by Tracy Borman
‘You cannot force me to leave Longford.’ Frances tried to keep her voice steady, though she felt sick with fear.
‘Even Father would not stop me if he knew what you had done,’ her brother retorted.
‘He would not wish me to leave Ellen to her fate,’ she countered, ‘particularly as it is clear you will not lift a finger to help her.’
‘If you intervene in this matter, it will be the surest means of condemning the woman to death,’ Edward declared. ‘Do you think I know nothing of your own arrest for witchcraft? Such news travels fast, even outside London. If Pritchard thinks to risk visiting you here at Longford and discovers the real source of your affliction, he will mark you as Ellen’s accomplice and have you both hanged.’
Frances’s heart was pounding as she tried to come to terms with the full horror of the situation. Though her brother’s words were born of malice, she knew he spoke the truth. The only way she could help Ellen was to make sure that the priest did not hear of her involvement.
‘That is, of course, unless the old woman has already betrayed you,’ Edward continued.
‘Ellen has sworn to tell no one I am here,’ Frances said. ‘I would trust her with my life.’
‘You may have to. Who knows what a woman will say under threat of torture?’
‘I know it well enough, brother,’ Frances hissed. ‘I have felt the torturer’s blade pierce my skin until the blood poured from my body. Yet still I would not confess to a crime of which I was innocent. I pray that God will give Ellen the same strength.’
Edward stared at his sister as if she was suddenly a stranger to him. ‘Once Ellen has been taken from the Reverend Pritchard’s custody, it will not be long before he comes to make enquiries here,’ he said slowly. ‘You must be gone by the time he arrives.’
Frances fell silent, considering. When at last she spoke, it was with greater resolve. ‘I will do as you wish, brother, but only upon this condition. You must go to Salisbury assizes to plead for Ellen yourself. As the head of the household, it is your duty to defend your staff. Father will think you unsuited to your position if he hears that you have neglected your responsibilities.’
Edward looked at her with resentment. He had always hated to be bested. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I will perform my duty on Ellen’s behalf. But you will not set foot in this house again. After tomorrow, Longford will be as dead to you as the man who sired your bastard.’
PART 2
1610
CHAPTER 4
26 January
Frances shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her. A bitter east wind howled through the ramparts of the castle as she cowered against the thick stone wall of the postern gate. To her left, the motte dropped steeply away, and below she could see the dark waters of the swollen river glisten as they caught the moonlight.
She stole another glance over her shoulder. Nobody was there, yet she had the creeping sensation of being watched. She crouched closer to the wall, as if it could shield her from view. He had followed her to Thomas’s estate, she knew. She had spied him on the road from Oxford, the deep blue velvet of his cloak marking him out as Cecil’s man. Though she had not seen him for several weeks after her arrival at Tyringham Hall, she sensed that he was close by. Then, one bright autumn day when she had been walking in the woods that lay to the north of the Hall, her infant son cradled at her breast, she had caught the flash of gold as he slid silently behind one of the large chestnut trees that were scattered across the estate.
For a moment, she thought of running. It was madness to have come here. Even if Cecil’s man had not followed her, Thomas might discover the reason for her journey. She had seen the doubt in his eyes when she had told him of the relative who lay sick at Northampton, but he had not questioned her as to why she felt the need to visit someone of whom she had never previously spoken. He had, though, sent one of his servants to help her pack – seeking assurance, no doubt, that there were no herbs or tinctures among the few clothes and other belongings she chose to take with her. His interference had annoyed her, though he had done little else to deserve her censure.
As a husband, Thomas had been attentive, ensuring that she had everything for her ease and entertainment. His library, which was far more extensive than her father’s at Longford, had been at her disposal from the moment she had arrived at Tyringham Hall. It had been one of her greatest diversions, second only to her precious son for the comfort it had brought her. She had spent countless hours among the works of Homer and Ovid, their ancient prose delighting her with its humour and warmth, or browsing the impressive array of books on plants and their medicinal properties. She suspected that some of these had been newly acquired – their pages were by no means as worn as her own copies of Gerard and his fellow botanists. Whenever George was sleeping or with his nursemaid, she would come to the library, its now familiar shelves and volumes distracting her from thoughts of the past, of Tom.
