The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  The more affliction we endure for Christ in this world, the more glory we shall have with Christ in the world to come.

  As she looked closer, she saw that a name had been chiselled underneath.

  Arundel

  A chill ran through her. The earl had been imprisoned here as a suspected traitor during the later years of Elizabeth’s reign, and had eked out the rest of his miserable days in this dark fortress. She pictured the young man now, carefully working each letter into the hard stone. Glancing around, she realised that the walls were covered with such etchings, some so elaborate that they might be mistaken for decoration. How many hands had toiled over them, desperate to leave behind a trace of themselves before leaving this world for ever? Frances felt strangely comforted by the thought that she was not the first to experience the terror of being brought here a prisoner. She drew in her breath.

  ‘Your Grace, I have only ever used my skills to bring healing and relief,’ she began, making sure to speak clearly and slowly. ‘The child was close to death when I reached him. My tincture could work no effect.’

  ‘Mistress Kynvett tells a very different story,’ Cecil cut in. ‘She attests that you overheard her speaking of her poor nephew at table, and persuaded her that you could help him. She denied you, knowing His Majesty’s strictures against the arts you practise, but you were so insistent that at length she agreed.’

  Frances opened her mouth to protest, but he continued: ‘Upon reaching their dwelling, you gained admittance on the pretence of being a friend of Mistress Kynvett, and before she was able to act, you had poured your poison down the infant’s throat.’

  ‘She does not speak truth.’ Frances’s voice trembled with a mixture of fury and fear.

  ‘Will the woman swear to it at the Assizes?’ The king, ignoring her, directed his question at Cecil.

  ‘She will derive great satisfaction from doing so, Your Grace.’

  Frances recalled the look of hatred on the woman’s face when she had seen her at the play. She had no doubt convinced herself of Frances’s guilt. Better to blame her for the boy’s death than accept the cruel randomness of sickness and disease.

  ‘And what of Lady Ruthven?’ James asked with a sneer. ‘Pity you did not succeed with her too.’

  Frances hesitated. If she told the truth about how she had been summoned to attend the woman, she would betray the queen. Even though Cecil had already told James of the affair, she had no wish to bring her royal mistress further trouble.

  ‘I believe that my herbs hastened God’s work. Lady Ruthven recovered swiftly, once the fever had broken.’

  ‘News of your talents evidently preceded you, Lady Frances,’ Cecil remarked with a smile. ‘You had barely set foot in court before you were spirited away to the lady’s chamber. It must have been a very well-informed person who knew of your coming.’

  Frances did not answer. Her face was impassive.

  ‘I will not suffer obstinacy, Lady Frances.’ The king’s voice was dangerously low as he walked slowly towards her, his eyes locked upon hers. She could smell the stale aroma of wine on his breath, and noticed a thin trail of saliva working its way down one side of his mouth. Without warning, he suddenly grabbed her chin and yanked back her head so hard that she thought her neck might break.

  ‘Would that you were in Scotland,’ he whispered, his wet mouth brushing against her ear. ‘We know how to deal with witches there.’

  Her neck throbbed with pain, and her chin felt already bruised, but Frances kept as still as she could. She felt like one of her father’s lambs, its fleece snagged by a nail in the fence. She knew that the more she struggled, the worse the pain would become.

  The king’s breathing grew more rapid as he tightened his grip. ‘I wonder which would make you squeak out your story? The rack, perhaps … or maybe the Scavenger’s Daughter.’ He reached forward and gripped the back of her skull with his other hand. She flinched involuntarily, sending a sharp pain down her neck and spine. ‘Ah no, I have it,’ he continued. ‘The Scold’s Bridle. That will wrest any thoughts of witchcraft from your pretty head.’

  Frances closed her eyes. Think of the pain to lessen its power, she had heard the Reverend Samuels tell his patients time and again. She did so now, the thought of her old mentor providing as much comfort as his advice.

  At length, the king sighed, and released her so roughly that she stumbled backwards. Lord Sackville stepped forward to steady her, but a look from Cecil made him stop abruptly. Frances glanced longingly towards the chair by the fire. She felt suddenly weak, as if all the tendons in her body had been snapped, and she had been left as limp as a ragdoll. Is this what it feels like after the rack, she wondered?

