A man stumbled out of the alehouse holding a flagon, and Mister Blackburn stepped between us. I shifted closer to the dwelling, scanning for more mystical signs. A fur that hung over a small, glassless window jerked sideways. A girl’s face gazed out at me with ebony braids of hair that were partially covered by a dirty coif. Her wide-set eyes darted to where the blue-diamond ring sat on my thumb inside my woolen glove. She reached an arm through the hole and cupped her fingers, calling me to her.
I stepped back and tripped over a flock of chickens, sending them into flustered squawks. The girl in the window burst out laughing.
“I’m ready to go,” I blurted to Mister Blackburn, my cheeks burning.
He was too fixated on the drunkard from the alehouse to notice the girl, and he led me away from the man with obvious relief. Just a few feet behind him, the dirty-faced girl stared at my gloved hand again with a look of recognition. She’d detected my enchanted ring right through the woolen cloth like it was a flashing lightbulb. She had to be some kind of witch.
As she watched me, the girl’s lips curled upward into a strange smile before Mister Blackburn hurried me away.
17
The first snowfall forbade me from considering going to the village again, which had its upsides. I was still mad with curiosity about the enchanted ring that the witch had sensed—what it was all about, and if it could be repaired—but I wasn’t sure I was ready to face any more dangers. As long as the snow was this heavy, there was no decision to be made.
The first few days hiding inside by the fireplace felt peaceful and cozy, and I managed to make sense of the first few chapters of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. I also added The Chronicles of England, Scotlande, and Irelande to my reading pile, given that the rest of the books on the shelf looked even more tedious and mostly devotional.
However, as the days became shorter, I spent more time lying in bed thinking about that witch. What if I was wasting my only chance to find out more about the mysterious ring? But, unlike Agnes Nightingale, I knew nothing about the girl from the village. What if she was dangerous or tried to steal the ring from me? What if she wasn’t a witch at all and reported me for my interest in the dark arts? The questions kept circling, but no clear answers landed.
It was a Thursday afternoon when one of the patrolling guards shouted out from the front yard. Joseph Blackburn had been feeling off-color, so one of his sidekicks thundered through the front door to see what was going on. I sprinted to the window. The guards had apprehended a girl with flowing hair the color of dark chocolate who’d pulled up in an unmarked coach. OMG—it’s Alice!
Fortunately, the guard recognized her, and she hurried inside to where I was waiting.
“What are you doing here?” I cried, throwing my arms around her petite shoulders before remembering her arrow wound. I jolted backward.
“Fear not,” she said, reading my thoughts. “My shoulder is healing without trouble.” She took my hands in her gloved fingers that were powdered with freezing snowflakes and bowed. “Oh, Emmie, I am surely pleased to see you well! I have waited for news of you for weeks, but I then I thought to see if you might be here. Mistress Bridget informed me of this secret place of your marriage.”
Every inch of me iced over at the question that I knew I had to ask.
“Any news about the king?”
Nothing in Alice’s face suggested catastrophe, but her brows dipped as she led me into the library so we could sit down. I pushed aside the washed linens that were drying before the fire, making space for us.
Alice clutched my hands with freezing fingers. “I bring no pressing news, my lady, but the latest word I received was that His Majesty is far in the north. Lord Warwick is with him.” Her lips tightened at the mention of Francis, but she continued steadily. “Henry Howard has raised an army of many hundreds of men. They have horse and armor in great numbers.” She played with the lace circling her wrist, unable to look at me. “The heralds bring terrible stories to court. They say the king has not yet found Howard and has burned villages in search of him. Men have been hanged by the rope, and I have heard of many rains of arrows.” Her slim palm clasped her forehead. “Oh, Emmie, I suffer many fears. I fear that the king will summon my weakened father to his duty; I fear our countrymen will come to despise our king for his deeds. I fear that Francis will stop at naught to protect His Majesty and that Francis will…” Her voice caught, and I reached out to touch her hand.
“Don’t go there,” I said. “We can’t think that way.”
