by Tracy Borman
‘Catholics?’ she asked.
Thomas shook his head.
‘No, Frances.’ A pause. ‘Witches.’
The word seemed to hang in the air as she stared back at him. There had been no talk of witches at court for many months, the subject of the princess’s marriage and her brother’s ongoing feud with the king overshadowing all else. Frances had even heard one courtier say that James was more interested in hunting foxes than witches these days – though she had hardly dared give it credence.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was as parched as the cracked earth in the old herb garden.
‘Twelve people have been arrested and await trial at the York assizes,’ Thomas continued. ‘They are accused of bewitching one man to death and causing several others to fall grievously ill.’
‘So it was not a conspiracy against His Majesty?’ Frances asked.
‘No, but he has taken a great interest in the matter. When the messenger told of how several of the women have already confessed to making a pact with the devil and letting him suck their blood, the king became greatly agitated. He questioned the man closely for an hour, devouring every word as if it came from God Himself. By the end, he was alight with such a passion that I have not seen the like in him before – even for his favourites. He—’ Her husband shook his head slightly.
‘What is it, Thomas?’ she asked quietly, holding his gaze until she saw his shoulders sag, as if defeated.
‘It is nothing. He was in a frenzy, that is all, and seemed no longer master of his actions. After the conference was over, he crossed to the stag he had slain and ripped open its belly with his knife, then stamped the beast’s entrails into the soil.’
A wave of nausea swept over Frances and she leaned forward, her head in her hands. She was only vaguely aware of her husband placing his arm around her shoulders, whether to comfort or steady her she could not tell. He continued to hold her as he began to speak again.
‘It is as if the news has ignited something deep inside him, given him a purpose that he has lacked for several years. Already he has issued orders for the suspects to be searched for the Devil’s Mark and has dispatched his own witch-pricker there for the purpose.’
Frances shivered, despite the warmth from the fire. She raised her eyes to her husband’s to rid herself of the image of the blade as it jabbed at her flesh, probing ever deeper until she cried out in fear and pain. ‘He will not stop there,’ she said at last. ‘I have seen the same light in his eyes, have suffered at the hands of his interrogators. Now that he has been reminded of the pleasure it gives him, he will hunt down other witches to sate his appetite. And it will not be long before his gaze alights upon me.’
Thomas looked stricken but said nothing. She knew she had spoken his own fear and that he could not lie to her by denying it.
‘I will not let any harm befall you, Frances,’ he vowed, clasping her hands as he knelt before her. ‘I cannot lose you, not now that we are – that you have come to feel for me what I have long felt for you.’
Her heart swelled as she looked down at him, his head bowed. ‘Thomas …’ She trailed off, suddenly uncertain. He raised his eyes to her. ‘It is not only your wife whom you need to protect.’
‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘George too – I know that. If anything were to happen to you—’
‘Not just George,’ she interrupted, taking his hand and guiding it to her stomach.
Thomas’s hand froze, like that of a statue. Then his eyes flew up to hers. ‘You are with child?’ he said, in wonder.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded. ‘I think so. I have been so tired lately and find the thought of food abhorrent at times, though at others it is as if my hunger will never be satisfied. It was so with George.’
‘How long …’ His eyes, too, were glistening.
‘I cannot be sure, but I have missed two courses now so perhaps two months – three at most.’
Thomas sat back on his heels, as if winded. Frances watched a succession of emotions cross his face but did not know which held sway. ‘Are you glad?’ she ventured, trying hard to keep the fear from her voice.
His features lifted and he gave a bark of laughter. ‘Glad? Frances, you have made me happier than I have ever been in my life!’ he exclaimed, then clasped her to him tightly.
She stroked his hair as he pressed his face against her belly. But then he pulled back suddenly, as if fearing he had been too rough.
‘It’s all right, Thomas.’ She smiled. ‘I am not made of glass – and neither is our child.’
He placed his hand on her stomach again, more gently this time. ‘That may be so,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘But you are both far more precious.’ He cupped her face with his hands and gazed at her, his eyes alight with joy. ‘I will not let anything happen to you – to either of you.’ His smile faded as he spoke, and fear assailed her as she thought of their earlier conversation. How precarious life was in this court, she reflected bitterly, where happiness was as fleeting as sunshine in a cloud-laden sky.
But then Thomas leaned forward and kissed her, and her fear began to dissipate as she savoured the warmth of his mouth on hers.
CHAPTER 43
15 August
‘For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.’
The chaplain’s voice rose and fell, like the swallows that swooped and soared over the palace gardens. The seasons passed so quickly now, Frances thought. When she was a child, each summer had seemed to stretch into eternity, the winters even more so. Only as she grew to adulthood and the cares of the world began to overtake her did time take flight, the months skittering by, like clouds on a stormy day.
She glanced down at her stomach. There was no sign yet of the child that grew within, but she had lain awake for hours last night, her senses trained on her womb so that she might catch the faint, fluttering movements that had first awoken her. Following her gaze, Thomas squeezed her hand. The secret joy they shared had brought them even closer and Frances felt a kind of wonder at the strength of her love for him. But it made her fearful, too. She knew what it was to have such a love snatched away and that her heart would not bear it a second time.
