The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Without warning, Cecil stepped forward and grabbed Frances by the wrist, yanking her to her feet.

  ‘Here, sir, is the canker in your court!’

  As Cecil spun her around so that she faced the court, Frances saw the looks first of shock, and then fear, directed towards her. Her uncle was regarding her with a mixture of dismay and repulsion, his face a deep scarlet and beads of sweat popping up on his brow. She turned away from him, her gaze desperately scanning the crowds again. If she could see Tom, even at a distance, she could face whatever lay ahead. But the only faces she saw were those of hostile courtiers, recoiling from her in disgust. Behind her, she could hear the stifled sobs of the princess. She longed to comfort her, to tell her that this was nothing but a macabre encore to the play. But Cecil still held her in a vice-like grip, his cold fingers bruising the soft flesh of her arm. Her breathing had become shallow, and she felt light-headed, almost calm, as if she had already slipped into another world.

  ‘I have ample proof that Lady Frances has practised witchcraft since the day of her arrival at court, intent upon nothing less than the destruction of Your Majesty and all your family.’

  The crowd descended into an excited babble, and there were cries of ‘Kill the witch!’ and ‘Hang her!’

  The courtiers in front of Frances turned to a blur, and as the darkness advanced and she slipped from consciousness, the last thing she saw was Cecil’s face. He leaned forward so that his mouth was almost touching her ear.

  ‘I have given the king his witch,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER 21

  22 August

  Frances shivered. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and drew her knees up to her chest. The cold seemed to seep through the thick stone walls, which were impervious to the seasons. It could be the winter sun that shone so brightly through the casement window, for all she knew. Yet, her lodgings were more comfortable than she had dared hope, and certainly better than the dark cell she had imagined as the barge had conveyed her along the Thames to the Tower. Her rank counted for something, she supposed, even if it could not protect her from an accusation of witchcraft.

  Word would have reached her parents by now, she knew. Frances closed her eyes against the thought. And her uncle – the look of dismay and revulsion on his face had haunted her ever since that night. It was as if, at a stroke, she had deliberately destroyed her family’s fortunes. Even now, he must be desperately trying to claw back favour with the king. Or had Cecil, ever with an eye to an opportunity, used her disgrace to have him thrown out of court?

  She shook her head, trying to dispel the same thoughts that had filled her mind for the past three days. Sleep had all but evaded her, and whenever she had slipped into unconsciousness, she had been plagued by such terrible visions of torture that they were still before her when she awoke. If only she had been given time to gather some possessions before being brought here, she would have taken the little casket of dried lavender that she kept by her bed. Its soothing scent always lulled her to sleep. But then, it would merely serve to condemn her further – that, and the copy of Master Gerard’s book, which she longed for now. The only book that she had been allowed was the tiny prayer book that hung from her girdle. She had tried to read it several times, but the words seemed suddenly empty of meaning. God had surely forsaken her.

  The loud cawing of a raven suddenly broke the silence, echoing around the walls of the Tower. Frances crossed to the window and looked out across the lawn that lay between her lodgings and the chapel. The bird cocked its head, as if listening. Frances prised open her window a crack. The raven caught the movement at once, and with a swift, jerking movement, looked up to where she stood. Frances smiled and made a clicking sound with her tongue, overcome with a sudden desire to keep the bird in sight. Its sleek black feathers glinted in the sunlight, and its sharp beak remained tightly closed. Frances knew that it could snap off her finger like a twig from a branch. The raven stood quite still now, looking towards her as she gazed upon it.

  The striking of the chapel bell broke the silence. Startled, the bird hopped quickly out of sight. Frances cast a resentful look towards the bell tower, which was perched precariously at one end of the chapel roof. As if to reinforce the fortress’s ominous reputation, the chapel had been named in honour of Saint Peter ‘ad Vincula.’ Frances had enough grasp of Latin to know that this referred to his suffering ‘in chains’ as a prisoner of Herod Agrippa. The side of the chapel was dominated by four huge windows that almost stretched from floor to ceiling. Frances shuddered at the thought of the headless traitors whose remains lay buried under the flagstones within.

