The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  ‘King James heralds our arrival!’ Henry called over his shoulder. Sir John let out a peal of laughter, but William Cecil continued to stare straight ahead, grave-faced.

  As they passed under the gatehouse, they were plunged into darkness – or so it seemed after the dazzling sunlight that their eyes had grown accustomed to. Frances stumbled on one of the cobbles and almost fell, but a strong hand pulled her backwards and she regained her balance. ‘Thank you, Lord Cranborne.’

  He did not reply, but stayed close to her side as they made their way into a semi-circular courtyard. Five large archways were cut into the thick stone, each one closed off by a portcullis. The yeomen led them over to the one in the centre, and Prince Henry pressed his face against the heavy iron bars. The rest of the party gathered around him, trying to make out any shapes in the darkness.

  All of a sudden, an enormous beast leaped from the shadows, its huge paws clawing at the bars and its razor-sharp teeth glinting white as they caught the sun. The prince gave a terrified yelp and jumped backwards. His sister screamed, and a commotion ensued as the yeomen rushed to their assistance. A deafening roar rang out across the courtyard, bringing everything to a standstill. Frances watched as the lion flung its weight against the bars again, causing them to rattle loudly in their stone casing. She feared that it would give way at any moment and made to grab the princess’s arm so that she could lead her to safety.

  ‘All is well, Your Highness,’ a calm voice called.

  They turned to see a man of middling years strolling towards them. A leather apron was strung about his waist and he carried a large stick in his right hand. He gave a stiff bow as he drew level with the prince. ‘Jim is a bit fretful just now, Your Grace. He wants his breakfast, that’s all. I like to keep him hungry before a fight.’

  Henry straightened and gave an unconvincing bark of laughter. ‘Do not concern yourself, Master Keeper. I merely wanted to surprise my companions. I knew we were in no danger.’

  He almost shouted the words, but Frances caught the tremor in his voice and his forehead glistened with sweat.

  ‘Now, if you will kindly show us to the gallery, we will not keep the king from his breakfast any longer.’

  The keeper bowed again, then led them back into the gatehouse and up a flight of spiral stairs to a small chamber on the first floor. A row of seats had been arranged in front of the window overlooking the courtyard. Frances sat down with the others. The prince leaned forward eagerly in his seat. His sister did the same, though Frances noticed the fear in her eyes.

  A loud creaking sound echoed around the courtyard and everyone watched as the central portcullis was slowly raised. A moment later, the lion leaped forward and began to pace the length of the courtyard, its head bowed as if ready to pounce. It stopped at the distant sound of barking. They all listened as it grew steadily louder, almost drowning the noise of another portcullis being raised. Frances watched in horror as five mastiffs tore out from underneath it. In an instant, they had surrounded the lion and stood growling, teeth bared and drooling. For a second, the lion stood stock still, panting in anticipation. Then it gave a loud roar and lunged at one of the dogs, its teeth sinking deep into its neck. The hound yelped, and the other four leaped upon the lion, tearing at its mane, its flank, its legs, their teeth sharp as blades. Soon, the cobbles beneath them were dripping with blood and flesh.

  Unable to bear the sight of the massacre that was unfolding beneath them, Frances diverted her gaze to the prince: his eyes were alight with excitement as he cheered and shouted encouragement. On his right Elizabeth’s face was ghostly pale as she watched the grisly spectacle, her chest rising and falling quickly – too quickly, Frances knew.

  A high-pitched howl reverberated across the courtyard, followed by the sickening sound of tearing flesh. Without thinking, Frances turned back to the window and saw the severed leg of a mastiff hurled from the lion’s mouth. The beast had the dying hound pinned beneath its paws and as it lowered its head to deliver the killer blow, the other dogs skulked away, whining, their fur matted with blood. They clustered around the archway through which they had been released, but Frances knew with a sickening certainty that the portcullis would not be raised again.

