The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Frances carefully placed the satin gloves that she had been refolding back into the coffer and covered them with the embroidered linen overcloth.

  ‘I doubt that you have missed anything of note beyond these chambers, my lady,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though I have been absent too, I wager that I could tell you the subjects of conversation, the fawnings and flatterings, the deliberate slights … even the hour at which the Earl of Shrewsbury started dozing into his claret.’

  The princess giggled. ‘How rude you are about my father’s court, Frances,’ she chided, then paused, considering. ‘I am minded to send you out into it as a punishment.’

  ‘I thank Your Grace, but I am very well contented here.’

  Frances turned back to the chest and pulled out another coffer. Its contents were as neatly packed as the rest, but she enjoyed the task of reordering them. Some contained items that she had never seen before: pale cream sleeves edged with delicate lace, a large sapphire set in a gold ring studded all around with diamonds, and a pair of exquisite yellow satin shoes decorated with a perfect ivory bow.

  ‘Even so,’ Elizabeth continued slyly after a pause, ‘I would like to send my mother a token, to assure her that I am well.’

  ‘I am sure that Lady Mar—’

  ‘No, Frances, you must deliver it. She will trust no other. Besides,’ she continued, anticipating Frances’s next objection, ‘you would have been covered in sores by now if you had caught the sickness. There is no reason for us both to remain prisoners here.’

  Frances kept perfectly still, her hand resting on the smooth silk ribbon that was tied around the end of the coffer key.

  ‘As Your Highness wills it,’ she said quietly.

  A sudden hush descended as Frances walked slowly down the length of the hall. Keeping her back straight, she stared directly ahead towards the red velvet canopy above the raised dais at the far end. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, and the candles that blazed in the sconces along the walls bathed the room in a soft golden light.

  When she came within a few steps of the king and queen, she stopped, and, lowering her gaze, gave a deep curtsey.

  ‘Lady Frances, it is a relief and a pleasure to see you,’ Anne said in a voice that rang out across the hall. ‘I was glad to receive notice that you would be attending us. How fares our daughter?’

  ‘The princess is recovering well, Your Grace,’ Frances replied steadily. She caught the look that Anne gave her husband, prompting. He took a swig from the glass in front of him, some of its contents dribbling down his chin as he did so, reminding Frances of the last time she had seen him. She swallowed back her revulsion.

  ‘We are greatly indebted to you, Lady Frances,’ he said at last. Frances looked directly at him now, searching for any signs of contrition. His face remained impassive, but his eyes darted this way and that. ‘Your loyalty to our daughter is commendable. But for you, she would surely have perished.’

  ‘I was glad to put my skills to good effect, Your Grace,’ Frances replied evenly, though the words stuck in her throat. She took a breath. ‘Those same skills that were lately condemned as the work of the Devil.’

  Her eyes blazed with sudden fury, and she was aware of a collective intake of breath around the room. The muttering grew steadily louder. James looked anxiously about him, then motioned to the yeomen of the guard, who were stationed next to the dais. They rapped their staffs sharply against the stone floor, the sound echoing across the crowded hall. At once, everyone fell silent again.

  ‘It is true that you were wrongfully accused,’ James began. ‘But I was misled by certain members of my council.’

  He shot a sideways look at Cecil, whom Frances now noticed at one end of the table, several places away from his accustomed position next to the king and his family. He was staring resolutely ahead.

  ‘Even so, we must all remain vigilant,’ the king continued, his voice growing more assured. ‘God has set me on the throne to rid this kingdom of Satan and his followers. They are all about us, even now casting their wicked schemes to bring chaos and destruction to this realm.’

  Frances’s chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to regain her composure. She clenched her hands tightly by her sides, and stared at the king, her eyes glinting.

