The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Is there any more news of Prince Gustavus?’ Frances enquired, changing the subject.

  Elizabeth brightened at once. ‘Your uncle has sent word that he arrived in Dover yesterday. He will rest there for two nights before riding to Greenwich.’

  Frances gave a wry smile. Her uncle must have proved a good deal more eager to exercise his duties as warden of the Cinque Ports since hearing of the Swedish prince’s impending arrival.

  ‘My mother will receive him there,’ the princess continued, ‘and I am to join her – with my ladies, of course,’ she added, with a smile.

  ‘Which gown shall you wear?’ Frances asked. ‘I will make sure that it is brushed and aired.’

  ‘Oh, that is already in hand,’ Blanche cut in. ‘The princess made her selection yesterday and I have sent it to the laundresses.’

  ‘You are a model of efficiency, Lady Blanche,’ Frances replied.

  Her eyes lingered on the young woman for a moment and she found herself wondering whether she would dislike her so much if their positions in the princess’s household had not pitted them against each other. She knew that some of her antipathy derived from jealousy at Blanche’s favour with their mistress; she knew, too, that she had no right to resent her, when she herself had deserted Elizabeth so suddenly. But looking at Blanche now, a simpering smile playing about her lips, she could not imagine her ever being a friend.

  Frances turned to address her mistress. ‘Have you been in correspondence with the prince, Your Grace?’

  The princess set down her embroidery and strolled over to the window. ