The King's Witch

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“[Holland] is at all times a superb storyteller, and her talents have never been better displayed. She not only re-creates a prehistoric people with every aspect of their life opened up for us; she also makes us share that life.”

—
The Cleveland Plain Dealer

 

“A commanding voice in the historical fiction genre . . . Holland consistently satisfies her readers.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“[An] intelligently and lushly developed saga . . . moves with great energy but without neglecting rich detail; the dim past springs to buoyant and believable life.”

—
Booklist

 

“Lively and entertaining . . . a rousing good read.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“Engrossing narrative . . . excellent descriptions.”

—
Los Angeles Herald Examiner

 

“Miss Holland’s style is simple, almost stark. She belongs to that small band of writers who can still show us what distinction the historical novel can attain.”

—
The Times Literary Supplement

 

“Full of action and imaginative twists of plot. A considerable achievement.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

 

“A fast-paced, action-driven, and highly satisfying saga . . . a wonderful story.”

—
Library Journal

THE SECRET ELEANOR
THE KING’S WITCH

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2011 by Cecelia Holland.

“Readers Guide” copyright © 2011 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / June 2011

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Holland, Cecelia, 1943–

The king’s witch / Cecelia Holland.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-51583-9

1. Richard I, King of England, 1157–1199—Fiction. 2. Crusades—Third, 1189–1192—Fiction. 3. Witches—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3558.O348K575 2011

813’.54—dc22

2010054212

 

 

CYPRUS

Early in the morning, when the other women had gone to Mass, Edythe went into the conquered town.

The air was cool and bright, the sun just risen. The town was quiet and empty. She guessed that all the local people fled when the Crusader army swept in. Now the army itself was gone, chasing the Cypriot king into the hills, and in the whole town nothing seemed to stir.

She went up and down streets strewn with the garbage of the townspeople’s flight, broken jars, trampled food, on one corner a wagon with the wheel off, the harness lying in front like the hollow outline of a horse. She saw no sign of what she was looking for.

Surely they were all gone and she would find no one. But then, through the corner of her eye, she caught the motion of a window shut abruptly as she passed. An overturned bucket lay by the well, the spilled water drying on the stones. Flies buzzed everywhere. Beyond a high wall a cock crowed. There were still living souls here.

So she sauntered along, swinging her basket; walking by herself still delighted her. For years, living in Queen Eleanor’s court, she had been shut in, locked up, watched over day and night. Now going where she wished, as she pleased, was a joy.

She felt the strangeness of this town, white and quiet in the morning sun, and the airy freedom of being away from home. But then she missed Poitiers, the familiar place, the faces she knew. Where she knew how to live. Her mood sank. Suddenly she pitied the local people, forced to flee their homes.
But we are Crusaders
, she thought.
We come on God’s cause, and everyone should help us
.

She repeated that to herself, uneasy.
I am a Crusader.
She wasn’t sure it was true. She was only trying to see her place in this. But she hadn’t chosen to come, and maybe that made a difference.

Beyond the next street, past a row of beached ships, the sea muttered up and down the shore, and at the upper edge of the sand she went through a deserted marketplace. Her steps slowed, although there were no merchants here, no one buying. She served Queen Johanna now, and the Queen of Sicily and her women all loved the potions and philtres, for which Edythe needed honey, herbs, and vinegar. She had brought some from Sicily, but the storm had soaked in and ruined most of her store.

That same storm had blown them here to Cyprus, where, their ship wrecked, they had asked for help, and instead the king Isaac and his people had tried to capture Queen Johanna and hold her for ransom. So the Cypriots deserved what they got, the fury of the Crusaders.

She wondered if she deserved what she got.

Deserving should mean having a choice, and she had little enough to say about any of it. Eleanor never asked anyone’s leave. “I trust you, Edythe—watch over my children. And keep me informed. You can use the Jews for that; they have connections everywhere.” The children being Johanna and her brother King Richard, both actually older than Edythe, and now also the King’s bride, the Princess Berengaria of Navarre. Of course he had yet to marry the bride.