  ‘Lady Frances, I believe you have a message from my daughter?’ The queen’s voice cut across the silence. Frances turned to look at her. The fury that had surged through her veins abated when she saw the expression on Anne’s face, urging her not to spark her husband’s anger.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ She stepped forward and handed her the note. Before Anne opened it, she signalled to the minstrels who stood watching from the gallery above the entrance to the hall. They struck up a lively tune, and gradually the conversations started up again on each table, so that before long there was as great a cacophony as there had been before Frances’s arrival. Taking the opportunity to slip away unnoticed, Frances bobbed another curtsey and walked purposefully away. As she neared the large oak door at the end of the room, she heard footsteps hastening after her. She turned to see her uncle approaching, his face puce. With a sinking heart, she slowed her pace as she left the room.

  Hearing the door close, she stopped.

  ‘Good evening, my lord.’ She spoke without turning around. In the silence that followed, she could hear him breathing heavily. When he had composed himself, he walked around to face her.

  ‘Niece.’

  His eyes scanned her face briefly before taking in her slender frame.

  ‘You have grown thin,’ he remarked with obvious disapproval. ‘People will mistake you for a scullion, rather than the daughter of a marchioness.’

  ‘Forgive me, Uncle, but I have not been housed in the most comfortable lodgings of late,’ she retorted.

  His expression darkened, and she waited for the chastisement that she knew would follow. What she had suffered would matter little to him. Her arrest had almost cost him his position on the council.

  ‘That wretch will pay for what he has done,’ he growled.

  His words were so at odds with what she had expected that she did not know how to respond.

  ‘His schemes have nearly brought us to ruin,’ he continued. ‘Were it not for the regard that the queen bears towards you, we would all be in the Tower. Thank God you justified her faith by saving that impudent minx, her daughter.’

  Frances chose to ignore the insult to her mistress. ‘I thank the Lord that she is out of danger.’

  Her uncle grunted. ‘A few pockmarks might teach her some humility at last.’

  Before Frances could answer, he continued in a low voice, leaning closer: ‘You will find the court greatly changed. The king no longer trusts Cecil – if he ever did. Your release has made a mockery of his campaign to rid the kingdom of witches.’

  She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Cecil is too useful to be out of favour for long,’ she observed. ‘Besides, he is always at his most dangerous when under attack.’

  ‘That is true enough,’ the earl replied. ‘But there is another to take his place. The Earl of Northumberland is newly arrived at court. Already he has the ear of the king, for all that he is a closet papist.’

  ‘And a traitor,’ Frances cut in. ‘He almost lost his head for joining Lord Brooke’s conspiracy.’

  ‘If a monarch chose to expel all those families who have been accused of treachery, their court would be much depleted,’ the earl grumbled. ‘Besides, a traitor in the old reign is a favourite in the next – particularly if his looks please the king. Mark me, Frances, you must seek Northumberland’s good opinion.’ He paused, considering. ‘Pity he already has a wife – although they are not well matched.’

  ‘The sister of the traitor Essex, I believe,’ Frances observed coldly.

  ‘Your brush with the Tower has sparked your interest in treason, it seems, niece,’ her uncle replied sardonically.

  Anger flared anew as she stared back at him. ‘Not at all, my lord,’ she r
eplied tersely. ‘Though what I have suffered would be enough to make anyone question their loyalty.’

  He eyed her closely for a few moments, then sighed impatiently.

  ‘Just be sure to court the earl’s good graces.’

  ‘I will certainly show him every courtesy, if ever I have the opportunity,’ Frances replied evenly. ‘But for now, I must return to my mistress. Already I have been absent for too long.’

  She made a quick curtsey, and turned to go, but her uncle grabbed her elbow.

  ‘That young churl Wintour has been making a nuisance of himself,’ he said. Frances felt her pulse quicken. With an effort, she slowed her breathing so that her face might not betray her.

  ‘The lawyer?’ she asked, with an attempt at nonchalance.

  ‘He will bring you no good, Frances,’ her uncle warned. ‘Sir Tyringham excepted, his associates are hotheads and villains. I have it on good authority.’

  ‘What is this to me?’ she asked lightly.

  His eyes searched hers for a few moments, then he sighed and released his grip.

  ‘Keep away from him.’

  She watched as he strode briskly away, and continued standing there long after the door had closed behind him.

