The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Where did you serve?’ the earl interrupted.

  ‘In the Netherlands, on behalf of Her Majesty’s allies.’

  ‘The Dutch were always a drain on her coffers,’ Northampton grumbled. ‘It would have been better to leave them to face the Spanish alone.’

  ‘And leave us prey to another Armada?’ Wintour challenged. ‘Our late queen was concerned only to defend our shores.’

  The earl tutted. ‘What would a woman know of war?’ he demanded scornfully.

  Frances opened her mouth to protest, but was interrupted by the appearance of four attendants, each bearing a dish that they set down in front of the diners. She looked down at the plate of glistening oysters.

  ‘Please, begin,’ their host encouraged.

  The fresh, salty taste of the sea filled her mouth as Frances swallowed one of the oysters. She took a sip of wine, and began to relax. She took another. Although she had no intention of accepting her uncle’s latest candidate, she might as well enjoy his hospitality. But she knew there would be a price to pay if she did not prove compliant. She shuddered inwardly as she remembered her uncle’s threat. He would neither accept nor understand that she might wish to make her own choice. After all, he had been quick to set aside his Catholic faith when the wind turned in favour of the Protestants. It seemed to Frances that this was an age when people’s consciences had to spin as easily as a weathervane.

  ‘How did you enjoy the masque, my lady?’ Wintour asked when they had finished their first course.

  She hesitated, unsure how to respond with tact and truth.

  ‘It was certainly a great spectacle,’ she replied at last.

  Sir Thomas and his companion eyed her steadily as she lowered her gaze. Her uncle, who was preoccupied with levering a piece of oyster from one of his teeth with a pick, seemed oblivious to the exchange.

  ‘You should have taken part yourself, Tom,’ Sir Thomas remarked. ‘A lawyer is bound to be nimble-footed.’

  Frances thought she caught a flash of conspiratorial smiles between Sir Thomas and his protégé.

  ‘I fear that I would have followed the steps very badly, sir,’ Wintour replied smoothly.

  ‘Damned foolish nonsense, if you ask me!’ the earl declared to nobody in particular. ‘Of course, I paid handsomely to secure my niece a part, but that was only for the purpose of displaying her to the court.’

  Frances felt her face flush.

  ‘I trust it was worth the investment, Uncle.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ he replied, unperturbed. Then, raising a glass towards his host, added: ‘Eh, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘I very much hope so, my Lord Northampton.’

  Frances took another long drink of wine, her hand trembling slightly as she clasped the glass a little too tightly. To be openly touted in this manner was intolerable.

  ‘I fear the king will have no hunting tomorrow.’

  Wintour directed their glances to the windows, from where they could see dark clouds gathering.

  ‘My Lord Northampton says it always puts His Majesty in such a bad humour when he cannot join his horses and his hounds,’ he continued. ‘Still, there is enough within the court to occupy him at present. News of a fresh plot seems to break every day.’

  ‘It gives people something to gossip about,’ Sir Thomas remarked dismissively, ‘besides the usual scandals of the court.’

  ‘You have a low opinion of your fellow courtiers, sir,’ Frances observed, coldly. She saw Wintour raise his head and stare at her.

  ‘Not in the least,’ Sir Thomas replied genially. ‘Just of mankind in general.’

  ‘The papists have been muttering ever since the king banished their priests from the kingdom,’ her uncle cut in. ‘And many are near penniless from paying so many fines for failing to attend the true church. They would do better to starve to death and remove their troublesome presence altogether.’

  Frances stared at him, marvelling again at how swiftly he had turned his coat. But then, politics had always won out over principle where her uncle was concerned.

  ‘You do not believe their complaints to be just, Lord Northampton?’ Tom Wintour asked quietly.

  ‘To hell with their complaints!’ the earl retorted. ‘They would be well advised to cease their endless babble.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Sir Thomas remarked. ‘So long as all they do is talk, the king and his court can rest easy in their beds.’ Turning to Wintour, he said brightly: ‘Come now, Tom, you have told us nothing of your late travels. You were absent for nigh on three months. Did you sail to warmer climes to escape our English winter?’ Frances thought she saw Wintour’s hand shake slightly as he took a sip of wine.

