The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  George was clearly shocked. ‘Shall I be sent away?’ he asked, eyes wide.

  Frances grinned. ‘Of course not. I would not allow it – and neither would your papa. But we must soon find a tutor for you here, or you will quite forget your letters.’

  George scowled. Though he had only lately begun his studies, Frances judged that he was not a natural scholar. He preferred to be outdoors, running about the gardens or lunging at imaginary foes with the wooden sword her husband had given him for his last birthday.

  The corridors grew gradually darker as they neared the queen’s privy lodgings. Frances breathed in the scent of lavender, which was strewn over the rush matting. The walls on either side were lined with thick tapestries, keeping out the draughts that whipped around the larger public rooms.

  When they reached the door to the antechamber, a page bade them wait while he announced their arrival. Frances smoothed her skirts and brushed the dust from George’s sleeve. She had been surprised that the invitation had extended to her son, but was glad of it. She had no desire to leave him at Whitehall, now that Thomas was away at Oatlands.

  The page reappeared and motioned for them to enter. George tugged back on his mother’s hand, but she gave him a reassuring smile and led him gently forward. The queen raised her head from her needlework. She was sitting at the window, silhouetted by the bright sunlight. ‘You are most welcome, Lady Frances,’ she said, in her clipped tones. ‘I have but few visitors here at Greenwich. Come – let me see you.’

  Frances took a few steps forward. As she drew level with the queen, Anne’s features were no longer obscured by the sun. Frances drew in a breath when she saw the change that had been wrought in her. Her high cheekbones seemed to have melted into the folds of her face, and her skin was now sallow rather than pale. Looking down, Frances noticed that the queen’s stays had been loosened, though not for the usual reason. She had heard it whispered that there would be no more children, though she was only midway through her thirties.

  ‘I am not as you remember me,’ Anne said softly.

  Frances flushed. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am a little overcome. It has been so long since I was last in your presence.’

  The queen gave a wry smile. ‘You were ever of a gentle nature. But there is no need to hide your dismay. I hear it often enough from the king’s lips. Little wonder he chooses to leave me for the hunt so often. I am sorry that, in so doing, he deprives you of your husband for many weeks together.’

  ‘Sir Thomas is happy to do his duty, Your Grace,’ Frances replied.

  There was a brief silence, during which Anne eyed her. ‘I trust he does his duty by you too?’

  Frances forced herself not to look away. ‘I am blessed to have such an attentive husband, Your Grace.’

  There was a scuffing noise as George shifted impatiently behind his mother’s skirts. Anne smiled. ‘How rude of me! I should have introduced myself to your young master. Please, come forward.’

  George bit his lip and stared down at his feet as if they demanded all of his attention. Gently, Frances coaxed him forward and laid her hands on his shoulders. He gave a stiff little bow, as she had taught him. Anne’s smile never faltered as she gave him a long, appraising stare. ‘How like your father you are,’ she said, casting a glance at Frances.

  ‘Papa?’ George beamed with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he added quickly, when Frances squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘He must be very proud of you,’ Anne replied. ‘It is plain to see that your mother is. But we mothers are always proud of our sons. My own are a little older than you. I hope you will meet them soon – Henry, in particular. He will make a fine king one day.’

  George looked thoughtful. ‘Does he ride as well as me?’

  The queen let out a bark of laughter. ‘Of that I am not sure, though he is an excellent horseman. Perhaps you should challenge him to a race. The parkland around here extends for miles. You would tire out many horses, I am sure.’

  The boy’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘I should like that very much, Your Grace.’

  ‘Well, now,’ Anne said. ‘You must be hungry after your long journey. Lady Drummond.’

  A young woman stepped out of the shadows. Frances had not noticed her before. She was of small stature, with jet-black hair that made her skin appear all the paler. Her slate-grey eyes regarded Frances briefly before she turned to her mistress.

