved with both hovering angels and the Green Man, and her unease deepened. A mother of young daughters, who hastily took her little girls by the hands and led them back to the nave, pretending not to hear their questions, to which she had no answers. Telling them to hush—a church was a sacred place—and not to question her.

The yeoman’s wife of my imagination was correct. Daughters should not know too much about their mothers. Once known, such knowledge cannot be unknown. When I had stood here last, I had known nothing of Anne, nor Agnes Snayth, nor Cecily and Roger. Gaining such knowledge had marooned me here, in this cold November forest, in a freedom I was all at once uncertain that I wanted.

What should I do now? Where should I go?

Was there anywhere a place for what I had become?

Part I: Cunning Woman

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

—Exodus 22:18

1

Tydd Saint Stephen, Norfolk

1528

Before walking through our cottage door on that windy April twilight when I lost everything, I had thought myself the most fortunate of girls, singled out and uniquely blessed by the Goddess. Hurrying home to Tydd Saint Stephen from the market at Twilford, I whispered a prayer of gratitude for all that She had already given me and all that was to soon be mine, so soon.

Dusk gathered over the mudflats, and I drew up my hood against the wind, tangy with salt from the North Sea. Candles glowed in tiny cottage windows. When a hare bounded onto the path, I stopped to bow my head and say, “I see you, Sister,” as Grandmother had taught me. Of course, this might be an ordinary hare, but perhaps not. Those of the Sisterhood who were not mere cunning folk, but instead had tied the thrice-braided cord, sometimes took the shape of a hare to travel more quickly. Until my ceremony, I could not tell.

The hare and I stared at each other for a long moment, its amber eyes unblinking. An omen? Of what?

The hare bobbed away, and I hastened toward our cottage. It would be warm from the fire, blazing with candles, and full of cunning women helping to sew my wedding clothes. But before I reached the door, Mark Smalacombe emerged from the trees and caught me in his arms.

I nestled against his chest and laughed. “You laid in wait for me?”

“I did. Where have ye been, sweetheart?”

“To the wine merchant at Twilford. I bring wine for our wedding.”

“Ye be cold,” he said, enveloping me. He smelled of leather and wool and fresh sea air, and I snuggled closer. “What be all those cunning women doing in yer cottage?”

“Women’s work, not your concern. And no, not magick.” Mark knew, of course, that I was to become a cunning woman. Like most villagers, he understood the benefits of the small magicks. But like many men, he preferred not to be around too much female power.

“Kiss me,” he said.

I did, and my heart raced. Mark’s hand slipped under my cloak to fondle my breast. After a moment of pure pleasure that spread from chest to loins, I pushed his hand away. “We agreed to wait until we are married.”

“I know. But I want ye so much. And ye want me?”

“You know I do.”

More kisses, before I reluctantly pulled away. Our engagement had not been long; the first time I saw Mark, last autumn, our pull toward each other had felt as inevitable and unstoppable as the ocean tide. Mark had courted me through the winter, sworn he could not live without me, written songs for me and sung them in a voice of astonishing sweetness. We had made plans for a life together. First would come our wedding, and then the ceremony that would make me a cunning woman like Grandmother and Mother Redcap. Both had taught me for years all I needed to know, not just spells but everything else cunning women did to serve their villages: prepare healing tisanes from plants, nurse the sick, midwife children. Settled in Tydd Saint Stephen, Mark and I would be so happy. And if he sometimes talked of our moving to Norwich—“More people there to hear my music”—I knew he was not serious. He was a sailor, and a sailor needed the sea.

“Mark, I must go. Visitors are within to sew my wedding clothes.”

“I love ye, sweetheart.”

“And I love you.”