The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Well, that has given us all a stir,’ Lord Harington remarked as soon as order had been restored. ‘You are recovered now, Your Grace?’

  Elizabeth nodded, and gave another little cough. ‘I am quite well, thank you. Besides, I was glad of the diversion. Lord knows there are little enough of them here,’ she added sulkily.

  Lord Harington looked chastened. ‘I am sorry, ma’am. I know that I can offer few of the entertainments that you are accustomed to at court. But you are safest here for now.’

  ‘Is there any news from London, my lord?’ Frances cut in, her heart pounding.

  The old man shook his head. ‘Nothing yet, Lady Frances. Parliament was due to meet today, as you know, but I have had no word of whether or not it did. Pray God it has passed without incident.’

  Frances traced a cross on the palm of her hand and mouthed a silent ‘Amen.’

  ‘When will I be permitted to leave this place?’ the princess demanded brusquely. Frances shot her a look of reproof, but the girl refused to meet her eye.

  ‘As soon as I receive word from the king your father,’ Lord Harington replied quietly. ‘In the meantime, I will try to ensure that you have everything that you require for your comfort and entertainment.’

  Elizabeth gave a curt nod, then got to her feet and smoothed down her skirts.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ she said in a lofty tone. ‘I am going to write a letter to my mother. She will be anxious for news of how I fare.’

  Before either of them could answer, she swept from the room and slammed the door behind her.

  Frances jolted awake, her heart pounding. She listened. Another volley of thuds sounded in the distance, followed this time by hurried footsteps. She hastened out of bed and lit a candle from the dying embers in the grate. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was just past two in the morning. She wrapped her cloak around her and padded quickly along the corridor.

  At the top of the stairs that led down into the entrance hall, she could hear muffled voices. She strained to listen as she peered over the bannister, but a moment later the door was closed and she saw Carter running up the stairs towards Lord Harington’s apartments in the opposite wing of the house. Instinctively, Frances drew back into the shadows. She waited, her heart still racing. A few moments later, Lord Harington came hurrying towards the princess’s rooms. The light from the candle that he carried illuminated his stricken features, and as he came closer she could hear that his breath was short and laboured. When he drew level with her, she reached out and touched his arm. He jumped back as if scorched.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, but I was woken by the knocking at the door,’ she said quickly. ‘What has happened? Is it the king? Is he—’

  He drew her into a window embrasure and glanced over his shoulder before replying.

  ‘It was my neighbour’s steward. A group of papists has ransacked Lord Jeffrey’s estate and stolen his horses. The men were armed,’ he added, his eyes wild with fear. ‘He sent to warn me that they might be heading this way. The plot must have succeeded.’

  Frances’s hand flew up to her mouth. The king was dead. Already Catesby, Tom, and the others must be riding north and had sent word to their supporters here to raise arms in readiness. She felt a mixture of elation and fear, though it hardly seemed real.

  ‘We must convey the princess to safety,’ Lord Harington continued. ‘There is no time to lose.’

  Frances’s mind was racing. If Catesby’s men arrived at Coombe to find that their prize had been snatched from them, the plot might still fail, even though they had succeeded in destroying the king and his Parliament.

  ‘No.’

  Her voice was quiet but commanding. ‘If you leave now, you will be exposing the princess to even greater danger. The safest place for her is here at the abbey. Your retainers are already prepared for a siege, after all.’

  As she held the old man’s gaze, her mind raced on. If the plot had succeeded – as it surely must – then by the time that Catesby and his followers reached the Midlands, they might have amassed a huge body of supporters. Lord Harington’s men would be able to offer little resistance.

  He eyed her doubtfully. ‘But there is little time. The plotters might already be surrounding my estate.’

  She shook her head. ‘If they had planned to ride straight here from your neighbour’s estate, then they would have arrived by now.’

  She opened the window so that they might both listen. The chill breeze made Lord Harington’s candle gutter. He shivered, but leaned towards the window. They strained their ears for the sound of horses’ hooves approaching, but the dark countryside beyond was as still and quiet as the grave.

  ‘Besides, you have had strict orders to keep the princess at Coombe until instructed otherwise,’ Frances urged when she saw that Lord Harington still hesitated.

  The old man sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, after a pause. ‘We shall remain here for now. But we must be ready to leave at a moment’s notice – as soon as we find out which way the wind blows,’ he added, regarding her closely. He glanced across to the princess’s chamber.

  ‘She will still be sleeping,’ Frances said, anticipating his question. She forced a smile. ‘We would have been left in no doubt if she had been awoken.’

  Lord Harington nodded, but did not return her smile. ‘I shall send word to my retainers straight away.’ He stood up and walked stiffly away. Frances stood listening until his footsteps had faded away downstairs, then hastened back to her room.

  Closing the door softly behind her, she walked over to the window and peered out into the darkness. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she gradually picked out the silhouettes of the sycamore trees that bordered the estate, and the dark hills beyond. Once or twice, she thought she saw a glimmer on the hillside, to the south, and strained her eyes, expecting to see it grow brighter and multiply into a hundred blazing torches being carried aloft by Catesby’s supporters. But when she blinked, it had gone.