  A movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned just in time to see the princess fall to the floor. Blanche screamed in horror and the prince looked in dismay at his sister, who was lying motionless before him. Frances pushed past them and knelt by her mistress. Gently cradling her head in her hands, she leaned forward and pressed her head to the girl’s chest. At first, she felt nothing, and her heart contracted with fear. After an agonising few moments, during which she was conscious that all eyes were upon her, she thought she detected a faint fluttering beneath the princess’s ribcage. Slowly, she lifted her up to sitting. Her head lolled forward, prompting another squeal from Blanche, but Frances could see a faint rosy hue begin to creep across her neck and face.

  Reaching into her pocket, Frances pulled out the phial of rosemary oil she always carried with her to ward off the stench of the river and raised it to Elizabeth’s face. After a pause, the girl wrinkled her nose and slowly opened her eyes. She blinked a few times and looked about her in confusion.

  ‘Fran?’ she said, in a small, querulous voice, reaching out to squeeze her attendant’s hand.

  ‘Do not worry, Your Grace. You fainted, but are quite well now,’ Frances murmured. Relief that the princess was recovered mingled with a rush of joy that the girl’s former affection towards her had returned. Even if it proved fleeting, it gave Frances cause to hope.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Frances. I will attend to my sister now,’ the prince interrupted, in his shrill voice. He bent and pulled Elizabeth to her feet. She wobbled and Frances put out a hand to steady her, but Henry pushed it away impatiently. As soon as the princess appeared more stable, he led her slowly out of the room, his arm clasped firmly around her waist. When they reached the doorway, Elizabeth turned and looked back at Frances. She stared for a moment, as if remembering another time. Then, slowly, her lips lifted into the faintest of smiles.

  CHAPTER 11

  22 February

  ‘Your Highnesses must forgive me. I had not expected you to pay me this honour.’

  They all turned to see a small, wiry man standing in the doorway. His features were obscured by the light that streamed from the window next to him, but Frances noticed that his legs were slightly bowed. As he stepped forward, she saw that he had a thin face and a long white beard. His doublet was trimmed with fur and on his head he wore a small velvet cap.

  ‘Sir William,’ Prince Henry addressed the old man as he stooped to bow. ‘My sister fell faint at the lion-baiting and I wanted to ensure that she was fully recovered before returning to Whitehall.’

  The old man looked across at the princess and made another obeisance. ‘Your Grace does not share your father’s taste for the sport, then,’ he said, with a small smile.

  Frances sensed Elizabeth bristle. ‘I was a little tired, that is all. I am quite well now,’ she said briskly. ‘We really need not have troubled you, Sir William.’

  ‘Oh, it is no trouble, Your Grace. Most of my guests are a good deal less welcome.’

  His eyes darted up to Frances. ‘I do not believe I have had the pleasure, Lady …?’

  ‘Frances Tyringham.’ She hoped he would soon move on to her companions.

  But his small black eyes continued to appraise her. ‘Sir William Wade, my lady,’ he said. ‘His Majesty’s lieutenant of the Tower.’

  Frances knew the name immediately and her blood ran cold. It had been he who had interrogated Tom and the other plotters. She had heard it said that he had personally superintended the torture of Fawkes, looking on as his limbs were wrenched from their sockets. Evidently the king had rewarded him for his trouble by making him lieutenant. Not trusting herself to speak, she lowered her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Tyringham?’ His voice again. ‘I trust your husband is keeping th
e king’s buckhounds in good order.’

  ‘You have an excellent memory, for one of your years,’ the princess said.

  ‘Your Grace is most kind,’ Sir William replied, ignoring the insult. ‘I never forget a name – or a face, for that matter. That is how I was able to bring the Powder Treason to light.’

  So it was he who had uncovered the plot. Frances’s thoughts ran back to those desperate days at Coombe Abbey. When Sir John Harington had told her and the princess that a great treason had been discovered, she had assumed Cecil had informed on them. Certainly, he had known of it for some time, thanks to the spy he had placed in their midst. But perhaps Sir William had found out by other means.

  ‘And our father was most grateful, Sir William,’ Henry put in, with a hint of impatience. ‘Now, as my sister seems to have recovered, we will not keep you any longer.’

