The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Gathering her skirts, she hastened from the room, brushing past the guards at the door beyond, who looked after her, surprised. She quickened her pace, taking long strides along the narrow corridors and through the succession of courtyards, the sun bursting onto her in quick, searing intervals. Courtiers looked after her as she hurried past, but she did not heed their curious stares. Several times, she thought she heard the light, rapid tap of footsteps behind her.

  When at last she reached his apartment, she knocked quietly on the door and waited, panting, beads of sweat trickling down her neck and between her breasts. The heat was so intense now that it had penetrated the thick stone walls of the palace, and it felt like a furnace within.

  Frances struggled for breath as she waited. After a few moments, the door opened, and Tom looked at her with a mixture of surprise and alarm. Without hesitating, he pulled her into the room and closed the door quickly behind her. Holding her by the hand, he gently guided her to a chair next to a desk, on which there was a large pile of papers.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Frances said, looking towards them. ‘I disturbed you—’

  ‘Hush,’ he interrupted gently. ‘Calm yourself. Here—’ He handed her a glass of water. Frances gulped it down gratefully.

  ‘You have heard Cecil’s pronouncement,’ he said quietly.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Apparently he excelled himself in council, whipping the king up into a fury that some witch had murdered his unborn child. Already there are scores of lawyers at work drafting the new statute. I had to plead the pressure of the queen’s business to avoid becoming involved myself.’

  Frances looked up at him bleakly.

  ‘Cecil’s men are all over the palace,’ Tom continued. ‘They have been instructed to report anything unusual to their master. The king’s guard are on alert too. What with this, and the late plot, everyone is jumping at their own shadow.’

  ‘I must go back to Longford,’ Frances said. ‘I will be safe there.’

  ‘If you leave now, it will be taken as an admission of guilt,’ Tom replied quickly. ‘You must stand firm. Cecil has you marked, but you enjoy the favour of the queen and her daughter.’

  The reassurance sounded weak.

  ‘You know that will count as nothing if Cecil persuades his master that I am the witch he seeks. The king has no love for his wife, and he will soon find another favourite for his daughter. I must leave. I can excuse my departure by some urgent business. My parents charged me with the care of their estate, after all.’

  Tom fell silent. He walked over to the window and stared out at the river. His chamber, Frances noted, was a good deal smaller and less well-appointed than her own. There were no hangings on the walls, and the oak floorboards lay exposed at their feet. On his desk, next to the papers, was a half-eaten plum and a small goblet of water. He seemed to have few belongings. There was a prayer book on the small table next to his bed, and what looked like a chain or a necklace beside it. Frances’s gaze was distracted from it when Tom spoke.

  ‘If you go to Longford, Cecil’s men will follow you there. He has heard of your fondness for the place – God knows, your uncle has complained of it often enough.’

  He paused, watching her intently. ‘I know you long to leave this place, but it is safer to stay and weather the storm. It need not be for long. The king is notoriously fickle. His obsession with witchcraft will be replaced with a fervour for hunting or jousting before the winter is upon us.’

  ‘Cecil has greater patience,’ Frances countered grimly.

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘He will soon have other matters to attend to. The king easily tires of state business, and gladly passes it to his chief minister. Cecil may not be a favourite, but there is nobody more able.’

  Frances stared down at her hands. After a few moments, she gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘You are right. I have no choice but to remain at court and counter whatever Cecil levels at me. Besides,’ she added, lifting her eyes to Tom’s, ‘I am not entirely without friends here.’

  ‘Lady Frances – Frances,’ he said softly but earnestly, ‘your welfare means a great deal to me.’

  ‘I am greatly indebted to you,’ she replied, holding his gaze.

  He walked slowly over to where she was sitting and knelt down in front of her. His brown eyes regarded her uncertainly. Frances reached forward and touched his cheek, which felt warm against her palm. Immediately ashamed of her impulsiveness, she made as if to withdraw her hand, but Tom reached up and held it there. He leaned forward so that their faces almost touched.

  ‘I will keep you safe,’ he whispered.

  Then, slowly, he kissed her. Frances tasted the sweet tang of summer plums on his lips.

  CHAPTER 19

  18 August

  Frances looked out across the Thames, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. It would not be light for another hour yet, although she fancied that the sky was already marked with the first wisps of dawn. Relishing the stillness, she watched the swollen waters of the river as it flowed westwards, hoping that it might carry her thoughts away. But again they were drawn back to the events of the day before, and she felt as if her heart was being squeezed. Terror at Cecil’s witch hunt merged with the warmth of desire that seemed to pool in the pit of her stomach when she thought of Tom. An image of his face, close to hers, appeared so clearly that it was as if he were standing next to her now.

  A sharp creak outside her door jolted her back to the present. She waited for the knock, but none came. It was far too early for Mrs Banks to attend her. She usually arrived, scowling, a little after six. After a pause, Frances padded silently over to the door. Turning the key slowly in the lock, cringing against the scraping noise that it made, she opened the door to see a boy standing before her. He made no attempt to move, but simply stared straight ahead, his face impassive.

  ‘What is your business here?’ Frances demanded, her voice low but urgent.

