The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Frances glanced at her father, who held Cecil’s gaze steadily.

  ‘The late queen had no wish to pry into men’s thoughts,’ he replied quietly, ‘and His Majesty has already given cause to hope that he will be of the same mind.’

  Cecil fell silent for a few moments. Frances became aware of the ticking of the small silver lantern clock that still hung above the fireplace. She tried to steady her breathing to its rhythm.

  ‘You refer, I suppose, to the king’s late declaration that any subject who will give an outward appearance of conformity shall not be persecuted,’ the Lord Privy Seal said at last. When her father did not answer, he continued: ‘I know of other Catholics who have drawn comfort from this, Sir Thomas. But they are fools. King James has made his revulsion for papist practices clear to all of us who will serve him in council. Already, he has instructed me to draft new laws against them so that none will escape condemnation if they are discovered.’

  ‘Other Catholics?’ her father repeated softly. ‘You do not suppose me to be among their number, my lord?’

  ‘Of course not, Sir Thomas,’ he replied after a pause. ‘For all her moderation, our late queen would hardly have shown such favour to you and your wife if she had known you to be papists. After all, she set you above all others – even those who might have been more deserving of her esteem.’ His jaw twitched again. ‘You would have had to go to great lengths to avoid her suspicion, and I can hardly imagine you had the time for such diversions, given all your duties at court.’

  ‘My family and I have ever been loyal subjects, my lord.’ Frances caught the edge to her father’s voice, though his face remained impassive.

  ‘Well now,’ Cecil said brightly, clapping his hands together. The sound reverberated around the almost empty chamber, making Frances start. ‘I must not disturb your labours any longer, since you still have much to do. Be sure to have the wagons loaded by morning, Sir Thomas. We cannot brook any further delay. King James will not take kindly to arriving in a sparsely furnished palace, and the old queen can no longer have need of such trimmings.’

  He swept his hand across the neatly stacked rolls of tapestries, causing them to tumble to the floor, unravelling as they went. Without troubling to look back at the chaos that he had caused, he walked purposefully towards the door that led to the private rooms beyond. Frances looked anxiously up at her father, but he was staring resolutely ahead.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Cecil called as he reached the doorway. He drew something out of his pocket. Frances strained to see what it was, but Cecil had it clasped too tightly in the palm of his hand. ‘Lady Howard found this among the late queen’s possessions.’

  Without warning, he threw it towards Frances. Scrambling clumsily forward, she caught the small glass phial before it could shatter onto the stone floor. With trembling fingers, she pulled out the linen stopper and held it to her nose. She recognised the scent of lavender and marjoram almost before it reached her nostrils.

  ‘Apparently it was hidden beneath Her Majesty’s pillow,’ Cecil remarked lightly. ‘You should take greater care of your possessions, Lady Frances. Who knows what suspicions they might arouse, in the wrong hands?’

  Not pausing for a reply, he turned on his heels and walked briskly from the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  2 April

  Frances felt her heart soar as the coach rounded the corner and she caught her first glimpse of the castle, its pale golden stones bathed in the mellow light of the spring afternoon. She let out a long, slow breath, feeling every part of her body relax. It was always like this, returning to Longford. All of her senses seemed to awaken as she made her way along the elegant, curving drive, and she took joy in every familiar sight, smell, and touch. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and caught the sharp tang of the box hedges that encircled the formal gardens in front of the house. She knew that if she leaned out of the carriage window to her right, she would see the dark outline of the woods against the soft yellow sky. Straining to listen over the wheels crunching along the gravel, she smiled at the shrill chirping of a tree sparrow, and the low thrumming of the river in the distance.

  Already, she was anticipating the moment when she would walk into her beloved home. She knew each knot in the panelling that lined the rooms; the creak of her old tester bed, with the curtains that she had helped her mother embroider as a child – her imperfect stems weaving crookedly among the superior petals of her mother’s needle. If she closed her eyes, she could tell by scent alone whether she was in the smoky parlour downstairs, her mother’s fragrant dressing chamber, with its rosemary and lavender pomanders, or her favourite room of all – the library, with the mellow, comforting smell of the hundreds of books that lined the circular walls.