  ‘Permit me to show you something before you depart, Your Grace,’ the old man said. ‘As you may know, I have been making improvements to these lodgings since I took residence. The room in which we are standing used to be twice as tall, but I have added an extra chamber above, which I use for – well, you will see, if you accompany me now.’

  He gestured towards the door. The prince sighed, then walked briskly out of the room. The rest of the company filed out behind him, Frances last of all, and mounted the handsome oak staircase that led to the upper chamber. She could hear the lieutenant turn the key in the lock, then the door creak on its hinges as it was slowly opened.

  The room was in darkness and Frances stood blinking on the threshold. She could just make out Sir William’s stooped frame as he walked slowly to the furthest window. A shard of light illuminated the wall next to her as he pulled open one of the shutters. She drew a sharp breath. The plasterwork had been entirely covered with a huge painting depicting what Frances first thought was a scene from Hell. But as she peered at the figures writhing in torment, she realised that this was a depiction of earthly torture. Fighting the instinct to look away, her eyes alighted upon the figure of a man, his hand pinned to a table by his captor while another gripped one of his fingernails with a pair of iron pincers. Blood was spurting from two of his other fingers – the nails had already been wrenched off. Frances swallowed the sickness that was rising in her throat as she gazed at another scene, of a prisoner lying on the rack, his face contorted in agony as the ropes were tightened on his wrists and ankles. She reached out to grip the back of one of the chairs that were positioned around the long table in the centre of the room.

  Sir William crossed to the other window and opened the shutters, casting light across the opposite wall. A large sculpted plaque dominated it. Intricately carved from marble, it resembled an elaborate funerary monument and was covered with inscriptions. As she looked more closely, Frances could see that most were in Latin, but in the lower left corner one was in Hebrew.

  ‘ “He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death,” ’ Sir William quoted, following her gaze.

  Frances stared. She had read that same passage in her prayer book as she had waited to see Tom taken to his death. As she looked above the inscription, her stomach lurched.

  Thomas Wintour.

  His name was at the top of the list of those described as ‘conspirators of everlasting infamy’. It was almost as if he was in the room with her. With mounting horror, her eyes scanned the rest of the monument.

  The atrocious conspiracy to blow up with gunpowder Our Most Merciful King … prompted by the mad lust of quenching the true and Christian faith …

  On the right were the names of all the ‘most illustrious men’ who had brought the ‘wolves’ to justice. Scanning the list, Frances saw that of her uncle, the Earl of Northampton. His coat of arms was above, along with those of the king’s other privy councillors.

  ‘It is a fine monument, Sir William,’ the prince said, his voice flat with boredom.

  ‘I am pleased you think so, Your Grace,’ Sir William replied eagerly. ‘I laid out a considerable sum on it. But the expense was justified, for its purpose is more than merely decorative. I wish it to serve as a warning to other traitorous wretches who are brought here for interrogation. Through this they learn that the king’s justice can never be evaded, that God will wreak his vengeance upon any who oppose him.’

  Anger flared as Frances stared at the old man, his mouth curled into a self-satisfied smile. ‘Surely the paintings are enough,’ she remarked, gesturing to the opposite wall. ‘You could have preserved your wages for wood to burn in winter or food for your table.’

  Sir William turned to look at her. ‘Ah, but such things are soon consumed, Lady Frances, whereas this monument will endure long after our bones have been laid in the earth.’

  ‘Well, I think it an ugly thing!’ declared the princess, breaking the silence that followed. ‘And that is hardly a true likeness of my father,’ she added, pointing to the painted wooden bust next to it.

  Frances was gratified to see Sir William’s jaw twitch.

  ‘Fortunately Your Grace will not have to look upon either again,’ he said tightly, ‘since this room is intended for prisoners rather than honoured guests.’

  Elizabeth took her brother’s arm, a signal that she wished to leave.

  ‘Thank you, Sir William,’ the prince said firmly. ‘We cannot tarry any longer.’

