The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Cecil’s yeoman of the guard rode ahead of his master. Frances followed at a gentle trot. She imagined herself cantering across the softly rolling hills and barrows of Wiltshire. But the noises of the awakening city soon called her back to the present.

  They had left the sprawling palace complex now. As they emerged from the royal mews, Frances noticed the beautiful but decaying statue that stood by its entrance. Set on a circular plinth of steps, a series of intricately carved arches rose up to the heavens. In the central arch was the statue of Edward I’s beloved queen, Eleanor of Castile, looking down on the people below, her left hand raised in blessing. Although the years had worn away her features, her expression was unmistakably benign. Hers was an unearthly wisdom, a peace that could only be attained in heaven.

  ‘There was a woman who knew how to behave!’ Cecil called out across the cacophony of the streets.

  ‘And whose husband showed her infinite love and respect,’ Frances replied pleasantly.

  Cecil turned back to the road ahead, his shoulders hunched forward. Frances looked around her. All London seemed to be preparing for the celebrations to mark the anniversary of the coronation. Even now, banners in the Stuart colours of red and blue were being hung from every house that lined the processional route from the Tower to the abbey.

  At first, her companion followed the wide avenue that led from Whitehall, but after half a mile he suddenly veered off into the narrow streets of St Martin’s parish. The timber-framed houses perched perilously on wooden struts, and the occupants of the upper chambers might easily have leaned out of their windows and shaken hands with their neighbours on the opposite side of the street. So little light penetrated the overhanging gables that lanterns still burned in the streets below, even though the sun had long since risen.

  From time to time Frances glanced into the windows of the upper floors. Most were sparsely furnished, with one wooden bed and several makeshift ones scattered around. The pervasive smell of woodsmoke was not strong enough to conceal the stench from the filth-strewn cobbles beneath her horse’s hooves, and she was grateful for the small bunch of lavender that she had tied to the inside of her bodice, just below her breastbone. The pungent, sweet aroma rose in waves from the growing warmth of her body as she bobbed gently up and down in the saddle.

  At last, they emerged into the open fields of the old deer park belonging to Hyde Manor. Frances breathed in the clean, fresh smell of the grass, still wet with dew. The day was overcast, but it took a few moments for her eyes to become accustomed to the light after the claustrophobic gloom of the enclosed streets that they had just left behind. Cecil also seemed to relax, and he slowed his horse to a gentle trot so that Frances might draw up alongside him.

  ‘King Henry had an excellent eye for acquisitions,’ he remarked, his gaze sweeping across the parkland that surrounded them. ‘The old cardinal knew that only too well. No sooner had the last brick been laid at Hampton Court than he was obliged to give it to his master.’ He chuckled. ‘Then Wolsey’s arms were painted over with those of the king, the royal tapestries covered the walls, and it was as if the cardinal had never existed.’

  Sensing that she was being bated, Frances remained silent.

  ‘Of course,’ Cecil drawled after a few moments, ‘kings have always had the power to reduce their subjects to nothing; to erase them from history altogether. Just look at Our gracious Majesty. His own mother had her head struck off, and he barely raised a hand to stay the axe.’

  A deliberate pause.

  ‘But then, he had been raised to believe that she was a witch.’

  Staring straight ahead, Frances kept her voice as even as possible.

  ‘Is that so? I know little of the matter. I was a child when the Queen of Scots was executed.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Cecil continued, warming to his theme. ‘She was little better than a common harlot, bedding the man who murdered her husband and bearing his bastard twins. Happy for them that the mewling creatures scarcely lived long enough to draw breath.’

  He smiled at Frances.

  ‘Fancy having such a mother! Little wonder that he should grow up to believe that all women are Satan’s whores.’

  ‘His Majesty esteems his wife, and dotes upon his daughter,’ Frances remarked carefully.

  ‘Naturally,’ Cecil agreed affably, as if they were discussing nothing of greater moment than the weather. ‘But experience taught him to be wise in his choice. Not like old King Henry. He was led by lust into the snares of that great sorceress, Anne Boleyn.’