Seeking distraction from her sombre thoughts, her gaze travelled up to the exquisite ceiling, the tiny gold stars scattered across the azure blue, like a celestial miracle. At each corner, a fleshy cherub blew on a horn, as if to awaken any members of the congregation who dozed beneath.
In the pews that stretched in front of them, the courtiers’ faces were turned towards the pulpit, where the chaplain, a stern-faced man in middle age, was still reading from the king’s new Bible, his voice growing louder as he warmed to the themes within.
James was not visible, though Frances knew that he was watching from the gallery above, with the queen and their children. Even Henry had been summoned to Hampton Court for the occasion, his father determined he should witness this celebration of his theological achievement. For a year now, the King James Bible had directed worship in churches across the kingdom, but James was eager that his subjects should not forget who had commissioned it. He had therefore invited all of his high-ranking nobles, churchmen and courtiers to the palace where it had been spawned to mark the anniversary.
This was the first of several days of ceremonies, feasting and entertainments. Frances’s heart sank as she thought of the long, dreary hours that were still to come. Even the princess seemed to take little delight in the prospect. Perhaps Count Frederick’s impending visit occupied her thoughts.
Frances was at least grateful that the Hampton Court celebrations had temporarily eclipsed the scandal of the Pendle witch trials. Reports from the York assizes had reached the court daily, sending the gossips into a frenzy of excitement as they pulled apart every detail. Frances had avoided the public dinners as much as possible, eating the food Thomas brought to her in their apartment. But she could not escape the court altogether, much as she
wished to, and was astute enough to judge that her absence might excite more unwanted attention.
She was already the subject of gossip: a gaggle of chattering ladies would fall silent as she approached. So long as it remained idle chatter she could bear it, but the terror she repressed during the day crept into her dreams at night. Many times she had cried out and woken, her hands clawing at the rope around her neck. Thomas had always been there to soothe her back to sleep, suppressing his own fear as he whispered words of comfort and love. She stole a glance at him now, seeking the strength that the sight of him always instilled in her.
At last, the sermon drew to a close and the chaplain gave his blessing, then climbed down from the pulpit and walked along the aisle, pausing to bow to the king. There was a rustle of silk and the low murmur of voices as the congregation rose to their feet and began to file out after him. Frances waited until most had gone, much to George’s annoyance. He had begun to fidget during the last half-hour of the service and was now desperate to free his limbs.
‘You look tired, Frances,’ Thomas said, as she rose to her feet. ‘Why don’t I take George for a run in the gardens before the feast begins? You can rest in the shade.’
Frances hesitated. She did not wish to be apart from them, but her back ached and the thought of finding a secluded bench to rest on was too alluring a prospect to resist. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a smile, and bent to kiss her son’s head. ‘But pray do not be long. We will have little enough time together while we’re here.’
Thomas drew her towards him and kissed her firmly on the lips. ‘We will meet you in the rose garden. Come now, young sir, who shall prove the fastest to the river?’
George raced off down the corridor that led from the chapel, Thomas following in close pursuit. Before he rounded the corner, he turned back to Frances. His smile faltered as he waved.
Frances walked in the opposite direction, breathing in the aroma of roasted meat as she neared the kitchens. She could feel the heat from the fires as she passed, her stomach growling. God willing, the feast would be served as soon as they were seated. She knew, though, that it was more likely they would be obliged to sit through a series of interminable ceremonies, watching the king dip his hands in the ewer and his page wipe them dry while the rich sauces congealed around the venison, trout and other dishes. She longed to be back at Tyringham Hall, free from the pageantry and entertainments, the sniping and intrigue. When the three of them had last lived there, she had feared the private hours with her husband. Now she yearned for them.
Emerging into the courtyard, she blinked in the bright sunlight. Relieved to see that it was deserted, save a few liveried servants who hurried about their business, she made her way slowly across it and out towards the gardens. As she passed under the great gatehouse, her eyes were drawn by a movement to her left. Shielding her eyes, she saw her son scampering along the river path, Thomas following. She watched them for a few moments, then continued to the enclosed gardens to the west side of the palace.
Though the roses had long since bloomed and had left only a few sagging petals on the bushes, their fragrance lingered. Frances breathed deeply and closed her eyes. She had a memory of her first meeting with the princess, many years ago now, when they had gathered rose petals in her private garden, bunching up their skirts to contain them. The young girl’s shyness had soon been forgotten in her excitement at meeting her new attendant. She had been so open-hearted then, so trusting. It pained Frances to think of how that trust had been destroyed. But, then, if Tom and the other plotters had not deceived the girl for their own ends, she would have been spoiled by some other experience soon enough. Innocence was as fleeting a virtue at court as the roses in this garden.
Weariness overcame her. Spying a bench on the far side of the garden, she walked to it and sank down gratefully. There was not a breath of wind and the heat of the sun was entrapped in the walls of the garden. Frances’s eyelids grew heavy as she gazed back towards the palace, its elaborately twisting chimneys rising towards the sun as if they would touch its rays. The low hum of bees sounded in her ears, gently lulling her to sleep.
