by Tracy Borman
In the gloom, Frances could just make out the young boy sitting on the truckle bed, his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands clasped together, as if in silent prayer. His skin had the pallor of wax, and, although it was an unseasonably mild day, he was shivering violently. Frances noticed that his lips were tinged with purple, and his breathing came rapidly. She pressed her cool hand gently against his forehead, which was hot and clammy.
‘Has he eaten?’
‘No, my lady. But he has such a thirst – always he asks for water. John says I must not give it, that it might choke him.’
‘Well he is wrong. The boy needs water. Please, draw some fresh from the cistern.’ When the woman hesitated, Frances turned to face her. ‘At once, Kate.’
Mrs Godwin hastened away, and Frances busied herself with wrapping Peter in what coverings she could find, then set to work mixing a tincture of woundwort, thyme, and hyssop. After his mother had returned with a pail full of water and given the boy several small sips of it, Frances cradled his head in her hand, and, with the other, slowly administered the potion. Peter flinched, his brow creasing and his lips pressing tightly together. But after a few moments, his features relaxed, and he drank the rest of the bitter concoction without complaint. Frances drew him closer to her breast and gently rocked him to and fro until he began to doze.
‘Sleep will enable my herbs to do their work,’ she told the anxious mother, who was standing helplessly next to the bed, wringing her hands. ‘He’s a strong boy, Kate. All will be well.’ She smiled, with a conviction that she did not quite feel.
‘God bless you, my lady,’ replied the woman in a quiet voice.
‘God bless Peter too. He will keep him safe,’ Frances assured her. ‘I will return on Sunday, before church.’
CHAPTER 3
3 April
Frances blinked sleepily as the grey light of early morning stole through the narrow slit between her curtains. Breathing in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and rose oil, she gathered the coverlet around her and experienced a sense of profound contentment at being home. She would happily live out her days at Longford, far away from the noise and bustle of the court.
Slowly, Frances pulled herself up, the bed creaking softly as she did so. On the table at the side of her bed lay a copy of John Gerard’s Great Herbal. It had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday. Frances could still recall the excitement she had felt as she had untied the silk thread and peeled back the velvet cloth, the book tumbling onto her lap. She had read the frontispiece over and over, as if trying to comprehend how she could own such a jewel.
The crimson silk binding, which was embossed with ‘FG’ in gold, was a little frayed at the corners now, and the pages were so well thumbed that their edges were crinkled. In between many of them were tiny sprigs of carefully preserved plants and herbs, each one pressed against their description in the book. At the top of the frontispiece, Frances had written in her neat, curling script: ‘And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.’ She ran her fingers over the words now, and, thinking of the Godwin boy, closed her eyes for a moment in silent prayer.
She began to turn the pages.
‘Among the manifold creatures of God,’ she read aloud, the words soft and melodic like a chant, ‘none have provoked men’s studies more, or satisfied their desires so much, as plants have done.’
She smiled. Few people shared the same respectful fascination with plants as Gerard, despite his confident assertion, but she was one of them. Frances remembered that after giving her mother and father a hurried, joyous embrace, she had immediately rushed to her room with her present to begin reading. For hours she had remained there, her eyes alight with revelation at each new discovery, the tip of her quill scratching notes across the pages. Her parents had been hard-pressed to persuade her to join the dinner held in honour of her birthday that evening. Even then, she had brought the book with her, placing it discreetly on her lap so that she might snatch brief glimpses of Gerard’s words, and his exquisite sketches of all manner of different species, common and exotic.
Frances flicked through the pages quickly now, her mind drawn from happier recollections to the poor Godwin boy.
‘For a fever, combine the leaves of catmint with a little oil, then grind in the stems of meadowsweet,’ she read. ‘They will be quick to take effect.’