  She opened her eyes. An image of the library at Richmond had suddenly come into her mind, jolting her back to the moment when, two days before, she had taken her leave of her parents. Her heart contracted with sorrow as she remembered her mother’s fierce embrace, the haunted look in her tired eyes as she urged her to make haste, even as she clung to her wrists as if she would never let go. Her father had said little, but his face had been uncharacteristically grave as he had bidden her farewell. They had promised to follow her to Longford as soon as they were able, but Frances knew that she could not hope to see them for several weeks – perhaps longer. They would need to be there to greet the new king, and join the unseemly scramble for places in his court.

  With a jolt, the carriage came to a stop inside the courtyard of the castle. The coachman jumped down to open the door, and Frances stepped out, blinking against the bright light that was reflected from the circular walls of the courtyard. She felt the familiar sense of belonging. The very stones seemed to breathe their calming welcome.

  ‘Lady Frances.’

  She smiled broadly as she recognised the small, plump form of her childhood nurse bustling towards her.

  ‘Ellen.’

  She stepped forward and kissed her cheek, which was flushed. Ellen could only have received word of her arrival a few hours before, so she had no doubt been busy making preparations. Frances’s smile broadened as she imagined her barking instructions at the cooks and chambermaids, then following in their wake and chiding them if they overlooked any detail.

  ‘What a journey you must have had. There has been no rain this past fortnight. Your bones must ache from being jostled and jolted along the roads,’ the older woman rattled on as she drew off Frances’s cloak and handed it to an attendant. ‘Come, take your ease in the parlour. I have had cook prepare your favourite sweetmeats.’

  Frances paused in the hallway, feeling the warmth from the sunlight that streamed through the high windows. She turned slowly so that she could look all around her, taking in the familiar portraits that lined the walls, the faded hangings above the windows, and the silver-gilt sconces with their beeswax candles. She caught their scent as she breathed in deeply. Then, with a contented sigh, she followed in Ellen’s wake.

  Frances stared down at the delicate blooms that lay in neat piles on the wooden tray resting on her lap. The tiny, exquisite blue petals of the forget-me-nots nestled alongside the pale yellow and white anemones and – her favourites – the irises, their purple petals as soft as goose down. Distractedly, she twined a length of coarse thread through her fingers. She knew that she must work quickly to tie up the flowers before their colours began to fade, and then hang them to dry in the old leather coffer that she had fashioned for the purpose. But this gentle, methodical task seemed to have lost all of its soothing power today.

  Sighing, she set the tray aside and walked over to the casement window. She gazed out towards the ancient woodland that bordered the estate, remembering the countless hours she had spent as a child, fascinated – even then – by the flowers and herbs that grew lustrous all around. She had loved to close her eyes and let her other senses guide her to the delicate scent of bluebells, the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle, or the sharp tang of dande
lions. Every day, she had gathered these and many more for Ellen, who had tended her and her siblings’ fevers and grazes with her potions, salves, and tinctures.

  ‘My little woodland sprite,’ her father had called her, with a mixture of amusement and affection. To her sister Elizabeth, who preferred the more conventional pursuits of a gentleman’s daughter, she had been a source of bewilderment and scorn. Her adored elder brother, Francis, whom she so closely resembled, would always defend her in the quarrels that so often ensued, while their four younger siblings looked on, fascinated. She felt the familiar pang at his loss.

  Frances slowly traced her finger down the misted pane and sighed.

  ‘Don’t take on so, my lady,’ Ellen soothed. Her childhood nurse could read her moods as surely as old Doctor Dee could read the stars.

  ‘But if I had had more skill, I might have spared her – for a time at least. She could have felt the May sunshine on her skin, rather than dying in the despair of winter.’

  ‘Your herbs can achieve many wonders, my lady,’ Ellen said, ‘but they cannot defy the Lord. He has more power than all earthly remedies. He alone can decide who shall live and who shall die. You can merely do your best to ease their suffering.’

