The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Frances watched as the last of the carriages rounded the corner towards the end of the drive, the torches that had been lit on its canopy slowly fading into the darkness. She exhaled deeply, her breath misty in the chill night air. After a pause, she turned and went back into the house, pushing the door quietly closed behind her.

  The stillness within unnerved her, and she was seized with a sudden impulse to run after the carriages as they rolled quietly through the sleeping countryside. The thought of the boy in his lodging above the stables offered little comfort. For all she knew, he was already slumbering amongst the hay.

  She stood for a few moments, her eyes scanning the dark corners of the entrance hall. The fires in most of the grates had been extinguished, and only a few candles still flickered in their sconces. They would burn out soon enough, she knew. She crossed to the small table next to the clock and took one of the candlesticks, lighting it carefully from one of the sconces nearby, before padding quietly upstairs.

  As she drew level with the princess’s chamber, she saw that the door was ajar. Pushing it open, she held her light forward so that she might see inside. It was in some disarray, dresses and cloaks strewn over the bed and chairs, and a pile of books lying scattered on the floor. Elizabeth had been the only member of the household to feel any excitement at the prospect of leaving for Coventry. As soon as Lord Harington had told her the news, the sombre and irritable mood that she had laboured under for days had lifted, and she had set Frances to work in packing her coffers. With wide-eyed wonder, she had speculated about the whereabouts of the plotters, relishing her newly cast role as a heroine, escaping from their evil clutches in the dead of night. Her only misgivings had been for her mother and baby sister, and she had plagued Lord Harington for assurances of their safety. The thought of leaving without Frances had also pained her, and she had made her attendant promise to follow the very next day.

  Frances pulled the door quietly closed, promising herself that she would tidy the princess’s room as soon as it was light. Once inside her own chamber, she felt a little calmer. Setting the candle down on the table by the fire, she stoked the embers and reached for another log from the basket. It sparked and hissed when she put it in the grate, but eventually the flames took hold, and it began to burn brightly, filling the room with warmth. She reached behind her back and began unlacing her bodice, then untied her skirts, and let the heavy fabric fall to the ground. She laid the clothes carefully over the chest by her bed, then pulled out her nightgown and shawl. Crossing to her dressing table, she sat down in front of the mirror and unpinned her hair so that it fell about her shoulders. Slowly, she ran the comb through the tangled tresses until they shone, smooth as silk, in the candlelight. The familiar movements calmed her, and at last her thoughts grew still.

  When she had woven her hair into a loose plait, she stood and looked over to the bed. Though the panic had subsided, sleep still seemed a distant prospect, so she decided to sit by the fire and read for a while. As she looked at the volumes on the shelf, her gaze alighted on Arcadia. Her heart gave a lurch. She had not picked it up for months, unable to bear the memories that it stirred within her of a happier time, filled with hope for the future. But she reached for it now, desperate for the comfort and escape that it had once offered. Drawing her shawl around her, she pulled her chair close to the fire, which was now roaring in the grate, and began to leaf through its familiar pages.

  Though she enjoyed feeling the weight of the book on her lap, she was so agitated that the words seemed to leap about on the page. After a few minutes, she closed it with a sigh. They would have reached Coventry by now. It was only six miles from Coombe, and the roads were good. She whispered a prayer for the princess’s safe keeping. God knew when she would see her again. She picked up the book again and began to read, but her eyelids soon grew heavy, so she set it down on the table and curled her legs under her. Before long, her thoughts became disordered, strange visions remaining just out of her grasp so that when she tried to decipher their meaning, she found that they had already disappeared. Breathing deeply, she surrendered herself to sleep.

  ‘Frances.’

  She smiled at the familiar voice, but her eyes remained closed. He reached forward and closed his hands over hers. The coldness of his skin made her start. Her eyes sprang open. She blinked several times, unbelieving.

  ‘Tom.’

  She stared at him, unable to speak another word. He was kneeling at her feet, his eyes filled with uncertainty and longing. His skin was deathly pale, and the beard that had grown full since she had last seen him did not quite disguise how gaunt his face had become. His hair was matted, and France noticed that his clothes were flecked with mud.

