by Tracy Borman
CHAPTER 20
19 August
‘There is to be a play performed for my birthday!’ Elizabeth burst out breathlessly as soon as Frances arrived in her chamber.
‘Forgive me for being late, ma’am. I slept badly last night.’
The princess rattled on as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘It has been written specially by Master Shakespeare himself!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands with glee.
‘Then you are greatly honoured, ma’am. He and his company performed before the old queen many times. She loved his plays the most.’
‘Oh, my father cannot abide them!’ The princess giggled. ‘That’s why he told Master Shakespeare that he must make it shorter than his others.’
Flinging open the oak chest that lay at the end of her bed, Elizabeth began rifling through its contents. Gorgeous blue silks, deep red and purple velvets, and silver satin gowns were thrown carelessly into a tumbling heap. A wisp of white silk jolted Frances back to the little house on Throgmorton Street. The baby had looked so peaceful, swaddled in his linen, pale as marble. She could almost feel him in her arms now. Then the image came, unbidden, of his mother gazing at her in dismay. And her sister, with a look of – what? Anger? Suspicion.
‘I must wear something dazzling. None of these old rags will do,’ Elizabeth said, with a flash of her father’s notorious temper.
Frances, who had begun carefully refolding the gowns, shot her a look of admonishment.
‘Your Highness has more beautiful dresses than any young woman in your father’s kingdom. I am sure that we can find one to suit the occasion,’ she said patiently.
‘Lady Frances. I hoped to find you here.’
Neither of them had noticed the queen entering the room. Frances gave a low curtsey.
‘Mama! Have you heard about the play?’ Elizabeth cried exuberantly.
‘Yes, my dear,’ Anne replied calmly, surveying the chaos. ‘And it looks as if you plan to have as many costume changes as the actors.’
Elizabeth giggled, then returned to her search.
‘Lady Frances, I would speak with you in private,’ the queen said quietly.
Frances bobbed another curtsey.
‘Of course, ma’am.’
She followed Anne into the courtyard garden, keeping her eyes fixed upon the gorgeous orange satin of her royal mistress’s gown. Evidently her lateness had already been reported.
‘Your Majesty, forgive me—’ Frances began.
‘Allow me to speak frankly,’ the queen interrupted in a low voice. ‘I placed you in great danger as soon as you arrived at court.’
Frances looked up at once.
‘It was not my intention. I was so concerned about Beatrice. But my Lord Privy Seal’ – Anne’s face creased into a look of distaste – ‘he sees everything in this court.’
‘Your Majesty must know that I was glad to be of assistance,’ Frances replied.
Anne waved away her assurance.
‘But the fact remains that thanks to involving you in this matter, and in such a way, I put your life at risk,’ she said firmly. Eyeing Frances carefully, she added: ‘You must know what he suspects you of?’
Frances nodded slightly.
‘Well, it is of no matter. I have spoken to my husband. He has agreed to call off his dog.’
Frances paused, unsure how to answer.
‘I hope the price you had to pay was not too great, ma’am.’
The queen smiled fleetingly, but her eyes were grave.
‘You have been here for so little time, yet already you have the measure of your king and his wife,’ she replied. ‘It was not so hard. Great witch hunter though he is, even he could see that persecuting a member of his own daughter’s household was hardly conducive to harmony in his court. He will tell Cecil tomorrow, in council.’
‘I am deeply indebted to you, ma’am.’
The queen nodded briskly, and walked back into the chamber. Frances could hear the princess immediately fire a volley of questions at her mother about the gown that might suit her best. She sank down on the stone bench, which was already warmed by the mid-morning sunshine. She had not anticipated that she would be so fortunate as to enjoy the queen’s protection. Anne was as loyal and benevolent as her husband was intolerant and obsessive. Little wonder that theirs was an unhappy match.
