The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Do you think it will begin soon?’

  Frances wrested her gaze from the heavenly vision in the magnificent ceiling above and looked down at the princess. The girl’s delicate brow was creased with worry, and her fingers moved fretfully along the lace edging of her handkerchief.

  ‘It cannot be long now,’ Frances replied quietly.

  The murmurs from the crowded hall below were growing steadily louder. Frances looked along the row of seats, and saw the king fidgeting impatiently as he peered down over the balcony. On his right sat Prince Henry, a scowl on his face. To the other side was Charles, who was leaning against his mother. His features were sharper than when she had last seen him, and his legs had grown long and spindly. He wore a solemn, watchful expression, and every now and then he glanced nervously up at his father.

  Frances wished herself far away from this place. She had not for a moment thought that she would have to suffer the ordeal of watching the trial: such matters were usually restricted to the male members of court. But Cecil had persuaded the king that his wife and eldest daughter should be present so that they too might witness the execution of justice in his realm. James had agreed, on condition that they all be hidden from view, for fear that there might be papist assassins amidst the crowded courtroom.

  Four loud knocks suddenly echoed around the ancient hall. Immediately, the chatter ceased, and all eyes turned to the doorway that led from the outer courtyard. An official in heavy black robes walked solemnly forward, a large staff raised before him. In his wake came a grim-faced man with dark hair and a reddish beard. He wore a long violet silk robe edged with ermine, a hood and cowl covering his shoulders. Frances’s heart sank as she recognised Sir Edward Coke, one of the most feared judges in the kingdom. He had sent many men and women to their deaths during the old queen’s reign, and his severity had shown no signs of abating now that James was on the throne. He took his seat in the centre of the raised dais, and the Lords Commissioners fanned out on the benches at either side. Frances noticed that the Earl of Northumberland was absent. She had heard that he was in the Tower. Cecil must have delighted in the opportunity to have one of his chief rivals removed so easily. The Lord Privy Seal entered the hall now, wearing the full robes of his office, and took a seat at the far left of the dais.

  The summoning official rapped his staff on the floor again. Frances held her breath. The sound of shuffling footsteps could be heard approaching the hall, and a few moments later the first of the accused men appeared. Leaning forward in her seat, she recognised the swaggering gait of Sir Everard Digby. As he strolled nonchalantly past the assembled lords, trailing tobacco smoke from a pipe that protruded from one corner of his mouth, she caught the fleeting look that he exchanged with Cecil. The king immediately started to mutter, furious that his proclamation against tobacco smoking should be so publicly flouted.

  Frances’s eyes flitted across the men who followed, then stopped as they alighted upon Tom. He was staring straight ahead, his bearing erect, as he walked slowly towards the bench that faced the judge and his commissioners. His right arm was supported by a rudimentary sling fashioned from a dirty piece of linen, and his chest and stomach were obscured by a cloak flung over his shoulder, hiding his other wound from view. Even from this distance, she could see that his face had grown pinched and his eyes hollow.

  Walking alongside him was his brother Robert. His hair and beard were much longer than when she had last seen him, and he too had grown thinner. News of his capture had reached the court a little over two weeks before. He had been hiding out in a succession of houses and barns since fleeing the siege at Holbeach, and the effects of spending a harsh winter mostly out of doors showed in his haggard appearance.

  The last member of the sombre procession was Guido Fawkes, who was supported on either side by a court official and dragged, rather than walking, to join his fellow conspirators. His arms and legs hung as limp as a ragdoll’s, and his neck lolled forward with every step that they took. Frances shuddered and sank back in her chair, but she could not hide from the view thanks to a large scaffold that had been erected for the eight men to stand on. They shuffled up the steps now, and stood in a line facing the crowded hall. Fawkes was carried by the officials, his feet banging against each step as they hauled him to the platform.

  There was utter silence in the hall as the men stood on the scaffold, some with their heads hanging low, others surveyed the room with a fierce, almost triumphant expression on their faces. Frances’s eyes were drawn to Tom. He looked neither fearful nor resigned, and there was a stillness about him that suggested a calm acceptance of what lay ahead. She glanced down and saw that in his right hand was clasped a string of beads, which he was slowly pressing between his fingers.