  Frances bit her lip so tightly that she could taste the blood. Such an insult to the late queen’s mother would have cost him his head while Elizabeth still breathed.

  ‘We are blessed to have such a wise and prudent king,’ she observed tightly.

  ‘We are indeed. And we are about to witness just how wise and prudent he truly is.’

  Frances had been so incensed by Cecil’s taunts that she had momentarily abandoned her speculation about the purpose of their early-morning ride. As they neared the edge of the park, she noticed a steady stream of people walking briskly along the wide street that lay beyond. It was the same road along which she had travelled upon arriving in London a little over two weeks ago. The growing murmur of excitement was carried on the wind, and Frances’s anger gave way to curiosity.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ Cecil commanded as they passed through the gates.

  It was with some difficulty that Frances steered her horse, which was suddenly skittish with fear, through the growing throng of people.

  ‘Make way for my Lord Privy Seal!’ shouted Cecil’s yeoman, who rode ahead of them. As word spread through the excited crowd, a path gradually opened up for them, enabling them to pick up their pace.

  For a time, Frances was obliged to keep her gaze fixed upon the ground immediately in front of her, afraid lest her horse should trample one of the children who constantly darted across their path. But as the way gradually cleared, she was able to look further ahead.

  What she saw made her sick with dread. About a quarter of a mile in the distance, almost shrouded by a cluster of elm trees, was a large mound to one side of the road. On top was a wooden platform onto which had been raised a set of gallows. Silhouetted against the grey sky, Frances could clearly see, were six ropes suspended from the beam that ran the length of the platform. They swung gently, mesmerically, in the quickening breeze.

  Frances felt the pulsing at the side of her head grow more intense as she stared, willing this to be a terrible dream. Her vision began to cloud, and she gripped the pommel of the saddle. As the reins went slack, her horse came to a sudden halt, prompting outraged cries from the crowds of people behind, who almost tumbled on top of one another. One man cursed loudly, and another shouted: ‘Move on there!’

  Automatically, Frances yanked the reins, and the horse lurched forward. By the time she reached Cecil, the crowds had grown so dense that they were obliged to dismount. Tying the reins to a nearby post, they travelled the remaining distance on foot.

  Cecil’s page had ridden ahead, and was waiting to escort them to the raised platform upon which sat about twenty finely dressed gentlemen. Frances recognised several members of the council among them. One by one, they noticed Cecil approaching and got to their feet. He nodded in greeting, and led Frances to the two vacant seats right at the front of the platform. She was grateful to sit down. Her legs felt weak, and she was nauseous from the constant, throbbing pain in her head.

  She became aware of a growing cacophony among the general shouts and cheers. It was coming from the road along which she and Cecil had ridden a few moments before. Craning her neck, she could just make out the ears and mane of a carthorse as it plodded slowly through the crowds, pulling behind it a wagon in which sat a young woman.

  Her head bowed to the taunts that rang out all around her, the prisoner stared intently at her hands, which were tightly bound together with a thick length of rope. A white linen hood covered her hair,
and her dress was of coarse brown wool, with a white linen collar and cuffs. As she drew closer, Frances saw that her lips moved in a constant prayer that was drowned out by the jeers of the crowd. She could not have been much older than twenty, Frances guessed, but she bore herself with quiet dignity.

  The wagon was drawn to a halt at the foot of the steps that led up to the gallows. One of the men who had been standing on the platform walked slowly down, raising his hands to whip up a fresh round of cheers from the crowd. Relishing the moment, he climbed into the wagon and roughly pulled the woman to her feet. As soon as he released his grip, she fell back onto the seat, prompting cries of ‘Get up, witch!’

  With considerable effort, she eventually raised herself onto her feet. Her legs were visibly trembling. Without warning, the man pushed her violently forward and, stumbling, she fell over the side of the wagon. Unable to stay herself with her hands, she landed hard, awkwardly, her face slapping against the dusty ground.