Frances breathed in the sharp scent of the neatly trimmed myrtle that bordered the courtyard, mixed with the heady fragrance of the soft white peonies that had burst into bloom since she had last visited the garden. Despite the events of the previous night, she felt a greater sense of peace than she had since her arrival at court.
She lay down on the bench, her face pressed to the warm stone. Closing her eyes, she listened to the low humming of the bees as they flitted between the summer buds, and allowed sleep to overcome her.
* * *
A great company had gathered in the Banqueting House for the performance. The vast hall reverberated with nervous, excited chatter, as the courtiers exchanged exaggerated tales of plots and bewitchings. Lady Grimsby swore that she had seen a woman wearing a dark cloak stealing out of the queen’s bedchamber the night before her miscarriage. Lord Stafford, meanwhile, attested that a strange potion had been discovered in a tiny glass phial underneath Her Majesty’s pillow.
After her conversation with the queen, Frances had shared the princess’s light-heartedness as they prepared for the performance. Elizabeth had been unable to keep still as she had been laced into her dress. The decision about what to wear had been solved that morning when a gift had arrived from her father. Fashioned from sumptuous gold and cream satin, studded with rubies, it was one of the most beautiful dresses that Frances had ever seen. The scarlet ribbon that Frances had chosen from the queen’s tailor that afternoon matched the precious jewels perfectly, and set off the princess’s red hair to dazzling effect. Elizabeth had insisted on wearing a heavy necklace of gold and pearls, with earrings of the same design, waving aside Frances’s protests that they would cause her discomfort as the long evening of entertainments wore on. With her mother’s sanction, she had been permitted to wear some powder on her face and neck, giving her pale skin an ethereal glow.
‘I am eight years old, after all!’ Elizabeth had insisted, in answer to Frances’s disapproving look.
Frances had had little time to dress herself for the evening. She had returned to her apartment for no more than half an hour to put on the blue gown that her uncle had bought her. Sweeping her dark hair up into an elegant bun, and securing it into place with the jewelled pins that her mother had given her for her first audience with the old queen, she shot a cursory glance in the looking glass, before returning to the princess’s chamber.
By the time she reached Elizabeth’s apartments, the young girl was barely able to contain her excitement as she waited for her brother Henry to escort her to the Banqueting House. At length he arrived, gave his sister a formal greeting, and nodded curtly to Frances, who followed in their wake. He could not long resist the princess’s infectious excitement, however, and soon their sprightly little legs carried them on apace.
A fanfare announced their arrival at the great door that led into the hall. Immediately, the chatter died out, and a respectful hush descended. The princess, her chin tilted upwards and her arm linked with that of her elder brother, strutted proudly through the throng of courtiers, all of whom bowed low as she passed. She nodded this way and that in greeting, her studied decorum soon giving way to irrepressible gaiety as she approached the raised dais at the end of the hall. The king and queen were already seated under the canopy. James beamed at his daughter as she mounted the steps and went to sit next to the queen, then he scowled as Henry took his place to the right of his father’s throne.
Frances curtseyed to the royal party, then backed away into the crowd, resolving to take a seat at the rear of the hall. Despite succumbing to that brief, sweet sleep in the garden earlier, she was aching with fatigue.
The hall was already stifling, the warm air of the summer evening mingling with the heat of the courtiers who had jostled their way in to see the performance. She would rather not risk falling asleep in full view of the court.
‘Lady Frances.’
She knew the voice before she turned around to see Cecil standing there, an insipid smile playing about his mouth.
‘Surely you are not leaving us?’ He pretended concern.
‘No, my lord. I am greatly looking forward to Master Shakespeare’s performance,’ she replied lightly. ‘If you will excuse me, I must find a seat before the play begins.’ She turned to go, but he grabbed her sleeve.
‘No need,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know how fond you are of the theatre, having accompanied the late queen so often, so I took the liberty of reserving you a seat next to me.’
