“Your physician’s been put under some…pressure…to speak of what he knows.” Wykeham was deadly certain. “His accusations against you ran like a stream in spate.”

“Torture?”

“So I understand.”

This was dangerous stuff. How many times had a difficult woman been accused of being in league with the devil, ultimately to face death by drowning or the excruciating pain of fire…? I shuddered in the warmth of the parterre.

“I am no witch,” I repeated stalwartly.

“Then let me tell you what’s being said, mistress.”

Wykeham pulled me farther along the pathway until we stood in the very center, facing each other on either side of the sundial. It was a magnificent tale, as old as time, told with remarkable—and frightening—exactitude. There we were, whore and priest, standing in a summer landscape, and I felt the jaws of death closing in around me. “So that you should be clear about it,” Wykeham said dryly, his face severe but not without compassion, “they’ll hound you to death if they can, Alice.” Wykeham always had a way with words, probably from preaching so many sermons to the damned.

“Where did the evidence come from?” I asked.

“John de la Mare, brother to the Speaker of the Commons—how fortunate,” Wykeham explained with blistering brevity. “He visited Pallenswick with a chamber pot of urine, asked for help to have his entirely fictitious malady diagnosed—and in pious charity Father Oswald agreed.”

“Father Oswald always was a gullible fool when it came to judging others,” I observed irritably. “Had he no suspicions?”

“Apparently not. He was brought to London and questioned. I’ve no doubt force was used.” Wykeham eyed a lively flight of goldfinches in the adjacent bushes. “Your admirable physician admitted to a remarkable range of activities on your behalf.”

“The last thing he did for me was mix a salve to calm my chilblains.”

Wykeham grunted. “It’s far worse than that. By the by, they said you were there, at Pallenswick. And that you grew pale with fear when you saw your man under restraint.”

“By God! I was not!”

“I think God has no role in this. Rather the devil. This is what your man did for you, if he is to be believed.”

Wykeham ticked the charges off on his fingers while I absorbed the depth of my supposed guilt. This was far worse than fraud and embezzlement. The accusations smeared the soft air in that pretty spot with the filth of necromancy. All of it false, yet its falsehood impossible to prove.

“Your physician claimed that upon your order he created two images, of yourself and His Majesty, and bound them together to make an indissoluble bond. Thus he explained Edward’s infatuation with you. Their words—not mine. Your physician made two rings with magical properties for you to put onto Edward’s finger, one to refresh the King’s memory so that you would always be in the forefront of his thoughts, the other to cause forgetfulness of all else but yourself. And he made love potions and spells suffused with herbs picked at the full moon, at your request, to work your magic to bewitch the King into infatuation.” He paused, eyeing me. “You have been very busy, it seems, Mistress Perrers.”

“Have I not? And do you believe all this?”

Wykeham shrugged. “He also said he made a spell so that you could charm Gaunt and the Prince to your own ends.”

“Both of them?” My voice was no more than a croak.

“Yes. I think he added both for good measure.”

“It says little for Father Oswald’s skill.” Should I laugh or weep at the outrageousness of it all? “I failed singularly to win the Prince to my favor, and Gaunt’s allegiance is unpredictable, governed by self-interest.”

A silence fell between us. I had nothing at hand to throw.

“The Speaker is making much of it,” Wykeham said.

“He would, of course.” I tried to predict the next step in this battle, for surely that was what it was. “What have they done with my poor physician?”

“Sent him to St. Albans, in a sorry state, to face his superiors. They’ve done with him, mistress. It’s you they want.” Wykeham’s gaze was cool and direct. I waited for his condemnation, but it did not come. So…

“You were kind to come here to inform me,” I said over the chased metal of the sundial that showed the passing minutes. It seemed hours since Wykeham had first breathed the word witchcraft, since my world had become a thing of terror, but the line of shadow had barely moved. Now encroaching clouds blotted out the sun. “You still haven’t said whether you believe the charge or not.”

“The sin of avarice, perhaps. Of pride, certainly…”

“Oh, Wykeham…!” Would he list all my failings?

“But witchcraft? No, not that. I believe you have a deep affection for the King. I don’t believe you would ever do him harm.”

