The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘What are you doing?’ the lady demanded in alarm.

  Not pausing to answer, Frances proceeded to pull the covers from the bed. Gently but swiftly, she peeled back the patient’s nightgown, which was drenched with sweat. Her breath had the stale stench of decay. Rinsing a clean cloth, Frances applied it to the forehead of the woman, who had stopped tossing about and lay panting, her eyes still closed.

  ‘I would be glad if you could bring me some hyssop, spurge, and hartshorn from the courtyard garden,’ Frances said calmly, addressing the woman who had admitted her. ‘With a mortar and pestle, and fresh water.’ The servant eyed her uncertainly for a moment, then bustled away.

  The minutes passed like hours as they waited for her return. The finely dressed lady began pacing the room. Frances stole a glance at her as she dabbed at the patient’s face and neck. Her back was straight, and she held her head high. The expression on her face was impassive. Only the small, regular twitching of her jaw betrayed her distress.

  ‘You are newly arrived at court, Lady Frances?’ she asked in her clipped tone as she stared out of the window.

  ‘Yes, my lady. I have not yet been to my chambers.’

  ‘I am sorry for it. But Bea—’ she paused. ‘My servant’s condition seemed such that delaying your attendance would have been unwise.’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ Frances replied smoothly. ‘Time is always of the greatest import in such cases.’ She was about to ask how the lady knew of her skills as a healer, but something about her expression made her decide against it.

  The lady resumed her pacing and said no more. Frances turned back to her patient, who seemed quieter now. She lifted one of her wrists and could feel only the faintest flicker.

  At last the attendant returned with the items that had been requested. Frances leaped to her feet and began deftly to pick the tiny flowers and leaves from their stems before grinding them into a fine paste and mixing them with a little of the water.

  As soon as the mixture was smooth, Frances carried it carefully over to the bedside. Gently tilting the beleaguered woman’s head forward, she poured a spoonful of the tincture into her mouth. At once she fell into a paroxysm of coughing as it slipped down her throat. Fearing that she would vomit, Frances placed her hand on her chest to calm her. Soon the fit receded and her breath came more easily. After a few moments, she slipped into a deep sleep.

  ‘What have you done? Is she—’ the lady faltered, her face a pallid mask.

  ‘She is sleeping now, my lady. The herbs will soon take effect,’ Frances replied softly, then glanced at the clock on the fireplace. ‘Forgive me, but I must attend my uncle – he will have expected my presence long before now.’

  The lady hesitated, giving her a long and appraising stare.

  ‘I will return as soon as I can,’ Frances assured her. ‘The maid will keep watch with you while I’m gone.’

  At length the lady sighed, as if in defeat. ‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘But be sure to come back before dawn.’

  CHAPTER 9

  27 June

  The same boy who had led Frances to the sick woman’s chamber had been summoned to convey her to her uncle’s apartments. They walked at a more leisurely pace this time, Frances trying to memorise the numerous twists and turns as they made their way from what she now realised had been a secluded part of the palace to the vast suite of public rooms.

  Crossing the Great Hall, Frances paused and looked up in wonder at the huge vaulted ceiling, painted in dazzling blue with gold stars. Set amongst this celestial expanse was a host of playful cherubs, their skin soft pink and white. One clutched a harp, while another was puffing out his cheeks as he blew on a tiny trumpet. Looking closer, Frances could see small faces interspersed amongst the eaves. Although they stared down benignly, she knew that their presence was intended to remind the courtiers below that everything they said was seen and heard by the king.

  The boy had already reached a doorway at the far end of the hall, and, turning back, gave a small cough that echoed around the walls. Reluctantly, Frances tore her gaze away from the ceiling and followed him. A series of long, dark corridors stretched into the distance, and as the boy picked up his pace, Frances guessed that they must be nearing her apartment. Rounding a corner, they almost collided with her uncle, who was marching purposefully in their direction.