  ‘Pity that you Englishmen have no stomach for such devices,’ James observed, shooting a scornful look at his two ministers. ‘They would save a great deal of time and trouble.’

  ‘Begging Your Grace’s pardon,’ Cecil replied, ‘but your fortress here contains an extensive collection of such instruments, all of which have hastened many a confession over the years.’ Registering the confusion on the king’s face, he added: ‘Torture might contravene our laws, but what is written in the statute book is not always practised in the privacy of Your Grace’s domain.’

  The king let out a bark of laughter.

  ‘I am glad of it, my little beagle.’

  Frances saw Cecil wince slightly at this new nickname. She wondered if James intended it more as a compliment than an insult. After all, he was fonder of hounds than humans, it was said.

  ‘How am I to fulfil my promise to God and root out witches from my new kingdom while the law ties one hand behind my back?’ he continued. His smile faded as he looked back at Frances. ‘So, Lady Frances. Now that you know the pleasures that might await you here, will you loosen your tongue, or shall we do it for you?’

  ‘I have never practised anything against the laws of this kingdom, Your Grace,’ Frances said quietly. ‘My family has always been loyal to the crown.’

  ‘The old crown, perhaps,’ Cecil interrupted.

  The King took a deep swig of his wine, then flung the rest into the grate, which hissed and spat. ‘But what of Lady Ruthven?’ he persisted, his gaze now fixed again on Frances. ‘Who commanded you to attend her?’

  ‘That was not told to me when I was summoned to her chamber,’ she replied truthfully.

  ‘And you remain in ignorance?’ the king demanded.

  After a pause, Frances inclined her head slightly. She noticed the king’s neck begin to redden.

  ‘Well, ‘tis no matter,’ he declared. ‘Mistress Knyvett’s accusation is sufficient to bring you to trial.’ He fell silent for a moment, considering. ‘Of course – if we could find another sign that you are a witch, it would make the outcome even more certain.’

  Frances felt her scalp prickle.

  ‘It is well known that to seal the pact with his whore, the Devil will suck upon a part of her body until he has left a mark. Being cunning, he usually selects a part that is hidden.’

  He paused, scrutinising the faces of his advisers for any sign of distaste or disbelief. Both men remained impassive, although Frances saw a muscle in Lord Sackville’s jaw begin to twitch.

  ‘The mark might resemble a spot or a teat,’ James continued. ‘It can easily be mistaken for a natural blemish on the skin by all but those who are expert in finding it. The only way to be certain is to prick every mark on the body with a needle. If there are any that emit neither blood nor pain, it is the Devil’s Mark.’

  Frances winced involuntarily as she imagined the sharp needle piercing every inch of her body. She closed her eyes, but could not shut out the image of the needle as it broke each fresh piece of skin. Lord knows, there would be sufficient marks to stab on her own body. She had inherited her mother’s pale, freckled skin. The thought of her mother made her heart lurch with longing and shame. What disgrace had she visited upon her family? They would surely never recover from it.

  T
ears pricked Frances’s eyes, and she opened them so that she might blink them away. With a jolt, she realised that the king was staring directly at her, his own eyes glinting with excitement.

  ‘You are fortunate indeed, my Lord Cecil,’ he said, without shifting his gaze. ‘For when I first heard the rumour that there was a witch in our midst, I sent for John Balfour from Scotland. He is highly skilled at finding the Devil’s Mark, and has sent many witches to the flames.’

  Frances fixed her gaze on the floor.

  ‘I will have him brought here as soon as he arrives.’ He paused, looking at the darkening sky. ‘Although if the weather breaks, it could take several more days. Let us leave Lady Frances to her reflections until then.’

  He made as if to leave, but then stopped, remembering something.

  ‘Tell Sir Richard that she is not to be taken back to her chambers,’ he commanded Cecil. ‘She shall be kept here, with two guards to keep watch that she does not sleep. Mark me, Cecil,’ he said, grabbing his chief minister’s arm and drawing him close. Though he spoke in a low murmur, Frances still caught his words. ‘It is the surest way of bringing a confession.’

