The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  Frances kissed his hand, then placed her head on his lap.

  ‘What shall we do?’ he murmured, as he stroked her hair.

  She closed her eyes as she breathed in his familiar scent. For this moment, nothing mattered but his forgiveness. ‘We can only wait,’ she whispered.

  Frances watched as her son traced his finger down the windowpane, carefully following a droplet of rain. When it had disappeared behind the edge of the frame, he began again with another. She smiled at his concentration, wishing she could be so easily distracted.

  It felt as if an entire lifetime had passed since Thomas had returned from the privy chamber the previous day. Her breathing had quickened every time she had heard footsteps along the corridor. Though he had pretended not to notice, she knew that Thomas had started at them too. Little wonder that neither of them had slept that night.

  Frances had sent word to the princess at St James’s that she had been summoned to Whitehall to attend her son, who had taken ill in the night. She had hated to fall back into deceit so quickly, but Thomas had urged the necessity and she had known he was right. As soon as George had returned from the tiltyard that afternoon, Thomas had ordered him not to venture out again. The boy had agreed all too readily, delighted to be spared the customary evening service in the chapel, and Frances was glad of the excuse to keep to her chambers with them. These precious hours might be the last they ever spent together.

  She pushed away the thought and tried to focus on her stitching. With luck, she would finish George’s new cap before the light faded. She glanced across at the clock.

  Half past two.

  Why was it taking so long? No doubt the king wished to draw out her agony. Or perhaps Henry had insisted on accompanying his father back to Whitehall. He would relish the spectacle of her arrest.

  Just then, she caught the echo of rapid footsteps along the corridor outside. Thomas had risen immediately to his feet and was already halfway to the door by the time the volley of thuds sounded from the other side. George turned from the window, eager for diversion.

  Her husband glanced back at her briefly before sliding back the bolt and opening it.

  ‘You are to go to the hall immediately – all of you,’ the man said abruptly.

  Over Thomas’s shoulder, Frances could see that he was wearing the king’s livery. Before her husband could speak, the man had turned on his heel. A moment later she heard him hammering on the door of the adjoining apartment.

  Thomas pushed the door closed and turned to her, his face ashen. She forced a smile as George sprang down from the window seat and grasped her hand. ‘Come, Mama!’ he urged, pulling her to her feet. ‘The man said we must go at once.’

  Frances allowed herself to be dragged towards the door.

  ‘Have courage, my love,’ Thomas whispered, as she reached him.

  His lips felt dry as he pressed them to hers.

  CHAPTER 59

  6 November

  The hall was already crowded by the time they reached it and there was a loud thrum of excited chatter. Frances held her son’s hand tightly as they pushed their way through the throng of courtiers. At length, they reached a small clearing at the far side of the dais, close to the large windows that looked out over the street below.

  Nausea rose in Frances as she gazed across the room, searching the faces for any hint of what lay ahead. But it was clear from the snatches of conversation she heard that everyone was speculating about the reason for this unexpected summons.

  She gave a start as her gaze alighted upon a familiar figure standing close to the dais.

  Edward.

  Their eyes locked. Her brother’s face was wan and there were dark circles under his eyes. In place of his usual swagger there was a new uncertainty. He was the first to look away.

  All of a sudden, the doors next to the dais were flung open and six yeomen strode onto it. A hush descended as all eyes turned to the large doorway. Frances gripped George’s hand so tightly that he frowned up at her. She glanced at her husband, who gave her a reassuring smile.

  Several seconds passed. The guards had formed two lines on either side of the door. Frances saw them raise their halberds and a moment later the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. She felt Thomas’s hand on her waist as the king walked slowly onto the dais, followed by his wife, their daughter and younger son. They each sat on the thrones that had been set out for them.

  Frances looked from one to the other. Anne’s face was deathly pale and her lips were clamped tightly together. To her left, the princess sat staring at her hands. Her brother was seated next to her and was gazing out across the crowds, almost stupefied. Their father’s expression was unreadable. His mouth was set in a grim line but his eyes seemed to spark with something like excitement.

  It was all too similar to that other occasion in this very hall eight years earlier. Then it had been Cecil who had announced her ‘crimes’ to the assembled throng. Now, it seemed, the king was to have that pleasure.

  She watched, almost as if in a trance, as James got to his feet and prepared to address his court. Her eyes flicked to the guards, who were now stationed behind the thrones, halberds glinting in the sunlight. Suddenly, one was staring at her. She took a step backwards and heard someone behind her grumble an admonishment. Thomas’s hand held her waist as she tried to steady herself.

  ‘Loyal subjects.’

  The king’s voice rang out across the hall. Frances stood perfectly still now and waited.

  ‘I have summoned you here to convey the most grievous tidings.’

  He paused again, as if enjoying the suspense he had created.

  ‘I have just arrived from St James’s where, as you know, my son Henry has lain ill these several days.’

  Frances held her breath. This was the moment. She heard Elizabeth give a muffled sob and saw the queen clasp her daughter’s hand.

  ‘I must inform you that God has seen fit to claim him. The prince is dead.’