  ‘The tongue of man never delivered, the ear of man never heard, the heart of man never conceived, or the malice of hellish or earthly devil ever practised such a treason as these men who stand before us.’

  The commanding voice of Sir Edward Philips, Speaker of the House of Commons, rang out across the hall, causing several members of the audience to jolt in their seats.

  ‘For if it is abominable to murder the least of God’s creatures, then how much more so to murder a king, a prince, a state, and a government?’ He paused to enable the crowd, who had recovered themselves, to begin murmuring and calling out against the eight men on the platform. ‘These same traitors who stand before us are named in the indictment as follows: Thomas Wintour, Guido Fawkes, Robert Keyes, Thomas Bates, Robert Wintour, John Grant, and Ambrose Rookwood.’

  Frances looked across at Sir Everard, who was now grinning widely. Had Cecil already ensured that he would escape punishment? If so, then this trial was an even greater charade than she had imagined.

  ‘Sir Everard Digby will be tried by separate indictment,’ the Speaker continued, ‘for he alone has pleaded guilty to the charges set before him.’

  Sir Everard’s smile had not wavered. Perhaps he and Cecil hoped by this to secure a pardon, Frances wondered.

  ‘The Lords here present should also be notified of three other traitors who are not yet taken,’ Sir Philip continued. ‘Father John Gerard, Father Oswald Tesimond, and Father Henry Garnet. Be ye advertised that as soon as these Jesuit priests are apprehended, they shall face trial by like means.’

  Frances had heard nothing of Father Garnet since their last meeting at Coughton Court. Whoever was sheltering him must have a very ingenious hiding place. Or perhaps, with luck, he had escaped to the Continent with the others mentioned, and would live out his days in peace, far from the contagion of fear and suspicion that was threatening to engulf his native land. But if he were arrested, what might he tell Cecil and his interrogators? He was the only man living, apart from Tom, who knew of her involvement. Catesby had taken the secret to his bloody grave. As she looked across again to Tom, she found herself almost willing the truth to be known. She no longer cared what might befall her.

  With an effort, she turned her attention back to the Speaker, who was now setting out the details of the case in lurid and scandalised language, interspersed with dramatic pauses that elicited cries and jeers from the crowd. Frances dug her fingernails into her palms each time, willing him to finish. When at last he had taken his seat, Sir Edward Coke stood to begin his preamble.

  ‘My Lords, you are here to witness the trial of these Catholic gentlemen who are accused of conspiring the death not only of His Serene Majesty King James, but of his sons, Henry Prince of Wales and Charles Duke of York, together with the entire Parliament of the realm.’

  He paused, and there was an answering cacophony from the crowd, with shouts of ‘Burn the traitors!’ and ‘Kill all papists!’ Sir Edward surveyed the room, a satisfied smile on his face, then raised his hand to bring the court to order.

  ‘Let there be no doubt that this devilish plot was part of a much wider contagion inspired by that antichrist, the Pope of Rome, and all of those who swear fealty to him instead of to our rightful
King and Lord. If these same gentlemen who stand before you today are not punished with the utmost severity that the laws of this land will allow, then be sure of this: the contagion will spread until the entire kingdom is in the grip of the Devil and his minions.’

  The shouts and jeers grew deafening again. Frances closed her eyes. She hardly heard the rest of the speech as it droned on, whipping the crowd into a frenzy of anger, fear, and bloodlust. The outcome was already assured.

  ‘And so that there be no doubt as to the means of punishing these wicked traitors if this court should find them guilty, then let me here declare them. On the day appointed for their execution, each of the prisoners shall be drawn along the streets backwards at a horse’s tail as a sign that he hath been retrograde to nature.’

  Frances swallowed hard and looked across at the angel, willing herself to block out the judge’s words as she studied the serenity of the carving.