  CHAPTER 23

  30 August

  She no longer knew if she was awake or asleep as she paced slowly about the chamber, her feet dragging along the flagstones as she was supported on either side by a yeoman warder. Her guards must have changed places numerous times, she supposed, but she could not distinguish their faces from the men who had preceded them. Perhaps they were the same ones who had begun this relentless sequence of walking, standing, and sitting, all the time suspended between one world and the next, or so it seemed.

  Amidst the haze of her thoughts, Frances clung to the words that the king had spoken before leaving the chamber – when? One, two days before? A week? She must not betray the queen, or herself, by confessing to her supposed crimes, no matter that she might then at last be permitted to slip into the sweet abyss of sleep. Perhaps she need not worry. The few words that she had spoken during the past hours, asking for water, or rest, had required such an effort that they had sounded slurred to her ears, as if she were intoxicated from the Burgundy wine that flowed freely at court. Though she smiled inwardly at the thought, her lips remained downturned, her facial muscles too slack to muster any expression.

  As she lapsed into a doze, she heard voices in the distance. At least, they seemed far away, but she could hear one of the warders reply and they had now stopped their relentless pacing. He stepped forward to admit the visitors, and Frances stumbled sideways, then slumped to the floor before the other guard could catch her.

  ‘This is John Balfour, gentlemen,’ the king announced proudly.

  ‘God give you good day.’ Frances caught the Scottish drawl, and tried to place the name, which she thought she had heard before somewhere.

  ‘You will leave us.’ Cecil this time.

  She sensed the guards hesitate, then the brisk clipping of their footsteps as they retreated from the room.

  The next thing that Frances was aware of was water being thrown over her face. The shock jolted her awake, and she shivered as she felt the ice cold droplets weave their way down her neck. Someone dragged her to her feet. Glancing down, she saw that the hands that held her in a vice-like grip were large and coarse, the fingernails caked with grime.

  ‘Don’t ye worry, I will soon prick her awake,’ the man scoffed, his voice as rough as his hands. The king gave an answering bark of laughter.

  Frances was now fully awake, fear igniting every nerve in her exhausted body. A woman stepped forward from the shadows. Her brown woollen dress was frayed at the hem, and a few wisps of dark grey hair escaped from the dirty white cap that covered her head. She looked at Frances and grinned, showing teeth that were black and uneven.

  ‘Remove her outer clothes,’ Balfour commanded.

  Frances recoiled in horror.

  ‘I forbid it,’ she cried, her eyes darting from Balfour to the woman, who was now advancing towards her. ‘Your Grace, you cannot allow this,’ she said, turning to the king. ‘I am the daughter of a marchioness. I will not be treated like a common whore.’

  The king’s eyes glinted.

  ‘Ah, but you are a whore of Satan, and as such shall you be handled.’

  Frances struggled for breath as the room began to spin. Balfour pushed her roughly down onto a chair and motioned for the woman to bring her water.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to miss the pretty dance that my lad here will lead you on,’ he grinned, patting a scabbard that hung from his belt.

  Frances took a sip of the water, which tasted bitter. She held it to her nose. The scent of eucalyptus was overpowering – she wondered that she had not smelt it before. There was something else that she could not quite discern.

  ‘You have an excellent collection of herbs, Lady Frances,’ Cecil remarked, smiling. ‘I spent a very instructive morning in your apartments, with Master Gerard for company. He extols the reviving properties of eucalyptus and chervil.’

  His smile broadened as he caught the flash of fury in Frances’s eyes.

  ‘Those are my private effects.’

  ‘Regrettably they are now the property of His Majesty, as are any effects belonging to suspected felons and traitors,’ Cecil replied affably. ‘Little matter, though. Even if you are found innocent of witchcraft, you can still have no use for such things. They will be burned as soon as your case has been heard.’

  Frances dug her fingernails into her palms so sharply that tears pricked at her eyes. She did not speak, but stared directly at Cecil, her eyes blazing.