  Time seemed to still as Frances stared at the king, his gaze roaming steadily over the shocked courtiers crowded into the great hall. She barely heard their collective gasps and wails, and was only vaguely aware that George had let go of her hand and was now sobbing into his hands.

  Had she imagined James’s words, somehow willed them into being? The look on the princess’s face told her she had not.

  How could this be? Henry had recovered from his fever and seemed out of danger when she had seen him less than two days before. Certainly, his mind had been clear enough to focus upon her destruction. Her thoughts returned to that night in his chamber. Had a few drops of the tincture slipped into his mouth unseen in the darkness? No, she knew that was impossible. The phial had been full to the brim when she had replaced the stopper. With searing clarity, she knew that this was God’s doing. That He had meted out His vengeance for Henry’s wickedness. And that He had rewarded her for placing her fate in His hands, not those of the devil.

  Frances turned to Thomas and saw that his eyes, too, brimmed with tears. The weeping courtiers on either side of them would have seen nothing amiss if they had glanced their way. Only she knew that her husband was experiencing the same joy and relief that was flooding through her.

  ‘He succumbed to the sickness in the small hours of this morning,’ James continued.

  Frances looked towards the dais again as he spoke and felt ashamed as she saw her mistress weeping openly. The queen’s mouth was working as she tried to hold back her grief.

  ‘We must take comfort in knowing that, while my son has been denied an earthly crown, he has won a heavenly one.’

  The king’s voice was strong and steady as he continued to address his courtiers. Turning, he motioned for his younger son to join him at the front of the dais. Charles rose uncertainly to his feet and made an awkward bow. As he drew level with his father, James placed a hand on his shoulder. Frances saw the boy wince.

  ‘But God in his great and bountiful mercy saw fit to gra
nt me another son, just as able as the first – more so, even. I rejoice in the knowledge that when He has summoned me to join Him in Heaven, I shall leave my kingdom to be governed by so wise and capable a prince.’

  Frances saw her son crane his neck to catch a glimpse of his master, who seemed to shrink beneath his father’s grasp.

  ‘God save Prince Charles!’

  The king’s cry was echoed around the hall. Frances whispered the words, savouring the sound of his name upon her lips.

  As the royal party slowly left the dais, courtiers followed them, all clamouring to pay their respects to the new king-in-waiting. Just before she turned to go, Frances caught sight of her brother among them. She watched as he bowed low before the prince, who peered down at him, his expression icy. Edward was still kneeling, head bowed, as Charles swept past him.

  ‘I am not yet free of danger,’ Frances reminded her husband as they strolled through the palace gardens that evening.

  Thomas clasped her to him again, kissing her fervently. ‘But you very soon will be,’ he insisted. ‘Already the king has disbanded the prince’s household and ordered preparations to be made for Charles’s arrival. He and his attendants will be installed in St James’s before the week is out.’

  Frances shook her head. ‘It is almost as if he had planned for this moment,’ she remarked. ‘I thought he might pretend to feel some regret, at least, but it seems he is content to leave that to his wife and daughter.’

  She felt sad as she thought of her visit to the princess. Elizabeth had taken to her bed as soon as the assembly had ended that afternoon. Frances had heard her sobs before she had even reached the presence chamber. The poor girl had been utterly inconsolable. It had pained Frances to see her beautiful face racked with sorrow as she had lain on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as if to protect herself from the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Frances had glimpsed her brother’s miniature clutched to her breast.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Elizabeth had been saying, over and over, pressing her lips to his portrait.

  Frances knew that she was riven with guilt for having defied her brother on the matter of her marriage, for rejecting one suitor and making her distaste for the other all too clear. There had been nothing she could say to ease her anguish. It was too soon, the grief was still raw – Frances knew well how she felt. For now, the only comfort she could give was by her quiet, steady presence.

  ‘I wonder where Edward will go now,’ Frances mused. ‘Longford can hold no appeal for him, unless he is still intent upon bankrupting it before George can inherit. But I hold sufficient means to persuade him against such a course,’ she added, thinking of the indenture that was still in safe-keeping at Gray’s Inn.

  ‘I am sure he will try to find favour with the new resident of St James’s,’ Thomas replied, his voice laced with scorn. ‘He will hardly be alone in doing so.’

  Frances tried to smile. ‘And what of us, Thomas?’ she asked. ‘Where shall we go?’

  Her husband stopped walking and turned to her. ‘You do not wish to stay here?’

  She fell silent. Where was home, now? Though she loved her mistress dearly, the thought of remaining here, among the relentless grasping and backbiting, the plots and intrigues, was insupportable. Even Longford had lost some of its lustre, as if it were still tainted by everything that had passed between her and Edward.

  ‘I would like our child to be born at Tyringham Hall,’ she said, reaching for Thomas’s hand. Her heart swelled at the joy in his eyes and for a moment neither could speak.

  ‘I will not desert the princess while she grieves so sorely,’ she continued, ‘but when her mind has grown quieter and she has begun to take pleasure in her life again, I will seek her blessing to leave – for a time. She will be expecting me to do so soon anyway,’ she added, stroking her belly. ‘I know that you cannot relinquish your duties for ever, but I hope you will come with me – George, too, of course.’

  Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but she saw his expression change as he looked at something over her shoulder. She turned. A man wearing the king’s livery was striding purposefully towards them. Thomas stepped quickly forward so that he stood between the servant and his wife. But the man showed no interest in Frances. Instead he gave a short bow and addressed her husband. ‘Sir Thomas, the king has a fancy to hunt in Richmond tomorrow and has ordered that you ready his hounds so that he may ride out at first light.’

  For once, Frances was glad of the king’s heartlessness. It seemed that he regretted his son’s death little more than she did. She saw her husband’s shoulders drop as she exhaled quietly with relief.

  He turned to her as the servant walked briskly back towards the palace. ‘I suppose we should take comfort from how quickly the natural order of things is restored,’ he said, with a grin, ‘though I am sorry to leave you so suddenly. Shall I escort you back to the palace?’

  Frances smiled. ‘No, it is a beautiful evening and I would like to walk here a while,’ she said, stepping forward to kiss him. ‘Now that our plans are resolved.’

  He hesitated, then kissed her firmly and strode away towards the stables, calling over his shoulder that he would meet her back in their apartment.

  Frances resumed her steady walk around the knot garden, pausing every now and then to breathe in the tang of myrtle or stoop to rub the velvet sage leaves between her fingertips.

  ‘You have done well, Lady Frances.’

  The voice behind her was so soft that she wondered if she had imagined it. Swinging round, she saw William Cecil standing before her.

  Frances glanced around the garden to make sure that they were not being watched. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded in a low voice.

  ‘I came to congratulate you – and to thank you for your efforts,’ William replied. ‘I must confess that I feared you had strayed too far from the cause to be of use to us any more, but you have proved me wrong. Now that the prince is out of the way, we are a step closer to realising our ambitions.’

  Frances stared at him in horror. ‘What do you mean?’ she said, though she already knew, with a sickening certainty, the ‘efforts’ to which her companion had referred.

  ‘You played your part to perfection,’ he continued. ‘And I knew that Raleigh could be relied upon to supply the means.’

  Frances felt as if the breath had been knocked from her. Had the two men been in league all this time? During their many confidences, Raleigh had often hinted of wider plots, but she had come to believe that he meant only the Lady Arbella, that he was little more than an observer of the intrigues that swirled about the Crown. The knowledge that he had kept this from her struck her like a blow.

  ‘I played no part, Lord Cranborne,’ she said at last.

  The young man’s smile broadened. ‘Your time here has served you well, Lady Frances. You dissemble as skilfully as the most seasoned courtier.’

  Frances pushed down her rising frustration. She knew how it must look to him – how she, too, would believe as he did if their roles were reversed. ‘You are mistaken. I did not murder the prince. God stayed my hand before I could administer the poison.’

  She saw uncertainty in William’s eyes, but his smile did not falter.

  ‘And yet he had recovered from his fever,’ he said. ‘Is it not strange, then, that he should expire so suddenly?’

  ‘The fever was just one symptom,’ Frances insisted. ‘It may have disguised something more serious.’

  William’s smile faded as he took a step closer. ‘The prince’s death aside, you cannot deny the part you played in my other scheme. I knew you could be relied upon to stand witness to the lady’s wedding, to attend her when she miscarried Seymour’s child.’

  Frances thought back to that night in Lambeth. William had known she was at Parry’s house. He had been waiting for her when she had emerged. But she had been so distracted by her attendance on his father that she had not thought to question it any further.

  You m
ust tell him.

  The words that Arbella had spoken as Frances had left her chamber came back to her now. It was William Cecil whom she had meant, not Seymour.

  ‘We came so close to success, did we not?’ he continued now. ‘But the devil thwarted our schemes. It is of no matter. God shone His light on the true path. The prince’s death has brought us closer to success than Arbella ever could. This heretic king will be succeeded by an uncontested heir – one who shares our faith.’

  Frances stared at him in confusion. ‘Only Prince Charles can succeed without impediment.’

  William’s eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed. And I have made sure he is surrounded by the right influences – your own son included. It took little to persuade the queen, given how highly she esteems you. By the time Charles takes the throne, he will be as true a Catholic as we are, Lady Frances.’

  Frances tried to control her racing thoughts. ‘But I have always concealed my faith from George,’ she countered.

  ‘Ah, but you have not been so much of a hypocrite as to raise him a heretic, have you? Your father wanted a Catholic to inherit Longford, after all.’

  ‘My father?’ She had never spoken of him to anyone, had never revealed the pledge that she had made as he lay dying at Richmond. She thought back to his words then. Longford must remain in Catholic hands. He had hinted at plots to return the kingdom to the true faith, but there had been no time to ask him more. Had he, too, known of what William Cecil planned?

  ‘He was a great supporter to our cause and would rejoice to know that we have prevailed, thanks to you.’

  ‘I told you, Prince Henry did not die at my hands.’ Frances endeavoured to hold onto this truth amid the shock of William’s revelations.

  ‘Persist in this false modesty if you will, but there can be no denying that the prince’s death will give heart to all those of our faith. They will take it as a sign that God favours our cause.’