The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Frances did not turn, but stood still for a few moments, struggling to maintain her composure. At length, she gave a small nod, then slipped silently from the room.

  As she passed through the succession of public rooms beyond, she was struck by the quietness. The court was usually crowded with ambitious place-seekers, visiting dignitaries, and household servants, but Greenwich was almost deserted. The few courtiers who lingered in the Great Hall had an air of despondency, but as Frances caught their eye she saw watchfulness too. She nodded her acknowledgement to those she recognised, but continued on to her chamber without stopping for conversation. She had no appetite for pleasantries, and even less for being drawn into discussing the late treason.

  By the time she reached her apartment, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, and the room was suffused with a deep red glow. She crossed to the window and looked out towards the river. The tide was high now, and the waters threatened to spill over onto the edge of the formal gardens that swept down towards the riverbank. Frances craned her neck towards the city. Shielding her eyes against the dazzling rays, she tried to catch a glimpse of the Tower, but the snaking river afforded only views of the meadows that stretched out beyond the palace and across the north bank.

  Sighing, she pulled the pane closed and sank down onto the bed. The princess would be here in a few days’ time, and, although the queen had instructed Frances to arrive early in order to prepare the girl’s apartments, she knew this was the work of only a few hours. She would have ample time to go to Whitehall, where the king and his court were residing, and could petition him herself for clemency.

  Her mind ran on, imagining the words she might employ to persuade him. They sounded weak even to her ears, and as she lay back onto the pillows, she was overcome with a sense of hopelessness. The tears flowed freely now as she thought of Tom, shivering in whatever dark corner of the Tower he had been thrown into. Did he still draw breath, or had he bled out from his wounds, surrendering himself to the kinder death? She could not bear to think of him there, utterly deprived of hope and comfort.

  Hear me, Lord, and answer me.

  She mouthed the familiar words of the psalm as she pressed her hands together.

  In this time of trouble I call.

  She paused. Countless times she had recited the prayer. It had been a favourite of her father, and he had made sure all of his children knew it by heart so that they could draw comfort during any future suffering that might afflict them. But as she searched for the next line, she found only silence. She lay there for a long time, hoping that the words would suddenly return, but eventually, exhausted and resigned, she fell into a restless sleep.

  She was down at the riverside before daylight. It had been easy enough to steal out of the palace unnoticed. There were few guards in attendance: most would be stationed at Whitehall, Frances supposed, in order to protect the king from any papists who still lurked in the city. The queen was of comparatively little importance, her favourite retreat a backwater. Frances had been hard-pressed to find a boatman to take her upriver.

  The eastern stretch of the Thames was quiet, and soon Frances could see the turrets of the Tower silhouetted against the pale grey sky. She shivered, but her gaze did not waver as she surveyed the imposing white stone keep that towered above the thick walls encircling it. The oarsman eyed her uncertainly as she sat there, transfixed, twisting her body around as they passed the fortress so that she could watch as it gradually faded from view. Only as they were drawing level with the gates of Whitehall did she turn her head, suddenly aware of her surroundings. She looked at the steps that led up to the labyrinthine passages and courtyards, and the memory of following Tom there came back to her so vividly that she had to catch her breath. It had only been a few months before, but it felt like a lifetime.

  Then she looked along the walls of the palace towards the Parliament buildings, and something caught her eye. Surmounted on two of the turrets there seemed to be a pair of moving orbs or weathervanes. Curious, Frances disembarked and walked towards the turrets. At first, she could not make out the ragged shapes on top, but then a stiff breeze whipped up from the Thames, twisting the poles around. She felt the bile rise up in her throat as she recognised the decaying heads of Robert Catesby and Thomas Percy. Their hair was matted and clumped, and the dark grey skin of their faces had a slack, waxen appearance, like a mask that had been melted by fire. The sockets of their eyes were hollow, and their mouths were downturned as if in perpetual lament. The skin around their necks was jagged and uneven from where it had been hacked away from their lifeless bodies.

  Frances stared in horror for a few moments, unable to wrest her gaze away from the hideous sight. Then the splash of an oar on the river behind her broke the spell and she turned away, retching into the water. Crouching down, she clutched her stomach and tried to still her breathing to stop herself from fainting. Though she cast about for something to distract her thoughts, the faces of the two men seemed to be imprinted onto her mind’s eye, and she clasped her hand over her mouth as a fresh wave of nausea swept over her.

  After a few minutes, she raised herself up to standing and took a couple of tentative steps towards the palace. Desperation to escape the hideous spectacle gave her the strength to move forward, and she quickened her pace so that by the time she reached the riverside gate she was breathless from the exertion.

  The yeomen guarding the entrance were busy interrogating a man who was trying to get in. As Frances approached, one of them turned and gave her a long, appraising stare. She had seen him several times before, and was grateful for having taken care to be courteous in the past, for he nodded at her now and lifted his halberd so that she could pass through.

  The courtyard within was the usual bustle of officials and attendants. Frances kept her eyes fixed straight ahead as she walked across to the doorway that led into the palace, hoping that none of them would stop to question her as to the nature of her business there. Her sex was an advantage for once, she acknowledged bitterly, as she emerged into the first of the public rooms. Few would concern themselves with a mere woman.