  A movement to her left drew her eyes away from the chapel. Stepping briskly out of his apartments in the handsome timber-framed building at the corner of the green was the tall, gaunt figure of Sir Richard Berkeley, lieutenant of the Tower. Her heart quickened as she realised that he was heading in the direction of her lodgings. For three days, she had received neither visitor nor message, only the stale bread, cheese, and watery ale that were left outside a small serving hatch next to her door. Her anxiety and exhaustion had mounted with every passing hour – which was no doubt Cecil’s intention, she realised. It was no wonder that scores of women before her had needed little persuasion to sign the confessions that had been thrust at them, attesting to all manner of wicked sorcery and conjurations. Even death would be a merciful release from the agonisingly long hours of waiting and uncertainty. She had a sudden recollection of the woman’s face as she hung, gasping for breath, from the gallows at Tyburn. Her blood ran cold.

  After a few moments, she heard his steps, slow and uneven, as he mounted the narrow staircase that led to her chamber. There was a pause, then Frances jumped at the loud scraping of the iron bolt as it was slid back.

  ‘My Lady Frances.’

  The lieutenant made a deep bow as he addressed her. His voice was soft and melodic, with a faint West Country burr. Frances curtseyed in greeting, and lowered her gaze.

  ‘I trust you are comfortable, my lady?’ he asked, flushing slightly at the banality of the question.

  ‘I thank you, yes, Sir Richard.’

  She looked up and saw that he was studying her closely.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady, but you are very pale, and I have heard report that most of your food has been sent back untouched.’

  Frances eyed him steadily. ‘I do not find my place of residence to be conducive to either sleep or appetite.’

  The old man’s brow furrowed, and he fiddled distractedly with the keys in his hand. Frances noticed that the joints of his fingers were swollen. A paste of ginger and meadow saffron would ease the pain that they must give him.

  ‘Lady Frances—’ He hesitated, as if struggling to find the right words. Frances diverted her gaze, hoping that it might ease his discomfiture. After a long pause, he continued: ‘The king is intent upon ridding this kingdom of the evils of witchcraft. He has been appointed by God for the task, and will not rest until it is done. In this, he has been assisted by the Lord Privy Seal, who has been working tirelessly to uncover any signs of the Devil’s work in His Majesty’s court – as you know,’ he added, eyeing her closely.

  Frances continued to study her hands, which felt cold and clammy. She pressed them into her lap.

  Sir Richard sighed, and when he spoke again it was in a gentler tone.

  ‘My lady, you must be aware how much my Lord Cecil needed to be seen to act. Your arrest was proof of that. It has demonstrated his commitment to the cause that the king holds dearest.’

  Frances looked up quickly, her heart surging with unexpected hope.

  ‘So I am already made an example of?’ she urged. ‘My arrest is enough to prove Cecil’s loyalty?’

  Her mind was racing. She had seen members of the court used in this way before, even in the old queen’s day. They would be publicly shamed, as she had been, then held prisoner long enough for the news to be carried to all corners of the kingdom. After a time, the
queen would pardon them, thus proving her mercy and forbearance. Before long, the scapegoat would be permitted back to court. It had been this way with Sir Walter Raleigh numerous times: he would be so familiar with his lodgings by now that they must seem like a second home.

  ‘My lady—’

  Upon seeing Sir Richard’s expression, her face, which had been flushed with relief, instantly paled.

  ‘Your interrogation will begin on the morrow. The king himself will superintend the proceedings.’

  Frances stared at him in horror.

  ‘The king?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  The lieutenant slowly inclined his head, then continued quietly: ‘The gravity of the case, and your ladyship’s status, has incited His Majesty to take a closer interest than is customary. He wishes to ensure that justice is served.’

