The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Laying Elizabeth down so that she could smooth out the exquisitely embroidered nightgown, she noticed a red lesion on her neck, smaller than those left by the leeches. Her heart contracted in fear. Working quickly, she searched the rest of the girl’s body, running her fingers along her skin to feel for any bumps. She could find none. Perhaps she was mistaken. The Reverend Samuels had cautioned her against reaching any hasty conclusions, urging her to be guided only by the symptoms that she observed. The thought was a comforting one, but Frances could not quite push away the horrible sense of foreboding.

  A quiet tap at the door disturbed her thoughts. Cecil entered at her call. He looked altogether different to the last time she had seen him. He appeared almost humble as he stood there, and he seemed to be waiting for something. At length, he broke the silence.

  ‘His Majesty is grateful for your attendance, Lady Frances. My lady princess has been ailing these past ten days, and even the king’s own physicians have been unable to determine the cause, or to bring her relief.’

  A scornful look crossed Frances’s face, but she said nothing.

  Cecil’s eyes flicked to the wounds that marked her cheeks and neck. They had not yet begun to heal, and sometimes when Frances moved her head too quickly or brushed against them, they bled afresh.

  ‘I hope you have recovered from your ordeal.’

  When Frances remained silent, he continued, his words coming more hurriedly: ‘It was unfortunate, but I am sure you must acknowledge the necessity of being thorough in our investigations when witchcraft is suspected.’

  ‘You were most thorough,’ she replied drily. Cecil blanched as she held his gaze.

  ‘Mr Balfour has examined many suspected witches in this way,’ he added, without conviction. ‘It is the only way to ensure that justice is served.’

  Frances eyed him coldly.

  ‘I did not request your presence so that you might defend your actions, and those of your king.’

  Cecil raised his eyebrow at the last two words, but said nothing.

  ‘If I am to help the princess, then I must have my cabinet of herbs, as well as my books – that is, if you have not already consigned them to the flames.’

  ‘I will have them brought here directly,’ he replied. Frances hid the relief that flooded through her.

  Cecil paused.

  ‘Will she recover?’

  Frances turned to look at Elizabeth, who still lay insensible.

  ‘Her fever has broken, but until I find out what ails Her Grace, I cannot be certain,’ Frances replied, her voice softer now. The young girl seemed so fragile as she lay there, as if hovering on the edge of life. Then Frances’s heart hardened as she looked back at Cecil.

  ‘How can I be sure that this is not a trap?’ she demanded. ‘Why would you have me released so suddenly and brought here, when you had seemed intent upon seeing me hang like that poor wretch at Tyburn?’

  Cecil’s eyes widened for a moment, then he recovered himself.

  ‘You are not here at my command, but at the king’s,’ he replied quietly. ‘Their Majesties are naturally concerned for their daughter. When the royal physicians could work no effect, the queen persuaded His Highness to release you, knowing your skill in these matters.’

  Frances searched his face for any trace of insincerity. He regarded her steadily.

  ‘And what if I cannot help her?’ she persisted. ‘Will I then be blamed for her sickness?’

  ‘You have my assurance that you will be free from all censure,’ Cecil replied.

  Frances let out a humourless laugh. ‘Forgive me if I do not set much store by your assurances, Lord Cecil.’

  ‘Then I shall give you that of a higher authority,’ he countered. ‘I will have a writ signed by the king and the council, attesting that you have been placed here at His Majesty’s command, and that, even if you fail, you shall escape any reprisals.’

  The princess groaned quietly, the noise catching in her throat. Frances glanced anxiously towards her.

  ‘So be it,’ she declared. ‘I will employ all of my skills to help her, and will remain in this chamber day and night. Her Grace must not be left unattended.’

  She saw relief flash across Cecil’s face. He gave a swift bow, then hastened from the room.