  Eventually, she turned away and walked silently over to the bed. Drawing her knees up to her chin, she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.

  The moment had come. Tom and his companions had prevailed in Westminster. Now she must ensure that their prize remained safe for them to claim as soon as they arrived at Coombe. It could surely not be long now. Parliament had been due to meet the previous morning. As soon as the gunpowder had been ignited, Catesby would have used the cover of the ensuing confusion to flee north with his men. If they rode hard and changed horses halfway, they would be here soon after dawn.

  Her thoughts ran on. Had Sir Everard also received news that the plot had succeeded? If he had, then he might already be preparing to join his victorious companions at Coombe, unaware that they knew of his treachery. Or was he still waiting for the signal from Cecil to seize the princess and convey her to whichever hiding place they had arranged?

  Cecil.

  With a jolt, Frances realised that he was probably dead too. When Lord Harington had told her the news, she had thought only of the king. Yet his chief minister had plagued her ever since her arrival at court, his sinister, threatening presence a constant reminder of her vulnerability. She felt a searing rush of relief at the thought that she might never see him again.

  But she must remain on her guard. Sliding her hand under her pillow, she felt the cold shaft of Father Garnet’s dagger. The priest must be many miles from Coughton Court by now. She was angered by his faithlessness. Well, by acting precipitately, he had deprived himself of a share in the glory. A zealot like Catesby would not take kindly to those who proved to have weaker convictions, she knew.

  The soft chiming of the hall clock echoed along the silent corridor, making Frances’s heart lurch. As the third stroke faded into silence, she rose from the bed and began to get dressed. When Tom and the rest arrived, she must be ready.

  CHAPTER 42

  7 November

  Frances glanced around. The woods were eerily silent and still. Ove
rhead, the steely grey sky seemed to be closing in, shrouding the forest in gloom. It could be little more than two o’clock: she had set out directly after lunch on the premise of gathering some herbs that the cook had requested. In truth, she had been unable to bear Lord Harington’s obvious unease, or the princess’s resentful silence, broken only by the occasional scornful remark or complaint, bitter as bile. Her own restlessness had grown unbearable. There had been no news since the steward had raised the alarm the night before last. No plotters had descended upon the abbey as Lord Harington feared – and she had hoped. They would surely have been here long before now if they had ridden straight from London. But the abbey and its surrounds had been as still as the grave. Frances began to feel that any tidings – good or bad – would be preferable to this agony of waiting.

  She had chosen these woods deliberately. They lay to the south of the abbey, close to the track that led to the Coventry road. Any travellers from either London or Coughton Court would pass by this way. Stooping down to pluck a sprig of ivy, its dark shiny leaves edged with brown, she paused and listened. For a moment, everything was silent. She held her breath. There it was again. The distant rumble of horses’ hooves was unmistakable now. Running to the edge of the woods, she looked out across the open fields to the south and caught movement in the distance to the west of the spires of Coventry. Even from here, she could see that the rider was travelling at breakneck speed.

  Casting the herbs aside, Frances gathered up her skirts and ran back into the woods, towards the abbey. The crack of twigs underfoot seemed to echo around the forest, sending birds flapping from their shelter in alarm. Once or twice, she stumbled on the gnarled roots that weaved across the forest floor, her ankles twisting painfully, and the palms of her hands prickling with blood from the brambles that she grasped to stop herself from falling. But she ran on, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, and her back damp with sweat.

  When the abbey at last came into view, she could no longer hear the horses’ hooves. Whoever had come must be inside the house now. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Sir Everard dragging the princess towards his waiting horse. She chided herself for her impatience. She should have stayed at the abbey. Though her legs now felt like water, and her lungs seemed fit to burst, she surged forward along the drive.

  She reached the door, panting heavily, and held onto its heavy iron handle for a moment, fearing that her legs would buckle under her. There was no outward sign of any disturbance, and she could hear nothing from within. Taking one last, uncertain breath, she twisted the handle and pushed open the door.

  The hallway was empty, but she could hear voices in the parlour. One of them was Lord Harington’s, but the other she did not recognise. Not pausing to consider, she walked briskly towards the room, and, knocking sharply at the door, entered before anyone could reply.

  Lord Harington was pacing up and down before the fire, but stopped abruptly when he saw Frances, his face ashen. A young man she didn’t recognise was standing close by, his face and clothes spattered with mud. His back heaved, and there was a sheen of sweat on his neck. Turning to look at Frances, he bowed abruptly, then strode from the room.

  The old man ran his fingers distractedly across his brow. His gaze darted from Frances to the door, which the messenger had left slightly ajar.

  ‘Carter!’ he shouted so suddenly that Frances started. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. A moment later, the attendant appeared.

  ‘Tell the servants to make ready. We must leave this place before nightfall.’

  Frances noticed the steward’s eyes widen, but he merely bowed and left the room. The sound of barked commands and rapid footsteps could soon be heard in the chambers beyond.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, my lord?’ she demanded.