  ‘Will you take Master Tyringham to the privy kitchen and see what delicacies my cooks have prepared? I am sure there will be something to tempt him.’

  The woman inclined her head and held out her hand to George, who took it without protest. Frances felt a pang as she watched him being led away.

  ‘Do not worry, my dear. Jane will keep your precious jewel safe,’ the queen assured Frances. ‘I would trust her with my life. Now, come and sit by me so that we may converse more freely.’

  Once she was seated, Anne clasped her hand. ‘I am glad to see you, Frances, truly I am. I have thought of you often since you left court. I know how you must have suffered. Do you miss him still?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ Frances whispered, looking down at the queen’s hand. The large emerald ring glinted in the sunlight. ‘But George is a great comfort to me, and Sir Thomas is a good husband – better than I deserve. I understand it is you I must thank for that.’

  Anne gave her hand a squeeze. ‘I know you wished to hide at Longford, but the world would soon have found you. It is better so.’ She sank back into her chair and gave a heavy sigh. ‘I have had my sorrows too, since we last met.’

  ‘I heard of your loss and am sorry for it, Your Grace,’ Frances replied. ‘Mary was a sweet child.’

  ‘Sophia too,’ Anne added. ‘She looked so much like Henry – and cried lustily like him too. Yet she drew breath for just a few hours—’ She broke off and stared out of the window, her shoulders heaving with silent grief.

  Frances wished she could offer some comfort, but how could words ease the pain of losing two children in as many years? She could not imagine summoning the will to live if George was taken from her.

  ‘Do you have need of my skills, Your Grace?’ she asked gently, when Anne had regained her composure. ‘I heard that you have been in poor health since – since your last lying-in.’

  The queen sighed again and placed a hand on her stomach. ‘My physicians have taken so much blood from me that I wonder there is any left. They say it is the only way to stop the menses that have flowed since Sophia’s birth.’

  Frances held back a scornful remark. ‘I would be glad to assist you in any way I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Frances. I am sure your remedies would do me more good than their leeches and purges,’ the queen said. ‘But we must have a care – you know that such practices are frowned upon, perhaps more than ever. Only last week there was talk of another witch trial at Southwark. Besides, that is not why I summoned you here.’

  Frances felt her heart quicken.

  ‘I wish you to join my daughter’s household again,’ Anne continued. ‘Elizabeth is a young woman now and her father would have her married. He will use her to forge a powerful alliance – that is what daughters are good for, after all,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘Does the princess wish to be married?’

  ‘It hardly matters – to her father, at least,’ the queen replied. ‘But she is even more susceptible to flatterers than she was when you knew her.’

  The two women exchanged a knowing look. Frances had seen how easily the princess had been beguiled by Robert Catesby and his fellow plotters. Clearly she had learned little from the experience.

  ‘She is also headstrong – even more so than when you served her,’ Anne added, catching the look on Frances’s face. ‘She means to have a husband of the new faith, not our own, and will not be gainsaid – at least, not by me. Her brother Henry encourages her in this. She needs someone of greater wisdom to counsel her against making a choice that is as hasty as it is il
l-considered.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘A friend has suggested that you can perform this service better than anyone else. The princess loved and trusted you above all others.’

  So Lady Vaux had got word to the queen, as Dorothy had promised.

  Frances was plagued by doubt. Four years was a long time to have been absent from the princess – almost half the girl’s lifetime. She must have changed a great deal since they had last met, and may still resent Frances’s hasty departure. Could she win back her trust, her affection? She felt far from certain.

  ‘I ask only that you try, Frances. You know how much rests upon it. There is no other way to bring this kingdom back to the true faith.’ A shadow seemed to flit across Anne’s face. ‘Many vest their hopes in the Lady Arbella. But though she professes herself a Catholic, she would as soon turn to heresy if she thought it would bring her to the throne. No, we must make my daughter realise the advantages of a Catholic match.’ Her eyes blazed with intensity.