  CHAPTER 26

  3 September

  Frances worked quickly and silently, plucking the bright green leaves from the pennyroyal, and grinding them into a paste with the fern-like stems of tansy and a few drops of almond oil to bind and sweeten the mixture. She set aside the soft purple and bright yellow flowers from the plants so that she could make another tincture with them later. They were more potent, and she hoped they would not be needed, but she knew that she must be prepared.

  The princess had not woken since Frances’s arrival, but she seemed to find no peace in slumber, and often cried out when troubled by dreams. The fever had not returned, but her breathing had become more laboured, as if her throat were slowly contracting. Frances herself had slept little. There was a small pallet bed for her use, but she preferred to take her rest in the chair next to Elizabeth’s bed.

  The air was fresh after two days of rain, so Frances had opened the small casement window that looked out over the courtyard garden. A gentle breeze now blew the heavy curtains out a fraction, and a pale light stole into the room. She crossed to the window, and pulled back the heavy fabric. Soon, it would be bright enough to carry out a careful examination of the princess – the first of several that day. Even now, Frances thought she looked a little paler than the day before, but she hoped that her colour might return with the gathering light.

  Crossing over to the cabinet, Frances soaked one of the fresh linen cloths in the ewer, and rubbed it over her face and neck. The cool water was reviving, and her aching neck and shoulders were eased by the pressure of her fingers. She breathed deeply, and felt her body sag as she exhaled. But then she tensed as a droplet of water ran over a wound at the back of her neck. She saw again the glint of the blade as it hovered near her skin. The terror of not knowing where it would strike next had almost been worse than the pain when it found its mark. She shook her head as if to expel the memory, then dried herself briskly and re-laced her gown.

  As Frances looked towards the bed, a shard of light suddenly illuminated the princess’s face, giving it an almost ethereal glow. Frances felt a rush of affection for the young girl, mixed with fear that she might never wake from her slumber. As she approached, she noticed what appeared to be a small lump on Elizabeth’s upper lip. Her heart quickened as she leaned over to look at it more closely. Gently, she ran her finger over it, and felt a hard bump that was warm to the touch. She tried to still her breathing as she slowly pulled open the princess’s mouth, but could not help exclaiming in horror when she saw that it was filled with the same red lumps. They were scattered like tiny toadstools over her tongue, and covered the back of her throat.

  Smallpox. It was the word that she had not dared to utter during her conversation with Cecil, or even to acknowledge to herself. Yet it had lingered like a dark shadow at the back of her mind, prompting her to prepare the herbs that Gerard recommended for its treatment. Even he did not speak of a cure; only temporary relief. For most, there was none. The lesions would grow larger, until they engulfed the mouth, tongue, and throat, choking the victim slowly to death. The few who did survive would be disfigured with pockmarks left by the hideous lesions. Only a handful could hope to emerge unscathed.

  The old queen had almost died from the disease early in her reign. Frances had seen her scars, which had hardly faded with time, and still covered her wasted face and neck in old age. Little wonder that she had forced her ladies to apply ever more layers of the thick white paste until her face appeared as flawless as a statue. The queen’s attendants had been less fortunate. Her faithful nurse had died within days of catching the infection, and another had been left so hideously disfigured that even her husband shrank from her, and she had been obliged to
hide her face with a mask for the rest of her days.

  Tears filled Frances’s eyes as she looked at the girl. She could not bear the thought of losing her. God knew she had found little enough to love at this court, but her affection for the princess was strong and abiding. Frances realised that though Elizabeth lay still, a fierce battle raged inside her. She must help her to win it, even though she would risk her own life in doing so.

  Thinking quickly now, she hastened from the room. Lady Mar was startled from her slumber as Frances burst into the antechamber.

  ‘Nobody must enter the princess’s bedchamber,’ Frances commanded.

  The older woman narrowed her eyes, and was about to protest, but Frances continued: ‘It is smallpox.’

  At once, Lady Mar shrank from Frances. Her face was deathly pale, and she glanced quickly towards the outer door as if contemplating escape.