Pulling back the heavy coverlet, she slipped out of bed, wincing slightly at the cold air on her legs. Even in summer, her room, which faced north towards the woods, was cool. Crossing to the dresser, she opened the top drawer and pulled out the small wooden box that contained her pestle and mortar, along with some phials of oil. Placing it carefully in a canvas bag, she set it by the door, then went to wash her face and hands in the ewer that Ellen had set out the night before. The cold water quickened her movements as she patted herself dry and drew on her cool linen shift. If she had risen at the customary hour, Ellen would have come in to warm it by the fire, but there was no time for such indulgence this morning. From the oak chest beneath her window, she drew out a black kirtle and skirt. She supposed those at court had been obliged to set aside their mourning clothes already in order to honour the new king’s arrival. Not for the first time, she experienced a rush of relief that she was no longer amongst them.
Most of the household was still asleep, so Frances padded silently into the kitchen and wrapped some bread and cheese in a piece of cloth, which she put into a basket. She added a selection of herbs that she had gathered the night before on her customary stroll through the woods in the fading light of dusk, then hastened to the hall. Sliding back the bolt of the great oak door, she heaved it open just wide enough to slip through, then closed it silently behind her. The stables were next to the old manor house that lay in the castle grounds. Hartshorn gave a low whinny as she approached. He gently nudged her as she hauled the side-saddle and wooden plancher into place. Then, tightening the reins, she stroked his nose and offered him a handful of oats, before pulling herself up onto the saddle.
The ride to the village took only a few minutes, but Frances was grateful for the warmth of Hartshorn’s back in the chill morning air. Reaching the Godwins’ house, she tied the horse to a tree on the edge of the forest, next to the garden of the little cottage. She knocked gently on the door, which was immediately opened.
‘He is a little better, I think, my lady,’ Mrs Godwin said, pulling Frances into the room. Three hopeful little faces looked up at her from their bed on the opposite side of the room, and when their father saw her, he sprang up from the table where he had been taking his breakfast.
‘You have worked a miracle, my lady. Truly, you have,’ he burst out, then gave a stiff, hasty bow.
Frances smiled, but said nothing. She turned to the corner where Peter’s bed was wedged between an old dresser and a rickety table with a cracked ewer balanced precariously on top. The boy stirred as she walked towards him, and, opening his eyes, smiled weakly up at her. He was still pale, but a hint of rosy hue was beginning to return to his wasted cheeks.
Frances leaned forward and gently placed her hand on his forehead.
‘Keep him warm, Kate. He is still very weak.’
She rummaged in her basket and pulled out a small glass vial. ‘You must administer three drops of this as soon as he wakes each morning and before he goes to sleep at night. Be sure to give him plenty of water, and as much food as he can stomach – little by little, mind.’
Mrs Godwin nodded briskly, and immediately busied herself with preparing some broth.
‘Will you stay for some breakfast?’
Frances hesitated, knowing that even with the food she had brought they had little enough between them. The sudden peal of church bells gave her the excuse she needed.
‘Thank you, but I must go,’ she said, setting the loaf and cheese down on the table. ‘I cannot be late for our new priest.’
‘Please, my lady, tell the reverend we will come just as soon as Peter
is better?’
‘Don’t worry, Kate, I will assure him that you are as God-fearing a family as all the rest in Britford,’ she replied with a smile.
Drawing on her cape, Frances turned to bid the family farewell. Peter, she noticed, had slipped back into sleep. She would pray for him at church.
Leaving Hartshorn grazing contentedly by the forest’s edge, Frances walked the short distance to St Peter’s. The villagers made their solemn progress to the church door in a steady stream, their steps in time with the tolling of the bells. Frances drew comfort from the simple rhythm of life, well away from the sycophants and schemers of court. Here she was at liberty to study her plants and remedies, to walk or ride unaccompanied through the woods and parkland. She need not tighten her bodice or pin back her hair before entering company, or suffer the niceties of rehearsed conversation over dinner.
As Frances passed under the lychgate, she caught her first glimpse of the new priest, who was standing by the entrance to the church with a proprietorial air. He was a tall, wiry man with jet black hair, and as she drew closer she noticed his long thin face and small black eyes.