  He bent his head and kissed her fingers. His lips were as cold as ice.

  ‘We are undone,’ he said quietly, his head still bowed.

  Frances struggled to control her breathing. She still did not know if this was real or a dreamlike fancy, conjured up by sleep. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his cheek. He grasped her hand and held it there, breathing in her scent. After a few moments, he laid it gently down on her lap, his own hand closed over it.

  ‘Guido was discovered beneath the house in Westminster. Everything was in readiness. We needed only a few more hours for our plan to succeed. But Cecil knew more than we hoped, even though we have kept Sir Everard in ignorance since you told me of his betrayal.’

  ‘Guido gave a false name?’ Frances whispered, her voice cracked.

  Tom nodded. ‘But they got his real one out of him soon enough, thanks to the gentle tortures that the king bade them use.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It will not be long before those same tortures draw out the names of his associates.’

  ‘What shall you do?’

  He gave a heavy sigh and sat back on his heels.

  ‘There is only one thing we can do: stay and fight. There are many in these parts who stand ready to take up arms. Already they have been gathering weapons and horses. We may yet be victorious,’ he added without conviction.

  Frances watched him closely. She knew it was pointless to try to persuade him again to flee. They were sworn to fight their cause to the death, no matter how slight the chances of victory.

  A sudden thought occurred to her.

  ‘Did you ride by the stables?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, the noise would have awoken the servants. I rode only as far as the woods to the south of the abbey. My horse is tethered there.’

  ‘Only one servant remains here – above the stables. I am in the house alone.’ She paused. ‘The princess has been taken to Coventry. Lord Harington feared for her safety here, so he has taken her to a house of a trusted associate. I can direct you there, should you need it.’

  He pressed his lips to her hands again. They were warmer now.

  ‘I am indebted to you. You have shown greater loyalty to our cause – to me – than I deserve,’ he replied earnestly. ‘But our hopes for the princess are unlikely to bear fruit. Even now, Catesby and the rest are preparing to withstand a siege at Holbeach. It is rumoured that the sheriff has mustered hundreds of men.’ He paused and looked at her steadily, his eyes grave. ‘I must join them there before daybreak.’

  Frances felt her heart contract in her chest.

  ‘But you will be riding to your death.’

  ‘You forget that we are trained soldiers, with many years’ service. Besides,’ he added with a slow smile, ‘there have been even more ill-matched encounters than this, many of which have favoured the smaller force. King Harry’s archers at Agincourt are testament to that.’

  Frances did not return his smile.

  ‘I cannot let you go.’

  Tom reached up and gently brushed her cheek.

  ‘I have no choice, Frances. Would that it were otherwise. God knows I have prayed that it might be.’

  ‘So you have come to say goodbye?’ Her voice caught painfully in her throat, but she stared back at him, her gaze unwavering.


  He did not reply, but his eyes told her the truth of her words. They lapsed into silence and listened to the soft crackle of the small flames that still flickered gently across the embers. Soon they would die out, and the room would grow cold and dark. Frances gave a slight shiver.

  Tom got slowly to his feet. She felt her composure begin to crumble. A tear weaved its way slowly down her cheek, and she brushed it away. She reached out and touched his hand.

  ‘Do not go – not yet.’

  Slowly, she uncurled her legs and stood up. His hands were trembling slightly and his breathing was rapid, but his eyes never left hers. She took a step forward so that their bodies were almost touching, then tilted her head upwards and softly kissed him. His lips were unyielding at first, but as her mouth became more insistent, his resolve seemed suddenly to weaken, and he clasped her to him, his kiss becoming deeper, his desire more urgent.

  With impatient fingers, she fumbled with the ties of his cloak and doublet until they eventually fell slack and she was able to ease them off his shoulders. She slid her hands under his shirt, feeling the soft warm flesh of his back as he leaned forward to kiss her neck. His hands were warm through her linen shift as he caressed her back, her hips and thighs, and she was filled with an almost unbearable longing.