  The walls seemed to be closing in on Frances as she struggled to make sense of Sir Richard’s words. The hope that had flared within her for a brief, giddy moment had been replaced by a cold, clawing fear. She knew that hers was not the only interrogation that James had attended. News of Agnes Sampson’s ordeal at the King of Scots’ palace of Holyrood had reached the court in London several years before. Frances felt her temples begin to pulse. The old woman’s head had been shaved so that the rope would cut more deeply into the skin as it was pulled tight around her skull. All the while, James had looked on in ‘great delight,’ the old queen’s envoy had reported. When at last Agnes had confessed, she had been hauled to a scaffold and strangled to death in front of a large crowd. Her broken remains had then been reduced to ashes in a huge pyre, choking the onlookers as a fierce wind whipped them across the courtyard.

  Frances swallowed hard. She felt as though a piece of flint had been jammed into her throat, stopping her breath. The air seemed suddenly stale, and she fancied that it filled her lungs with the putrid stench of decay. In desperation, she cast about the room for something to calm her thoughts. At length, her gaze rested upon a Bible that lay on a small shelf above the window. She had not noticed it before. The black leather binding was frayed, and the lettering on the spine had long since been worn away. She imagined all the fingers that had leafed through its contents, searching anxiously for words that might bring comfort.

  The Lord Himself goes before you and will be with you.

  The verse came suddenly and with such clarity that Frances wondered if it had been spoken out loud.

  He will never leave you nor forsake you.

  She felt her breathing begin to slow as she repeated the words to herself. Her mother had quoted them many times to her at Longford, whenever something had troubled her. How trivial such things must have been, she realised now. Her life had been an unbroken sequence of pleasure and comfort, with nothing more troubling than a dropped stitch or a lost trinket to disturb her repose. If only she had known then that this had been so. She might have taken greater delight in every moment.

  ‘I thank you, Sir Richard,’ she said at last. ‘I know that you have taken great pains in delivering these tidings.’

  The old man eyed her with a mixture of sadness and admiration.

  ‘Is there anything I can have sent for your comfort, my lady?’

  Frances smiled briefly and shook her head.

  ‘I require only my solitude.’

  Sir Richard gave a low bow and walked slowly from the room. Frances heard the bolt slide back into place, its echo sounding long after the old man’s steps as he made his way down the stairs and out into the bright expanse of the courtyard.

  CHAPTER 22

  23 August

  Early the following morning, Frances was taken from her lodgings to the Beauchamp Tower. Sir Richard had dispatched one of the yeoman warders to escort her the short distance across the green. As they descended the steps that led into the tower, Frances paused to glance up at its imposing façade. There were just three small windows on the upper floors, and the only other source of light for those within were the arrow slits that had been chiselled into the thick stone.

  The warder took a moment to search through the large ring of keys that hung from his belt. His thickset frame blocked out what little light penetrated through to the entrance, so having found the right key, he was obliged to run his fingers along the smooth oak door until he found the lock. The doorway was smaller than the others that Frances had encountered in this vast fortress, and she had to duck her head as she followed her guardian through it.

  Once inside, an even lower doorway led through to a dark passageway. The warder gestured for Frances to go before him. She hesitated, struggling to see anything in the gloom. Reaching out her hand, she felt a wall on her left and edged her way along it, her fingers brushing the cold, damp stone. After a few moments, her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could just make out a spiral staircase ahead.

  ‘Up to the first floor,’ the warder directed abruptly.

  The staircase was so narrow that Frances was obliged to gather in her skirts so that they did not snag against the nails that she could feel jutting out at intervals along the wall. The steps were uneven, and once or twice she stumbled, her hands flailing desperately in search of something to steady herself. When at last she reached the small platform at the top of stairs, she paused and waited for the guard. Her breath came quickly, and her forehead prickled with sweat, despite the chill.