  Slowly Frances inclined her head. ‘You may trust me, Your Grace. I will do whatever I can to avenge Tom and rid this kingdom of heretics, no matter the cost.’

  The queen smiled and extended her hand so that Frances could kiss it. ‘I will have your letter of appointment drafted before you depart for Whitehall,’ she promised. ‘Now, you must go and find that son of yours before Jane Drummond stuffs him full of sweetmeats.’

  Frances bowed her head and hastened from the room. Though she knew it was a deadly sin, she thrilled to the notion that the queen still hankered for her husband’s deposition – his murder, even. If she could help to bring the Spanish marriage to pass, she might yet see her once-beloved mistress crowned in her father’s stead. Mingled with the fear that had made her doubt the scheme in which she was now enmeshed, she felt a heady rush of anticipation.

  CHAPTER 9

  16 February

  Hundreds of candles blazed in their golden sconces, illuminating the brightly coloured bejewelled swags that were strung across the pillars of the banqueting hall. Frances breathed in the enticing aroma of spiced wine and sweetmeats as she stood on the threshold. Though the king was away on the hunt, the reception was still crowded with courtiers, and as she slowly made her way to the seats in front of the dais, she was constantly jostled and pushed. By the time she reached the back row of chairs, she was hot and out of breath, and gulped down the cup of wine she had taken from a harassed servant on the way.

  The excited chatter and squeals of laughter had risen to such a crescendo that the royal musicians, who were performing on the dais, could hardly be heard. She looked around at the ladies in gowns of peacock blue silk, scarlet satin and a riot of other dazzling colours, which caught the light as they swayed and curtsied, lowering their eyes coquettishly as the male courtiers swarmed around them. Frances recognised a handful. She would have felt just as much of an outsider at the court of Henri of France, she reflected.

  Eager though she was to play her part, she wished herself back at Longford, strolling in the cool shade of the woods with George at her side. She did not belong there either, though – not any more. Edward had made sure of that. Neither did the rural beauty of her husband’s estate hold any appeal. It seemed she was destined to spend her life like the restless spirits of whom Ellen had spoken, never finding that for which they searched.

  A blast of trumpets jolted her from her melancholy thoughts. Immediately, the cacophony died down as the assembled throng looked expectantly towards the large doors to the right of the dais. A moment later, they were flung open by the yeomen of the guard and an elegant young woman stepped lightly through, head held high. There were gasps around the room as she walked slowly into the hall, the thousand or more gems on her exquisite gold and ivory gown catching the light from the sconces above. Her hair, which was swept into an elaborate coif in imitation of her mother’s, had turned a deeper red than it had been when Frances had last seen her, and her face had lost its youthful plumpness.

  Frances realised that all of the other ladies in the hall had dropped into a deep curtsy. As she hastily did the same, she thought that she caught the princess looking in her direction but forced herself to stare at the floor. The delicate tap of heels could be heard as the princess and her ladies took their places at the far side of the platform. There was a brief silence. Frances’s back and legs ached as she continued to hold the curtsy. Clearly, she was out of practice, she mused – either that or her limbs were no longer as supple as once they had been.

  The musicians struck up the overture and there was a rustle of skirts as the ladies sat down while the men moved to the back of the hall. Frances watched as a troupe of female players walked onto the dais, in sumptuous gowns of white silk and with gold coronets on their heads. There were eleven in all, and most were somewhat older than was usual for a masque. Frances knew Anne Clifford, who had been a favourite of Queen Elizabeth as a child, and Lady Stanley, who had served her as a maid of honour.

  On the right of the dais a beautiful young woman was carefully surveying the room, as if searching for someone. There was something familiar about her soft round face and small rosebud mouth, but it took Frances a moment to recognise her as Frances Howard, Countess of Essex. Her marriage to the third earl had taken place just a few weeks before Tom’s execution. Lady Howard had been a girl of fourteen then, her husband a year younger. They had made a handsome couple, but there had soon been rumours of discord. Nevertheless the countess still drew as much attention from the men at court as she had before her marriage.