  All at once, he pulled away from her, his breath rasping in his throat.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said in a low voice, his chest heaving silently. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Frances watched him steadily for a few moments, then slowly untied the collar of her shift and eased it down over her shoulders, letting it fall noiselessly to the floor. She saw Tom’s eyes flick towards it, then move slowly up her body, savouring every gentle curve of her flesh as if wishing to commit it to his memory for ever. When at last his eyes met hers, they were blazing with desire.

  Without speaking, she moved towards the bed, her gaze never leaving his. She lay back onto the thick coverlet and watched as he pulled off his shirt and hose. When at last he lowered himself gently down onto her, she raised her mouth to his and wrapped her legs around him, drawing him into her. The shock of the pain soon subsided into a delicious, rising pleasure that drove her to meet his rhythm, pushing her hips against him with an increasing urgency. As she cried out, he gave a shudder and collapsed onto her, his head buried into her shoulder.

  They lay like that for a long time, their fingers idly caressing each other until they became impatient for more. At last they fell into a sweet, exhausted sleep, Frances cocooned against Tom’s chest, his arms enfolding her and his mouth nuzzling the back of her neck.

  She awoke with a start and shivered, suddenly cold. Tom was no longer there, and she sat up in panic, her eyes casting about the room. As they became accustomed to the dim light that was beginning to steal through the shutters, she saw his silhouette at the end of the bed. Relief flooded through her, but was instantly replaced by dread.

  ‘I must leave you now, my love,’ he said softly.

  For a few moments, she was unable either to speak or to move. Then she slowly drew the coverlet around her shoulders and looked up at him. Though she could not make out his features, she knew that he was watching her intently.

  ‘Please stay,’ she whispered. ‘Or if you must leave this place, then make your escape. Do not join the others at Holbeach. You know that you will not leave it alive.’

  His shoulders sagged slightly, and he sat down next to her, his hands warm as he drew her to him.

  ‘And you know that I cannot desert them,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘I have pledged to take such part as they do, even if it means forfeiting my life.’

  Gently, he brushed her cheek with his thumb, and kissed her mouth. As he drew away, she could still feel the warmth of his lips. She pressed her own together as she struggled to swallow back her tears. She watched as he walked over to the door, then stopped and turned.

  ‘I love you, Frances,’ he said quietly. ‘I always have. God go with you.’

  ‘And with you,’ she whispered.

  He paused for a few more moments, then, with a sudden resolve, walked briskly from the room, closing the door behind him. Frances sat quite still and held her breath as she listened to his retreating footsteps.

  ‘Come back to me,’ she whispered as they faded into silence. ‘Come back.’

  CHAPTER 43

  9 November

  The rain was falling heavily by the time Frances reached the door of Holy Trinity church. It had not relented for two days now, and there were reports that the Avon had burst its banks at Warwick, washing away some of the poorer houses on the edge of the town. It was a blessing that Lord Harington had chosen Coventry as their refuge instead, though even here the streets were waterlogged. The hem of Frances’s gown was sodden, and her leather shoes had provided little protection from the large puddles that lay in a patchwork across the cobbled streets of the city.

  Few other people had ventured abroad this morning – as much, perhaps, from fear as from a desire to stay warm and dry in their homes. It had meant that she could steal out of the merchant’s house unnoticed. For once, Elizabeth had shown no inclination to accompany her. Besides, Lord Harington would never have let her out. He had succeeded in installing her in the house without attracting attention, and he was determined to keep her there until the danger had passed – if it ever did.

  Frances twisted the old wrought-iron handle and heard the heavy latch lift on the other side of the door. Pushing her shoulder against it, she opened it just wide enough to walk through, then closed it silently behind her. Drawing off her cloak and hood, she paused for a moment, entranced by the serene beauty of the place. The aisle was flanked by a series of columns and archways, all perfectly symmetrical, with a gallery high up above. The ceiling was painted an azure blue, interspersed with beams and trefoils picked out in gold. At the top of the nave was a huge stained-glass window that filled the church with light, even on this gloomy day.