‘Are you always so neglectful of your duties, sister?’
Frances’s eyes sprang open. Edward was standing before her. His features were in shadow but she caught his smile. She wondered that she had not heard him approaching. He must have padded across the grass that lay between the flowerbeds, rather than along the gravel path. ‘Edward.’
She made no move either to stand or to gesture for her brother to join her on the bench. After a few moments, he swiped at a few leaves that had fallen onto it, then sat next to her. Frances had to stop herself recoiling as his arm brushed against hers.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
‘Well, that is a fine greeting for your brother,’ he retorted scornfully. ‘You have so few friends at court that I wonder you do not welcome me with joy.’
Frances ignored the barb and waited for him to answer her question.
‘You surely cannot be surprised to see me. The prince is here, after all,’ he added haughtily.
‘I did not see you in the chapel.’
She sensed him bristle. Perhaps he was not as highly favoured as he liked to boast.
‘I had other matters to attend to,’ he replied. ‘Matters that concern you.’
He was goading her, she told herself, taking care to keep her expression neutral, though her skin prickled with apprehension. ‘Oh?’
She saw Edward’s mouth twitch at the corners, as it had when he was a child and concealing some carefully prepared jest. He had once offered their younger sister Bridget a comfit, knowing her weakness for them. Frances remembered the tentative delight on her sister’s face as she had reached towards the box that Edward held, then how she had screamed as her fingers closed over a writhing mass of worms. Edward’s cruel laughter had echoed around the hall long after Bridget had run sobbing from it.
‘The trial of the Lancashire witches must soon reach its conclusion,’ he said, after a deliberate pause. ‘I am sure you have been awaiting news of it with the same interest as the rest of the court. More, perhaps?’ He let the question hang in the air. ‘It has served as a timely reminder to us all – His Majesty in particular – that we must be forever vigilant in order to root out this scourge upon our kingdom, before it takes so deep a hold that it destroys us all.’
Frances had to remind herself to breathe.
‘The prince, too, is most anxious to hunt down the contagion so that it might be vanquished. He says that the devil and his minions shall perish when the light of the Lord is shone upon them. In this, at least, he is in accord with his father the king.’
Frances was terror-struck. It spelled danger enough for her that King James’s fervour for witch hunting had been reignited. How much greater might the danger be now that his son had taken up the cause? The prince had already tried to poison her son’s mind against Catholics and would surely delight in stirring up his fear of witches. How long before he planted the idea in George’s mind that his own mother might be such?
‘What has this to do with me?’ Frances asked steadily.
Edward smiled as he would at a child who had asked a naïve question. ‘Come, sister,’ he murmured, taking her ice-cold hand and pressing it to his lips before she could snatch it away. ‘Even Master Shakespeare’s players could not have maintained a pretence for so long. Yet here you are, seven years after first being discovered as a witch, and still disguising yourself as a loyal subject. Really, Frances, you are to be congratulated.’
She gripped the edge of the bench. ‘You forget, Edward, that my innocence was proven and I was restored to the princess’s service at their majesties’ command.’
Edward waved his hand dismissively. ‘Pardoned, sister, not acquitted. The stain of witchcraft hangs over you still. Why do you think nobody at court wishes to be seen conversing with you?’
Despite her fury
, Frances recognised the truth of his words. The princess aside, there were few others whom she could look upon as friends, rather than mere acquaintances.
‘Your spell in the Tower taught you discretion, at least,’ her brother continued, ‘though you soon resumed your wicked practices, even sending your faithful old nurse to her death.’
Frances wrenched her hand free. ‘How dare you?’ she cried, rounding on him. ‘Ellen was as dear to me as our own mother. I would have gladly risked my own life to save hers.’
Edward sighed heavily. ‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you? You were too preoccupied with birthing that bastard of yours to spare a thought for a frail old woman. God knows how many other lives you have blighted,’ he went on, warming to his theme. ‘I wonder that you used your potions to cure your husband. Perhaps you intend to ensnare him in your schemes.’
‘Thomas has nothing to do with this.’
The words had come out before she could stop them. Edward raised an eyebrow. ‘With what?’ he murmured.
She glared back at him defiantly and pressed her lips together, inwardly cursing her indiscretion.
He leaned in closer so that she could feel his breath on her face. ‘You are steeped in treason, sister. What they whisper about you here is true. I have always known you to be a witch, but it seems your wickedness runs much deeper. Tell me, whom do you conspire against? Is it the king? The prince? Or perhaps you hope to finish what the Powder plotters started and murder them all.’
Frances bit her cheek so hard that she tasted the coppery tang of blood. Still, she held his gaze, unflinching. She did not trust herself to speak again.
Edward slouched back against the wall. He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs in front of him. Frances knew it was an act, but his nonchalance sparked fresh fury and she could no longer bear to look at him. She focused her gaze upon a single rose, counting the thorns that jutted out along its smooth green stem.
