The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Already he has shown his perverted bloodlust by sending thousands of women to the flames on suspicion of witchcraft. God knows, you have suffered by this, Frances,’ he added when he saw her grow pale. ‘He says that he is appointed by God to root out this evil, but he serves only Satan. The Bible tells us we must be ever watchful, for the Devil prowls around like a lion, seeking someone to devour. He and his minions will stop at nothing until they have all England at their mercy.’

  He paused, his breathing rapid and his face aglow. He gripped her hands tightly, but they had grown cold.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked quietly.

  The other man stepped forward, but it was Tom who spoke.

  ‘This is Robert Catesby, my cousin.’

  Frances knew the name at once. He had been among the conspirators who, with Essex, had plotted rebellion against the late queen. Although their leader had vowed that they planned only to rid her of her evil ministers, Catesby was a notorious zealot, and made no secret of his desire to see a Catholic monarch on the throne. After his arrest, it was discovered that he had even written to the King of Spain, inviting him to invade. The discovery had so unsettled the old queen that she had slept with a sword under her bed ever after, and her screams had often pierced the privy chamber as she awoke, trembling and covered in sweat, tormented by terrifying dreams.

  As Frances stared at him now, she wondered again why he had not gone to the block like the rest. Elizabeth had levied a weighty fine, which his cousin Sir Thomas Tresham had helped him to settle, and he had been pardoned. Now he had enlisted another cousin to fight for his cause.

  ‘I know that my name might not be welcome to you, Lady Frances,’ he said, noticing her expression, ‘but I assure you that I am a true and loyal subject to the House of Stuart.’

  Seeing Frances’s scornful expression, he continued: ‘Not to every branch of it, I admit – particularly those that are rotten to the core. But the queen is of the true faith, and her daughter shows great promise.’

  Frances started at the mention of the princess. How could he hope to ensnare her in his schemes?

  ‘We have resolved upon a plan to root out the canker that lies in the heart of this kingdom,’ Tom cut in. ‘It is not enough to rid the people of their king,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘we must strike against the contagion that surrounds him.’

  ‘The disease is so rife that it requires a sharp remedy,’ Catesby observed darkly.

  Frances felt her scalp prickle. She did not want to hear more, but she knew that she had already heard too much to be allowed to leave.

  ‘There is a network of tunnels underneath the old palace,’ Tom continued. ‘One of them leads directly to the cellar of this lodging. For almost a year now, we have been amassing enough gunpowder to destroy the whole of Parliament when it next meets. The king and his government will be reduced to ashes with a single spark.’

  The walls seemed to be closing in as Frances listened to his words. He was as a stranger to her now. Everything that had passed between them had been as insubstantial as a dream.

  ‘We have been gathering supporters, too, and a great protector,’ Catesby added. ‘The tendrils of this plot reach to the very heart of the court.’

  He glanced at Tom, who was staring intently at Frances.

  ‘You mean to murder the entire royal family?’ she whispered.

  ‘No,’ Tom cut in quickly. ‘Not all. The queen has already proven her loyalty. She will support our cause.’

  Frances thought back to the previous day. She had supposed that the queen had happened upon Tom and his companions by chance as she strolled through the gardens with the princess. Now she was not so sure. Were Sir Everard and Thomas Percy involved too? She wondered how she could have been so blind.

  ‘And the princess?’ Frances demanded.

  There was a pause. Tom looked across at Catesby, who inclined his head.

  ‘We mean to put Her Grace on the throne.’

  Frances stared.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ she asked at last, her mind reeling.

  Tom nodded slowly. He did not take his eyes off her.

  ‘She is but eight years old.’ The words were all that Frances could form from the many other thoughts that were racing around her mind.

  ‘The princess is advanced for her years. Already she has won the love of the people through her regal bearing and presence. She has the popular touch that her father so notably lacks,’ Tom added, with a sneer.

  ‘And what of her brothers? They stand before her in the succession. Do you plan to destroy them too?’

  This time it was Catesby who spoke.

  ‘Prince Henry is a preening fool. He will grow up to become a greater tyrant even than his father.’ He spat into the fire. ‘By the time that Parliament sits, the prince will have reached his eleventh year – old enough to attend. We hear that he has already petitioned his father to that end.’

  ‘And Prince Charles?’ Frances asked. ‘He is barely able to walk, though he is four years old. Would you have his nursemaids carry him to Westminster so that he might accompany his brother?’

  ‘The boy is weak and will not grow to manhood. We need not concern ourselves with him.’

  Frances fell silent again as she tried to order her thoughts. The only sound was the fire crackling in the grate.

  ‘Why choose the princess above her mother? The queen is well able to govern, and, like her daughter, has the love of the people. If, as you say, she is of the Catholic faith, then there can surely be nobody better to serve your purpose.’

  ‘We would appoint a regent until the princess reaches adulthood,’ Catesby said with a trace of impatience. ‘A Catholic husband would then be found for her.’

  Frances gave a cynical smile.

  ‘So Elizabeth would be little more than a puppet queen. With you and your friends pulling the strings.’

  She turned her cold gaze to Tom.