  As she neared the Great Hall, the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. Though the idea of eating made Frances’s stomach heave, she craved a cup of water to cleanse her mouth. She therefore joined the ranks of courtiers who were crowding onto the long wooden benches that had been set out next to each table.

  She was about to take a seat on the end of a row when she felt a hand press down on her shoulder. She turned sharply and saw her uncle standing before her, his face a mask of disapproval.

  ‘What business have you here, niece?’ he demanded as he clasped her elbow and steered her towards a quieter bench close to the raised dais.

  ‘I am seeking an audience with the king, my lord,’ she replied evenly.

  The earl gave a snort of derision.

  ‘You would do better to seek an audience with the pope,’ he sneered. ‘His Majesty has not shown himself to the court since the discovery of the late plot. He keeps to his innermost rooms, and will have only Scotsmen about him. He says the English are like vipers in the nest; he trusts none of us – not even Cecil,’ he added, his expression brightening for a moment. ‘The lords of the council are as alarmed by the king’s suspicions as by the plot itself. Everybody is jumping at shadows. You would have done well to stay in Warwickshire.’

  ‘I had no choice, Uncle. The queen summoned me back to London. She wished me to prepare for the arrival of her daughter.’

  ‘What the devil does she mean by having that milksop brought back to court?’ he snapped. ‘She has caused trouble enough where she is. I wouldn’t wonder if she had been conspiring with the plotters from the beginning. No doubt they flattered her into thinking that she would make a fine little queen, once her father and brothers were blown to the heavens.’

  Frances bit back a retort. She knew well that her uncle’s rages would only be prolonged if they met with resistance.

  ‘A
nd what of you, niece?’ he continued after a pause, his voice now dangerously low. ‘That churl Wintour fawned about you ever since you came to court. Were you fool enough to believe he loved you, or have you been a willing accomplice to his wicked schemes?’

  Frances felt a rising fury as she glared back at her uncle. She had never despised him more than at this moment, she realised, as she watched his face grow puce and the pulse at his temples begin to throb.

  ‘Who is the fool, Uncle?’ she asked quietly. ‘Do you truly believe it is I, not the ranks of preening flatterers who flock to pay homage to the cowardly, depraved usurper who sits on the throne, hoping to feast from the scraps that he throws from his table? I would rather die than serve such a master.’

  The earl seemed stupefied for a few moments and stared back at her, his mouth moving as if trying to form the words with which to reply.

  ‘So Cecil was right, then,’ he said at last. ‘He has long suspected you of complicity in some plot against His Majesty. Sackville overheard him say that he had set that old fool Harington to spy on you at Coombe, and Dymock was only too happy to oblige when you were at Longford. No doubt they found matter enough to fill their letters back to court. And to think that I defended your honour. Again and again I have assured the king of your loyalty after Cecil had dropped poison in his ears. You will bring us all to ruin – your father and mother are halfway there already, eking out their miserable days at Richmond. How proud they will be of their treacherous daughter when they see her head set on a spike.’

  Frances took a breath. Her uncle had said nothing that she had not known or suspected, but the mention of her parents had dealt her a stinging blow. She fell silent for a few moments, considering. When at last she spoke again, her voice held none of the bitterness with which it had been tainted before.

  ‘I have never intended any harm to my family, Uncle. If I had been permitted to stay at Longford, then I would have served them well to the end of my days – I wish it had been so,’ she added wistfully. ‘But it was your will that I should come here to further our fortunes, and you must carry some blame for what has followed.’

  She saw anger flare again in his eyes, but continued before he could speak.

  ‘If God wills that I die a traitor, I will accept His judgement. But I will not forsake those to whom I am bound. The king must be persuaded to show clemency to the plotters. If he will not admit me to his presence so that I can petition him in person, then you must do so. As a member of the council, you cannot be denied access.’

  ‘And why do you think I would wish to speak on behalf of proven traitors?’ the earl demanded scornfully.

  ‘Because it would lessen Cecil’s power,’ Frances urged, her eyes blazing. ‘You lack allies: Northumberland can no longer be of any use to you. Even the king knows of his Catholic sympathies, and now that his cousin has been proved a traitor, he must be suspected of complicity.’

  She saw her uncle shift uncomfortably. Sensing her advantage, she continued, her voice rising with conviction: ‘If, as you say, Cecil is already falling from favour, then you can speed his decline. The king knows that he lacks the love of his people. Showing himself to be a merciful ruler will do more to strengthen his hand than any number of troops. I wager none of his council has had the courage to tell him so. You can set yourself apart as an adviser of greater wisdom and experience than they.’

  Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came rapidly as she held her uncle’s gaze. He looked back at her doubtfully, but at length he gave a heavy sigh, as if resigned.

  ‘I will think on it, niece,’ he said. ‘But in the meantime, you must get yourself back to Greenwich and keep your head low, lest someone chooses to strike it off.’

  Frances took a long sip from the cup in front of her and set it down with trembling fingers, then got to her feet and bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘Good day to you, my lord. And God speed your endeavours.’

