by Tracy Borman
Also by Tracy Borman
The Private Lives of the Tudors:
Uncovering the Secrets of Britain’s Greatest Dynasty
Thomas Cromwell:
The Untold Story of Henry VIII’s Most Faithful Servant
Witches: A Tale of Sorcery, Scandal and Seduction
Queen of the Conqueror:
The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I
Elizabeth’s Women:
Friends, Rivals, and Foes Who Shaped the Virgin Queen
King’s Mistress, Queen’s Servant:
The Life and Times of Henrietta Howard
THE KING’S WITCH
A NOVEL
TRACY BORMAN
Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Borman
Cover design by Royce M. Becker
Cover artwork by Agnolo Bronzino (public domain)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: July 2018
ISBN 978-0-8021-2788-4
eISBN 978-0-8021-4624-3
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Stephen Kuhrt,
with deepest thanks
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Tracy Borman
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1603
Prologue: 21 March
Chapter One: 28 March
Chapter Two: 2 April
Chapter Three: 3 April
Chapter Four: 29 April
Chapter Five: 2 May
Chapter Six: 22 May
1604
Chapter Seven: 23 June
Chapter Eight: 27 June
Chapter Nine: 27 June
Chapter Ten: 6 July
Chapter Eleven: 10 July
Chapter Twelve: 11 July
Chapter Thirteen: 12 July
Chapter Fourteen: 13 July
Chapter Fifteen: 25 July
Chapter Sixteen: 28 July
Chapter Seventeen: 30 July
Chapter Eighteen: 17 August
Chapter Nineteen: 18 August
Chapter Twenty: 19 August
Chapter Twenty-One: 22 August
Chapter Twenty-Two: 23 August
Chapter Twenty-Three: 30 August
Chapter Twenty-Four: 31 August
Chapter Twenty-Five: 1 September
Chapter Twenty-Six: 3 September
Chapter Twenty-Seven: 9 September
1605
Chapter Twenty-Eight: 23 January
Chapter Twenty-Nine: 28 January
Chapter Thirty: 29 January
Chapter Thirty-One: 29 January
Chapter Thirty-Two: 5 February
Chapter Thirty-Three: 10 February
Chapter Thirty-Four: 26 March
Chapter Thirty-Five: 12 April
Chapter Thirty-Six: 5 May
Chapter Thirty-Seven: 2 October
Chapter Thirty-Eight: 20 October
Chapter Thirty-Nine: 29 October
Chapter Forty: 1 November
Chapter Forty-One: 5 November
Chapter Forty-Two: 7 November
Chapter Forty-Three: 9 November
Chapter Forty-Four: 12 November
Chapter Forty-Five: 20 November
Chapter Forty-Six: 23 November
1606
Chapter Forty-Seven: 27 January
Chapter Forty-Eight: 31 January
Epilogue: 30 March
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Back Cover
1603
PROLOGUE
21 March
Her fingers worked feverishly. Rosemary, hartshorn, rue. The familiar, pungent aroma rose from the mortar as she ground the tiny sprigs together. A little oil for binding. The mixture glistened green and gold as she dripped it slowly from the pestle, testing the consistency.
The chamber was sombrely lit, with two candles flickering on sconces on either side of the queen’s bed, and hardly more light coming through the heavily draped mullioned window from the leaden skies beyond. Neither Frances’s herbs nor the lavender strewn on the rush matting around the bed could disguise the sickly smell of decay.
The queen’s breath came rapid, rasping, her chest rising and falling in short, jerking movements. There could be little time. Frances hastened to her side, and, without observing the usual ceremony, peeled back her mistress’s gown, exposing her ragged, wasted chest. ‘Crooked carcass,’ the Earl of Essex had scoffed. He had lived to regret it.
She smoothed the oil over the queen’s waxy skin, uttering a prayer as she did, so that it might soon take effect. Gradually, Elizabeth’s breathing slowed, became more melodic, quieter. Her eyes fluttered open.
‘Helena.’
At once, Frances’s mother rushed to her mistress’s side. ‘Ma’am,’ she whispered. Slowly, the queen surveyed the gloomy confines of her chamber. Her bony fingers trailed distractedly over the sumptuous damask bedclothes, tracing the intricately embroidered spheres of moons and pearls. Her bright red wig had long since been discarded, along with the other youthful adornments of her wardrobe, and her thin grey hair lay in lank, wispy clusters, barely covering the scalp underneath.
‘Are my councillors gone again? All?’
‘Yes, ma’am. For now.’
The queen’s mouth curled into a small, sardonic smile, showing her sparse, blackened teeth. ‘Of course,’ she lisped. ‘Why worship the setting sun when the Scottish dawn is upon us?’
‘Your Majesty—’ Helena began, her voice cracked with sorrow.
‘Ah Helena, you have always served me faithfully,’ Elizabeth soothed. ‘Would that the same were true of all my court.’
