The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Hmm. Your costume becomes you well enough, niece. Let’s hope that your acting skills are of the same standard.’

  Gripping her by the wrist, he pulled her closer and hissed in her ear: ‘I went to a great deal of trouble to get you this part. A great deal. This is your chance to come to the king’s notice. If he likes you, and you serve his daughter well, he will make a good marriage for you. Far better than your mother made with that manservant.’

  ‘I would rather he save himself the trouble!’ Frances spat, her temper stirred by the slight to her father.

  The earl smiled, but his grip on her wrist grew tighter, making her wince.

  ‘If you defy me, you will suffer the consequences,’ he growled. Pulling her suddenly even closer, his other hand seizing her throat, he whispered: ‘I will take you as my whore.’

  Frances felt as if she were choking as she looked up into his eyes, which glittered dangerously.

  ‘My Lord Northampton.’

  The voice was commanding, imperious. The earl released his hold at once as they both swung around to see who had spoken. In an instant, her uncle sank to his knees in humble supplication.

  Frances gazed at the elegant lady. Her mind was a blur of confusion as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The woman who stood before her now was the same one whose attendant she had treated. But what could she be to the earl, who was still prostrate at her feet?

  The silence was broken by her uncle. ‘Your Majesty!’

  Comprehension suddenly dawned. Immediately, Frances lowered her eyes and made a deep curtsey, all the time hoping that the shock had not registered on her face. Focusing upon a small knot in the oak floorboards at her feet, she struggled to control her breathing. After a few moments, she dared to glance up at the woman whom she now knew to be the queen.

  Anne’s face was a mask of composure. She looked every inch the Danish princess whose portrait Frances had seen at Richmond, where it had been hung with unseemly haste before the old queen had even breathed her last. Those same small black eyes were staring out at Frances now. Striking rather than beautiful, her face was long and pale, and wore an expression of wry amusement. Her dark blonde hair, which had hung about her shoulders in ragged disarray when Frances had last seen her, was now sculpted into an extraordinarily high coif, and adorned with pearls. The queen’s dazzling silver gown was flanked by a large, stiff collar of white lace, and the front of her dress swept down so low that it barely covered her bosom. She was just as exotic as a princess from across the seas, from the land of the Vikings, should be.

  ‘Your Majesty, forgive me. I was just instructing my niece—’ the earl spluttered.

  ‘So I observed,’ Anne cut in. ‘I am still getting used to your English customs, and this manner you have of conversing with members of your family is most unusual.’

  The earl reddened as he continued to kneel, staring intently at the floor. Frances shot the queen a look of gratitude, but Anne remained impervious.

  ‘Well,’ she said, after a long pause, ‘we must prepare for the king.’

  Staring straight ahead, she gathered up her skirts and strode forwards, stepping onto the earl’s foot with the sharp heel of her shoe. He flinched, but remained kneeling. Frances thought she caught the glimmer of a smile on the queen’s lips as she swept past.

  A fanfare of trumpets rang out across the hall, and all eyes turned to the doorway where Frances stood. Suddenly realising she was in the way, she stepped aside and swept another deep curtsey as the king and his entourage passed. Still struggling to comprehend the enormity of what had just occurred with the queen, she nevertheless felt curious to meet her new sovereign, the first of the House of Stuart to rule England. She was surprised to see a diminutive man with an awkward gait. He walked with a pronounced limp, and his legs were bowed, as if he were sitting on an invisible horse. His left arm was in a sling – she knew he had suffered a fall on his journey south to claim his throne. As he came closer, Frances noticed that his skin was remarkably soft and white, and his beard so sparse as to be barely visible. Then she looked at his fingers, which flitted about his codpiece in a distracted manner. She was not the only one to notice this, and a wave of suppressed titters could be heard as he made his way through the room. The rumours about his unkingly habits had been true, Frances realised with dismay.