  Frances felt a desperate urge to help her, but was tortured by the knowledge that she must remain in her seat, as implacable as the other spectators on the platform. As if sensing her unease, Cecil placed his hand on her wrist. He kept it there, slowly tightening his grip.

  ‘Your potions cannot help her, Lady Frances,’ he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  Frances rounded on him. ‘If she were really a witch, then she could surely help herself, my lord,’ she muttered.

  With slow, painful steps, the young woman mounted the scaffold. Whenever she paused to steady herself, her tormentor jabbed her in the back with his boot so that she stumbled forward once more. By the time that she reached the top of the steps, the crowds had fallen silent. Her head still bowed, she shuffled forward, and came to a halt a few feet in front of the platform. Slowly raising her eyes, she scanned the faces of the dignitaries seated in front of her, returning their affronted stares as if she were of equal rank and importance.

  At length, her gaze alighted upon Frances. For a few moments, their eyes were locked together. Frances looked at the steady, knowing face of the accused. Was she already filled with the grace of heaven? The serenity of her expression suggested so, but there was also a glint of anger at a life snatched away.

  As Frances returned her gaze, she had never felt so worthless. Cecil was right: all her powers of healing were as nothing now. She could only stare out helplessly, hoping to convey something of her sympathy, of her wretchedness at the knowledge of what lay ahead. Please forgive me for watching this. She thought she saw the smallest twitch of the woman’s mouth into a quick, answering smile before she stared again at the floor, her back stooped in defeat. Frances imagined her bent over her pestle, grinding herbs into a paste for a salve, or mixing them with oil for a tincture. She wondered how many people had been glad of her ministrations, before this new king declared them to be the work of the Devil.

  An anxious murmur ran through the crowd. In an instant, Cecil was on his feet.

  ‘Good people!’ he shouted across the throng, which extended as far as the eye could see. ‘We are here to witness the just punishment of a despicable crime against His Majesty and all his subjects.’

  He waited for the now excited murmur to die down.

  ‘According to His Majesty’s late Act against the practice of witchcraft, enchantment, and sorcery, any person who is found to have invoked or conjured wicked or evil spirits, or to have consulted or made a covenant with Satan or his followers, shall suffer pains of death.’

  ‘Death!’ he repeated again, louder this time. There was an answering cheer. A smile of satisfaction crossed Cecil’s face as he looked around the crowd. He pointed towards the prisoner, who was still gazing down at the ground.

  ‘This woman conspired against a noble family in the king’s county of Suffolk. She made a pact with Satan to carry out his evil designs here on earth.’

  A pause. Everyone had now fallen silent and was listening intently.

  ‘Having lain with the Devil numerous times, she turned her lustful eyes upon the earl, her master, and did on sundry occasions commit unlawful and indecent acts to seduce him to her will.’

  His eyes glinted as he slowly ran his tongue around his thin lips.

  ‘On one such occasion she bewitched the earl so that he might copulate with her as if she had been a common beast of the field.’

  There was a gratifying exclamation from the crowd. Frances noticed that the woman’s hands were clenched tightly. She wondered what choice her master had given her in their affair. Many lords viewed their servingwomen as chattel, to be used as they saw fit, and then discarded when their desire was spent.

  ‘Having thus ensnared him with her body, her spells and her potions,’ he continued, casting a look at Frances, ‘she so bewitched his mind and his body that he was unable to beget a child upon his wife, the countess.’

  ‘Whore!’ someone cried from the throng. There were answering shouts of ‘Devil’s slut!’ and ‘Witch!’

  Cecil made no motion to silence them, but merely waited, a smile playing about his mouth.

  ‘And so, thanks to the evil wiles of this whore of Satan, the earl’s line will die with him. But, not content with this victory, she conspired to ruin his estate so that all his cattle fell prey to a strange disease, his crops were destroyed, and his orchards were washed away in a tempest.’

  The cacophony of shouts and cries from the outraged crowd grew deafening. There was a stamping of feet so violent that the scaffold shook. Several people spat at the woman, who remained standing in front of the platform, her gaze fixed on the ground. Even when a stone was hurled, almost striking her eye, she barely flinched.