The reminder of Thomas’s kindness induced fresh guilt. Frances had striven hard to abide by the terms he had laid down for their marriage. Though in private she still cherished her rosary and prayer book, she was as outwardly conformist as her husband, accompanying him to church, whenever he was in residence, to hear and utter the words of worship prescribed by the king. She had been careful to show no interest when her husband’s acquaintances had gossiped about the latest Catholic plot to oust James from his throne. Even during Thomas’s long absences, when he accompanied the king on the hunt as master of the buckhounds – a privileged position, given that James was said to be fonder of his dogs than of his favourites – she had had no contact with Tom’s family or associates.
Until now. Dorothy’s letter had arrived two days ago. Frances had not heard from Tom’s sister since her brief time at Longford almost four years earlier, though she had often wondered if Dorothy had sent other letters. Edward would have had no scruple in opening them. She only hoped that he would have had the good sense to destroy them. This letter had been brief, giving the time and place that she wished to meet, and urging Frances not to forsake her. As her fingers closed over the folded paper now, she wondered again if it was a trap. She had destroyed Dorothy’s first letter before leaving Longford, but had read it so many times that she had recognised the woman’s hand on this one as soon as her husband’s attendant had brought it to her. Her first thought had been to consign it to the flames, but the urgency of Dorothy’s words, the untidiness of her script, had prevented it.
Without pausing to think, she had rushed to Thomas’s study and sought his permission to go. She had hated lying to him, but there had been nothing else for it. It would be the only time, she promised herself.
A sudden noise behind Frances made her turn. The ramparts were still deserted. After a few moments, she heard it again – like a sharp whisper. Peering into the gloom, she could just make out the edges of the chimney breast that jutted from the wall. As she stared, its base seemed to dissolve and billow in the wind. She took a step backwards, but lost her footing and felt herself begin to fall. Suddenly, an icy hand grasped her wrist and pulled her back onto the narrow path. Panting with fear, Frances stared at the woman before her, but her face was shrouded in the folds of her hood.
‘I was afraid you would not come.’ Her voice, though soft, had the same lilt as Tom’s.
‘Dorothy.’ For a moment, Frances was unable to say anything more. She allowed herself to be led along the path towards a small recess in the wall that offered shelter from the howling wind. Dorothy lowered her hood, and Frances caught her breath. The resemblance was astonishing. It was as if Tom’s large brown eyes were steadily appraising her.
‘You did not answer my last letter.’
It was a statement rather than an accusation, but Frances felt ashamed. Dorothy must have thought her fickle to have turned her back on the cause for which Tom had died.
‘I heard that you had left Longford soon afterwards, to be married.’
There wa
s an edge to her voice now, and Frances’s guilt and shame deepened as she realised how she must appear in the eyes of Tom’s sister. As faithless to his memory as she had been to her fellow Catholics. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Sir Thomas Tyringham was a true friend to Tom. It was for his sake that he married me.’
‘And for the sake of your son.’
Frances started at her words. She could not know. As she struggled to control her rising panic, she forced herself to hold the other woman’s gaze. ‘Our son,’ she replied carefully.
Dorothy continued to stare at her, then shook her head. ‘Do not try to deceive me, Frances. I know that the boy is my nephew. That it was why you left court so suddenly.’
Frances felt hot, despite the bitter wind.
‘Sir Thomas is a man of honour and sacrificed a great deal for the cause,’ she continued, when Frances did not answer. ‘It must have cost him dear to pass off the boy as his own, though I hear he dotes upon him now.’
Had Dorothy set spies to watch her too? The thought alarmed her.