Before she could protest, he placed her hand firmly on his arm and led her to a row of seats at the front, on the opposite side of the stage to the royal platform. Several members of the king’s council had already taken their places. Frances saw that her uncle was among them, and felt almost relieved. The earl failed to hide his surprise as she sat down next to Cecil, who was smiling and nodding benevolently to his fellow councillors.
‘I trust the view is to your liking, Lady Frances?’
‘Yes. I thank you, my lord,’ she replied, staring straight ahead. A horribly familiar feeling swept over her as she recalled the platform at Tyburn.
‘Oh, there is no need to thank me,’ he said breezily. ‘I was most desirous of the pleasure of your company. Besides,’ he added, smirking, ‘I am relying on you to explain the play’s meaning to me.’
At that moment, the dozens of candles that had lit the stage in front of them were extinguished, and the hall was plunged into darkness. There were excited murmurs from the crowd as the silhouettes of three figures shuffled to the centre of the stage.
Suddenly a brazier sprang into flame, illuminating their faces. Each of the three women was cloaked in black, and stooped with age, their grey hair straggling beneath their hoods. Their faces had been painted with deep lines and warts, and plaster had been moulded to their noses and chins so that they appeared hooked. There were cries from the audience as the flames burned brighter, revealing every hideous detail of the hags.
‘When shall we three meet again?’ cried out the first in a high-pitched screech. ‘In thunder, lightning or in rain?’
Frances felt as if she had slipped into a terrible dream. The witches danced before her, rubbing their hands together and forging their terrible schemes. Glancing past them, she saw King James sit forward, transfixed, his eyes alight with excitement. The queen looked on in dismay, and next to her, Elizabeth was staring wide-eyed at the players, one hand to her mouth.
Cecil sat as still and silent as a cat. Frances knew that his eyes were not upon the stage.
‘Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.’
The witches shrieked their pact in unison, and the stage was once more in darkness. With mounting horror, Frances watched the unravelling as Macbeth fell victim to the witches’ curse, and descended into an orgy of evil, spurred on by his rapacious wife. She knew that Master Shakespeare had played to the king’s natural misogyny as much as to his witch hunting fervour.
Every time the three hags appeared onstage, tempting the hapless Scottish lord with their prophecies of power, there were hisses and cries from the audience.
‘The play is not to your liking, Lady Frances?’ Cecil whispered, during a brief pause between scenes.
‘On the contrary. It is most diverting.’ She did not look at him as she spoke.
‘I am so glad,’ he retorted. ‘It was I who commissioned it. I was very precise in my instructions to Master Shakespeare – I would not have wished the king to veer from his course.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Perhaps I should exchange politics for play-writing?’
Frances found it hard to believe that Master Shakespeare had made it a shorter play than his others. It seemed to last an eternity. Finally, though, it reached its terrible conclusion. Macbeth was slain, condemned to everlasting torment. The triumphant witches remained at liberty to inflict their evil designs on a world as helpless as a babe in arms.
As soon as the last line had been spoken, all of the sconces were relit, illuminating the faces of the audience. They sat in silence for several moments. Eventually, the king rose to his feet. All eyes turned to him, but his expression was unreadable. He looked as likely to admonish the players, who now shuffled their feet awkwardly onstage, as to burst into applause. At length, he spoke.
‘Noble subjects, what you have witnessed here this evening was no fanciful tale; no mere figment of Master Shakespeare’s imagination,’ he said, nodding to the playwright, who was among the players onstage, looking even more apprehensive than the rest.
‘We saw the havoc, the destruction wreaked by those three witches. With their spells and incantations, they brought down one king, and corrupted another, so that he too descended into hell.’
He scanned the faces of his courtiers, who were looking increasingly uncomfortable.
‘And they were just three. Think, then, of how much greater the destruction, how much more potent the evil that thousands of witches across the globe – nay, even across England alone – might conjure up. For there are so many. They are in every town and every village.’ He paused. ‘They are even here in this court.’