  Frances glanced from side to side as she walked slowly up the aisle. Every pew was empty, and there was no sound except for the dripping of the rain from the gables outside. She took a seat opposite a small side chapel and bowed her head in prayer. But the moment she closed her eyes, images of the last night she had spent at Coombe came crowding in. She had pushed them away until now, busying herself with unpacking Elizabeth’s and her own belongings, ordering the rooms that the merchant had given them, and doing her best to keep her young mistress from fretting. By the time she had retired the previous night, she had been so exhausted that she had slipped into a dreamless sleep, but she had woken early, her ears straining for the sound of a messenger arriving with news of the plotters. Even now she flinched at every echo of a horse’s hoof on the cobbles outside. She rubbed her neck, as if to ease away the anxiety. She was thankful that Lord Harington had granted her permission to take a walk in order to clear the pains in her head.

  She closed her eyes and saw Tom’s face so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her lips. If she reached out, she felt sure that she would touch his chest, warm through his linen shirt. Her breathing started to quicken as she felt his fingertips brush her cheek. But then, suddenly, they turned to ice, and he stood motionless before her, his face as pallid and sombre as a death mask.

  Frances snapped her eyes open to dispel the image, but it remained there, torturing her with its clarity. The pulse at her temples was throbbing painfully, and she struggled to subdue the sense of panic that threatened to engulf her. Casting about the church, her eyes alighted on a wall painting above the archway that spanned the aisle. She forced herself to focus on the vermilion of the disciple’s coat, the look of supplication on Mary’s face as she knelt before her son, Christ’s outstretched arms as he sat in judgement, apparently oblivious to the pleas of those who crowded around him.

  Her eyes then moved down to the wretched souls below. The tangle of bodies trying to climb towards the salvation of the Lord, their nakedness a sign of their sinful
lives. The demons lurking at the mouth of hell seemed to watch their futile attempts in amusement, biding their time before dragging them back to the torments of eternal damnation.

  Frances stood abruptly, sending the prayer book in front of her clattering onto the stone floor below. She glanced up again at the painting then, crossing herself, walked briskly out into the rain. As she made her way back through the deserted streets of the city towards the towering red-stone edifice of the cathedral, the bell began tolling the hour. As the ninth strike faded into silence, it was replaced by a faint tapping that grew more distinct as Frances hastened along the street, her head cowed against the falling rain. She rounded the corner onto Bayley Lane and saw a figure up ahead, shrouded in a long cloak. He was nailing something onto the walls of the Guildhall. She slowed her pace as she drew closer, peering at the notice. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned around, his hammer suspended above the final nail.

  ‘Wicked business, miss,’ he remarked with a shake of his head. A droplet of rain ran along his cap and onto his nose. He brushed it away, then turned back to his task. Over his shoulder, Frances could see that ‘Proclamation’ was printed in large letters at the top of the notice. She stepped forward so that she could read the words below.

  IT HAS LATELY BEEN DISCOVERED THAT A HORRIBLE TREASON WAS CONTRIVED AGAINST HIS MAJESTY, WHEREBY THE UPPER HOUSE OF THE PARLIAMENT, ATTENDED BY THE KING, THE PRINCE, ALL HIS NOBILITY AND THE COMMONS, WAS TO HAVE BEEN BLOWN UP WITH A GREAT QUANTITY OF GUNPOWDER. THE PERPETRATORS OF THIS DAMNABLE CONSPIRACY WERE SEVERAL CATHOLIC GENTLEMEN BY THE NAMES OF ROBERT CATESBY, AMBROSE ROOKWOOD, THOMAS WINTOUR, JOHN AND CHRISTOPHER WRIGHT, JOHN GRANT AND THOMAS PERCY, A GENTLEMAN PENSIONER TO HIS MAJESTY. THE SAID CONSPIRATORS HAVE SINCE FLED, AND THE KING COMMANDS ALL HIS OFFICERS AND LOVING SUBJECTS WHATSOEVER, TO DO THAT WHICH HE DOUBTS NOT BUT THEY SHALL WILLINGLY PERFORM, NAMELY TO MAKE ALL DILIGENT SEARCH FOR THE SAID TRAITORS.