  ‘Damn you, boy!’ he shouted, clipping the page around the ear. Before Frances could protest, he had scuttled away like a wounded dog.

  ‘Uncle.’ She gave a brief curtsey.

  The earl gave his niece a long, penetrating stare, his mouth lifting into a slow, sardonic smile.

  ‘How gracious of you to call on me, niece,’ he purred. ‘At last.’

  ‘My lord, forgive me,’ she said calmly. ‘I was required to pay attendance upon a member of the household.’

  ‘Indeed? It must have been a most urgent matter to keep you from your duty.’

  Frances held his gaze but said nothing.

  ‘Where is Ellen?’ she asked after a few moments, deciding that it was safer to talk of other matters.

  ‘Halfway back to Longford by now, I expect,’ her uncle retorted, enjoying the look of dismay on her face. ‘There are attendants enough at court. You have no need of her here.’

  Frances knew it to be a punishment, but bit back a reply.

  ‘I would advise you to go to your chamber and make shift,’ he said, taking a long, deliberate look at her gown, which still bore the creases from the long journey. ‘You will take dinner in the hall. But be sure to retire early,’ he added with a smile. ‘I have plans for you tomorrow.’

  He turned on his heel and strutted towards the door of his apartment, slamming it shut behind him.

  Frances stood for a few moments, staring after him. She had a sudden thought of running – out of the palace, out of London, to – where? If she returned to Longford, her uncle would have her brought back immediately. The thought of his fury made her shudder. She had already angered him enough.

  Resigned, she went in search of someone who might direct her to her apartment. It was not long before she found another young page, hurrying about his business and clearly irked by the unwelcome interruption. A shilling from the purse that was tied to the waistband of her dress sweetened the task, however, and he took her back to the Lord Chamberlain’s office, where she was directed to a part of the palace close to the riverside gateway.

  Frances unlocked the panelled oak door, with apprehension. This was the room where she would spend most of what little leisure time was afforded her. It must be a haven, not a prison.

  Entering, her spirits lifted. As lady of the bedchamber to the king’s eldest daughter, she was afforded a comfortable room, large enough to accommodate a dressing table, armchair, and tester bed. The thick mahogany bedposts were carved with tiny putti bearing platters of fruit, and the embroidered green coverlet reminded Frances of the moss and lichen that carpeted the forest floor at Longford. The dark wooden floor contrasted with the pale yellow of the walls, which was like newly churned cream.

  The room faced west, catching the warmth of the fading evening sunlight that glittered on the river below. Crossing to the window, Frances flung it open and closed her eyes to the warm, gentle breeze. Breathing in the sharp scent of rosemary and myrtle from the hedgerow that bordered the palace walls, she could almost imagine herself back in Wiltshire. She wondered how close she was to the princess’s apartments.

  Her eyes sprang open. The princess. She had barely had time to contemplate her position in the young girl’s household. As lady of the bedchamber, she would be one of Elizabeth’s closest attendants, yet she knew practically nothing about her. There had been precious few children at the old queen’s court, and although she had experience enough of tending to her younger sisters, that hardly compared to serving a princess.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Lady Frances. Your uncle sent me.’

  The dour-f
aced woman regarded Frances steadily.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress—’

  ‘Banks, my lady.’

  ‘It is kind of you to attend me, but I have everything that I need at present.’ Seeing the woman hesitate, Frances said quickly: ‘I am tired from my journey, and would take some rest.’

  Mrs Banks pursed her lips and made a slight curtsey.

  ‘Very well. I will call upon you in the morning.’ Taking her leave, she walked briskly back along the corridor.

  Feeling suddenly exhausted, Frances lay on the bed, not troubling to undress. She knew that she would have to rise again in an hour for dinner. Her mind was full of the events of the day, but they gradually merged into a hazy confusion of thoughts as sleep overcame her.