  ‘Now I understand the part that I am to play – indeed, the part that I have unknowingly played all along. I am your means of access to the princess. You courted me so that I might lead you to the prize you sought.’

  Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Catesby cut in.

  ‘You will continue to play your part.’

  His stare was cold and appraising.

  ‘And if I do not?’

  ‘Then I will have you put to death.’

  It was as if he had thrust a blade into her chest. She made to leap from her chair, but Tom gripped both of her wrists. His eyes blazed with what she thought was fear, but she no longer trusted her judgement. How could she have been so foolish as to believe he loved her? He had played her false from their first meeting, and she had been as easily beguiled as the princess by the flatterers who surrounded her. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them angrily away.

  After a few moments, Frances let her limbs go weak and sank back into the chair. Tom relaxed his grip, but continued to gaze intently at her.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Her voice was flat, resigned.

  ‘The princess and her household will soon move north, to Coombe Abbey, where she will live as a guest of Lord Harington,’ Catesby replied. ‘The queen has persuaded her husband that Elizabeth’s studies will be better advanced there, away from the distractions of court and the constant threat of disease. You shall accompany her, of course.’

  Frances had heard Lord Harington boast of his Warwickshire estate to the late queen. He had been richly rewarded for his part in conveying the condemned Queen of Scots to Fotheringhay, and by the time of Elizabeth’s death he was one of the wealthiest men at court. But, like so many others, Harington had found less favour in the new reign. Frances supposed he had retreated to his estates when it became clear that there were no further pickings to be had in James’s court.

  ‘When the time is ripe, Sir Everard will pay a visit to the abbey, and, at our signal, take the princess into his custody. You will make sure that she is
compliant.’

  Frances stared at him.

  ‘I am to be Her Highness’s gaoler?’ she demanded.

  ‘Merely her – companion,’ Catesby retorted, with a sardonic smile. ‘You shall be richly rewarded for your pains, when she wears the crown of England.’

  ‘I want no reward at your hands,’ Frances spat back.

  Tom looked anxiously at his cousin, then turned back to Frances.

  ‘In doing this service, you will be furthering the interests of God and all His faithful subjects,’ he urged, his voice soft and coaxing. ‘Surely you can feel no allegiance to a king who hunts down innocent women to fulfil his own perverted desires?’

  Frances felt a surge of fury that he should use her suffering to justify his treason.

  ‘When will we leave for Warwickshire?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘Within a week,’ Catesby replied. ‘Harington has already set his house in order.’

  ‘He knows of the plot?’

  Catesby raised his chin. ‘He is a good Catholic. When the time comes, he will act according to his conscience.’

  ‘And in the meantime, I am to return to Hampton Court?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Yes – without delay,’ Tom replied. ‘You shall tell the princess that my cousin was not as sick as I feared.’ He glanced at Catesby. ‘As soon as you are safely on your way, we will leave London. You can excuse my absence on account of needing to help my cousin put his estate in order.’

  Frances nodded mutely.

  Catesby walked slowly over to where she was sitting. He stood staring at her, his eyes as cold as ice.

  ‘So, Lady Frances,’ he said at last. His voice was low and menacing. ‘Will you do as we ask?’

  Frances looked from him to Tom. Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest, and her palms had grown clammy. She did not speak, but after a long pause gave a slight nod. A slow smile of satisfaction crossed Catesby’s face, and she heard Tom exhale quietly.

  Frances stood up briskly and reached for her cloak. She could not bear to look at either of them.

  ‘I will accompany you to the riverside,’ Tom said.

  She did not reply, but walked to the door and waited. More than anything, she wanted to be away from this place, away from the horrors that she had heard. She wanted to be away from Tom, too, she realised. She had to stop herself from recoiling as he reached for her hand and gently placed it on his arm. Catesby held open the door as they passed through, and watched after them, his eyes narrowed.

  Neither she nor Tom spoke as they made their way back through the streets of Westminster. She was hardly aware of her surroundings, and walked as if in a trance, her mind filled with these revelations and betrayals. The bell of St Stephen’s began to chime for midday. Had they really been in that place for only an hour? It could have been decades, for all the changes it had wrought in her. She no longer knew what was truth and what was artifice.

  As they descended the steps that led down to the landing stage, a sharp wind suddenly whipped up from the river. It brought Frances back to herself. She drew in her cloak against the chill. To her relief, a boat was tethered to the mooring. She had no wish to delay their parting. Tom took her hand as she stepped into it, and continued to grip it tightly after she had sat down. He looked at her with eyes that seemed filled with sorrow. Her own were utterly devoid of emotion.

  ‘I will send word as soon as I am able,’ he said, still clasping her hand.

  She nodded briefly and made to withdraw her hand, but he pressed it to his chest. She felt the rapid pounding of his heart as he gazed at her, his eyes imploring now.

  ‘Frances …’ he began. His mouth moved as if trying to form the words that would restore her faith, her love.

  At length, the boatman gave an impatient sigh and began to untether the vessel. Reluctantly, Tom released his grip and straightened himself.

  ‘Take the lady to Hampton Court, please.’

