The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  She tried to slow her pace, but was soon jostled by the line of courtiers behind her, impatient to be inside the shelter of the abbey. Reluctantly, she turned to face the road ahead, which was rapidly becoming a river. Just before they rounded the corner that led to the Strand, she turned, craning her neck towards the red-brick gatehouse. He had stepped out from under it now and was standing, perfectly still, his hood still pulled back. Though she could no longer make out his features, she knew that his eyes were fixed upon her.

  Turning back towards Westminster, the spires of which were now just visible above the grand mansions that lined the Strand, her mouth lifted into a slow smile.

  CHAPTER 16

  28 July

  The entertainments were already under way when Frances arrived at the Banqueting House with her young charge. Looking down, she saw that Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with excitement at being allowed to attend the evening reception, the lateness of the hour adding to the sense that she was, at last, being treated as an adult, rather than just the little sister of her revered brother, the prince and heir. This was the third night of revelry in succession, and Frances’s heart sank to think that there were still another four to go. Perhaps, with all this magnificence, the king hoped to mask the disappointment of the anniversary parade itself.

  By the time they had reached the abbey, the king had been in a foul temper. The inadequate canopy had offered little shelter, and he had trudged up the aisle of the ancient cathedral scowling, rain dripping onto his face from the ermine that fringed his crown. Even the ceremony of thanksgiving had seemed to irritate him, and he had obliged the archbishop to cut short his oratory. As if the tempest was not ominous enough, James’s ungracious behaviour had surely set the seal on God’s displeasure – and that of his subjects.

  Looking around the ornate hall now, with its immensely high ceiling and lavishly decorated walls, Frances found it hard to believe that it was all just a temporary structure, put up by the old queen as part of a charade surrounding the negotiations for yet another potential marriage.

  A heady smell of spiced wine filled the air. The princess breathed in deeply, and Frances had to smile at the look of sheer joy that suffused her delicate features. In the few short weeks since entering her service, she had developed a strong affection for the young girl, whose natural exuberance was infectious. It had proved a welcome diversion from the intrigue and suspicion that increasingly pervaded the court. Every day there were rumours of another conspiracy, and the king looked about him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Ma’am.’ A page stepped forward with a silver tray laden with gold-rimmed crystal glasses. Elizabeth immediately took one and began devouring its contents.

  ‘Slowly, my lady,’ Frances cautioned. ‘The wine is strong, and you need to preserve your nimble feet for the dancing.’

  Elizabeth giggled, and handed her attendant the glass, which was less than half full.

  ‘Come! I must greet the king and my lady mother.’

  Together they advanced towards the throne. A path was rapidly cleared for them as they walked, the courtiers bowing low as the princess passed. She held her head high, inclining it slightly every now and then. As they came before the king and queen, sitting underneath the great canopy of state, Frances and the princess bowed low.

  ‘Sweet Liz, come here.’ The king beckoned to his daughter. Torn between the need to maintain her newly acquired maturity, and the desire to receive some rare fatherly affection, Elizabeth walked slowly forward. When she came within reach of the king, he grabbed at her and pulled her clumsily onto his knee. Frances saw her recoil slightly as he breathed close to her face, spittle falling on her pale cheek.

  ‘Your mother is not in a good humour this evening, Lizzie,’ he said, looking scornfully across at the queen. Stealing a glance, Frances noticed that Anne appeared in some discomfort. Her face was waxy pale, and beads of sweat were forming at her temples. Every now and then her hands, which lay across her stomach, would press into it sharply.

  ‘Mama.’ Elizabeth jumped down from her father’s knee and went to kneel for her mother’s blessing. Anne tentatively withdrew one of her hands from her stomach and placed it briefly on her daughter’s head.

  ‘Lady Frances.’ The queen nodded towards her. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘Very well, Your Majesty,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘Can I bring you something for your ease?’

  Before Anne could reply, a cacophony of noise erupted to the right of the platform on which she sat.

  ‘Stop it, Henry! Stop!’