There was a collective intake of breath, and a low murmur, as each courtier voiced their suspicions to their neighbour. Suddenly everyone was looking around the hall, as if expecting to find the witch sitting amongst them, bent over a cauldron and muttering a spell to seal their doom.
Frances could no longer maintain her composure. She too began scanning the room, hoping to see Tom’s reassuring presence. But instead, her gaze alighted on the servingwoman from Throgmorton Street standing at the back of the hall. Staring back at Frances, she smiled grimly, and crossed her arms.
The loud rapping of a heavy staff on the wooden floorboards startled everyone into silence. The yeoman of the guard stepped back into his place behind the throne, and James continued to address his terrified subjects.
‘God has appointed me to vanquish this evil, to rid my kingdom of witches. No parish, no dwelling, no chamber, will be left unsearched. My servants will be as a plague of locusts descending into every corner of the realm. There will be nowhere to hide. Those whores of Satan will be ripped from their lairs like a canker from the bark.’
He paused again, his eyes bright with righteous fervour. Frances stole a quick look towards the queen, who was struggling to conceal her dismay. Her daughter had moved to sit at her feet, and she stroked her soft hair distractedly, as if she were a lapdog.
‘To strengthen my hand, God in his wisdom urged me to pass this new law. There is no punishment too severe for any woman – or man,’ he added hastily, ‘who is found guilty of practising or abetting witchcraft in all its forms. Sorcery, necromancy, fortune telling, healing … all are now punishable by death.’
The murmurs started up again, and there were many nods and looks of affirmation.
‘God save Your Majesty!’ one man called from the back of the room. It was echoed by several others.
James sat down, satisfied that he had filled all of those present with the same witch hunting zeal with which he himself was consumed. He smiled benevolently upon his court. He was a true king at last, appointed by God to do His will.
‘Your Majesty.’ Cecil walked over to the platform and slowly mounted the steps. Giving an exaggerated bow to the royal party, he turned to address the hall.
The courtiers, grave-faced, fell silent once more. All eyes turned expectantly to the Lord Privy Seal, who was clearly savouring the moment.
‘The evil that we have seen played out in this evening’s performance is indeed a most grave threat to His Majesty’s kingdom. It is the responsibility of all
of us, the king’s subjects, to maintain the utmost vigilance.’
He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the crowd. Some of the courtiers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Frances held her breath. The palms of her hands felt clammy, but she kept them perfectly still, clasped together on her lap.
‘That is why I have paid particular care to this matter,’ Cecil continued. ‘To ensure the safety of Their Majesties and their children, as well as of all of you, I have had men appointed to watch everything and everyone within the sphere of this court. Nothing has escaped their notice.’
His eyes, which had continued to scan the now fearful faces of the audience, suddenly rested upon Frances. Her scalp prickled and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She felt as if she were playing an unwitting part in a macabre performance that was about to reach its terrible denouement.
‘I am pleased to announce that they have succeeded. You may rest easy in your beds tonight, for the witch is apprehended.’
There was an audible intake of breath. He paused, gratified.
‘Imagine my shock at discovering that the queen had been cherishing a serpent in her bosom.’
‘Lady Beatrice,’ the king muttered, loud enough for Cecil to hear.
Anne jolted forward on her throne, but James grabbed her arm and kept his hand clamped across it so that she was unable to move. The queen looked about in panic, as if seeking her favourite attendant.
‘No, sir.’ The Lord Privy Seal spoke calmly, as if placating a child. ‘Though the Lady Ruthven is here at court, certainly.’ He paused, noting with satisfaction the fury that had suffused James’s face. ‘But her only crime is in flouting Your Majesty’s orders. She has attended the queen these several months, despite her banishment from court.’
Seeing that James was about to speak, and, not wishing to divert attention from the matter at hand, he continued smoothly: ‘We will deal with that another time. For now, we must eradicate the evil in our midst. It is an evil that goes to the heart of Your Majesty’s court.’