  1605

  CHAPTER 28

  23 January

  The leaves crackled underfoot as Frances and Tom picked their way through the woods that lay on the edge of the park. A hard frost covered the ground and clung to the branches of the trees. As Frances paused and glanced back towards Hampton Court, she was transfixed by the beauty of the wintry scene. The vast expanse of grass leading up to the palace had turned from green to silver, and the low hedges that surrounded the gardens glittered in the gathering light. The sun was still low in the soft golden sky, which Frances knew would soon turn to dazzling blue.

  She caught a movement just on the edge of her vision. She held her breath and placed a finger to her lips. Tom kept perfectly still, but his eyes darted anxiously around before catching what Frances was gazing at. At the edge of the forest, just before it gave way to the rolling hills that stretched out into the distance, a stag stalked slowly into view. It stopped suddenly and sniffed the air, its head held high. Frances could see the breath plume from its nostrils. As she watched, a beam of sunlight broke through, silhouetting the beast against the horizon so that its antlers became indistinguishable from the branches overhead. She looked towards Tom and smiled. Her eyes glinted with tears.

  When Frances turned back, the stag had vanished. For a moment, she wondered if she had imagined it. She gazed at the horizon, shielding her eyes against the sun’s rays, which were creeping ever further into the forest. Everything was as still and hushed as a painting.

  ‘He would not have evaded King Henry so easily,’ Tom remarked softly.

  Frances smiled.

  ‘I am surprised that anyone would wish to hunt such a beast.’ Her expression darkened. ‘I hope that he is a long way from here before the king begins the day’s chase.’

  ‘They say he is more interested in hunting stags than witches these days,’ Tom observed. ‘But then, kings are fickle in their passions.’

  He glanced towards Hampton Court. The sun was now high enough to catch the gilded weathervanes that nestled amongst the mass of chimneys.

  ‘I wish that Cecil were so fickle,’ Frances replied drily. ‘He still watches me closely.’

  ‘You mean the Earl of Salisbury, of course,’ Tom corrected her. ‘We must not forget the honour that the king bestowed upon him.’

  Frances grimaced.

  ‘It seems his efforts to win back favour have succeeded, for all the slights and insults he has suffered these past few months.’

  ‘Ah, but he has none of the wizardry of his rival,’ Tom replied with a grin.

  Frances smiled. Despite his Catholic sympathies, Northumberland was still a rising star at court, and had recently been appointed to the Privy Council. The task of courting his favour had been a good deal more pleasant than Frances had anticipated. The earl was a learned man, and his library at Tynemouth Castle boasted ten times as many books as her father’s at Longford. Many of them related to science and astrology, and his passion for alchemy had earned him the nickname of ‘The Wizard Earl.’

  Frances knew that every conversation she had with Northumberland was observed by Cecil. A witch conspiring with a wizard was too delicious a prospect to ignore, particularly when the latter was his chief rival. But she cared little for that. Being the subject of constant scrutiny, by Cecil and most of the court, had made her almost immune to their stares and whispers.

  Tom walked over to where she was standing and slipped his hand around her waist. She reached up to touch his cheek. The hairs tickled her palm. She had not thought he would bow to court fashion, but she had to admit that the growing beard suited him.

  ‘My lady princess will soon be demanding my presence – and yours,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘I shall be delighted to attend you both.’ He paused and looked thoughtful. ‘She has grown greatly in strength and courage since her illness, I think?’

  Frances nodded.

  ‘Her Grace is quite the little woman now. She has learned to be thankful for her survival, rather than lamenting the price that she paid for it. And she has devoted many more hours to her studies than she did before.’

  ‘She will soon make a fine queen,’ Tom observed quietly.

  Frances laughed. ‘I would not wish away her childhood so quickly.’

  Tom did not smile, but fell to brooding. She had known him to withdraw into himself like this many times during the past few months, and although she did not understand the cause, she had learned to accept it.

  The cawing of a crow broke the silence. Frances made as if to move away, but Tom drew her back, encircling her waist with both of his arms. She tilted her face upwards and closed her eyes as he kissed her, his lips warm despite the chill of the frosty morning air.

  ‘You know I am bound to you, heart and soul,’ he whispered, nuzzling her ear. Frances felt the familiar surge of desire, and pressed her body against his.