  Frances looked fondly at her old nurse. Ellen had grown stouter this past year, and Frances noticed that her breath came shorter each time she mounted the stairs. Her light brown hair was now flecked with grey, and the skin around her mouth had started to sag.

  ‘Our new king would approve of your counsel, Ellen,’ she replied gently.

  A fleeting look of distaste passed over the older woman’s features, but she pressed her lips together and remained silent.

  ‘I wish my lady mother were here,’ Frances said with a sigh, her thoughts drawn back once more to the gloomy chamber at Richmond. In the hasty note that she had sent to her daughter at Longford, the marchioness had told her that she was with her old mistress still, overseeing the small coterie of the old queen’s most trusted ladies who had been appointed to watch over the corpse where it now lay at Whitehall.

  ‘I dare say my lady wishes that too. It is high time the old queen was laid to rest,’ Ellen remarked with obvious disapproval.

  ‘I am sure King James will soon see that it is arranged,’ Frances replied calmly, then plucked a forget-me-not from the tray and studied it intently.

  ‘Well, at least the matter of St Peter’s is settled,’ Ellen continued.

  ‘Oh?’ Frances asked, feeling an unexpected surge of unease.

  Since the Reverend Samuels’s death last December, the vacancy at Britford had been left open by Cecil and his men, along with numerous others across the country, on the excuse of needing to settle some administrative matters. ‘They wait to see which way the wind will blow,’ Frances’s father had told her. Though he had feigned nonchalance, she had sensed his discomfiture.

  ‘Yes, Dymock had it from the blacksmith’s boy. Name’s Reverend Pritchard, apparently. First sermon is on Sunday. He’ll stay with the Bishop of Salisbury for a few days, until his house is made ready.’

  ‘My parents ought to have been informed, no matter the need for haste. St Peter’s lies in their estates, after all.’ Frances frowned. ‘Do we know anything of the new priest?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’ Ellen sniffed. ‘But the new king will want to make his mark in such matters. They say he has bent every kirk in Scotland to his will.’

  ‘I am sure we are far enough from court not to be greatly troubled, Ellen,’ Frances replied distractedly.

  ‘We were blessed with the Reverend Samuels,’ her old nurse persisted.

  ‘God rest his soul,’ Frances said quietly.

  Ellen turned her attention back to her needlework. Frances noticed the lines at the corner of the older woman’s eyes deepen as she tried to make out the fine threads in the gathering gloom of the afternoon.

  ‘I think I will take a walk to the village,’ Frances declared at length.

  ‘But the clouds are thickening and the talk is of rain. You’d best stay here by the warmth of the fire.’

  ‘I promised Mrs Godwin that I would look in on Peter,’ she replied firmly. Her old nurse knew better than to argue. She fetched Frances’s cape and gloves.

  * * *

  As Frances strolled along the River Avon, which bordered the Longford estate, she inhaled the smell of the wet grass underfoot. In the woodland beyond, she could just glimpse the first green shoots of bluebells. Soon they would cover the forest floor in a luxurious, shimmering carpet, and she would be revelling in the beauty of late spring.

  Taking long strides now, she quickened her pace so that she almost ran towards Britford. The village had changed a great deal since her childhood, and was now a thriving community, thanks to the benevolent interest of her father towards his tenants. There were more than thirty well-appointed dwellings, their neatly trimmed thatched roofs and whitewashed walls presenting a pleasing uniformity. Most of the inhabitants worked the land surrounding Longford. Neither they nor their families had need to venture far from the village, for there was a school, an inn, and a smithy, as well as the ancient church of St Peter’s.

  Its squat tower was just visible now above the trees that lined her path, its pale yellow stones interspersed with flint bricks at regular intervals, echoing the design of Longford. The church had stood on the same spot since Saxon times, and had marked the arrival, unions, celebrations, and passing of numerous villagers ever since.