  ‘Sadly not, Sir Thomas. The Flemish winter is just as unforgiving. But the company I kept provided ample warmth.’

  ‘Ha!’ the earl exclaimed. ‘I have heard that there are as many bawdy houses as dwellings in Flanders. Little wonder that you found such diverting acquaintance.’

  Frances closed her eyes.

  ‘If that is true, my lord, then I must have overlooked them all,’ Wintour replied evenly. ‘My companions were men of great learning and respectability. They included two gentlemen from Spain, who will soon be arriving at court as guests of His Majesty.’

  Frances saw her uncle’s eyes narrow.

  ‘What business have they here? Spain is full of papists, and their king is no friend of ours.’

  ‘I am sure your lordship cannot expect a humble lawyer to be privy to such secrets,’ Wintour replied with a smile.

  ‘Then we must be patient, gentlemen,’ Sir Thomas interjected. ‘Time will tell. Now, please, eat before my cooks despair of our appetite.’

  The rest of the meal was passed with studiedly polite topics of conversation, interspersed with the regular succession of dishes that were placed before them. Roasted capon, spiced ham, baked salmon, honeyed figs, and sugared almonds; all filled the room with heady aromas.

  Frances ate sparingly; anger always suppressed her appetite. By contrast, her uncle was devouring the food as if he had been starved for a fortnight, stuffing forkfuls of roasted meat into his mouth, and washing them down with goblet after goblet of the fine Burgundy wine that his host had provided.

  ‘The capon is not to your taste, my Lady Frances?’ Sir Thomas asked, with what Frances could not decide was genuine concern or amusement. She was aware that he had been watching her intently for the past half an hour, and had found herself cringing under his gaze.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. The food is excellent. I am a little tired.’

  Sir Thomas smiled. ‘I have no doubt that the young princess gives you little time for rest.’

  Her uncle grunted. ‘That girl is too much indulged if you ask me. Needs a firmer hand.’

  ‘I understand that the princess is a very accomplished young woman, Lady Frances?’ Wintour asked pleasantly.

  ‘She is indeed. Her Highness already speaks several languages, and her knowledge of the scriptures is exemplary for a girl of her years.’

  ‘Her father must have read them to her in the cradle,’ Wintour observed, sardonically.

  The company fell silent. Frances stole another glance at Sir Thomas’s friend, and wondered why he suddenly seemed so angry.

  ‘Well, gentlemen.’ Sir Thomas eventually broke the silence. ‘We must not keep Lady Frances from her bed.’

  The earl rose first, his heavy chair scraping loudly across the oak floorboards.

  ‘Sir Thomas, I would detain you for a few moments.’ He gave his host a meaningful look. ‘We have some business to discuss.’

  ‘Then allow me to escort your niece back to her chambers, Lord Northampton,’ Wintour cut in.

  The earl’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the young man.

  ‘My niece knows the palace well enough by now, Wintour. There is no need to trouble yourself.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, my lord,’ the young man countered swiftly. Without pausing for a further reply, he took Fran
ces’s hand and placed it gently on his arm.

  ‘Sir Thomas.’ He bowed. ‘Your hospitality has been as excellent as ever.’ Pausing, he added: ‘And as you know, I am particularly grateful for the invitation on this occasion.’

  Again, Frances thought she saw the briefest exchange of conspiratorial smiles. She bobbed a quick curtsey to her host, studiously avoiding her uncle’s gaze, and walked out of the room with Wintour, her hand still on his arm.

  As soon as the door was closed behind them, he let out a loud laugh. Surprised, Frances turned a quizzical look to him.

  ‘I am sorry, Lady Frances,’ her companion said, recovering himself. ‘It is a fault of mine to react in this way to mirthless company. My schoolmaster quite despaired of me.’

  Frances grinned. ‘The conversation was not to your taste, then?’

  ‘Far less than the dinner, I’m afraid. Sir Thomas is an excellent man, but he surrounds himself with fools.’