  The childish scream rang out across the hall, bringing the music and chatter to an abrupt halt. The infant Charles lay kicking at his elder brother’s feet, as Henry pinned him down and forced a pointed ivory silk hat on to his head. The hat was so large that it completely engulfed Charles’s head, and when he got to his feet, he stumbled forward, unable to see. Henry laughed uproariously.

  ‘Behold, good subjects! The new Archbishop of Canterbury!’ he called, collapsing into a fresh fit of laughter. As his infant brother staggered around on his thin, rickety legs, flailing wildly with his arms, the laughter spread across the room. Soon the whole court was in uproar.

  Frances watched as the little prince tripped over an outstretched foot, prompting a fresh burst of hilarity. Even the queen, momentarily distracted from her discomfort, wore an expression of indulgent amusement. But her husband was glowering. He leaped to his feet, and, pushing back the courtiers who were too slow to react, he ran to his eldest son and dealt him a blow across the face so hard that the crack reverberated around the hall. Henry staggered back, holding his jaw. Slowly, James walked over to where his youngest son was on his hands and knees, sobbing. Gently but firmly, he wrested the mitre from his head. The little boy buried his face in his hands, as much to stay his tears as to hide himself from the eyes of the court.

  ‘You young runt!’ James shouted at Henry, and, without warning, flung his glass towards his son’s head. The prince ducked just in time, and the goblet shattered onto the flagstones, its contents spilling over the onlookers nearby.

  ‘No!’ The cry came from the platform. All heads turned to see the queen, her face now ghastly white; sweat glistened across her face and neck. She took a painful step forward, and there was a collective gasp as those close to the throne saw the blood that was pooling at her feet.

  ‘Lady Frances,’ she whispered, swaying suddenly as if intoxicated. Frances rushed forward, and put her arm around the queen’s shoulders as she fell into a faint.

  ‘Help me, quickly,’ Frances quietly urged the other ladies in attendance, who were standing nearby, aghast. Together, they half carried, half dragged the queen’s limp body through the hall, towards the Great Watching Chamber that lay beyond. As she closed the door behind her, Frances caught a glimpse of Cecil staring after her, his expression thunderous. She knew she did not have much time.

  Casting about the room, Frances saw a cluster of velvet cushions scattered around its perimeter. Gathering them up, she hurried back to the queen, who was still slumped in her ladies’ arms. Lowering her gently onto the cushions, Frances commanded Lady Mar to loosen the queen’s stays. She sent another for water and linens.

  Holding Anne’s limp wrist between her forefinger and thumb, Frances felt a faint pulse. The blood was still seeping from under the queen’s skirts, staining her white stockings with bright, glistening red. When the woman returned with water, Frances gently cradled Anne’s head and brought the goblet to her lips. Dribbling a small amount into her mouth, she closed it with her fingers and watched her throat. Seeing a small movement, Frances gradually administered another drop, and another.

  Slowly, Anne opened her eyes. She stared at Frances in bemusement.

  ‘He should not tease Charlie so,’ she said. ‘The boy has such a temper.’

  A tear weaved slowly down the queen’s cheek. Her face was still as white as the marble pillars that flanked the doorway of the hall.

  ‘It
would have been a winter baby, and Elizabeth did so want a little sister.’

  ‘Your Majesty is still young. The princess might have a nursery full of sisters yet.’

  The words sounded false, even to her own ears. The queen smiled bitterly, and slowly shook her head.

  ‘The king will get no more children on me now. God knows he visits my bed seldom enough.’

  Frances caught the look that Lady Mar exchanged with another of the ladies, but busied herself with wringing out the sodden sheets and rearranging the queen’s skirts so that she might be conveyed with dignity to her privy apartments.

  A rapping at the door reverberated around the lofty chamber. For a moment, nobody stirred. Frances looked at the queen, who gave the slightest nod. Rising to her feet, she crossed slowly to the door and opened it a crack.