‘You are mistaken,’ Frances replied. ‘Grief for your brother has given you false hope that a part of him lives on. I wish it were so. I loved him truly and would gladly have forfeited my life for his.’
She looked down at her hands as she struggled to maintain her composure. Dorothy reached forward and took them in her own. ‘I understand your fears, Frances,’ she said softly. ‘These are dangerous times for those of us who share the true faith. I know that you wish to protect your son, as I do mine. But you cannot condemn him – and yourself – to a life of falsehood, of heresy. To do so would be to damn him in the next life, as well as this one. You cannot think that is what Tom would have wished for his son.’
‘Tom would have wished for him to stay alive!’ Frances cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. ‘What would you have me do? Parade him as the son of a condemned traitor? Forfeit his safety, his happiness, his life? And all for what? A cause that died with Tom and the rest.’
Dorothy fell silent, but her grip on Frances’s hands tightened. ‘It did not die, Frances,’ she said. ‘It is stronger now than ever. The death of Tom and his companions has intensified people’s hatred of this heretic king and drawn thousands more to our cause. I do not speak out of blind faith,’ she continued, as if reading Frances’s thoughts. ‘We have learned from the lessons of the past. Cecil’s spies are now outnumbered by those of our cause. How do you suppose I was able to find out about my nephew? The time is almost ripe to act. We have powerful supporters at court, and the King of Spain stands in readiness with a huge army.’
Frances’s mind was reeling. Amid the shock and fear that Dorothy’s words had engendered, she felt a surge of hope, such as she had not experienced since Tom’s death. It was as if she had been living in a trance, devoid of any real feeling, save the fierce love and protectiveness she harboured for her son. Time and again, she had told herself that this was the only way: Tom would not have wanted her to hazard her life and that of their young son by furthering the cause for which he had died. And she had almost believed it. But now it was as if Dorothy had opened a door into her old life, the one she had shared with Tom. She felt the familiar rush of anticipation at the thought of wreaking vengeance upon the king and his advisers. Though her fear had not left her, she felt alive for the first time in years.
Frances was only vaguely aware of Dorothy, who was watching her, as if following the thoughts that were racing through her mind.
‘What would you have me do?’ she asked at length.
Dorothy’s lips lifted into a smile. ‘The princess is still at the heart of our plans. Though she pretends to the same heresy as her father and brother, she will be crowned a Catholic queen. When the time comes.’
Frances thought of her former charge. Elizabeth would be thirteen now, she realised – old enough to be married. She tried to imagine the young woman she had become. When she had last seen her four years earlier, she had had already the elegance and charm of a lady twice her age – and the intelligence to match. But in other respects she had been very much a child. Frances recalled the petulant outburst that had marred their farewell, the princess berating her favourite attendant for deserting her, and swiftly withdrawing her hand as Frances had tried to kiss it. She had often thought of writing, but fear that she would implicate the girl in some way, should Frances’s part in the Powder Treason be uncovered, had always prevented her.
‘But our plans will be in ruins if she marries according to her brother’s wishes,’ Dorothy continued, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Already he has paraded several heretic princes before her. None has been to the king’s liking, thank God, but there is always a danger that the next one will be.’
Frances looked at her in confusion. ‘But she is surely bound to marry according to her father’s faith? The king will hardly countenance a Catholic husband.’
‘The king hankers after earthly rather than heavenly treasures,’ Dorothy replied, with a sneer. ‘The King of Spain has a nephew of about the same age as the princess. If Elizabeth proves amenable, her father will overlook his religion in the interest of securing a powerful ally – and several coffers of Spanish gold. He does not know that Philip intends to use this match as a means of restoring England to the papal fold – and as a premise for invasion.’
‘What has this to do with me?’ Frances asked, pushing down the excitement that flared in her breast. ‘I have been a stranger to the princess since leaving court. You cannot hope that I still have any influence over her.’