  ‘One of the conspirators has been captured. He was discovered in a cellar beneath Westminster Palace, moments from executing his evil work. A huge quantity of gunpowder was hidden there. They meant to destroy the king and his entire Parliament.’

  Frances felt the blood drain from her face. She gripped the edge of the chair in front of her. Then they have failed. The hope that she had cherished for the past two days was crushed so suddenly that it took her breath away.

  ‘Do you know his name?’ she asked at length, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  Lord Harington nodded. He was watching her closely. She held her breath.

  ‘John Johnson.’

  The answer was so unexpected that for a moment she was unable to comprehend it. She had never heard that name before, and she was sure that she knew all of Catesby’s close associates. It was possible that he had joined the plot after she and the princess had left London, but it seemed unlikely that they would trust its execution to a newcomer.

  ‘A false name, of course,’ Harington continued, noting her confusion. ‘But it will not be long before he spits out the real one. The king has had him taken to the Tower. If he refuses to speak his name, and that of his fellow conspirators, His Majesty will not hesitate to have him racked.’

  Frances shuddered. Had this man already led them to Tom? Was he even now shivering in a dark cell beneath the White Tower as he awaited his interrogators? No. She felt sure that he was not, though she had little reason upon which to base her conviction. It was only instinct that told her he still drew breath – the same instinct that had drawn her to him since their first meeting. But what of her father? Were Cecil’s men now galloping west towards Richmond? She swallowed hard.

  ‘Then why must we leave? If the plot has been foiled and one of its leaders arrested, we must surely be safe, especially so far from London?’

  Lord Harington shook his head.

  ‘There has been a raid on Warwick Castle by a group of papists. A great cache of arms and horses has been taken. I cannot risk the princess’s safety by keeping her here,’ he broke off, his gaze intensifying, ‘where everyone knows she resides.’

  Frances’s mind was racing. Catesby must be forging ahead with what was left of his plot, regardless of the catastrophic failure in Westminster. Surely he could not hope to raise enough supporters in the Midlands to take London by force? He and his associates should be halfway across the Channel by now. It was their only hope of survival. But she knew with a sickening certainty that Catesby would stay and fight to the death rather than turn tail and flee to safety.

  If they would not escape, then there was still time for her to do so. It would surely not be long before Cecil’s men came to find her. But for now, everything was in confusion, as Father Garnet had predicted. By the time that her absence was noted, she could be riding south, to the coast. There was another way to save herself, she realised, her thoughts racing on. If she meekly complied with Harington’s command and went into hiding with the princess, then by the time she emerged, Catesby and his friends might have been rounded up and put to death – Tom included. Unless one of them betrayed her, she could live out her days in comfort in the service of the king’s daughter.

  The king. She pictured him now, cowering in his privy chamber at Whitehall, his clammy white hands grasping for a sword whenever a floorboard creaked or a clumsy page sent a glass clattering. Now his face was close to hers, his spittle wet on her cheek as he whispered his foul threats. She felt her throat begin to tighten, as it had that night at the Tower, while the fire crackled in the grate, and James’s witch pricker had sharpened his dagger.

  No. She could not do it. For all the love she bore the princess, a life lived in the glittering cesspit of court, watched over constantly by Cecil and his men, would be more of a torture than anything she could suffer as a result of helping Tom and the reckless schemes in which he was embroiled. If there was even a glimmer of hope that their plot might yet succeed, she must do her utmost to assist it.

  ‘Have you received instructions from the king to remove his daughter?’ she demanded with a new resolve.

  Lord Harington looked momentarily shamefaced, but soon recovere
d himself.

  ‘No, my lady. But I cannot take the risk of staying here, surrounded by papists on all sides.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘To Coventry. There is a house belonging to a merchant in the heart of the city, close to the cathedral. We are assured of safety there, and it is large enough to accommodate the rest of my household.’

  Frances thought quickly. If she left now, there would be no means of getting word to Tom of their whereabouts. Though she would be placing herself in danger by staying at the abbey, she would not doom the plot to failure by deserting it.

  ‘I will remain here – for a night at least,’ she said firmly.

  ‘My lady—’ Lord Harington began to protest, but she held her hand up to stay his words.

  ‘You are leaving without the king’s permission or knowledge,’ she continued. ‘If he should send word to you or the princess, there will be nobody here to receive it. Once you are settled safely in Coventry, you can dispatch a messenger to court with news of your whereabouts. It carries too great a risk now, with so many papists abroad who might intercept it.’

  The old man fell silent, considering. He resumed his restless pacing, though Frances could see it gave him pain.

  ‘You must leave me directions to the merchant’s house, so that I might join you there as soon as I am able,’ she continued. ‘It will not be long, God willing.’

  Lord Harington gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘Very well, Lady Frances,’ he said at last. ‘But you must know that you will reside in this house alone – and in great peril. I will order one of the stableboys to stay – he at least will be able to keep watch from his room above the stables. But I will not put any more of my household at risk. I intend to send all but a few back to their homes for now.’

  Frances nodded, her eyes ablaze. With one last, doubtful glance at her, the old man hastened from the room.