  Brushing past her, the warder strode towards a large dark mass at the end of a short passageway, which Frances assumed was a door. He rapped sharply on it with his staff, and there was an answering call from within. Frances had no time to register the familiar voice because in the next moment the guard had flung open the door and thrust her forward.

  The blaze of light from within the chamber temporarily blinded Frances, and she stood blinking for several moments. Dozens of candles had been lit in sconces around the walls, and a fire roared in the grate. Silhouetted against the glare, Frances could see, were two figures – one tall and well-built, the other short and stooped.

  Cecil.

  ‘Lady Frances,’ he drawled. ‘Who would have thought that we would meet in such a place?’

  Frances was thankful that she could not see his smug smile. She made a slight curtsey.

  ‘My Lord Cecil.’

  ‘Baron, if you please,’ he replied with a smile. ‘His gracious Majesty has seen fit to reward me for my late efforts.’

  He seemed to be waiting for her to congratulate him. When she remained silent, he continued: ‘You have been comfortably housed, I hope? Lord Thomas tells me your lodgings are almost as spacious as those you occupy at Whitehall.’ He gestured towards his companion, whom Frances now recognised as Thomas Sackville.

  ‘You are fortunate, Lady Frances,’ Cecil continued. ‘The Tower is so stuffed full of traitors at this time that most new arrivals are hard-pressed to find lodgings.’ His gaze intensified. ‘Lady Frances, you know why you have been brought here. You have contravened His Majesty’s laws governing the practice of witchcraft and sorcery. Masquerading as one who is skilled in the art of healing, you have used your potions to cause calamity, sickness, and death.’

  ‘No!’ Frances cried. Cecil pretended surprise at this uncharacteristic outburst, then his mouth twisted into a slow smile of satisfaction.

  ‘We have ample testimony from one whose family has suffered at your hands,’ he continued. ‘Mistress Kynvett attests that you put her young nephew to death with your foul practices. You have attended several ladies from the queen’s household since your arrival at court. It is a mercy that they still draw breath. We know there are others. Your father’s servant, Dymock, has been most forthcoming about your pastimes at Longford.’

  Frances struggled to control her breathing. Rage surged within her. How could Cecil stand there so calmly and speak such despicable lies? He must know that his allegations were preposterous. Yes, of course he knew. But that counted for nothing. He had given the king a witch, as he himself had whispered to her on that dreadful ni
ght. The truth had no place in his schemes.

  ‘What proof can you have, my lord?’ She kept her voice low.

  ‘Mistress Knyvett’s testimony is enough to condemn you,’ he replied smoothly. ‘But there is much more besides. Your nighttime rambles have been well observed by my – by the officers of the court. And I myself have seen you dabbling with your tinctures and potions, even at the bedside of the old queen as she lay dying. Who is to say that you did not hasten her end?’

  Frances stared at him, her eyes blazing.

  ‘You accuse me of murdering my sovereign, our anointed queen?’ Her jaw was so tightly clenched that the words came out in a low murmur.

  ‘Speak up, woman!’

  Frances turned quickly towards the corner of the room by the fireplace, which had been obscured from view by Cecil and his companion. They stepped aside now and made a slow bow. Frances squinted into the gloom, and could see a figure seated there, shrouded in a dark cloak. As he struggled to his feet, cursing, she took a sharp breath.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ She made a deep curtsey, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

  ‘I’ll have none of your womanly tricks and wiles,’ he drawled, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘You whores of Satan are forever mumbling curses and spells under your breath. Speak the truth now. What did you do to that boy?’

  Frances’s mind was a blur, and she struggled to form any words in her defence. Averting her eyes from the king, who was staring at her intently, she cast about the room for something to calm her thoughts. An inscription carved into the stonework above the fireplace caught her attention. She peered closely at the spidery letters, which were illuminated by the flickering fire below.

  Quanto plus afflictionis pro Christo in hoc seculo, tanto plus gloriae cum Christo in futuro.

  Frances repeated the words slowly to herself, deciphering the meaning of each in turn.