  ‘His Majesty’s Court of Assize heard of all these crimes – and more – committed by this lamentable creature here, who uttered not one word in her defence, and found her justly guilty.’

  ‘Guilty!’ he cried again, smiling at the answering cheers from the crowd. ‘And so it was the pleasure of that court, and of the King’s Majesty, that she should perish, as do all witches, and be hanged from the neck until she is dead!’

  The near-hysterical shouts that his triumphant declaration sparked made Frances’s head pound with a pain so intense that she had to dig her nails into her arms to keep from vomiting.

  Cecil nodded to the hangman, who grabbed the woman by the arm and yanked her towards the row of nooses that still swung gently in the early-morning breeze. Choosing the one that hung at the centre, in full view of the crowd and assembled dignitaries, he dragged a tall wooden stool across and positioned it underneath. Holding it at the base, he motioned to the woman to climb on top of it.

  Gathering up her skirts as best she could, she tentatively placed one foot on the supporting rung of the stool, testing its stability, then, crouching, manoeuvred both feet onto the stool. Agonisingly slowly, she straightened her shaking legs until she was standing straight, the stool wobbling precariously beneath her.

  The hangman propped up a long ladder against the beam and climbed up it until he was level with the woman. Reaching forward, he grabbed the swinging noose and dropped it over her head.

  There was a cheer from the crowds. Frances knew they sensed the impending kill, like her father’s bloodhounds. She had seen them tear a fox to pieces once, and the memory made the bile rise in her throat, just as it had on that bright spring day fifteen years before.

  The crowd had fallen into hushed anticipation.

  ‘Lord God forgive me; Christ receive my soul,’ the woman murmured quietly, her voice cracked and trembling.

  Frances watched as a stream of urine ran down the woman’s legs and dripped onto the dusty boards below.

  Then again, more loudly, as if the words gave her confidence: ‘Lord God forgive me; Christ receive my soul!’

  Frances noticed that Cecil looked suddenly fearful, as if aware that this show of piety might invoke the sympathy of the crowd. He nodded quickly to the hangman, who gave one sharp, swift kick at the stool, sending it crashi
ng away.

  The woman dropped towards the floor, the rope tightening around her neck. Her body jerked and twisted as her still bound hands clawed desperately at the rope. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, and her face was turning a dark red.

  Frances’s gaze was locked onto the suffocating girl, just as it had been on the fox as the breath was ripped from its body. The seconds passed like minutes; the minutes like hours. The woman’s face turned from scarlet to purple.

  The crowd was silent, and Frances knew the mood had changed.

  ‘Pull on her ankles!’ somebody shouted. Others took up the cry. Some people began to weep.

  At last, the jerking grew softer, slower. The woman’s face was now blue. Slowly, she opened her bulging eyes and turned them up to heaven. Her body grew still, swayed only by the wind as it blew gently across the mound. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic creaking of the beam overhead.

  After a few moments, Cecil, his face grim, motioned to the hangman, whose expression was masked by the black hood that extended down to his shoulders. He mounted the ladder once more, and, coming face to face with the woman, reached out to touch her neck. Holding his fingers there for a few seconds, he then dropped them and gave the slightest nod to Cecil.

  ‘So perish all witches!’ the Lord Privy Seal cried, his voice not quite matching the earlier conviction of the words.

  Turning, he held out his hand to Frances, who slowly stood up. She tasted bile in her mouth. Descending the steps, each one a trial, she reached the ground below and stumbled quickly towards the back of the scaffold. Free at last from the prying eyes of the crowd, of Cecil, of the dead woman, she fell to her knees and retched into the dust.

  After several moments, she rose unsteadily to her feet. Turning, she saw Cecil.

  ‘Have a care, my lady,’ he whispered, leaning towards her. ‘I am watching you.’

  CHAPTER 14

  13 July

  ‘You are very quiet today, Lady Frances,’ the princess remarked softly, her eyes wide with concern. ‘I hope you are not ill? Lady Mar says the sickness has returned to London. You look very pale.’