  ‘Lord Northampton is my uncle, Mr Wintour.’

  ‘And yet you share my view, I think?’

  Frances resisted the temptation to agree, and they continued in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I must ask your forgiveness, Lady Frances. Presumption is another of my faults. You are discovering them all in the course of one evening.’

  As they rounded the corner into the long corridor that led to her chamber, they saw a small, slight figure walking towards them in the shadows ahead. The light from one of the sconces illuminated his face as he stepped forward.

  ‘My Lord Privy Seal.’ Wintour bowed low.

  Frances maintained her composure, but every encounter with Cecil made her uncomfortable. He reminded her of a stoat eyeing its prey.

  ‘Another client, Wintour? I hardly meet anyone these days who you haven’t worked for.’

  ‘We have been dining with Lord Northampton and Sir Thomas, my lord,’ Wintour replied smoothly. ‘Lady Frances’s uncle is keen for her to make new acquaintance at court.’

  Cecil smirked. ‘Your uncle is most assiduous for your welfare, Lady Frances. He could not have introduced you to a more useful friend. Mr Wintour seems to specialise in helping ladies in distress. Tell me Wintour, how fare your efforts on behalf of Widow Bedwyn?’

  Wintour smiled. ‘Your Grace is well enough versed in the workings of the law to know that I am not at liberty to respond.’

  The merest flicker of irritation crossed Cecil’s features. He stared at Wintour for a few moments, before turning to Frances.

  ‘I trust your room has everything for your comfort?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It is very well appointed.’

  ‘Good, good. I thought you might appreciate its proximity to the herb garden.’

  Frances held his gaze.

  ‘Your lordship is most thoughtful.’

  ‘Well.’ Cecil sniffed. ‘I fear that I have interrupted your discourse for too long. I will bid you goodnight.’

  As he shifted his weight onto his right leg, Frances noticed him wince. Although he did his best to conceal it, she knew that his crooked back must give him pain, even in repose. With a brief, impatient bow, he took his leave.

  Frances exhaled slowly as she and Wintour turned to go, but they had only walked a few steps when Cecil’s voice rang out again.

  ‘Oh, Lady Frances, I almost forgot! I had called to invite you to a most interesting spectacle tomorrow.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I will not spoil the surprise. Believe me – it will be most diverting.’

  ‘But my lady princess—’

  ‘I have already spoken to the king. He has graciously agreed to release you from your duties tomorrow morning. He agrees with me that it will be most advantageous for your education.’

  Smiling at her obvious discomfiture, he added: ‘My page will call for you at six.’

  CHAPTER 13

  12 July

  Frances stirred as her chamber slowly began to fill with light. She turned over, pulling the heavy covers tighter, and drawing her knees up to her chest. One side of her head pulsed with a dull ache that she knew would grow stronger as the day wore on. She closed her eyes again, willing sleep to overcome her, but her thoughts had already begun to intrude.

  Tom Wintour was one of the most unusual men she had ever met. He had all the charm that could be expected of a gentleman at court, yet there seemed to be so much more hidden behind his easy smile and sharp wit. More than once, his eyes had seemed to blaze with something like anger, though there had been little enough to provoke him, she thought. When he had looked at her, there had been an intensity to his gaze that left her feeling discomforted. She would have liked to find out more about him, but she realised with a pang that this was unlikely, given her uncle’s obvious disapproval. But then, if he was working for the queen, she might encounter him without the earl’s knowledge, since her chambers were next to those of the princess.

  Rolling over so that her back was to the window, she gave a groan as she remembered that Cecil’s page would soon be calling for her. Again, she replayed the conversation with Cecil, just as she had when she had lain in bed last night, robbing her of sleep until the small hours. That he should single her out for such attention might have been a sign of favour. But she suspected that it was something very different.

  As the light in her room turned to soft yellow, Frances got out of bed and drew back the curtains. There was little sign of life in the city below. Only a baker’s cart, rumbling slowly along the cobbled streets of Whitehall, disturbed the repose. She opened the window a crack and breathed in the fresh morning air.