“My thanks. You are one of very few.” It gave me some comfort, but not much. We began to walk back toward the palace, driven in by a sharp little breeze that had chased away the bees and promised rain. Here was blatant propaganda of the worst kind to blacken my character. I stopped, regardless of the spatter of heavy drops.

“Will they find me guilty?” And when Wykeham hesitated: “Don’t give me a soft answer. Tell me what you think!”

“I’d no intention of hiding the truth. I think they might. De la Mare is slavering for the kill.” I flinched when Wykeham did not temper his words. “With Latimer and Lyons under his belt, his confidence shines like a comet. I find it difficult to meet with him without addressing the sin of pride. Damn him!”

“What a handful of unpriestly expressions.” I smiled bleakly. “And if the punishment is proven? Will it be death?”

He thought for a long moment. “Unlikely. Penance and fasting probably. You haven’t killed anyone. Imprisonment at the worst.”

My throat was dry and I barely felt the rain on my face. “Then I’ll plan for the worst. I don’t see de la Mare being content with a few missed meals and a paternoster.” The thought of imprisonment was bad enough to me. I closed my mind to it. “What do I do, Wykeham?”

“You could take refuge at Pallenswick.”

Inwardly I recoiled at the implication, that making a defense against the charges would be a waste of his breath and mine. But flight? “No.” I wouldn’t even consider it. “I cannot. You’ve seen the King. He needs me.”

“Then you remain here and do nothing. Just wait. The Speaker might abandon it…”

I completed his sentence when he hesitated again. “…if he finds something worse to pin on me.”

Wykeham looked ’round sharply. “Why? What else have you done?”

I shook my head and looked away, across to the trees that were now shivering in the wind. There was one secret I prayed would remain hidden from public knowledge for a little time yet. It would bring too much pain to Edward.

And if it didn’t?

Back in my room, where I retired to change my muddied skirts, I hurled a handsome glazed jug at the wall, and then regretted it. I felt no better for it, and one of the serving maids had to clean it up.

Once Wykeham was gone, I returned to Edward’s side in his great chamber. He was now wrapped in a chamber robe, the scarlet and fur at odds with the wasted figure it contained. Before the fire—he always felt the cold even on the warmest day—he slept in his chair, his head forward on his chest, a cup of ale at his side. John Beverley, his body servant, stood close by if he should wake and lack for aught. I gestured that he should leave, and sat on a stool at Edward’s feet, as I was wont to do when he was still in his prime and I was a young girl. But my thoughts were not of past memories. As I leaned my head against the chair, Wykeham’s warnings echoed shockingly in my mind. He might be sanguine about my punishment, but I was not convinced. Prison walls seemed to hem me in.

When Edward moved, I looked up, grateful for the distraction. His eyelids lifted slowly and gradually his eyes focused on me. They were lucid and aware. My heart leaped with joy.

“Edward.”

“Alice.” Even his voice was stronger. He could still surprise me. “Dear girl. I have missed you.”

“I have been here with you while you slept. You had an audience with some of the worthies from London.”

He sighed a little. “I don’t remember. Bring me a cup of ale.”

I reached to pick up the forgotten cup beside him and placed it in his hand, curling his fingers around it. Sometimes he was still very much the King.

He sipped, then handed the cup back to me. “Will you sing to me?”

How little he remembered! “I would, but it would not be to your pleasure. I’m told I have a voice like a creaking door hinge.” I smiled as I recalled one of Isabella’s more vulgar remarks and saw an answering gleam in Edward’s eyes. “But here is a verse I have found and liked, because it speaks of old lovers, as we are.…” I sank back against his chair, arranging my skirts, drawing the little book from the purse at my belt. “It is about the cold of winter, and the warmth of enduring love. You will like it too.” I began to recite, slowly, gently, forming the words clearly so that he might follow.

“The leaves are failing; summer’s past;

What once was green is brown and sere;

All nature’s warmth has faded fast and gone from here;

The circling sun has reached the last house in its year.”

“You have it right, Alice. Winter has me in its thrall even in the heat of summer.” Edward dragged in a breath, as if it were painful for him to speak it. “I am no use to you as a man. I regret it, but am unable to remedy it.”

“No, but listen, Edward. It is not sad at all.

“The world is chilled in every part:

But I alone am warm and grow