  The boatman nodded and pushed away from the mooring. Frances smiled briefly, then turned to look straight ahead as she was rowed steadily westward. When they reached the first turn of the river, she allowed herself to look back. She could just make out Tom’s silhouette as he stood, stock-still, watching after her.

  Turning back to the boatman, she commanded: ‘Take me to Richmond.’

  CHAPTER 31

  29 January

  The light was fading as they approached the meadows that surrounded Richmond. Ahead, Frances could see the turrets of the palace silhouetted against the sky, which had now turned to deep pink, interspersed with strips of gold. It had been a little under two years since she had last been here. How much had changed since then. If she had only known when she had attended the dying queen what would become of her in the next reign she would have – what? Defied her uncle? Escaped to the Continent? She felt her thoughts turn bitter. Everything seemed loaded against her. There was little choice for any woman but to bend herself to the will of men.

  Her gaze still fixed upon the palace, Frances calculated that she had three days at most before the princess would begin pressing for her return from Westminster. Word of her absence was unlikely to reach Tom or his cousin in the meantime. She exhaled deeply. The rhythmic motion of the oars had helped to order her thoughts, and she had drawn comfort from the fact that they were taking her ever further from London. And from Tom. For all she knew he could be following in her wake, sent to spy on her by his distrustful cousin. But she sensed that he was not. He would probably be many miles away by now. They had passed only a handful of other boats during the long journey from Westminster.

  Frances had long since learned to live on her wits and make her own choices – so far as the limitations of her position at court allowed. She had grown to trust her instincts, for they had often been proven right. Now, though, her faith had been shattered. She had been shown to be hopelessly naive. Not only had Tom concealed his true intentions – and faith – from her, he had spun an illusion of their relationship that was as false as a court masque. The realisation left her feeling utterly incapable of forming a plan for what she must do. To collude with this monstrous plot was unthinkable, but she knew that Catesby’s threat had been made in earnest. More than ever, she longed to escape home to Longford. She did not belong anywhere else. But she knew that the plot would follow her there, forever tainting the idyll with its wickedness.

  ‘Think only of the present time,’ the Reverend Samuels had counselled her, when, as a young girl, she had been impatient for more knowledge, for greater skill, and for independence to act as she saw fit. The thought comforted her now, though she knew that little else would. The strength of Tom’s faith had driven him to conspire the death of the king, and many others besides. Her own seemed suddenly weak by comparison, like the late queen’s habit of adding water to her wine in order to reduce its strength. The Protestant beliefs to which Frances and her family adhered would satisfy neither the king nor those who clung to the old ways.

  As they neared the watergate, Frances looked across at the neatly manicured lawn that swept down from the formal gardens to the riverside. She smiled as she imagined her father directing the gardeners to add his own touches to the old queen’s design. He had often told her that it was better to enhance nature than to order it. As she looked more closely, she noticed that the rigidly clipped hedges and precise symmetry of the knot gardens had been softened by the planting of yew trees along the wall that bordered them. Already she fancied there was something of Longford here.

  Stepping onto the landing stage, she paused for a moment to stretch out her aching limbs. She felt suddenly ravenous as she realised that she had eaten nothing since the small manchet loaf that she had taken with her for the journey to Westminster.

  As she walked towards the gatehouse, an elderly guard appeared, lifting his lantern into the gathering gloom.

  ‘I am Lady Frances Gorges,’ she said at once, to allay his fears.

  He stooped to bow.

  ‘The Lo
rd and Lady Marchioness are not expecting you, my lady,’ he said in a querulous voice.

  ‘No – I will not be staying for long. There is no need to make any preparations. Please—’ She gestured for him to go back inside so that she could make her own way to the palace.

  The old man hesitated, then shuffled gratefully back into his lodgings, where she could see a small fire flickering in the grate. She picked her way along the gravel path that led to a large, ornate stone doorway. As a child, she had fancied that it must have once been a giant’s castle. She smiled at the recollection now as she rapped on the heavy oak door.

  It was soon opened by a groom, who showed her into the entrance hall. Glancing at the small gold clock on the fireplace, she realised that it was dinnertime. As she waited, Frances looked up at the walls, which were hung with tapestries and paintings that her parents had brought with them from Longford. She breathed deeply, trying to catch at the familiar scent of her beloved home.

  The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hall. Frances turned to see her mother hastening towards her. Her face was filled with anxiety mingled with joy, and her eyes brimmed with tears as she took Frances in her arms and held her tightly.

  ‘My daughter,’ Helena whispered, holding Frances at arm’s length so that she could look at her. ‘But you have grown pale – and thin,’ she observed, her brow furrowed.

  Before she could question her daughter further, her husband stepped lightly into the hall. He wore the same relaxed smile that Frances remembered, and as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, it was as if he had been expecting her visit. She had always marvelled at his ability to greet the many ebbs and flows of a courtier’s life in the same sanguine manner.

  ‘Well, Frances,’ he said softly. ‘This is an unexpected delight.’

  She smiled ruefully, and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Forgive me Father – Mother. I did not have time to send word of my visit. I was sent on an errand to Westminster, which did not take as long as I expected, so I seized the opportunity to see you. I will not be looked for at Hampton Court for another two days yet.’