  She awoke with a jolt several hours later. Her heart pounding, she looked around her, confused that her chamber at Longford was so strangely altered. She gave a deep sigh as she realised where she was. Her uncle would be angry that she had missed dinner. Raising herself from the bed, she padded across to the ewer and splashed some water on her face, then pushed back the stray tendrils of hair that had escaped the bun at the base of her neck.

  Stealing out of her room, she made her way silently through the maze of corridors and courtyards, hoping she remembered the way to the apartment that had formed her introduction to Whitehall. She whispered another prayer as she went. If her herbs had not done their work, then God must.

  The first streaks of light were in the sky as she knocked softly on the door. It was opened by the same girl who had been in attendance the day before. Frances studied her face for any sign of emotion, good or bad. But she saw only fatigue.

  Entering the gloomy chamber, Frances noticed the lady, dressed in a nightgown of russet silk, her skin even paler than it had been the night before. Frances nodded in greeting, then crossed over to the bed and placed one hand gently on the sick woman’s forehead. With the other, she touched her neck, keeping her fingers there for a few seconds.

  The lady was watching her intently, and Frances could sense that she was holding her breath.

  ‘How is she?’ It was barely a whisper.

  ‘She is peaceful, madam,’ Frances replied. Then, seeing her eyes widen in alarm, quickly added: ‘The fever is passed, and all seems well. We must have patience.’

  The lady slowly exhaled.

  ‘If she were to die, I would be alone,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘My husband could not abide our friendship. He knew it gave me comfort.’

  Frances looked away. She pitied the lady for her miserable marriage, which sounded to be like so many others among those of rank.

  Just then, there was a movement from the bed. The patient sighed and her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Madam?’ she whispered, her mouth parched dry.

  ‘Bea.’ The lady reached to grasp her hands in her own. Her attendant smiled weakly up at her.

  ‘What they say of your skill is true, Lady Frances,’ the lady said, turning to her. ‘I am greatly indebted to you.’

  Frances returned her smile. ‘She is weak, and needs to rest,’ she replied. ‘As do you, madam.’

  The lady looked into her eyes, her expression uncertain. She opened her mouth to speak, but after a pause gave a slight nod and turned back to the bed.

  CHAPTER 10

  6 July

  ‘You must make haste, my lady. My Lord Northampton will brook no more delay.’

  Mrs Banks bustled about her chamber, retrieving pins from the floor and tidying away discarded ribbons. With trembling fingers, Frances fiddled with the lace on her sleeves.

  As she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. She had never seen such an elaborate, ridiculous costume in her life. Her dress was a vision of orange-tawny and silver-green silk. It was bedecked with long ribbons of the same material that rippled as she made the slightest movement, giving the effect of gently undulating waves beneath her waist. Her hair was caught up in a silken rope, with tendrils straying down her neck. On her feet she wore pointed satin shoes of emerald green, and every inch of skin that showed above her gown was painted white to enhance her ethereal appearance.

  Frances supposed that her uncle had cajoled, threatened, or bribed the Lord Chamberlain to award her a part in the masque that was to be performed before the king that evening. Such places were always highly sought after. She was to be ‘Valencia’, one of several sea nymphs who bewitched and seduced a hapless mariner.

  The arduous task of dressing her in this sumptuous disguise, for which she had been obliged to seek the help of Mrs Banks, gave Frances a new sympathy for the late queen. It had taken Elizabeth’s ladies two hours to sew her into her robes each morning, apply her make-up, and bedeck her with jewels. Then another two hours in the evening to strip her of this ‘mask of youth,’ as she called it. How had she borne it?

  But there was no time for such reflections. Frances had already courted the displeasure of her uncle for failing to present herself as soon as she had arrived at court. She could not risk another transgression. With a final, dismayed glance in the mirror, she left her apartment and hastened through the corridors and chambers that led to the Banqueting House, where the masque was to be performed.