  James shifted impatiently in his seat. ‘Come now, man,’ he barked, gesturing at Balfour. ‘She is recovered enough for you to start your work.’

  Her fear had been obscured by anger, but at the king’s words it returned with such a surge that it felt as if her heart were being squeezed by a fist. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her shoulders tightly. With a swift, practised movement, Balfour stepped forward and prised her fingers away, while the woman began to unlace her gown at the back, pushing Frances forward in the chair as she did so. Her fingers worked so deftly that soon the bodice fell away and she was able to begin on the sleeves and petticoat. She would have made an excellent lady’s maid, Frances thought bitterly. When the woman’s nimble fingers had finished their work, she dragged Frances to standing so that she might step out of the clothes that lay crumpled at her feet. Only a thin linen shift now covered her body.

  Frances stared straight ahead, and kept perfectly still. She could no longer distinguish fury from fear. Her senses were so heightened that she seemed to hear the king’s breath as it was drawn into his chest and out again. It seemed to quicken as she listened. The next sound was the soft pat of a leather sole on the flagstones, as Balfour moved slowly towards her, stealthy as an executioner. With mounting terror, she thought of how the old queen’s mother must have felt as she waited, blindfolded, while the expert swordsman slipped off his shoes and padded silently around the scaffold, a short distance from where Frances now stood. Had Anne heard the sharp whisper of the sword as it sliced through the air, before the darkness engulfed her?

  The sudden grip of a hand on her neck made Frances flinch. She stood, panting, waiting for his next move. There was a rasp of metal against leather, then Frances caught a flash of silver reflected on the wall in front of her. She could feel the warmth of his body behind her, and inhaled the acrid stench of stale sweat.

  ‘My blade will have much to do with this one.’ Frances could hear the smile in his voice. ‘The Devil favours fair-skinned women, for he can conceal his mark amongst their many blemishes.’

  He walked slowly around her, his eyes moving constantly over her body. Stopping in front of her, he brought his blade up to her face. It was like a needle that had been fashioned for a giant. Perfectly cylindrical, it tapered down to a point that looked sharp enough to spear a pip from an apple. Frances swallowed hard. It f
elt as if the blade was in her throat. Cecil made a small cough, prompting.

  ‘Where should we begin?’ Balfour seemed to be directing the question at her. He pressed the blade against her collarbone. ‘Here?’ Maintaining the pressure, he moved it up to her chin. ‘Or here?’

  Without warning, he suddenly jabbed the pricker into a small mole on the side of Frances’s face. She cried out in pain and shock. A warm trickle of blood made its way down her cheek. Balfour smirked.

  ‘We must find one that does not bleed.’

  The second prick was at the back of her neck. Frances bit her lip and tried not to flinch. Another jab, and another. Still she made no sound. Her shift was now clinging to her back, with sweat or blood she could not tell. All of her senses were centred on where the pain would find her next.

  Balfour paced slowly around until he faced her again. He pointed the blade at the middle of her chest. Pinching her shift between his fingers, he speared it with the jabber, then ripped it open so that her chest was exposed down to her navel. Frances drew a sharp breath. It took all of her resolve to continue staring straight ahead. He proceeded to pierce the soft flesh of her belly several times in quick succession. She closed her eyes and remembered when, as a child, she had disturbed a wasps’ nest, and they had swarmed around her, their stings raining down on her like thorns. Her father had heard her screams and hastened to her rescue, batting away the angry wasps as he carried her to the house. Her skin had been covered in bright red welts for the rest of the summer, much to her sister Elizabeth’s amusement.

  There would be no rescuer now, Frances knew. The King of England would not be denied his pleasure – nor Cecil, for that matter. John Balfour was breathing hard now as he trailed his fingers up her abdomen, feeling for any bumps or marks on her skin. He lingered over her breasts, jabbing once or twice, but more gently than before. Frances felt her neck prickle with heat, and she closed her eyes more tightly still, as if to shut out the humiliation.

  Balfour cleared his throat, then called for the woman to bring him a cup of ale. Frances heard the liquid being poured into one of the goblets that stood on a table by the window. Balfour gulped it down and swiped his hand across his chin.