  The boy smirked at her, but remained silent.

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  Still he said nothing, but the smile remained. He gave the slightest of bows, and sauntered away down the corridor, whistling tunelessly as he went.

  Frances took her breakfast in the dining hall that morning, for once preferring the noise and clamour to the tranquillity of the princess’s apartments. She welcomed the distraction of the endless chatter as her fellow courtiers tore chunks of bread and dipped them into their ale, or cut generous slabs of cheese and meat and devoured them as if they had not eaten for a week.

  ‘The Lady Arbella is now thought to have conspired with witches,’ she heard someone remark above the clamour.

  ‘Aye,’ their companion agreed. ‘Master Cecil says it is certain that there is one amongst us – probably a whole coven.’

  Frances busied herself with spreading butter on the warm bread roll from the basket that one of the red-faced kitchen attendants had just put on their table.

  ‘He won’t be satisfied until he’s found her and burned her, like they do in his kingdom,’ another retorted.

  Rising, she walked over to the long table that ran along one side of the hall, and helped herself to some water from a large pewter jug.

  ‘My lady.’

  The voice came from close behind her, making her start. She turned to see a servingwoman whom she recognised from the queen’s household. Her light brown hair was scraped back into an untidy bun at the base of her neck, and she wore a crisp white apron, the seams of which she fretted with her hands.

  ‘I have need of your skills,’ she said quietly.

  Before she could say anything else, Frances guided her swiftly and discreetly to a corner of the room where they might not be so easily overheard.

  ‘My sister’s child is gravely ill, my lady,’ the woman continued. ‘He is but five weeks old, and was a lusty baby until now. They say the sickness is back.’

  Frances looked at her steadily for severa
l moments, considering whether this might be a trap set by Cecil and his men.

  ‘I am sorry, madam, you are mistaken. I have no skills to help your nephew.’

  ‘But my lady, I have heard say that your skills surpass those of any wise woman. I beg you to use them now so that you might save his young soul.’

  Frances looked around the room, her eyes searching for the boy appointed to watch her. She shook her head, keeping her expression neutral.

  ‘You are mistaken, madam,’ she repeated carefully. ‘Perhaps one of the court physicians can help?’

  A look of scorn passed over the woman’s face.

  ‘Their potions and purges do more harm than good,’ she said briskly. ‘The boy needs succour from a healer. It is his only chance,’ she added, her voice cracked.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Frances said sadly. ‘I regret that I am unable to help.’

  As she turned to go, the woman grasped her hands.

  ‘Please, my lady. My sister’s house is on Throgmorton Street, next to the old friary. It is not two miles from here.’

  With that, she hastened away into the throng of courtiers. Frances watched until she disappeared from view. Then, as calmly as she could, she drank the contents of her cup, and walked slowly from the hall.

  Frances retired early to her chamber that night. The princess had been tired from the ride through St James’s Park that they had taken in the afternoon, so for once needed little persuasion to take her rest. Pushing away thoughts of the conversation in the dining hall, Frances tried to recall each species of flower that she had seen blooming in the park, and soon felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy. The trees of St James’s slowly merged with the woods at Britford. It was autumn, and the leaves she kicked up danced like flames around her feet; reds, browns, yellows, and golds flickering in the sunlight. Then the colours seemed to be flickering up her skirt, and her dress was on fire. She started running, but the flames swept across the woodland floor.

  Frances sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly awake. As the panic of the fire subsided, she heard the Reverend Samuels’s voice as if he were in the room.

  God wishes you to use your skill to help others, Frances. You must never deny Him.

  Frances sat still, listening intently. A few moments passed, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. Her imagination was playing strange tricks tonight. Her breathing began to return to normal, but she knew that all hope of sleep was lost. Sighing, she got up and splashed some water from the ewer onto her face, then slowly wiped it dry with a linen cloth. She caught a glimpse of herself in the small looking glass. Her pallid skin appeared almost translucent in the gloom of her chamber, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

  It is his only chance. The words returned, unbidden, as Frances stared at her reflection.

  She recalled her mother’s face, flushed with anger, during their conversation at Longford. Though she knew that Helena only wanted to protect her, she still felt a prick of irritation. Her mother might be well-intentioned, but she did not appreciate how skilled her daughter was.

  Seized with a sudden resolve, she got up and walked quickly over to her wardrobe. Her fingers felt for the plain, heavy gown that she wore for her woodland rambles at Longford. It had hung, unused, in her wardrobe ever since she had arrived at court. She pulled it on over her shift and hastily fumbled with the lacings. Scraping back her hair and knotting it tightly into a bun, she tucked it into the simple cap that she wore when making up her tinctures. She then wrapped her cloak tightly around her, pulling the hood down so that it obscured her face. Rifling through the small wooden chest that contained her precious herbs and potions, she selected a few and dropped them carefully into the leather purse that was concealed among her skirts.

  She opened the door a crack and peered out. The corridor seemed empty. Walking silently along it, she quickened her pace as she progressed further through the palace. At length, she reached the heavy oak door that opened out onto the cobbled courtyard that bordered Whitehall. Two yeomen of the guard stood on either side of it, and as they saw Frances approach, they lowered their halberds so that they formed a cross in front of the doorway.

