The Poyson Garden by Karen Harper

Elizabeth considered it, the more Bea's helpfulness and watchfulness bothered her. Besides that needlework from Wivenhoe greatly resembling Bea's style, she was upon occasion absent from Hatfield for several days at a time, including, Kat had said, the day and second night Elizabeth was at Wivenhoe. It was supposedly to visit her sister in Maidstone, which was in Kent.
    Still, Bea had never shown the slightest special interest in flowers or herbs, but to embroider them. And she seemed such an ally. More than once she had heard Bea standing up for her rights and privileges, though, indeed, that could have been arranged to get Elizabeth to trust her.
    "Never forget this, Thomas," she had heard Bea declare to her husband last month through a slightly open door when Elizabeth passed by in the upstairs corridor. "Queen Mary is ill, and Elizabeth is not. Queen Mary is hated and Elizabeth favored; Queen Mary is older and Elizabeth yet young. Queen Mary--"
    "Is queen indeed and has put us in a position of authority here with our orders!" Thomas had thundered. "And see that you bridle your lips, actions, and fond heart, madam, because who is to say if we watch the princess and report on her doings that others are not watching us."
    It had seemed so convincing. She'd felt at least pity for Bea ever since. She had scolded Kat next time she referred to her as the Buzzard.
    But it was just then, riding down into that shallow valley, with Bea no doubt looking at her from behind, that Elizabeth felt a chill slide down her spine like an icy hand. It feathered the hairs
    on the nape of her neck; she shuddered even in her warm cloak and hood. It was as if someone with poison-tipped intent were spying on her as they rode in.
    She spun to look back at Bea again. She was watching, but she gave a jaunty wave and spurred her horse to join Elizabeth.
     
    In the village Thomas Pope put out the word they were just passing through to London. He gave no names, but everyone stared at their betters as they strolled the aisles of rickety booths. Besides pyramids of apples, Elizabeth saw piles of scarves and tin trinkets that traveling hawkers had spread on ground cloths. They strolled past a fortune-teller's booth and watched a morality play with puppets. Both made Elizabeth wonder if Jenks had found Ned Topside.
    Cider, apple tarts, and sausage pies were everywhere one turned. At first, relieved the food could be not be tainted, Elizabeth ate with relish. But when she realized people were indeed gawking, she had trouble getting the next pie and cider down. Her eyes watered as she recalled her Aunt Mary's saffron cakes and mead. And all this time Meg and Kat were drifting off into the crowd to inquire if someone knew of a place called Bushey Cot.
    Yet despite her unease Elizabeth felt proud to be among the realm's common folk, most of whose lives were seldom touched by shifting events on the larger stage. She wondered how she would have gotten on had she been born just plain Bess of Bushey. At least that lass would not have to fear for her very life.
    "The cot--I think I found it," Meg whispered out-of-breath as they all took a brief respite before they set out for Hatfield. She showed her some dried and powdered quinces she had bought, in case someone was watching.
    "Where?" Elizabeth whispered excitedly, as Meg knelt beside her on a baize cloth spread on the ground in the sun.
    "In the deep woods not so far behind us. Didn't see it but heard tell. Used to be a woodsman's cottage, been deserted for a while, until last year."
    "Who lives there, then?"
    "An old hag, they say. She comes and goes, and they don't know if she's there or not
    now. No one goes there much. She keeps folks away, and some of the boys been whispering she's--a witch," she added, wide-eyed.
    "The point is, it's a woman and could be our "she,"" Elizabeth said, feeling both relief and revulsion.
    "If you try to see the cot, I'm going too," Meg insisted, "'cause they say she keeps a