‘You were as dear to her as a sister, and will be again,’ Dorothy told her. ‘No other attendant has come close to replacing you in her affections, and the queen is only seldom at court, preferring the solitude of Greenwich. The princess longs for a confidante once more.’
‘I no longer have a position at court,’ Frances countered, ‘and my uncle is hardly likely to petition for one on my behalf. He and I have been estranged these four years.’
‘You have no need of his assistance. The queen can arrange everything. Though she has taken care to distance herself from the Catholics at court, there can be no doubt that she remains true to the faith. And she always held you in the highest esteem. If she were to offer you a place in her daughter’s household, you could hardly refuse – neither could your husband.’
‘And, once there, I will regain the princess’s trust and persuade her towards a Catholic marriage?’ Frances said doubtfully.
Dorothy nodded encouragingly, her eyes bright with fervour.
‘What of my son?’ Frances asked, after a long pause. ‘I could not bear to leave him behind, but neither would I place him in danger by bringing him to court.’
‘My nephew cannot remain hidden from the world for ever,’ Dorothy said firmly. ‘Besides, there is as much danger in Buckinghamshire as at Whitehall.’
Frances thought of the man who had followed her to Tyringham Hall and lurked there still, watching and waiting. She shuddered. Quite apart from the dangers that surrounded her at Sir Thomas’s estates, she had never felt welcome there. The household staff had always viewed her with suspicion, their conversations often ceasing abruptly when she entered a room. She knew they had not believed their master when he had told them he and Frances had been married several months before their arrival. Even though he had taken care to be seen visiting her bedchamber regularly, it was as if they knew that their master and his wife did nothing more than converse or play cards.
‘You will arrange it all?’ she asked.
Her companion nodded. ‘I will write at once to Lady Vaux. She has a great patron at court who can petition the queen on your behalf. Sir Thomas already has lodgings there, so it will not appear strange that his wife and son should wish to join him. George has reached an age when it is expected that he will be sent to court to further his education.’
Frances was terrified at the thought of her young son in that vipers’ nest. She wanted to keep him cocooned at Tyringham Hall,
well away from the evil and corruption of the court. But Dorothy had spoken the truth. Perhaps the best protection she could offer George was to return and fight for his father’s cause. Only when this heretic king was dead could England’s Catholics and all others who had suffered at his hands truly live in peace.
Her mind was drawn back to her old nurse. She had tried hard to shut out the painful memory, afraid that the grief would overwhelm her. But an image of Ellen as she had last seen her flitted before her now: her back had been hunched and her limp pronounced as she set out on the agonisingly slow walk to Britford, Frances’s tincture clasped tightly in her hand.
Many times, Frances had imagined the Reverend Pritchard’s satisfaction as he had given Ellen into the sheriff’s custody. After a miserable few weeks in Salisbury gaol, she had been acquitted by the assizes, thanks in no small part to the intercession of Frances’s father. Though the king had forbidden him to attend, he had worked tirelessly to secure Ellen’s release, fulfilling the role that his son Edward should have taken. He had expended a great deal on lawyers and other agents whom he could trust to act on his behalf. Thomas had lent his assistance too, dispatching his own lawyer to advise upon the matter. It had proved decisive. But the ordeal had taken its toll upon the old woman’s health and she had died a few weeks later. Thomas had brought Frances the letter as she had sat cradling her newborn son in the warmth of the July sunshine.
The memory sparked a fresh wave of remorse, closely followed by an intense fury against the king, who had decried all forms of healing as witchcraft, punishable by death. He had as good as tightened a noose around Ellen’s neck, choking the breath from her frail old body.
A sudden gust of wind brought in its wake the distant chimes of a church bell. It was late. Frances knew she must return to her lodgings before they were locked for the night. ‘For love of Tom and his son, I will do as you ask,’ she said. ‘But my husband must never hear of it. If my part in this is discovered, he must remain entirely without blame. I will not reward his kindness by hazarding his life, as well as my own.’