Ellen had been waiting for her by the path, and now stepped forward so that she could accompany her.
‘You must be Lady Frances Gorges.’
He mispronounced the name, as most others did. Only those who were well acquainted with Longford or the court knew that it was Gorgees, like the great river in India, as her father was fond of explaining. It was an understandable mistake, but Frances was grateful for the momentary advantage it gave her.
‘Reverend Pritchard. My parents, the lady marchioness and Sir Thomas Gorges’ – she paused for effect and was gratified to see him flinch – ‘asked me to convey their welcome. They are detained at court at present, awaiting His Majesty’s arrival.’
‘Naturally,’ the cleric replied with a smile. ‘As are all faithful courtiers. You must be sorely grieved not to be with them, Lady Frances.’
‘My parents wished me to remain at Longford. The family must be represented here at all times, as I am sure you understand, reverend,’ Frances replied pleasantly, holding his gaze.
‘Indeed, Lady Frances. Although you must be desirous for the guidance of your father or one of your brothers.’
Frances forced a smile. ‘I crave their presence very much, reverend. For the pleasure of their company.’
The cleric opened his mouth to speak, but Frances interrupted. ‘I trust you have been made welcome at Britford?’
‘Oh, indeed. My parishioners have been most solicitous – Mrs Tomlinson in particular. I believe she knows your man Dymock, my lady? Thanks to her, I feel that I am already well acquainted with every inhabitant of the village, and of Longford.’
Frances pushed away her growing sense of irritation. Smoothing down her skirts, she asked lightly: ‘And the vicarage is to your liking?’
She noticed a fleeting look of distaste pass over the Reverend Pritchard’s pinched features. ‘Mrs Tomlinson did her best, of course, in the little time allowed.’ He paused. ‘But no matter, I will soon have it appointed to my liking. Once my furniture has arrived from Salisbury and I have had it arranged, I will turn my attention to the garden. It is most curious.’
‘Oh?’ Frances raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, it is so filled with herbs that there is barely an inch spare for flowers or hedgerows. The scent is quite overwhelming – it makes my head throb. I will have them taken up as soon as possible,’ he added, watching Frances closely. ‘Of course, if your ladyship would desire any of the contents for your own herb garden, you would be most welcome.’
Frances could feel the heat rise up her neck, but she held his gaze.
‘You are most kind, reverend, but the gardens at Longford are plentiful,’ she replied quietly, then turned to go. Remembering, she paused. ‘John Godwin and his wife will not be attending your service today. Their son Peter has been gravely ill, and is not yet recovered. I assured them that you would be forgiving.’
Pritchard sniffed, his pointed chin rising a fraction higher, and his thin lips pursed in disapproval.
‘I thank you, Lady Frances. I trust the boy has been attended by a physician, rather than falling prey to the spells and tinctures of some local wise woman.’
Before Frances could answer, he made a swift bow and stepped aside so that she could pass. She stared at him a moment, then went to take her place in the family pew at the front of the nave.
Frances had attended Sunday worship at St Peter’s for as long as she could remember. Even as a child, while her younger siblings fidgeted and jostled through the prayers and incantations, she had found the words melodic and calming. She had loved to breathe in the smell of the ancient stones, or catch at the long-faded aroma of incense. Unlike many other churches across the kingdom, St Peter’s had not been stripped of its statues and relics. Frances had always supposed that they had not been rich enough to attract the notice of King Henry’s commissioners, and his daughter Elizabeth had not been so concerned with such outward shows of conformity. Although the form of service had changed over the years, Reverend Samuels had retained some of the old observances that he knew his parishioners drew comfort from. Frances hoped his successor would do the same.
Looking up at the high archway above the nave, she tried to order her thoughts by counting the Roman bricks that were nestled amongst those from more recent times. But the encounter with the Reverend Pritchard had left her feeling agitated. His brisk, austere manner seemed to have permeated the very fabric of this ancient building, rendering it suddenly cold and uninviting: a place of repentance, not of peace.