Her chest heaved in silent mirth, but was soon racked with a choking cough that left her gasping for breath. Frances started forwards, but her mother was there before her. Gently, she raised her mistress’s head and placed a silver goblet to her lips. With difficulty, the queen swallowed. After several moments, the fit passed and she sank back down into her pillows. Frances watched as a glistening droplet of the tincture slid from one corner of Elizabeth’s mouth, tracing its way slowly along the deep wrinkles of her neck.
‘Frances.’
She started from her careful appraisal of the queen and turned to her mother.
‘You must not gaze so directly at Her Majesty,’ Helena whispered. Chastened, Frances lowered her eyes and returned to her work, making fresh unguents for the queen’s comfort.
The chill March wind, which bent the skeletal trees to and fro in the park beyond, could
not penetrate the thick glazed windows of Richmond – the queen’s ‘warm box’, as she called it. Braziers had been lit in every room, and thick tapestries lined the walls of the royal bedchamber, rendering it hot and oppressive. Impatiently, Frances brushed a stray lock of chestnut brown hair from her clammy forehead as she continued her labours. Please let her live. Just a little longer.
The silent gloom was suddenly broken by the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to the chamber. The door was flung open, though the force of the gesture was at odds with the man who made it. Robert Cecil, the queen’s diminutive chief adviser, walked haltingly into the room, his gait made awkward by his twisted back. He was flanked by members of Elizabeth’s council. Frances recognised the tall frame of the Earl of Nottingham, the queen’s great admiral. His thin face appeared even more pinched than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His wife had been one of Elizabeth’s closest favourites, and her death a few weeks before had hastened the queen’s own decline. To his right was the Lord Chancellor, Thomas Egerton, who surveyed the room with his small black eyes. Frances noticed his nose wrinkle at the smell, and he took a place furthest from the bed. The rest of the men fanned around the bedside, reminding her of crows on a winter’s day. She looked at their faces, searching for concern, or grief, or obeisance. But she saw only impatience.
The dying queen had already closed her eyes against them, feigning sleep. Frances smiled. Ever mistress of her fate – and of those around her.
‘Lady Frances,’ drawled Cecil. ‘How fares Her Majesty today?’
That he should address the daughter was a deliberate slight. Frances glanced towards her mother, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘The same, my lord,’ Frances replied. She ignored Cecil’s expression of disapproval, and added: ‘We pray for improvement.’
‘Indeed? Indeed.’
Frances saw her mother’s lips tighten. ‘My lord, Her Majesty must rest in order to speed her recovery,’ Helena said curtly, looking pointedly at the councillors clustered around the queen’s bed.
‘Naturally,’ he replied soothingly. He showed no inclination to leave.
Frances focused intently upon her work, her fingers moving deftly between tiny glass phials, scales, and pots.
‘And you, my lady. What occupies you there?’
Silence followed. Frances knew the question was directed at her, but she kept her back turned and became conscious that she was holding her breath. She had hoped to escape Cecil’s notice. He had always made her feel uncomfortable, and she knew he resented her family for their favour with the queen. Little wonder he was so impatient for the old woman’s death.
Her mother made a gentle cough, prompting. Slowly, Frances turned to face the assembled company.
‘Well?’ Cecil urged, clearly enjoying her discomfort. He watched her intently, his eyes narrowing as they met hers.
‘I am making salves for Her Majesty’s comfort, my lord.’
A pause. ‘Do you think the ministrations of Her Majesty’s physicians inadequate, then?’
‘No, my lord, of course not,’ Frances said, feeling her colour rise and silently chiding herself for it. She cast about for an explanation that would satisfy her interrogator, for such he seemed. ‘Her Majesty willed it,’ she added weakly.
‘You should have a care, my lady,’ Cecil murmured, his voice low. ‘Our new king might mark you as a witch.’ Then he let out a peal of laughter, so loud and prolonged that his fellow ministers felt obliged to join in, somewhat uncertainly.
‘He is not our king yet, my lord.’ Her mother’s voice cut through the mirth.
‘Indeed not. But we must always have an eye to the future, eh, my lady marchioness?’
Helena sniffed and busied herself with turning down the queen’s covers, swiping at the folds with unnecessary force. Grateful for the diversion, Frances turned quickly back to her work. But her hands betrayed her, sending the mortar slipping from her grasp, the sound exploding as it crashed to the ground. In the silence that followed, all turned back towards her. Even the queen, who had slipped into unconsciousness, twitched slightly, as if startled by a dream.
Cecil looked back at Frances, a small smile playing about his lips. Then, with a stiff bow to the sleeping queen, he walked slowly from the room.
CHAPTER 1
28 March
‘Mother says she passed easily,’ Frances remarked quietly, her fingers tracing the intricate leadwork of the casement window. The glass misted as she spoke, momentarily obscuring the view of the knot garden below. She drew her cloak more tightly around her, then turned to look at her father.