  Lowering himself onto the throne beneath the canopy of crimson satin, bedecked with naked cherubs and clouds, that had been crafted for the occasion, James turned to greet his wife. Still staring straight ahead, Anne held out her hand. Her husband gave it the most fleeting of kisses, his lips barely touching the velvet of her glove. Frances had heard it whispered by one of the old queen’s ladies that the King of Scots treated his consort more as an adornment than as a wife. He might beget heirs on her, but he took his pleasure elsewhere, in the beds of the pretty boys who surrounded him. Such talk was treason now, of course, but all the court knew of it.

  ‘What manner of welcome is this? My mouth is parched!’ James declared in an accent so strong that many of the assembled gathering looked about them in confusion. Thankfully, his page had already grown used to it, and scurried off to pour his master a large goblet of wine. Grabbing at it rather unceremoniously, James proceeded to drain its contents, some of them spilling down onto the silk doublet that covered his pot belly. Swiping his hand under his nose, he sniffed loudly and gave a spluttering cough.

  ‘This cursed English rain is wetter than the Scottish. It has soaked my bones.’

  A few of his courtiers laughed falteringly, uncertain whether he was joking. James stared at them with his bulbous eyes, a dribble of wine glistening on his chin. The laughter quickly subsided, and an uncomfortable silence followed.

  The Lord Chamberlain motioned to Frances and her fellow revellers to take the stage. Quickly, she fell in line behind the principal performers as they mounted the temporary scaffold that had been festooned with swags of scarlet velvet braided with gold. All around the hall, the lights were extinguished so that only the stage was illuminated. Frances stumbled as she tried to find a position at the back. As soon as they were ready, Lord Howard gave the signal for the musicians to strike up the opening score. A sudden, thundering drum roll announced the start of the masque.

  ‘Guards!’

  There was a scramble of footsteps as the yeomen of the guard rushed forward and surrounded James. A groom quickly lit the sconce next to the throne, and all faces turned to see the king cowering underneath the canopy, a trembling hand on his sword.

  ‘Calm yourself, husband. It is the striking of a drum, not of an assassin,’ the queen muttered. Even at a distance, Frances caught the scorn in her voice. Recovering himself, James gave a loud, barking laugh. For a few moments, it rang out across a horribly silent hall, until the Lord Chamberlain took up the theme with a bellowing laugh, as mirthful as a lament. Urgently, he motioned for the players to ready themselves, and the masque began.

  To Frances, it was an experience every bit as humiliating as she had feared. As she swayed and twirled with her fellow sea nymphs, entwining the sailor in their amorous embrace, she fervently wished herself back at Longford. Stealing a glance at the other ladies, their faces flushed and eyes sparkling, she wondered how they could delight in being part of such a spectacle. Why did they not share her resentment at being paraded in front of the braying men of the court in this way, like cattle at Salisbury market?

  With a sudden rush of annoyance, Frances turned from them to peer out at the king, who was still illuminated by the hastily lit sconce. He was clearly revelling in the performance. Tapping his foot in time to the music, and laughing uproariously whenever there was even a hint of a jest – and sometimes when there was none – he was as transfixed as a child who had happened across a gathering of imps and fairies at play in the forest.

  Frances forced her attention back to the masque, trying desperately to remember her steps. There had been one final, hasty rehearsal this afternoon. The smoke f
rom the blazing sconces filled her nostrils, blending with the sweat from the dancers as they leaped and cavorted towards the crescendo. Her face burned, and the silk of her dress clung to her chest as she tried to keep pace. The king sat forward as a dozen men dressed as various fantastical sea creatures rushed onto the stage, his eyes roaming over this new source of interest with obvious excitement. Frances glanced at the queen, and caught her look of disdain. So the gossips speak truth.

  One of her fellow nymphs jostled Frances out of her reverie as their frantic, seductive dance resumed. Stumbling, she felt herself fall, but was caught deftly by one of the new players, who guided her gently to the rear of the stage. Surprised, and deeply grateful, she mouthed her thanks as he looked at her, smiling. His eyes were dark brown, she noticed, and his mouth curved so appealingly that she could not help returning his smile.