  The shouts and squeals she heard as she approached signalled that the revelries were already under way. As the doors were thrown open, Frances stood for a moment, trying to make sense of the riot of colour and light. She had once before attended a masque in this hall, and still recalled the elegant interior, with its white marble columns interspersed with neatly hung tapestries. But that same hall was barely recognisable now. Scarlet swags of taffeta hung from the doorway, and over the great fireplace. The pillars were festooned with silk ribbons of purple, turquoise, and orange. Looking up, Frances saw an enormous chandelier, laden with hundreds of candles that threw a dazzling light across the crowds below.

  A pile of velvet cushions was strewn in one corner of the room. Languishing on top was a woman, naked except for a trail of silk wound from her neck down to her chest, just covering her breasts, and then encircling her waist and ending at the top of her thighs. She wore a mask of dark green velvet edged with gold, and her luscious dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders. A seductive smile played about her scarlet lips as she sipped from a tumbler of Venetian glass. It took Frances a few moments to realise that she was looking at Lady Mary Howard, the scandal of the late queen’s court, but evidently the darling of the present one. Her mother had been right. The king’s puritanical views had no bearing on his court.

  ‘La belle Marie!’

  The shout could be heard above the cacophony, and the lady slowly turned her head towards it, smiling in recognition when she saw the figure of Richard Sackville approaching. Even from a distance, Frances recognised the attractive grandson of the late queen’s Lord High Treasurer. She had been introduced to him once, and, although he had muttered the usual pleasantries of a seasoned courtier, she knew that he had barely noticed her, preferring to lavish all of his simpering attention on the aging queen. As he drew closer, she could see that his dark hair was slicked back from his face, and that he still had the elegant moustache and pointed beard that had been favoured in the late queen’s day. Perhaps he judged that it suited him better than the new fashion, Frances thought. His ambition for preferment might be fierce, but it was exceeded by his vanity. Dressed for the impending masque, he wore a white silk doublet, embroidered with eyes, and, coiling around the neck, a golden serpent, its darting, scarlet tongue fashioned from silk ribbon. The earl’s long legs were encased in white hose, and on his feet were long pointed shoes of scarlet damask.

  As he strolled languidly towards the voluptuous young woman, he held her gaze unflinchingly, not heeding the greetings that were called to him on the way.

  ‘Lady Mary.’

  ‘My Lord Dorset.’

  Frances watched, transfixed, as slowly he lowered himself onto the cushions and lay facing Lady Mary. He whispered something in her
ear, and she threw back her head and laughed. When she stopped and turned to look at him once more, her face was much closer to his, her lips within tantalising reach. Frances saw his hand trace its way along the contours of Lady Mary’s thigh, coming to rest at the end of the ribbon. Gently, he pulled, so that it came loose from her neck and began to unravel. Lady Mary’s eyes never left his as her body was slowly exposed in all its glorious nakedness.

  Frances felt her neck prickle with heat, and was aware that her breathing had quickened. Unthinking, she raised her hand to the base of her throat. It felt clammy beneath her fingertips as she slowly stroked her collarbone. She knew that she should be appalled, and yet she could not look away. As she stared at the seductive scene that was being played out in front of her, she inhaled the pungent smell of a hundred perfumes blended together in the heat of the hall, felt the press of bodies jostling against her, and the soft silk pulled tightly over her skin. She felt dizzy, as if her senses were being completely overwhelmed.

  She might have remained there all night had it not been for the sudden, unwelcome arrival of her uncle.

  ‘Ah, my dutiful niece!’ he drawled sardonically.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Mrs Banks informed me that you had been made ready. You know the part that you are to play?’

  For a moment, Frances was unsure whether he meant at court or in the masque. The latter was easy, if humiliating; the other, a different matter entirely.

  ‘Yes, my lord. The Lord Chamberlain has been most instructive. We have been rehearsing all afternoon.’

  ‘Good, good. Now turn around so that I can inspect your costume.’

  Holding out her arms to either side, Frances rotated slowly, then gave an exaggerated curtsey. The sarcasm of the gesture was lost on her uncle.