  The lieutenant inclined his head and led them slowly from the room. Frances kept her eyes fixed upon the princess’s skirts as she followed. She certainly hoped never to see that place again.

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Prince Henry turned and addressed their host. ‘I have a mind to visit Sir Walter before we leave. I trust he is at leisure to receive us?’

  Frances saw the old man’s eyes widen briefly in panic before he recovered himself. ‘I usually require the king’s permission for such a visit, Your Grace—’

  ‘I hardly think you would refuse me, his eldest son and heir, Sir William,’ the prince interrupted.

  The lieutenant gave a stiff bow. ‘Of course, Your Grace. I shall accompany you.’

  ‘There is no need – we have troubled you long enough.’ Henry’s tone made clear he would brook no opposition. ‘I will be sure to tell my father that the Tower is in excellent safe-keeping. Good day.’

  He walked briskly away before Sir William could reply, the rest of the party following.

  ‘Pompous old fool,’ Frances heard Henry mutter under his breath as he strode purposefully in the direction of the Bloody Tower.

  The apartments in which Sir Walter Raleigh was lodged were so well appointed that Frances wondered if they were a prison at all. At the foot of the steps that led up to them a small, fragrant garden was filled with brightly coloured flowers and plants of such variety that she did not recognise them all. Perhaps some had been brought back from his many voyages overseas, she mused. She longed to study them more closely, but knew better than to do so in such company.

  The door to the lodgings was opened not by a guard but by a servant wearing Sir Walter’s livery. He bowed low to the prince and his sister, then led them into a brightly lit chamber, the walls of which were adorned with tapestries and paintings. A beautifully carved oak writing desk was in the centre of the room, and either side of a large window recess were two matching oak dressers.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Your Highnesses,’ drawled a well-dressed man as he strolled from an adjoining room and made an elaborate bow, then bent to kiss the princess’s hand. Frances noticed her cheeks turn pink.

  As he faced the rest of the company, Frances saw that Sir Walter was handsome still, though his hair was flecked with white and his figure was more thickset than she remembered. His beard was trimmed to a point, and a large pearl dangled from his left ear. Though he looked at her with the same smiling eyes that had so beguiled the late queen, Frances doubted that he had any recollection of her. After all, she had been little more than a child when he had last seen her.
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  ‘How are you faring, Sir Walter?’ asked the prince, frowning a concern that Frances had not seen in him before. ‘I trust you have everything you need for your ease?’

  Sir Walter inclined his head. ‘Thanks to Your Grace, I live in greater comfort here than I would at court.’

  ‘Yet still you are a prisoner,’ Henry protested. ‘Daily, I have petitioned the king for your release. Only my father would cage such a bird,’ he muttered resentfully.

  ‘I am sure the king will pardon me, in time. His predecessor did so for a far more heinous crime.’ He grinned at the reference to his clandestine marriage to Bess Throckmorton, a lady of the late queen’s bedchamber.

  ‘But for now I must rest at Sir William’s pleasure. I am glad to provide a daily reminder of his assiduity in bringing treacherous subjects to light,’ he added cheerfully.

  ‘We have just endured an audience with that self-righteous ass,’ the prince remarked scornfully. ‘He wanted to show us that hideous monument to the discovery of the Powder Treason.’

  ‘I wonder that he has not yet commissioned one to mark the plot in which I was thought to be involved,’ Sir Walter replied. ‘It is nigh seven years ago now – ample time for the stonemasons to fashion something suitable.’ He glanced across at the princess and her companions. ‘But I must not talk of such things now. Tell me, how fares the king’s oath? I trust all of his subjects have proven their loyalty by taking it – or else choosing to be silenced for ever?’ Though his smile did not falter, his eyes darkened.

  ‘Of course,’ Henry replied nonchalantly. ‘The papists are dwindling by the day. Blind though they are, even they recognise that only the true faith can prevail.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Sir Walter asked lightly. ‘Though their numbers may be dwindling outside these walls, it is a different matter within. There is hardly room enough to accommodate them all. I wonder that I have not been asked to share my lodgings.’