  CHAPTER 45

  20 November

  The princess has fallen gravely ill from a fever occasioned by the late disturbances. The poor lady is very troubled besides, having not recovered from the shock. I fear that she will not be fit to travel for some considerable time.

  Frances put the letter down and looked at the queen.

  ‘Do you wish me to go to her, Your Grace?’

  Anne shook her head. ‘Lord Harington was always given to exaggeration. If my daughter is as ill as he says, then he would have written to ask that the court physicians attend her. It may all be a trick. Cecil has made little secret of wanting to keep the princess in Warwickshire, safe from my influence. He treats me like a pariah, and my husband is too far buried in his own chambers to notice – not that he would care greatly if he did. Rumours are spreading that I was involved in the Powder Treason, and it will take little to convince the king that his wife is intent upon his destruction.’ She smiled bitterly and bent her head back to her embroidery, stabbing at the canvas with unnecessary force.

  ‘Have you not seen His Majesty since we last spoke?’ Frances asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

  ‘He refuses to receive me, and will not answer my letters,’ the queen replied scornfully. Seeing Frances’s expression, she continued in a softer tone: ‘I am sorry that I have been unable to help Tom, or any of his fellow prisoners for that matter. I have written to beg the king to show mercy, but I do not know if my letters have even reached him. I would not be surprised if they have all ended up as kindling for Cecil’s fire.’

  Frances fell silent. There had been no word from her uncle either. She felt as if she might be driven to madness from the long hours of watching and waiting. At least there was one thing of which she was certain: Tom still lived. There had been a flurry of proclamations, all denouncing the evil of the plotters who were held in the Tower. Their names had been given out numerous times so that they were on the lips of every subject in the kingdom. Only Tom’s brother Robert remained at large. He had not been seen since he had fled from Holbeach, having had a premonition of disaster, so it was said. Father Garnet had also gone to ground. Frances imagined him cowering in the priest hole of a wealthy Catholic estate. Perhaps she should have done the same. It would have spared her family the disgrace that was surely to come.

  ‘Will you go to him?’

  Anne’s question was so unexpected that for a moment Frances was not certain that she had understood. The queen’s gaze was unwavering as she waited for an answer.

  ‘How can I?’ she asked at length. ‘The Tower must be even more of a fortress than usual, and I cannot think that Cecil would allow such notorious traitors to receive visitors.’

  ‘But you are not without connections there, Frances,’ Anne said quietly. ‘There are those who might wish to make amends for former wrongs.’

  Frances looked uncertain. Though he could hardly be held accountable, Sir Richard Berkeley had certainly shown a degree of remorse for her ordeal in the Tower. But she could not think that it would be enough for him to risk defying his orders by admitting a visitor to one of the most notorious prisoners in his custody.

  ‘I could gain you admittance to the Tower,’ she continued. ‘My command still carries enough weight for that. And Sir Richard would hardly refuse to see a member of the princess’s household.’

  The prospect of seeing Tom again was overwhelming after the long days of trying to reconcile herself to the fact that he might be lost to her for ever. She turned doubtful eyes to the queen.

  ‘But I would surely be placing you in danger, Your Grace, if word got out that a member of your daughter’s household had visited one of the plotters? You said that rumours of your involvement are already beginning to circulate.’

  Anne waved her hand dismissively. ‘I care little enough for that,’ she said airily, then gave a little smile. ‘My life here is interminable. If the king saw fit to have me thrown into the Tower, it would at least provide some diversion. Besides,’ she added gently, ‘I too am in your debt. I have so far
proved powerless to fulfil my promise to help Tom. The least I can do is provide some comfort to you both before—’ She hesitated. ‘Before God’s will is done.’

  Frances held her gaze for a moment longer, then slowly inclined her head.

  Frances pulled up her hood and drew her cloak around her chin so that her face was almost completely obscured. The yeoman of the guard glanced at her again, then back to the letter that she had handed him, drawing his lantern closer so that he might study the seal.

  ‘Wait there please, my lady,’ he said, then turned and marched briskly across the drawbridge and out of sight, his footsteps echoing along the cobblestones.

  Frances reached into her pocket. Her fingers closed over the tiny glass phial. She took a breath. God give me the strength for what I must do.

  She looked about her, desperate for something to distract her from what lay ahead. The portcullis was just visible above the arch of the gateway, its spikes gleaming in the moonlight. The walls of this tower must be several feet thick, she calculated, and there were many more that followed in the ringwork of defences that surrounded the fortress. The king should have holed himself up here, rather than in the patchwork palace of Whitehall. He could live out his days safe from even the fiercest of attackers.

  The guard returned a few minutes later and gave a curt signal for Frances to follow him. They stepped through the small opening in the iron-studded door, and Frances heard the sharp thud as it was closed behind them. She quickened her step to keep up with the guard, whose lantern provided the only light in the narrow passageway beyond. After a few more paces, they turned left under the archway of the Garden Tower, their way lit by torches fixed to the walls on either side of the stone stairs that led up to the green. With every step she took, Frances pushed back the recollections of the last time she had been within these walls. Her terror then could surely not have been greater than her apprehension now as they neared the door to the lieutenant’s lodging.