  ‘As I am to you,’ she replied softly, lacing her fingers into his hair, pulling him down to kiss her once more.

  At length, Tom drew back, his expression suddenly grave.

  ‘I never intended to …’ He paused, as if struggling to find the right words. ‘That is, I can offer you little. You are the daughter of a marchioness, and I a humble lawyer. Your uncle has made it clear that there are many gentlemen at court whom he considers more suited to his expectations—’

  ‘But not to mine,’ Frances cut in quickly. They had talked about this many times, yet still Tom seemed ill at ease whenever the prospect of their future was raised.

  ‘I care nothing for their fortune,’ she continued. ‘My mother married for love – in the end – and I intend to do the same.’

  She planted a firm kiss on Tom’s lips as if to settle the matter, but his brow was still creased into a frown.

  ‘I have hopes of greater advancement, Frances,’ he said earnestly. ‘If my plans come to fruition, then I may at last be deserving of your love.’ He fell silent again, his gaze fixed upon the ground. ‘If they do not,’ he added quietly, lifting his eyes to hers again, ‘then I will be utterly undone. I pray to God that I do not bring you down with me.’

  Frances felt a stab of fear at his words. His absences from court sometimes stretched to several weeks together. He had always been vague about the reason, referring only to a complicated case that required all of his labours. When he returned, at times he seemed troubled, at others almost joyful, as if the outcome was at last assured. She assumed it must be a case of the utmost secrecy, perhaps involving a powerful patron at court whose fortune would rise or fall on the result – and Tom’s with it.

  ‘I wish you would trust me enough to share your burdens,’ Frances said as she took his hand. Many times, she had urged him to confide in her, but he had always gently resi
sted.

  His eyes clouded with the familiar look of regret. ‘I do trust you, Frances,’ he assured her earnestly, lowering his head to kiss her fingers. ‘I ask only that you trust me in return.’

  * * *

  The Great Hall was festooned with branches of holly and ferns, and a large fire crackled in the hearth that was set in front of the dais. Frances watched as the smoke curled upwards towards the small vent that had been cut into the ornate oak ceiling, cleverly concealed by the hammer beams that surrounded it. The exquisite tapestries that lined the walls were illuminated by the sconces above, the flickering flames picking out the shimmering gold and silver thread worked by the Flemish weavers many decades before. As a girl, she had listened, enthralled, as her mother had relayed the story that they told. ‘Here, God appears to Abraham – see how he kneels in humble supplication. And here, Abraham offers up his only son Isaac as a sacrifice.’ Frances had been entranced by the figure of the angel as it swooped down to stay Abraham’s dagger, which was suspended above his son’s bared chest. She looked at it again now, the silver-gilt of the wings a little faded, she thought. The king had been as neglectful of his predecessor’s treasures as he was of his subjects.

  A trumpeter in the minstrels’ gallery above heralded the arrival of the king and his guests. At once, a hush descended among the assembled courtiers, who bowed low. The sound of muttered cursing could be heard, followed by a loud admonishment to an unfortunate page, who had failed to avert his curious gaze. The scraping back of the king’s chair and the heavy sigh that followed signalled an end to their obeisance, and, as the minstrels began to play, everyone took their seats for the feast.

  Frances looked across to the king’s table. She had been seated close to the dais, on the same side of the hall as the princess so that she could undertake any command swiftly and discreetly. Elizabeth caught her eye and smiled, and Frances inclined her head. She noted with satisfaction that the girl’s face, which bore only a few faded marks from her illness, had a healthy glow, and that her eyes shone brightly. The country air suited her well. Glancing across, she saw that at the opposite end of the table sat Prince Henry, scowling and sullen as usual, and next to him the four-year-old Charles, who had lost much of the plumpness of infancy. Their mother was dressed in a gown of russet silk fringed with silver lace. Frances noticed that the stays had been loosened again. It would be a spring baby. The princess had been overjoyed at the news, certain that she would have a sister at last. Frances had hidden her surprise. She had heard that the king had not visited his wife’s bed for many months.