‘In my sermon today, I will speak of a great evil in our midst,’ the new priest began, jolting Frances from her thoughts. ‘It is of the highest import, for it threatens not only our well-being here on earth, but our salvation in heaven.’
A hush descended as the shuffling and fidgeting ceased. Everyone was eager to hear how this new incumbent would make his mark. Frances, sitting directly in front of the pulpit, raised her eyes to the priest. Observing that he had secured a captive audience, the Reverend Pritchard indulged in a dramatic pause before continuing.
‘I am appointed by King James himself,’ he began, his shrill voice ringing out across the silent church, ‘and as his servant, I must warn you all that the Devil is at work. He has enlisted an army of souls across the kingdom to carry out his despicable devices, all tending to the destruction of our sovereign Lord.’
With a flourish, he held up a copy of Daemonologie, the king’s great treatise on witchcraft.
‘His Majesty instructs you all to have vigilance. Each one of you must look about you. The Devil’s slaves might be among us. Here, in this village. In this very church!’
There were audible intakes of breath and murmurings as the parishioners exchanged anxious glances. This was very different from the comforting homilies that they were used to in the Reverend Samuels’s time.
‘Satan’s followers take many forms,’ Pritchard continued. ‘They might be widows, goodwives, or daughters. They might tend cattle, bake bread, or mend clothes. To the naked eye, they seem like any other of God’s creatures. But be not fooled. They are consumed by evil. They have made a pact with the Devil. They are his servants, his subjects, his whores.’
Frances’s eyes blazed as she looked up at the reverend. His arrogance astonished her. He was using this, his first sermon, to foster suspicion and fear among his flock, rather than offer reassurance in the wake of the queen’s death.
‘But the Devil is not so cunning as he believes. He has left certain marks on the bodies of those whom he has claimed as his own. He most commonly shows favour towards a particular type of woman. Sometimes she is poor. Often she is unmarried. She may also be skilled in the art of healing.’
Despite the cool of the old stone church, Frances felt her body prickle with a rising heat.
‘It is the bounden duty of each one of you to be ever watchful,’ he de
clared, making sure to cast his eyes across every member of the congregation. Some of them began to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Frances remained as still as one of the statues that filled the crypt below.
The rest of the sermon was mercifully brief, and, as soon as communion had been taken and the congregation dismissed, she hastened out of the church, ahead of the villagers, who were already talking animatedly about this unexpected introduction to their new priest. She knew that she could not keep her counsel if Pritchard waylaid her. By the time she reached the Godwins’ cottage, she realised that she had broken into a run. Untying Hartshorn’s reins with trembling hands, she swiftly mounted him and rode with all speed back to Longford.
CHAPTER 4
29 April
The lazy hum of bees was beginning to lull Frances to sleep as she lay outstretched, her hands behind her neck, on a patch of grass in the middle of the wilderness. She exhaled deeply and felt the troubles of the past few weeks melt into the grass beneath her. Even the Reverend Pritchard felt far away, his hellfire preaching drowned out by the whisper of the soft breeze.
She had been back at Longford for a month now, and every day had seen the chill of winter gradually surrender to the warmth of spring. Today was the first that she had felt the breath of approaching summer. Beside her was a copy of Thomas Elyot’s celebrated treatise, The Castle of Health, which he had written for the old queen’s father. Even though the author was not an authority on the plants and herbs that were the bedrock of Frances’s art, she had learned a great deal about the healing properties of various foods, and of the importance of regular and prolonged sleep. She was only too glad to surrender to that now.
Stretching luxuriously, she felt the soft grass brush against the soles of her feet. Her red leather pantofles lay discarded some distance away, along with her linen coif. She had unpinned her hair from the intricately braided bun that Ellen had spent some considerable time on that morning, expertly weaving the long tresses between her nimble fingers, and it now hung loose about her shoulders. A gentle breeze blew a strand of it across her mouth, and she caught the scent of lavender and rosewater.