  ‘He will then be hanged by the neck until he is halfway between heaven and earth, as being unworthy of both. He will be taken down and his privy parts will be cut off and burned before his face since he himself hath been unworthily begotten and is unfit to leave any generation after him. While he still draws breath, his bowels and heart which had conceived of the wicked treason will be sliced out and the head which had imagined such evil doings will be cut off. Thereafter the parts of his body will be set on posts around the city so that they might become prey for the fowls of the air.’

  The princess let out a small gasp, but quickly fell silent when her mother shot her a reproving look. Frances reached for her hand, which was cold and clammy, like her own. She tried to breathe deeply, but felt as if her throat was constricting. Taking care to keep her gaze from the platform, she cast about the hall.

  It was then that she saw him. Sitting towards the back of the room, close to the doors that led out onto the public courtyard, was her father. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on the hand of the princess, who looked up at her in surprise. But Frances was staring intently at her father, straining her eyes so that she could capture every detail of his appearance. His gaze was steady, and his expression unreadable as he looked towards the scaffold. While the people around him whispered among themselves or cried out in response to the judge’s words, he remained perfectly still. Frances drew comfort from his presence, but it gave her pain too. It reminded her that she should not hold her life so lightly; that there were those who would grieve deeply if her part in the plot was revealed and she met the same fate as these men were certain to.

  It was several moments before she realised that the hall was now silent. Looking across to the platform, she saw that Sir Edward had at last resumed his seat, and one of the officials was standing next to the scaffold, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He began to read out the ‘Examinations, Confessions and Voluntary Declarations’ of each of the accused men in a slow and ponderous manner, his tone never lifting, so that even the most ardent of the spectators started to fidget in their seats.

  Frances listened carefully to Tom’s, which was by far the longest, trying to catch at any familiar words or phrases. There were none. She knew that it was rumoured to be a forgery, drafted in desperation on the orders of Cecil, who had tired of waiting for him to capitulate. But if this were true, then Tom had held firm about those named within, for it listed only the men who had already been arrested. Frances wondered if Cecil had tried to make him sign another version, with herself and the queen named as conspirators, dangling the prospect of a pardon if he did so. She felt a rush of love for Tom that he had refused to betray them, though she would gladly have forfeited her life for his.

  When the last of the statements had been read aloud, Sir Edward turned to the accused and told them that they might speak if they wished. Frances leaned forward in her chair again. As she looked down on Tom, his face still impassive, she felt Elizabeth’s hand squeeze hers, and turned to see her young mistress’s eyes shining with tears. She clasped her hand over the girl’s delicate fingers.

  Ambrose Rookwood was first to speak, but uttered only a brief declaration of his love for Catesby, his eyes fixed on the floor the whole time. There was a pause, and several of the men shifted about on their feet.

  ‘My Lords, I do not wish to alter my confession nor plead for clemency.’

  Tom’s voice, though low, could be heard across the hall. Frances drew in a quiet breath.

  ‘I ask only that I might be hanged for my brother, as well as for myself.’ He looked across at Robert, who was visibly shaking. ‘He wanted no part of this conspiracy, and if His Majesty should see fit to spare him, he will prove as loyal a subject as any here today.’

  ‘God’s wounds I will not!’ the king muttered to himself. Frances glanced across, and saw that his face was flushed with rage. When she turned back to Tom, he had fallen silent once more, his gaze fixed on the doorway at the end of the hall, close to where her father was sitting. His fellow prisoners took their turns to speak, some pleading for mercy, others terse and unrepentant.

  When the last had spoken, the judge conferred with an official, and then stood to address the hall, his face grave. Frances uttered a silent prayer as she waited for him to pronounce the verdict.

  ‘My Lords, we shall now pass to the trial of Sir Everard so that his verdict shall be heard immediately after the rest.’

  Frances saw Sir Everard’s smile falter as he darted a look at Cecil, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Without pausing, Sir Edward proceeded to read out the indictment, which was no less damning than the one before. By the time that he had finished, Sir Everard was ashen-faced. When asked if he wished to speak, he looked in confusion at Cecil, his mouth working as if trying to form the words with which to defend himself.