  Before she could say anything further, they were whisked along in the dazzling, swirling dance of the finale, and ended, breathless, to the rapturous applause of the king and his court.

  Flushed with relief, and, despite herself, enjoying the adulation of the crowds, Frances stepped down from the stage and looked about her for – who? She realised she knew nothing about her rescuer, not even his name. But he was no longer among the players, and, as her eyes darted over the hundreds of jostling revellers, she was interrupted by the sudden, unwelcome presence of her uncle.

  ‘You presented yourself tolerably well,’ he said, his face severe. ‘But you were too much in the background to attract the notice of the king.’

  ‘I am sorry to have failed you, my lord.’

  ‘No matter – you shall come with me now.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed his niece’s hand and pulled her into the throng. As she passed through the sweating, pawing, swaying crowds, Frances glanced over to the stage, and saw that some of the players had started to strip off their costumes and cavort almost naked in imitation of the masque. One of them, Lady Grisby, had already drunk so much wine that she was having trouble keeping her balance, and, lurching suddenly forward, vomited over the side of the stage.

  Frances pressed forward to escape the unsightly mess, but found herself pushed up against a couple, their mouths pressed together as if they might devour each other. One of the woman’s sleeves was hanging loose, exposing her creamy white shoulder, which glistened with sweat, and the man was pawing at the other as if trying to rip the entire bodice away. Frances smelt the stale tang of wine as she surged past them, her heart pounding.

  The crowds were even more stifling now, as everyone jostled for an audience with the king. Her uncle used his bulk to force his way through, never releasing his grasp on Frances’s wrist, so that she was pulled painfully, inexorably forward. At last they were standing before the throne. Sweating and red-faced, the earl panted his greeting.

  ‘Your Majesty, may I present my niece, Lady Frances Gorges.’

  James barely looked at Frances as she gave a low curtsey before him.

  ‘You are welcome to court, Lady Frances,’ he muttered distractedly, his eyes drawn to an attractive young actor, clad only in a sash, who was performing an elaborate dance for a loudly appreciative crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Your Majesty has appointed my niece to the princess’s household.’

  The king turned to face Frances. ‘Have I?’ He scrutinised her closely now, taking in her gaudy costume and dishevelled hair. ‘She is of good character?’

  ‘Impeccable, sir,’ Northampton cut in quickly, before Frances could answer. ‘Her mother served the late queen.’

  ‘Ha! That is hardly a recommendation. Tell me, Lady Frances, was she as ugly as my ambassadors reported? They said she had barely a tooth or a hair by the time she died.’

  Frances felt her colour rise at the insult.

  ‘The late queen was the very image of majesty, Your Grace. She—’

  Swiftly, her uncle interrupted with protestations about not wishing to detain the king any longer, and proceeded to shove his niece roughly back into the crowd. But they had barely left the dais when they came face to face with Robert Cecil.

  ‘Surely my lord is not leaving already?’ he purred.

  ‘I am afraid we must, my Lord Privy Seal,’ the earl replied brusquely. ‘My niece is greatly fatigued by this evening’s revels.’

  Cecil turned his piercing eyes on her. ‘Ah, Lady Frances. What a pleasure it is to see you again. I thought you preferred to breathe the air of Wiltshire, rather than the stench of court.’

  ‘Indeed I do, my lord,’ she replied, before her uncle could stop her.

  Cecil smiled at the earl’s obvious irritation. ‘It seems the court is not to your niece’s liking. Perhaps she still hankers after that of the old queen?’

  ‘She does not!’ thundered the earl. ‘She greatly reveres His Majesty, who, as you know, has singled her out to serve his daughter.’

  ‘Of course. And we are as fortunate as the princess,’ Cecil drawled. ‘For we shall gaze upon Lady Frances very often now.’ He paused, giving her a long, appraising stare. ‘As often as we wish.’

  Frances felt suddenly cold, despite the stifling heat of the room. Before she could answer, Cecil continued: ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Two nights ago, my lord.’

  ‘Indeed? Here for such a brief time, and yet you have already met His Majesty, distinguished yourself in a masque …’

  Another deliberate pause.