  Walking over to her writing desk, Frances drew out the small prayer book from the pile of volumes that she had brought from Longford. She ran her fingers along its soft spine, the leather binding smooth and shiny from frequent use. The book had been a gift to her father from the late queen, a sign of forgiveness for marrying her favourite lady-in-waiting. One of Frances’s earliest memories was of sitting on his knee as he read to her from it. Though incomprehensible to her then, the words had been as a gentle, melodic chant that had made her feel at peace. As she gazed now at the tiny lettering, interspersed with exquisite and still vibrant illuminations, she felt the tension ease out of her neck and shoulders, the pain in her head receding enough for her to focus on the words.

  Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked. The wicked … are like the chaff that the wind blows away.

  Feeling a sudden chill, she pulled her nightgown more tightly around her, then closed the book and rose to dress. Cecil had given no hint of what lay in store, so she was obliged to choose a gown that would serve her indoors or out, and be suitable for anything but royal company. She scraped her hair up and wound it tightly into a bun, fixing it into place with several pins. After lacing up her boots, which she judged would be appropriate for riding or walking, she paused for a brief look in the mirror, catching the anxiety in her eyes.

  The sound of brisk footsteps along the corridor outside made her start. Grabbing her cloak as the sharp rapping sounded around the room, she went to unbolt the door.

  ‘My lady Frances.’

  Cecil’s young page looked slightly flustered – from exertion or embarrassment, Frances could not tell. She gave him a smile of reassurance that did not quite reach her eyes, and followed him silently along the corridor.

  ‘Might I enquire where we are going?’ Frances asked.

  Without turning, the boy answered: ‘To the stables, my lady.’ He said it in such a way that it was clear this was all the explanation she was going to get.

  Frances quickened her pace to keep up with the wiry page. He wore the dark green velvet of the Cecil livery, with tiny gold coronets embroidered around the collar. He led her through the increasingly familiar halls and corridors, away from the river and towards the western side of the palace, close to the great abbey, which rose like an enchantment above the rooftops.

  The chiming of the bells interrupted her thoughts. Fou
r, five, six. Soon the whole palace would be awake. A hive of bees crawling, flying, and buzzing insistently around the king and his entourage, infinitely more hazardous than her father’s hives at Longford.

  As they rounded the corner, Frances saw the unmistakable figure of the Lord Privy Seal standing by the archway that led into the stables. His slightly stooped aspect and his habit of continually smoothing one hand over the other gave him a vaguely apologetic, almost guilty air.

  ‘Ah, Lady Frances! Nocturnal creature that you are, I feared you might have overslept.’

  ‘Not at all, my lord. I always rise early to attend my lady princess,’ she replied, ignoring the jibe. ‘I trust that Her Highness was content to spare me for the morning?’

  ‘Of course. The young are fickle, Lady Frances. You must not be fooled into thinking that she has any particular attachment to you – especially not after so brief a time. The promise of sweetmeats was quite enough to banish you from her thoughts.’

  At that moment a groom appeared, leading two fine horses – one white, and the other a glorious chestnut brown. The sound of the hooves on the stone cobbles echoed across the sleeping courtyard. Frances reached out to stroke the nose of the chestnut horse, which stood closest to her. It nudged her arm and smelt her fingers. She reached into her pocket and offered it the apple that she had brought, correctly assuming that whatever Cecil had planned for her did not involve a sumptuous breakfast.

  ‘It seems you have chosen your horse – or vice versa.’ He gestured to the groom, who led them over to the mounting block and tethered them to a post next to it. Frances and her companion watched in silence as he prepared the saddles. When they were ready, he bowed to Cecil, who climbed the steps and awkwardly swung his crooked body onto the white horse. Sensing its rider’s disquiet, it whinnied and stamped.

  Climbing onto her side-saddle with practised ease, Frances was grateful to enjoy a fleeting moment of superiority. Cecil gave a sharp tap of his heels, and his horse lurched forward. Jerking the reins, he called over his shoulder: ‘We are riding westwards.’