Alice nodded and pressed the corners of her eyes with her fingertips to wipe away tears while I tried to process her words. Nick was still trying to catch Henry Howard, who’d raised an army with every fighter prepared to go to war and potentially die in protest of our marriage. That wasn’t even the hardest part to stomach; the boy I knew to be gentle and loving was nose-diving into a future I’d worked so hard to prevent. In his furious search for Howard, Nick had been burning villages and hanging men, possibly without the time for proper trials. He was becoming Nicholas the Ironheart—violent and vengeful—all because of me.
Alice reached across to rub her injured shoulder, sending guilt to my throat. “Alice, I’m so sorry. That arrow was meant for me.”
“Oh, I pray you, Emmie, speak not of it,” she said, cupping her ears in protest. “I cannot bear to imagine the loss of your person. I am heartily pleased that we are both well.”
Clemence carried in a thrown-together platter of cheeses, manchet bread, and wine. Alice took a grateful sip, and we shared a withered smile. I didn’t know how to cope with the news she’d brought. Nick was still in danger, villages had been reduced to ashes, and men were being put to death. I wrapped my arms around myself as if I might fall apart if I didn’t physically hold myself together.
“How long can you stay?” I said weakly. “There’s a ton of pie in the pantry.”
Alice glanced at the window. “The weather is surely worsening, and my place is with my queen. I wish to remain here as long as it pleases Your Highness. We may pray together.”
I beamed, my fatigued body roused by the thought of Alice staying. “Of course, I’d love that,” I said. “But you should know that we get no news here…the king didn’t want any messengers to know where I am. You’ll hear more about Francis if you go back to court.” I understood the weight of that as much as anyone.
“Perhaps I could ask my coachman to return with any urgent news from the north,” Alice offered. “He now knows that I am here, so there can be no harm. Fear not; he is most discreet, my lady.”
“That’s fine by me,” I agreed, relieved to have an avenue for some news. Alice and I shared a smile. At least we had each other now.
Winter at Robin House became infinitely more bearable with Alice Grey there. We played card games, embroidered, read poems aloud, and waited for news that never came. On the Twelfth Night, we welcomed in the new year of 1581 with blessings, fruitcake, and sweetened wine. Poor Mister Blackburn was back in bed with a headache, but I had some cake sent up to him in the hope he could enjoy a slice.
The entire household was passed out after the celebrations when a fist banged on the downstairs door in the dead of night. I thought I dreamt it until two more urgent thumps sent the outside hens into confused cackles. I shot upward in bed, finding Alice’s silhouette facing our doorway. She turned to me, her moonlit expression sharing my thought: was it news about Nick and Francis?
Alice draped a shawl over me before we dashed down the stairwell. The guards on night duty stood gathered in the entrance hall, where a young girl in a blood-red cape waited on the doorstep. The wind that blew through the open door was shockingly cold.
“What mischief is this?” one of the guards snapped at her.
“Forgive the hour, my lords,” she said in a mature voice that didn’t suit her childlike face. “I am in search of herbs in great haste. Mandrake, wormwood, chamomile…any such thing thee may ‘ave.”
I g
aped at her thick braids of black hair. It was the witch from the hamlet.
“What do you need the herbs for?” I said, stepping forward. Had she come looking for me?
“There is a plague of smallpox in the village,” she replied without emotion.
“Smallpox?” a guard cried with horror.
“I ‘ave not enough remedies for everyone,” the girl added quickly. I emerged into the light, and her eyes shot to my bare thumb where she’d once detected the blue-diamond ring. “Does thee keepeth the ring safe, my lady?” she said to me. Alice grabbed my arm and tugged me away from the girl in case she was carrying the dreaded pox.
The guards formed a wall that pushed the young villager outside into a bank of snow, cursing at her. She twisted her neck to meet my eyes as the heavy wooden door swung shut in her face.
“How troubling,” said Alice as our bare feet padded back upstairs to the bedchamber, leaving the guards arguing over which one had allowed in the villager exposed to smallpox.
My bed was cushioned with blankets and furs, and yet I couldn’t relax through the images of the girl checking for the blue-diamond ring on my finger. She was more than a witch—she had to be some sort of clairvoyant.