  ‘You must alert Lord Cecil so that he might inform Their Majesties. None must be admitted to these apartments. Any victuals must be left outside the presence chamber door so that you can bring them in here and signal for me to collect them.’ She caught the look of horror that flashed across Lady Mar’s face. Before she could object, Frances went on: ‘The contagion may already have spread to these apartments. If you venture beyond these doors, then you will put countless more at risk. Your only contact with the court must be by messenger, and he must stay on the other side of the door.’

  The woman seemed dumbstruck. Her eyes were filled with fear, but as she continued to stare at Frances, they gradually resumed their customary coldness. Drawing herself up, she spoke at last. ‘I am not accustomed to taking my orders from a lady of the bedchamber.’ Her voice was as cold as her eyes. ‘But since the Lord Privy Seal advised me to defer to you while the princess remains ill, I have little choice. Even if it means putting my life in the hands of a—’ Seeing Frances’s expression, she went no further.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Mar.’

  Frances woke with a start, her heart racing. She listened for the sound again, but for a few moments all she could hear was the pulsing in her ears. The room was in darkness, and Frances stretched her hand over to the bed, feeling for the small form that lay quietly there. She gently turned the princess’s cool hand so that she might feel for a pulse, and in so doing brushed against the pustules that engulfed her hands and feet, as well as the whole of her face and neck. It pained Frances to think of how the princess would recoil if she saw her reflection now. Vanity had certainly been a failing in the young girl, but it was surely not one that deserved such a punishment.

  There it was again. A quiet tap-tapping. Frances turned to the source of the noise, which she soon realised was the window. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears as she slowly raised herself from the bed and padded over to it. Drawing back the curtain just enough to peer out, she was startled to see a man staring back at her.

  ‘Tom.’

  The princess stirred, and Frances silently chided herself. He put a finger to his lips, then motioned for her to open the door to the courtyard. With trembling fingers, she fumbled for the keys that hung from her belt, and, finding the smallest, slid it quietly into the lock. Every movement seemed to echo around the room. Frances looked anxiously towards the door that led to the antechamber, imagining Lady Mar pressing her ear to it, poised to raise the alarm. She held her breath for a couple of moments, then slipped noiselessly out into the courtyard.

  Tom grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him. The urgency of his embrace shocked her, but after a few breaths she seemed to sink into him, pressing herself against his chest and inhaling the warm scent of him. Remembering herself, Frances suddenly pushed him away and took a few paces backwards.

  ‘You must not come near me. The risk of infection is too great,’ she urged.

  She felt suddenly cold as she stood apart from him. Her hands twitched to touch him, but she let them fall back to her sides. With an impatient gesture, he stepped towards her and took her hands in his.

  ‘I care nothing for that,’ he said earnestly, tightening his grip so that she could not pull away. He stared deep into her eyes, and, as she looked back at him, she tried desperately to steady her heart, which was pounding painfully in her chest. After a few moments, he moved his gaze from her eyes to the rest of her face and then down to her neck. She noticed him wince slightly when he saw each wound, as if he too felt the sharpness of the blade that had made them. His expression darkened.

  ‘How does the princess fare?’ he said at last, his voice low.

  ‘The smallpox has ravaged her body, but her breathing is a little steadier, I think,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘Will she live?’

  Frances fell silent, considering.

  ‘I believe so, please God,’ she whispered.

  ‘And you? Have you any signs of the contagion?’

  His brow creased with concern as he waited for her to answer.

  ‘None.’ She looked down at her arms and smiled. ‘Though it might be difficult to tell for certain, at present.’

  He did not return her smile.

  ‘He is no true king who can sanction such barbarity.’

  The severity of his tone surprised her. She motioned for him to be quiet, his anger having apparently overwhelmed any sense of caution. His breathing was rapid, and his eyes blazed as he looked at her. When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously low.