  ‘Good people,’ he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically high. ‘I pray mercy for my offences, but profess that I acted out of the love I bore to he who incited me to join this conspiracy’ – he darted a look at Cecil, who stared grimly ahead – ‘and that had the promises made to me not been broken, I should sit amongst you now, rather than standing here on this scaffold.’

  This sparked a chorus of jeers from the crowd, with shouts of ‘heretic’ and ‘traitor’. Sir Everard raised his voice so that he might continue his plea, but his words were drowned out by the growing cacophony, and the judge was obliged to lift his hand in order to bring the hall to order.

  ‘I pray that you will be merciful to my wife and children, for they do not share in my offence,’ Sir Everard said in a faltering voice as the noise died down.

  ‘‘Tis a pity you thought nothing of His Majesty’s children,’ bellowed Sir Edward scornfully, ‘but instead countenanced the deaths of those tender princes.’ There was an answering cheer, and, warming to his theme, the judge quoted from the Psalms: ‘Let his wife be a widow, and his children vagabonds, let his posterity be destroyed, and in the next generation let his name be quite put out.’

  As Frances looked down on the hapless prisoner, she tried to summon up the loathing she had felt for him ever since she had discovered his betrayal. But she knew now that he had been as much at Cecil’s mercy as she, and could feel only pity. Neither could he save himself by proving that he had been acting on Cecil’s orders. What proof could there be? His patron was too careful for that, and the only person who would corroborate his story was a woman known throughout the court as a witch.

  When at last the crowd had descended into silence once more, Sir Edward commanded the jury to consider its verdict. The dignitaries duly rose from their seats and retired from the hall. Frances let out a slow breath.

  ‘Must we remain here, Father?’ Prince Henry asked in his high, nasal voice. ‘They may be gone for hours.’

  James, his face still flushed, dealt his son a stinging blow across his thigh. ‘Of course we must, damn ye!’ he cried scornfully. ‘Do you care so little for the fate of those wretches who would have blown us both to the heavens?’

  Frances saw Henry’s own cheeks r
edden, but he fell into a resentful silence.

  ‘Will their suffering really be so great, Frances?’ the princess whispered, her eyes wide with terror.

  Frances paused. ‘Let us pray they are granted the swifter death,’ she replied at last.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again, but at that moment the lifting of a latch echoed around the hall, and all eyes turned expectantly to see the solemn-faced commissioners walk slowly back into the room. Frances looked to where her father had been sitting, but he was no longer there. With rising panic, she scanned the room, desperate to see his reassuring presence. As Sir Edward began to speak, she drew her gaze back to the scaffold.

  ‘Sir John, do you bring a verdict?’ he demanded, addressing the Lord Chief Justice.

  Her eyes rested on Tom, who was now gazing down at the floor. She saw his shoulders lift slightly and his lips part as he drew in a breath.

  ‘I do, Your Worship.’ Sir John paused and surveyed the room, clearly enjoying the moment. At length, he turned back to Sir Edward. ‘We find all eight men guilty of high treason.’

  ‘No!’

  The cry came from the platform, where Sir Everard had sunk to his knees and was holding his hands aloft in desperate supplication.

  ‘Have mercy!’ he shouted, his eyes wild with fear. ‘Forgive me, Lord! God save me!’

  Sir John nodded towards an official, who mounted the scaffold and dragged the prisoner roughly away. His screams could still be heard when they had disappeared from view. The rest of the prisoners were then led away, their heads bowed and the shouts of the crowd ringing in their ears. Frances’s eyes followed Tom as he shuffled silently along, the rosary still gripped tightly in his hands. As he slowly descended the steps from the platform, she saw him press the beads to his lips.

  ‘They will suffer the torments of hell,’ the king muttered, his eyes glinting, then he rose abruptly and stalked out of the chamber. His children followed dutifully behind him, the princess dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Her mother walked slowly in her wake. As she reached the doorway, Anne turned, and looked back at Frances.