As Alice gently snored, I watched the strips of moonlight peeking through the window shutters. It was perilously cold outside, and somewhere out there was Nick—risking his life to defend our marriage that should technically never have occurred. Less than a mile away lived a girl who might know something that could help make sense of how I’d even come to be in this time. After the loss of Agnes Nightingale, I couldn’t get past the fact that another witch had been dropped into my lap—almost like a miracle. Like it’s meant to be.
I sat up, sweat seeping into my nightgown. Visiting a witch during the daytime was out of the question. But could I actually sneak out of Robin House at night without being seen? The snow wasn’t a deal-breaker—I had a thick cloak warm enough to cook an egg in and fur-lined boots. Smallpox, on the other hand, wasn’t a disease I was keen to catch, nor did I want to risk giving it to anyone at Robin House or—heaven forbid—reintroduce it to the twenty-first century. However, having a nurse for a mom had made me pretty savvy about avoiding viruses: if I didn’t get close to anyone or anything in the village, and I washed my hands thoroughly as soon as I got back, the chances of getting sick were low. I was more at risk of giving Alice a panic attack if she woke before I returned. Sneaking out at night in midwinter was dicey, even for me, but it was also my best chance—maybe my only chance—to finally get some answers.
I made up my mind. I was going to attempt it.
Downstairs, the guard on night shift sat hunched over a book in the library. I slid into the pantry as silent as a cat, ready to declare the munchies as my excuse if he caught me. Beside the cellar door at the rear of the house, bundles of herbs were hanging upside down to dry. I tore off a few sprigs of each and slipped outside with two gold sovereign coins jingling in my cloak in case I needed to bribe the witch.
The air was arctic, and I didn’t have a lantern, but the moon hung full and brilliant, and I took it as a sign to keep going. I found the pathway, kicking up powdery snow that spilled into the collar of my leather boots. I sank knee-deep into banks of snow as I descended the side of the hill, my cheeks already numb.
Down in the hamlet, the tiny house where Joseph Blackburn and I had come across the kids and the farmer was boarded up with hand-sawed planks of wood. Keeping away from it, I hastened along the dirt path toward the witch’s cottage beside the alehouse, hugging my chest. Knifelike icicles hung from the home’s thatched roof like monster’s teeth. With my gloves protecting my skin, I banged on the decaying door, feeling no hesitation. More than anything right now, I had to get warm.
Time slowed before the narrow door parted from the frame a crack. The girl’s eyes peeked out at me for a moment before the gnarled plank swung wide open. I rushed inside to where a gentle fire sizzled on a mound of stones in a central hearth.
“My lady,” the girl stammered, falling to her knees.
“Please, you can get up,” I said through chattering teeth. She stumbled upward and tightened her shawl while I took in the primitive space faintly lit by rushlights. The uneven ceiling of crudely cut wooden beams was so low in places that I had to duck.
“This was all I could find in a hurry,” I said, pacing across the earthen floor to offer her stems of purple and green, careful not to make skin contact.
Her eyes flashed wide as she took them, her bony fingers skimming the foliage. “Lavender…mint…marjoram. Not any I hath asked for, but the lavender may help the head pains. I thanketh thee.”
She separated them into bundles on an uneven beam of wood resting on two stumps. It was the closest thing she had to a table. Hanging above her were charm-like knots of animal bones, snakeskin, herbs, and strips of hair.
“Is there smallpox in this house?” I said, unsure if I should move.
She shook her head, ebony braids flapping. “The pox plague is bound to the Blacke lodging at present. Down the street. Four ‘ave did perish thus far.”
“Four? I’m sorry to hear that.” Man, I hoped that didn’t include the little girls who’d been feeding the goat when Joseph Blackburn and I visited the village.
I looked for somewhere to rest my frozen legs, but the only vacant space was a bed made from a pile of straw with a wooden log for a pillow. The girl moved a bundle of knitting off a stool and dragged it over to me.
“May I speaketh plainly, my lady?” she said as I sat down on my cloak.
“Please do.” I shivered.
She crossed her legs on the dirt floor to sit beside me. “Thee cameth here to seek answers. Let us speaketh them now. Thee may asketh me anything.”