  ‘I will see him burn in hell. And his pestilent advisers with him. God will wreak His vengeance on this evil.’ He was breathing quickly now. ‘Mark me, Frances. I will have my vengeance too.’

  After a few moments, his grip loosened and the fury left his eyes, replaced by concern. Frances took a step back.

  ‘Please – you must not put yourself at risk,’ she urged.

  Tom moved forward and took her hands in his, gently this time.

  ‘My life would be as nothing without you, Frances,’ he said softly, reaching to stroke a lock of hair that had escaped from her loose braid. He kept his hand there, gently cupping her cheek. She turned her head to kiss it, and closed her eyes. He slowly withdrew his hand, and she felt his breath on her face as he moved closer, then the warmth of his lips as they closed over hers. His body was pressed against her now, and she reached to stroke the hair that curled at his nape, drawing him forward as she opened her mouth. Their kiss became deeper, more urgent, desire flaring inside her as she ran her hands down his back, feeling the warm curve of his spine. A growing, rhythmic pulse seemed to spread over her whole body, pooling in her stomach.

  All of a sudden, Tom pulled away. He was breathing hard, and his eyes blazed as he looked at her. Frances tried to catch her own breath as she stared back at him. Her mouth felt bruised, and her body still pulsed with longing. For a few moments, neither spoke, then Tom slowly took a step towards her.

  ‘I love you, Frances,’ he said quietly. ‘I have thought of nothing but you since the night of the masque. When we are apart, I am restless and distracted. You even invade my dreams.’ He gave a rueful smile, but it quickly faded. ‘I want only to be with you, to protect you.’ Frances saw pain flit across his face. ‘If only I had done so better.’

  She returned his gaze steadily, though tears pricked her eyes. After a pause, she reached for his hand and lifted it to her lips. When she looked at him again, she saw her own longing reflected in his eyes.

  ‘I love you too,’ she said at last.

  Tom’s mouth lifted into a slow smile. Frances laughed, unable to contain the joy that surged within her. ‘I love you,’ she said again, relishing the sound of the words on her lips. They stood staring at each other, fingers interlaced, and then Tom bent to kiss her again, more gently this time.

  ‘Frances!’

  The princess’s voice rang out across the courtyard. With a start, Frances turned towards the chamber, hope and fear surging within her. She hastened towards the door, but Tom stepped in front of her before she reached it, blocking her path. When she began to protest, he placed his
fingers gently on her mouth.

  ‘You must trust me, Frances,’ he said earnestly. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her after their joyful professions of love. ‘I will never forsake you.’

  Slowly, he removed his hand and pressed it to his own lips. A moment later, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 27

  9 September

  The princess set her looking glass down with a sigh. Her tears sprang afresh. Frances regarded her sadly, full of pity that they could not wash away the unsightly red marks that the smallpox had left behind. God knew the poor girl had wept enough of them since she had first seen her reflection.

  ‘They will fade in time, Your Grace,’ she said gently. ‘And your face is not greatly marked.’

  ‘Great enough!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘You would not think so if you had been made as ugly.’

  ‘My tincture will soon start to do its work, my lady. I have had Lady Mar bring fresh rosewater and honey, and I have a good quantity of dried mistletoe stems from the woods at Longford. When ground together, they make a powerful restorative.’ She did not add that she had used them to treat her own wounds, which were now so faint as to escape notice.

  Elizabeth fell silent. When she spoke again, it was with a hint of her former humour.

  ‘I wonder that Lady Mar should take orders from you.’

  Frances grinned.

  ‘She carries them out briskly, if not gladly,’ she conceded. ‘But your lady mother has been most insistent that I am to be given whatever I judge necessary for your recovery.’

  ‘When will she come to see me?’ the princess asked, her eyes wide with hope.

  ‘Soon, my lady. When the sores have begun to fade, we can be sure that the contagion has departed.’

  Elizabeth sighed again. ‘I am now more like to die from boredom than the smallpox,’ she said peevishly.