  Her father had remarked many times that St Peter’s had witnessed more upheaval in this last century than in the previous ten, thanks to King Henry’s reforms, and the turmoil that had followed in their wake. ‘God frowns upon these times, Frances,’ he had told her. ‘The queen does not like to make windows into men’s hearts and secret thoughts, but even she cannot resolve the differences between the reformers and those of the old faith. If her successor is less moderate, there will be great strife.’ Frances felt a rush of affection for her father. For all his calm good sense, he was sometimes given over to such flights of fancy. He should know that the world had always gone differently here, as she supposed it had in most other villages that lay distant from court. Even the most turbulent changes were tempered by the time that they reached this tranquil place.

  She paused as she reached the lychgate, its timbers so blackened with age that they reminded her of the charred embers in the great fireplace of Longford. Glancing across the churchyard, the uneven grass punctuated with headstones set at precarious angles, she thought of the old priest. The Reverend Samuels had baptised her, along with her many siblings, and had been fond of recalling that while they had mewed and cried as the water had been poured over their downy scalps, Frances had only gazed at him steadily with her large dark eyes. She had visited him frequently as a child, eager to hear stories from the Bible, which to her seemed more fantastical and mesmerising than the fairy tales so beloved of her brothers and sisters.

  It was the Reverend Samuels who had encouraged Frances’s interest in the natural world. His skill at healing was renowned, if somewhat unorthodox. Eschewing the traditional practices of physicians across the kingdom, with their purges and potions, his cures were drawn from the forests, fields, and hedgerows surrounding Britford. It was he who had taught Frances that rosehip might ease the ague, or that peppermint could soothe a griping stomach. She had listened, rapt, to every word of his lessons, always asking questions, always hungry for more knowledge. He had responded with unwavering patience and care.

  ‘Be ever watchful, Frances,’ he had told her. ‘There is no mystery in illness. Every sickness betrays an outward sign – often more than one. The clues are there for you to observe. The closer you watch, the more likely you are to find a cure.’

  Eventually, the Reverend Samuels had agreed that she could accompany him on his visits. As the villagers had watched this serious, dutiful little girl help minister to the sick, not flinching – for all her noble upbringing – at the abhorrent sights and
stenches that she encountered, their trust in her had grown. By the age of eleven, Frances had even conducted visits on her own, the old priest recognising her natural ability and trusting her to examine the afflicted so that she could report back their symptoms. Indeed, he had somewhat ruefully acknowledged that her observation and skill now surpassed his own.

  ‘It is God-given, Frances,’ he had told her. ‘He wishes you to use your skill to help others. You must never deny Him.’

  Frances was nearing the old vicarage now. Observing the hedges that bordered the garden and the once neatly kept rows of flowers and herbs, grown a little unruly these past months, that lined each side of the pathway, she felt a surge of sadness and longing. She had tended to her old tutor when the ague had first taken him at Michaelmas, mixing salves of elder bark and wild mint to lay across his chest so that his breath might come more easily, and tinctures of honey and nettle to draw out the fever. He had watched with gentle indulgence as she had moved about his chamber, working swiftly but quietly. She recalled the look of calm acceptance in his eyes now. He had known that he would not see out the winter.

  ‘Lady Frances! You are back.’

  Frances turned to see Mrs Godwin hurrying towards her. The older woman made a deep curtsey.

  ‘Oh, my lady. How glad I am to see you!’ she cried.

  ‘How is your boy?’ Frances asked softly.

  ‘Worse. Much worse, I’m afraid.’

  Gently, Frances reached out and took one of the woman’s hands in both of her own. The palm was worn smooth, like leather, but was warm to the touch.

  ‘Take me to him, Kate.’

  The woman bustled off at once, Frances following close behind as she made her way through the village towards the cluster of dwellings next to the woods of Longford. The Godwins’ cottage was at the end of the row. Although the walls were newly whitewashed and the tiny garden in front was well tended, Frances noticed that there were holes in the thatch. She ducked into the dark little room that served as kitchen, dining room, sleeping quarters, and – occasionally – bathroom for this family of six. Only the privy was separate, in a little wooden shack at the back of the house.