For some reason, her frankness wasn’t a surprise. My throat closed up as my eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t easy to get the words out. “Can you please tell me if my husband is okay? He’s fighting a battle in the north.”
The girl’s eyes fell closed, and she sat there a while, rocking. “The king shall be nay more.”
I gaped at her, waiting for more words, but was met by silence. “What do you mean the king will be no more?” I stammered, hot tears burning my eyes.
Her gaze drifted to where my hand buried itself inside the heat of my cloak. “Thee ‘ave an enchanted ring. Yet I feel thee doth not understand it. And thee wishes to…most sorely.”
My fingers shot out of the cloak, the blue-diamond ring glittering in full view. She already knew I was married to the king, by either snooping or magic, and I took it as a sign to waste no more time and speak freely. “You’re right, this ring is enchanted, and I don’t understand it at all. Can you tell me something…anything?” My voice shook with urgency.
The girl presented an upturned hand to me, her calloused skin so white it was nearly translucent. A lump grew in my throat. If I gave her the ring, she could refuse to hand it back, use it against me, or even disappear in time to the twenty-first century. I braced myself and dropped it into her palm, ready to fight tooth and nail at the first sign of trouble.
Her hand jerked as she brought the sparkling blue diamond to her eyes, her brow tightening. She glanced back at me with her lips agape. “Thee wanteth the king dead.”
“What?” My belly hit the floor. “I don’t want the king dead!”
“This ring is under enchantment to take away King Nicholas,” she explained, rolling it around her palm with the tip of her finger. “’Tis weak, though. ’Tis power shall last not long.” The girl’s voice was smooth, but disgust clouded her ageless face. “This be the devil’s work. He shall come for thee. Lex talionis, mistress. Thee hast been up to nay good…changing things that should not be hath changed. Lex talionis.”
I was sure the phrase was Latin, but she didn’t say what it meant. The heat of the flames from the fire licked my knees, but I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Can you tell me where the ring came from?” I said.
She nodded, a smirk creeping onto her face. “’Twas Joanie, I can see…cunning wench.” The girl leaned forward so I could listen carefully. “Joanie hath passed on; she caught the deadly sweat. She was a cousin of mine. I met her but once, when I was a child and she cameth to visit. Joanie was the one who toldeth me I had the sight in mine own eyes and hands.” Her fingertips drummed lightly on her torn woolen kirtle. “Joanie lived up Cumberland way. She be a maidservant in the prison where Mary Stuart lodged, who thee calleth the ‘Queen of Scots’. Mary’s eyes were nay good, and she did want Joanie to read to her, but nay one hath taught Joanie to read. Instead, Joanie did teach Mary Stuart all manner of alchemies, and they becometh cousins of heart. Mary Stuart had commanded Joanie to enchant this ring to curse the king.” The girl touched my hand, her skin startlingly cold. “Before she cameth to Mary Stuart’s prison, Joanie hadst been a maidservant at the Palace of Whitehall, mistress. Joanie did love the king with all her heart. His Majesty was all Joanie hath speaketh of when we met. Joanie was a defender of the true faith and despised Papists. If it be true that Mary Stuart gaveth Joanie a ring of the king’s to curse, Joanie would ‘ave made some trick to maketh it seem like the king was dead, but in fact save the king in secret.”
She smirked with pride for her cousin’s wit as I fought to decode her words. This witch believed that her cousin Joanie—who was also a witch—once worked at the Palace of Whitehall and adored King Nick. Joanie then moved to work in one of the castles where the treasonous Mary, Queen of Scots was imprisoned. Joanie became close to Mary, who learned about Joanie’s powers of sorcery. Mary, Queen of Scots then commanded Joanie to curse King Nick’s ring to destroy him. But instead of doing that, Joanie came up with an idea to curse her beloved king to disappear—literally—yet continue to live on elsewhere.
But even if that whacked-out theory was true, why was the ring cursed to send the king to Hatfield, Massachusetts, in the twentieth century? It was so random.
“Would thee taketh some pottage?” the girl said, gesturing to a steaming pot hanging from an iron frame over the fire.
Emmie and the Tudor Queen Page 22