  ‘Lady Frances, I cannot permit you to detain the queen any longer. The king is growing impatient.’

  ‘My Lord Cecil.’

  Even through the narrow gap, Frances could see the irritation on his face.

  ‘The queen needs rest. I would be obliged if you could instruct the Lord Chamberlain to bring her sedan so that she might be carried to her chamber.’

  There was a moment’s pause as he weighed the necessity of her request with the infringement of hierarchy that taking instructions from her represented.

  ‘Very well, but I will also arrange for the queen’s physician to attend her. She requires the ministrations of an expert, not the homespun remedies of a—’ He paused. ‘Of our resident wise woman.’

  He turned on his heel and walked briskly away, the sound of his footsteps uneven as he moved with his usual awkward gait.

  ‘My husband is not a patient man,’ the queen observed softly. ‘He despairs of the female sex altogether. But then, he has enough male companions to console him for our deceits and disappointments.’

  Frances was glad when, at that moment, the Lord Chamberlain and his men arrived with the queen’s sedan. Setting the elegant ivory silk chair down in front of her, they kept their eyes fixed straight ahead as the ladies lifted her into it. Frances saw Anne wince as she shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that she could endure for the short journey to her apartments. She wished that she would be allowed to accompany her, but Cecil had made it clear that her services had been superseded by those of the royal physician. He shot Frances a haughty, disapproving look as he followed the entourage that conveyed the queen out of the room.

  Suddenly remembering that the princess would still be in the hall, Frances hastened to find her, ashamed that she had been so far from her thoughts. She arrived to find that most of the company had dispersed. Only James appeared unmoved by the event. He remained on his throne, flanked by the usual coterie of favourites. One of them lay reclined at his feet, and Frances noticed that he distractedly stroked James’s silk-clad calves. The Prince of Wales was standing sullenly next to the platform, his arms crossed and his mouth set in a determined line. His younger brother had been taken to bed, and the crumpled bishop’s hat lay discarded halfway across the hall.

  Frances hoped to find Elizabeth and spirit her quietly away. Casting about the room, she caught a movement of pink satin from behind one of the pillars. She walked softly over to it, and, drawing closer, heard the muffled sound of sobbing. The princess was sitting at the base of the pillar, hugging her knees tightly, her face buried in them. The delicate satin of her dress was stained with tears.

  Lowering herself next to the young girl, Frances gently put her arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

  ‘Ma-Mama,’ Elizabeth gasped in between sobs. ‘I-is she dead?’

  ‘No, my lady,’ Frances soothed, wrapping both arms around her, and gently rocking her. ‘Your mother will be well. She is resting now.’

  The princess lifted up her red, swollen eyes. ‘But there was so much blood. I felt sure that Mama must have been murdered.’

  ‘Hush now.’ Frances smoothed back the loose tendrils of hair from the girl’s face. ‘All will be well.’ Knowing that she would not be so easily appeased, she added: ‘Your mother was with child, but it was very early and it bled away.’

  Elizabeth looked up at her wonderingly.

  ‘I was to have a sister?’

  Frances smiled. ‘Or a brother, my lady.’

  A look of sadness passed over the princess’s face.

  ‘I should have so liked a baby sister,’ she said. Then, considering, asked: ‘Might I still?’

  Frances thought of the queen’s words, and the finality with which she had spoken them. But she could not bear to deprive her young charge of all comfort, so she simply said: ‘If God wills it.’ This was enough to pacify Elizabeth, whose eyes now sparkled with hope, as well as tears.

  ‘Then I shall pray to Him every night that it may be so,’ she said decisively.

  Frances gently withdrew her arms from around the princess, and stood up. She reached forward and took Elizabeth’s small hands in her own, pulling her to her feet.

  ‘It is late. I must take you to bed, my lady.’

  For once, her charge did not protest. Overcome with the sweet exhaustion that follows tears, she blinked slowly up at Frances, smiling.

  ‘Lady Frances!’