  ‘What is your business?’

  ‘Please, I must pass. My nephew lies grievously ill. I must attend him.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  Frances hesitated. She could reply falsely, but they might send for a clerk of the Lord Chamberlain if they doubted her. Giving her real name would mean that Cecil would almost certainly find out about her night-time excursion – if he had not already.

  ‘Lady Frances Gorges,’ she replied at last. ‘I am lady of the bedchamber to the princess, and have Her Majesty the queen’s sanction to make this visit.’

  The guards exchanged glances. Eventually, one of them shrugged, and they raised their halberds to let her through.

  The sound of the door swinging shut on its hinges reverberated around the courtyard. Pausing to take a few deep gasps of the chill night air, Frances darted furtive glances around her. She felt sure that eyes were looking out at her from the dark windows that lined the courtyard. But everywhere was silence.

  Drawing her cloak more tightly around her, she walked through the gateway that led out onto Whitehall, and turned south towards the river. The bustle of London’s main thoroughfare had subsided now, but a few boatmen still lined the banks, their small vessels lit by swaying lanterns. Frances chose the closest one, and instructed its owner to take her downriver, towards the Tower.

  As they glided out into the dark waters of the Thames, Frances felt suddenly alone. The hunched form of the boatman was hardly discernible in the gloom, and the rhythmic splash of the oars set her nerves on edge. She knew Cecil’s men might be waiting for her. But she also knew that the Reverend Samuels would have gone to the child, even if it had led him to the gallows.

  At length, the imposing silhouette of the great Tower loomed into view. Frances looked up at the huge keep, glimmering white in the moonlight, its onion domes picked out against the dark sky. The oarsman steered the boat towards the mooring next to the watergate. Pressing a shilling into his leathery palm, Frances climbed out of the vessel and walked away from the river, towards Tower Hill. From there, he had told her, she would be able to see the ruins of the old friary, which was a short distance away.

  The streets were eerily quiet as Frances made her way towards the skeletal arch. Once or twice she allowed herself a quick glance behind her, but there was nobody in sight. If he were following her, then Cecil’s boy was more discreet than usual.

  As she reached the friary, she could see a dwelling just beyond the old nave, at the corner of Throgmorton Street. Although the rest of the houses were in darkness, a light burned in an upstairs window. As she stood at the threshold, she hesitated for a moment, then knocked gently on the door.

  Frances realised that she was holding her breath as she waited for an answer, straining her ears for any sound of movement. Eventually, she heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs, and a few moments later the door was opened just wide enough for a whey-faced man to peer outside.

  ‘Who calls here?’ he asked in a quiet, fearful voice.

  ‘I am a friend of your wife’s sister, sir,’ Frances answered calmly. ‘I have come to help your son.’

  The man opened the door a fraction more and eyed Frances uncertainly. Just then, the woman from the queen’s household came bustling down the stairs, and, seeing Frances, called: ‘Let her in, John.’

  Frances stepped into the parlour. The embers of a small fire glowed weakly in the grate, and the bitter smell of tallow filled the room. It was sparsely furnished, with a dark wooden table and chairs, and a gnarled old chest in one corner. A few rushes were scattered over the stone cobbles of the floor.

  ‘You have come, my lady,’ the woman said quietly. ‘I did not expect you.’

  Frances gave a quick, reassuring smile.

  ‘Please, take me to your nephew.’

  Followi
ng her upstairs, Frances felt the familiar pang of foreboding. No matter how many patients she had attended, she never enjoyed the comfort of complete faith in her healing. That power lay only with God.

  In the far corner of the room, a woman – very like the one who had summoned her here – sat on a chair, a baby swaddled on her lap, rocking to and fro. She turned tear-stained eyes to Frances.

  ‘Can you save him, my lady? My sister says you have great skill. Please save him.’ She resumed her rocking. ‘He will not even take my milk, though the Lord knows I have tried.’

  Frances walked across the room, and laid her hand gently on the woman’s shoulder to stay the rocking. Looking down at the little form that lay in his mother’s arms, her heart sank. The infant’s face, and the tiny fingers that poked out from the swaddling, were tinged with purple, as if Death had already marked the child for his own. Through the linen sheet that encased him, she could see the little chest rising and falling in a jerking movement. His lips were slightly apart, and there was a waxy sheen to his skin.

  ‘I will do what I can to ease him,’ Frances said quietly.

  She untied the leather pouch from her skirts and took out a small phial filled with a tincture made from juniper, milk thistle, and hartshorn. Leaning forward, she gently took the baby from his mother’s arms. He was as light and insubstantial as air – a little spirit already passing to the next world. Stroking his soft, downy head, she let a few tiny drops of the tincture fall between his lips. He wrinkled his nose in a feeble gesture of distaste, and looked up at Frances with dark blue eyes. She held him close to the warmth of her chest and closed her eyes, praying silently that God might spare him.

  After a few moments, Frances felt the tiny form move slightly beneath her hands, then grow still. She opened her eyes and looked down at the little face, and knew that he had gone.