‘As mildly as a lamb,’ he agreed softly, his grey eyes appraising her kindly. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he lifted his hand and made a small sign of the cross, then closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer.
‘Leave that now,’ he said to the boy who was sweeping out the ashes from the fireplace. ‘There is much else to attend to.’
The boy bowed quickly, then scurried from the room, leaving a trail of soot from the brush in his hand. Sir Thomas sighed, and, wincing slightly, bent down to clean it up with a linen kerchief. Frowning, Frances stepped nimbly forward and helped him to his feet.
‘Have you not used the salve that I prepared?’ she chided. ‘It will ease the discomfort.’
Sir Thomas grinned at his daughter. ‘Even your skills cannot stave off the effects of age, Fran. Besides, my bones are merely protesting at the sudden cold. Every fire in the privy apartments was extinguished as soon as the queen breathed her last.’
With a sigh, he turned back to the tapestry that he had been carefully rolling in a fine linen cloth.
‘Is the palace to be stripped of all its treasures?’ Frances asked.
Her father nodded, but kept his eyes focused on the tapestry, the exquisite gold thread catching the light as it moved.
‘The court is moving to Whitehall. Our new king will not wish to begin his reign in a place of death.’
‘But Her Majesty lies here still,’ Frances protested. ‘Her rooms ought to be preserved at their finest until she has been taken to Westminster.’
‘And so your mother wanted it, my dear,’ Sir Thomas soothed, ‘but my Lord Privy Seal would not be gainsaid. I suppose, as keeper of Her Majesty’s purse, I ought to appreciate his desire for economy.’
‘Indeed you should, Sir Thomas.’
Frances and her father swung around to see Cecil standing in the doorway of the presence chamber. His mouth lifted into a slow smile, but his piercing black eyes glittered dangerously. Frances felt her father’s hand press the small of her back. Remembering herself, she bobbed a curtsey and lowered her gaze, while Sir Thomas swept a bow. She kept her eyes fixed on the silver buckles of the minister’s shoes as he stepped silently forward.
‘My Lord Privy Seal.’ Her father’s tone was light but respectful. ‘I thought you were already at Whitehall, making preparations for His Majesty’s arrival.’
‘And so I was, Sir Thomas, but the barges and wagons come so slowly from Richmond that I thought I would find out what could be done to hasten them.’
‘As you can see, my lord, there is much to be set in order,’ her father replied evenly, gesturing to the tapestries that still hung on the walls, and the luxurious red and gold Turkish carpet that stretched from the foot of the dais to the door of the privy gallery. ‘But we lack only a few days before the last of the wagons will be loaded.’
Cecil slowly arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his black velvet doublet. Frances knew that the sombreness of his attire was no compliment to the late queen. He had always favoured dark colours, as if – for all his ambition – he wished to fade into the shadows rather than strut like the peacocks of the court, her own uncle among them. His small stature added to his apparent inferiority. Even most women at court, Frances included, were taller than him. But her family, and many others besides, had learned how dangerous it was to underestimate him.
He turned his gaze to her now, and she squirmed inwardly. The lines on his high, wide forehead deepened slightly as he watched her, and she noticed a muscle twitch in his jaw. His small, thin lips were pressed tightly together, framed by his moustache and beard, the latter neatly trimmed to a point so that it accentuated his already long chin. He raised a delicate white hand to it now, and stroked it distractedly, his eyes never leaving Frances.
‘Regretfully, Sir Thomas, we do not have a few days to spare,’ he said at length, turning to her father. ‘Already, His Majesty has progressed as far as York. He will be in London before the week is out.’
‘Our new king must have very fast horses,’ Sir Thomas observed. ‘Anyone would think that he set out before Her Majesty had breathed her last.’
Frances smiled, but her father shot her a warning look.
‘He is most eager to greet his new subjects, of course,’ Cecil replied smoothly. ‘And he is a very able rider – more so even than her late Majesty. It is one of many ways in which he exceeds her.’
‘His sex being first among them, I presume?’ Frances cut in, her colour rising.
Cecil took a step closer. She could feel his breath on her neck as he stood watching her.
‘Your daughter has very decided opinions for one of her tender years, Sir Thomas,’ he said quietly.
‘You must forgive her, my lord,’ her father soothed. ‘She has spent but little time at court, preferring the tranquillity of our estate in Wiltshire.’
A slow smile crossed Cecil’s face.
‘I am sure there are many other advantages to be gained from living so far distant from the prying eyes of court, eh, Sir Thomas? Why, only yesterday my commissioners told me of a squire in Yorkshire who had been living with his family as if we were still a nation of Catholics. For years, they had been hearing Mass every day, thanks to a priest hidden beneath their staircase, and they had an entire closet filled with relics, rosaries, and other papist trinkets.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Their ingenuity is to be admired, even if it will cost them their liberty – perhaps even their lives. We must await our new king’s judgement on the matter.’