  ‘And held a private audience with the queen.’

  Staying just long enough to see Frances’s eyes widen in shock, he turned on his heel.

  CHAPTER 11

  10 July

  ‘The princess will see you now.’

  Smoothing her skirts, Frances nodded at the young girl’s attendant, and stepped forward into the royal bedchamber. The doorway was vast, with gilded beading lining the mahogany frame, and a red velvet canopy draped along the top. Her eyes drawn naturally upwards, Frances could not help but be impressed by the exquisite ceiling, with fat little cherubs playing happily among the benign white clouds that were flitting across a pale blue sky. The room below was dominated by an enormous red and gold satin canopy over a sumptuous bed, which was bedecked with silken cushions of the same vibrant colours.

  It was a few moments before Frances noticed the small girl who was standing solemnly next to the bed, her hands clasped together and her small black eyes appraising her uncertainly. The lavishness of her surroundings made her appear all the more slight and delicate. Her hair was gloriously red, and, although it was pulled tightly back into a coif, a few unruly curls had escaped. With her pale face, and her chin narrowed to a perfect point, she appeared more like a doll than a child. The exquisitely fine dress that she wore was made from white-grey silk, with embroidered copper-coloured flowers that matched her hair, and her slender neck was encased in a stiff white lace collar. A queen in miniature, Frances thought.

  She gave a low curtsey.

  ‘My lady princess.’

  A little giggle escaped the girl’s mouth, and, looking anxiously across at her lady mistress, she immediately put up a hand to stop it.

  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Frances,’ she said, in clipped, rehearsed tones. And then, with eager curiosity: ‘Is it true that you were the old queen’s favourite?’

  Frances smiled. ‘I cannot claim that honour, Your Highness. But my lady mother was high in her favour.’

  ‘They say that I look just like her,’ the girl confided with a conspiratorial air, then frowned. ‘But that makes Father angry.’

  The princess glanced towards the window, where the tightly-clipped box hedges and pretty pink roses of her privy garden could be seen. Catching the longing in her gaze, Frances ventured: ‘I have heard that your garden is the prettiest in all of London.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Elizabeth cried, clapping her hands together. ‘It is the sunniest place in the whole palace, the roses smell so sweet, and there is even a little maze – Mother told
the gardeners to make me one. My brothers and I play in it for hours. Henry always finds his way out, of course, but it is so funny to see little Charles tottering about!’

  Another glance at Lady Mar, who was frowning. She was a stout woman, with grey hair and small, piercing eyes. Frances felt them rest on herself now, and could almost sense the disapproval.

  ‘Lady Frances … would you like to see it for yourself?’ the princess asked, before the more senior of her attendants could stop her. ‘I could show you the secret of escaping!’

  ‘I would be delighted to, ma’am.’

  Lady Mar began to voice an objection, but Elizabeth was already marching towards the door that opened out onto the courtyard. Frances gave a small curtsey to the older woman, then followed the girl. As she stepped outside, she felt the warmth of the sun like a balm on her skin, and turned her face upwards, her eyes closed in contentment. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope for her new life at court. She had only been there a week, yet it felt like a lifetime.

  ‘Lady Mar is so dull,’ the princess whispered, none too quietly. ‘If she had her way, I would be cooped up in the schoolroom all day and all night, learning my Latin and reading my prayer book.’

  ‘You must have worked hard at your studies, ma’am. You speak with greater eloquence than many ladies of my own age,’ Frances remarked. The princess beamed with delight.

  As they weaved their way in and out of the tiny paths of the maze, which only came up to Frances’s waist, the young princess chattered happily about the antics of her adored elder brother, the exquisite dresses that her mother was forever ordering for her, the court occasions that she had been permitted to attend, and – above all – how much she preferred her life in England to the cold, dour existence she had endured in her father’s draughty old Scottish palaces.

  ‘My mother likes you very much,’ she told Frances earnestly, after talking excitedly and without interruption for at least ten minutes. ‘She says that I can trust you with anything.’