Having pronounced her will, the old Queen had gone back to sweet and lovely Poitiers, and King Richard announced he was taking them on the Crusade with him, sister and bride and all, and Edythe should pack and be ready at sunrise.

She told herself she should accept her place, that it was a good place, after all; most women would envy her. Widowed Queen of Sicily, Johanna was greathearted, truly Eleanor’s daughter, and she kept a fine court, even so far from home, in a conquered hall. Edythe should not resent being told to spy, but it felt low, and now this, the search for a Jew to convey the message, opened deep old wounds. Eleanor should have known better.

She felt guilty for thinking that. She loved Eleanor, who had saved her; she owed everything to the Queen Mother, and she could suffer a little for her sake. So she would obey.

The sun grew stronger. The day would be hot. She had walked all over the little city without finding what she looked for. She went along a narrowing path past the walls of houses, the ground paved but cracked and sandy. This way ended at a wall, only a few stones deep, tufted with grass; on her right, as she stood before it, the wall rose away, steadily higher, climbing toward the landward side of the town, but on her left it tapered away entirely, as if the builders had lost interest.

Just beyond it, a trail led up through low, dusty brush. Birds called, out there. She climbed over the low stones and followed the path.

The worn dirt trace wound up the green hillside toward the headland that stood over the bay. The air grew warmer as she rose. Swallows flew dipping over the brush ahead of her. A flock of goats browsed the steep slope inland of her, a bell jingling.

Against the sky up there, she made out a confusion of shapes, walls, branchless tree trunks in among a scrubby overgrowth that constantly shivered in the wind. She passed a block of white stone, and on it was strange writing, graven into the surface. She slowed, looking around her, understanding.

This was the ruin of an ancient town, half-buried in the searunneled brush; the branchless trunks, all in lines, were columns of marble, some fallen into round drums jumbled on the ground. Ahead of her the brush yielded to a stone floor, vines crisscrossing the white steps leading up.

She climbed onto it and from its height looked out over the broad sea, a glinting surface pleated with little waves, unbroken to the misty horizon. When she turned her gaze downward, the lower town spread out at the foot of the hill like a jumble of boxes.

Once the town had been up here. And there were still people living up here. Another trail led inland, past more broken walls. Footprints and hoofprints muddled the dust. She passed an old empty building and came to a street of houses.

The four houses stood in a line, each sharing a wall with the next, and as soon as she saw them she knew this was what she sought. Beside the right-hand post of the doorway was the little box that said these were Jews. She gathered words in the old language and went up to the first doorway and knocked.

No one answered the door, and she went to the next. She was full of nameless dread; her heart was pounding and she hoped no one answered and she could go back, shrug, say it was no use. Then the door opened slightly.

She said the few words she had memorized. “Peace to us all. I have a message to send to a friend of the Jews.” She reached into the basket for the letter.

The door opened slightly wider, and the servant who had first answered backed away. Behind him was a man in a dark unadorned gown, a small cap on his gray hair, which hung down in curls past his bearded jaw. He said, “Very well,” and put his hand out. He said more, asking in the old tongue who she was.

She stammered. With the letter given into his hand she was already backing away, but the urge broke on her to go to him, to walk inside, to be home again. This was impossible. She had no home here. She could not remember that language anyway. She shook her head at him. His gaze was keen, as if he understood, but he closed the door.

She hurried down the path back to the town, and like a swarm of wasps the memories rushed after her. She remembered her mother’s voice, singing, and her father, who had worn a small cap over his dark hair, who had been a doctor, as she was. A better doctor than she would ever be. She broke into a run, pursued. A little girl in someone else’s clothes. The cold, lonely flight, afraid. Hungry. No one wanted her. Standing on the doorstep of the captive Queen of England, clutching the letter, shivering, crying.