  The king’s voice, thick with wine, rang out across the near-deserted hall. Frances closed her eyes briefly, then, turning, made a low curtsey towards the distant throne.

  ‘You would do well to attend your proper duties, rather than usurping those of my physicians,’ he drawled. ‘My daughter should have been abed long before now.’

  ‘Forgive me, sire.’ Frances kept her gaze fixed on the ground. ‘I wanted to ease the queen’s distress.’

  ‘I am sick to the stomach with meddling women!’ he shouted suddenly, slamming his goblet down so that the contents splattered over his companions. Frances felt the princess’s hand tighten around hers. She gently stroked it with her forefinger as she waited, not sure whether this was a dismissal. Several moments passed. A grunting noise made Frances look up sharply. She saw that the king’s head had lolled forward onto his chest. He had fallen into a deep, wine-induced sleep. The young man who had been stroking his calves sniggered. Another reached forward and unlaced James’s collar. Then they all settled down to sleep, like dogs at the feet of their master.

  CHAPTER 17

  30 July

  A hammering on the door jolted Frances awake. It was pitch black. She wondered whether her heart had been pounding all night, or whether it was the unexpected knocking. She felt about for her cloak, and, wrapping it around herself, reached the door just as it was shaken by another volley. She could hear the sound of footsteps now, running in the direction of the Great Hall.

  She opened the door to find Tom standing before her, his agitated face illuminated by the single candle that he carried in his trembling hand.

  ‘Frances, you must come with me,’ he urged, pulling her by the wrist. ‘The court is in uproar.’

  Without pausing for further explanation, he slammed the door shut behind them and raced down the hallway, still holding Frances tightly by the wrist. She had no time to absorb the shock of his sudden appearance as they ran along the gloomy corridor. At the end of it, she caught a glimpse of a small, slight figure loitering in a doorway, but Tom had pulled her around the corner before she could look back.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Frances demanded, trying to jerk herself free.

  ‘To the princess,’ Tom replied breathlessly, as they rounded the corner that led to the royal nursery.

  Frances felt her chest tighten in panic.

  The door to the princess’s bedroom was already open when they reached it. Rushing in, Frances saw a bewildered-looking Lady Mar. Elizabeth’s bed, the covers flung back, bore the imprint of her small body, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where is my lady princess?’ Frances demanded urgently.

  ‘Frances!’ The high-pitched voice called out behind her, and she swung around to see
Elizabeth hastening towards her from the little anteroom that led off from her bedchamber. She buried her face in Frances’s skirts, hugging her legs tightly.

  ‘Thank God she is safe,’ Tom breathed, his shoulders sagging.

  ‘Tell me now – what is happening?’ Frances commanded, her heart still racing.

  ‘Treason.’ Lady Mar spoke the word with a kind of wonder.

  ‘It is true,’ Tom said gravely. ‘A papist conspiracy has been uncovered. Cecil has issued orders for the entire palace to be searched, lest any conspirators remain in its midst.’

  Frances fell silent, recalling the conversation at the dinner with Sir Thomas Tyringham. Her uncle’s gloomy predictions had proved remarkably accurate.

  ‘Who is behind it?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I don’t know, everything is still in confusion. Lady Arbella was mentioned.’

  Frances remembered the haughty young woman who had been summoned to court by the late queen towards the end of her reign. With the royal blood of the Tudors and Stuarts coursing through her veins, her very birth had been the result of a plot by those ambitious matriarchs, Bess of Hardwick and Lady Margaret Douglas, niece of Henry VIII, to produce a rival claimant to the throne. Elizabeth had eyed the flame-haired Lady Stuart with customary shrewdness, quickly concluding that this indulged and volatile young girl was not the stuff that queens were made of.

  ‘Is she taken?’ Frances imagined the proud young woman behind the dark walls of the Tower.

  ‘I do not think so – at least, not yet,’ Tom replied. ‘She will no doubt insist upon her innocence, as she has before.’

  ‘Was she going to kill my father?’ the princess whispered, her eyes wide with fear.