  Another loud fanfare rang out and the eleven ladies curtsied as a figure walked haltingly onto the dais. She was older than the rest and portly. Although dressed in the same white silk gown as her fellow queens, her crown was much more lavish and seemed to glitter with real diamonds and rubies. As she neared the front of the platform, Frances drew in a breath.

  Anne.

  The queen had always loathed the ostentatious masques that so delighted her husband. Glancing down at the paper she had been given upon arriving at the hall, Frances saw that tonight’s play was The Masque of Queens, written in Anne’s honour by the celebrated Master Jonson. She looked back at her royal mistress, whose face was suffused with pleasure as she gazed imperiously across the audience.

  After a few moments, Anne walked slowly to a throne that had been placed at the back of the dais, and the other ladies fanned out on either side of her. There was a thunderous drum roll and the entire platform was plunged into darkness. Frances could see shadowy figures running onto it, and as the sconces were relit, she stared in disbelief. They were dressed in ragged black shifts and were stooped over the wooden staves they carried. Their hair had been whitened with powder, and deep lines painted onto their faces.

  Witches.

  Frances had heard that other playwrights had taken up Master Shakespeare’s theme to gain favour with the king, but she had not expected to witness one such example this evening. It was as if she had been transported back to that terrible evening, more than five years before, when Cecil had made her sit through a performance of Macbeth before declaring her a witch in front of the assembled gathering. She watched the grotesque enactment with mounting horror. Surely the Lord Privy Seal had not arranged this too, knowing she would be there. In panic, her eyes darted around the room, searching for his familiar, hunched frame. But he was not among the dignitaries seated closest to the dais, and he would hardly be able to endure standing throughout the performance with the gentlemen at the back of the hall.

  Aware that she was attracting curious stares from the ladies sitting next to her, Frances diverted her gaze back to the platform, where the princess seemed enthralled by the story playing out in front of her. Now and again, she would grasp the hand of the fair-haired attendant on her right, as if for protection against the hideous figures that kept leering in her direction. Elizabeth had always been fond of such entertainments, Frances remembered.

  Applause sounded in Frances’s ears as t
he players curtsied. She forced a smile as she stood to join in, anxious not to betray her private horror. After a final bow, the ladies filed off the dais. Only Anne remained, seated on her mock throne and smiling benignly at her court.

  Frances was caught up in a press of bodies, eager to pay homage to the queen, who had now taken her place next to her daughter. She tried to turn and make her way out of the hall, but it was impossible and before long she found herself within a few feet of the royal party.

  ‘Lady Frances,’ Anne called, above the cacophony, signalling for her to approach.

  The people in front of her turned to stare, then moved aside so that she could pass. Frances stepped onto the platform. She walked slowly over to the queen and offered a deep curtsy. ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘How did you enjoy the performance?’ Anne asked. ‘I’ll wager you did not expect to see me among the players.’

  ‘Your Grace played your part to perfection,’ Frances replied.

  ‘You must lack such entertainments in Buckinghamshire.’

  The words rang out in a clear, shrill voice. Frances looked up and saw that the princess was regarding her closely, a smirk playing about her lips. The young lady whose hand she had grasped during the performance raised her own to her mouth, as if suppressing a giggle.

  ‘Indeed, Your Highness. We enjoy no such spectacles, but take pleasure in simpler pursuits.’

  Elizabeth’s smile faded and she raised her chin a little higher. ‘My mother tells me you are to attend me once more.’

  Frances inclined her head. ‘If Your Grace pleases.’

  ‘It matters little whether it pleases me or not,’ the young woman replied curtly. ‘I will do as the queen bids me.’

  ‘We are most grateful that you are willing to return to the princess’s household, Lady Frances.’ Anne directed a reproving look at her daughter, ‘especially when you have ever preferred the peace of the country to the clamour of court. But your services will carry their own reward.’