Four guards hid on the hillside as Joseph Blackburn and I approached the village on horseback, disguised as father and daughter out for a ride. The hamlet was no more than a dirt path lined with single-story wattle-and-daub cottages with few windows. We tethered our horses to an iron ring in a wall and strolled down the dusty track on one side, clinging to the last strip of sunlight. A trio of grubby-faced girls in knitted dresses were feeding scraggly lettuce leaves to a goat beside the pigsty. When they saw us approaching, they scampered to hide behind a man tending to a crop of onions with a hoe.
Mister Blackburn’s horse grunted from the wall a few feet behind us. The poor steed had trodden into a tangle of sheets hanging from a wooden frame. Joseph paced back to untwist the horse, apologizing to the farmer. The man stopped weeding and rested on the handle of his hoe, giving us a slight nod of greeting that also delivered a message: we were being watched, so we’d better not be here to start trouble.
Mister Blackburn moved us on, and we ambled past a pen of undersized sheep and healthy bed of spinach and cabbage, before reaching what looked to be a small alehouse.
“Shall we make ready to return?” Blackburn said, chewing the inside of his lip.
The sight of a marking scratched into the wall beside the alehouse interrupted my response. It was the shape of a flower within a circle, which I’d seen before—carved into the cheeks of the witch Agnes Nightingale.
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.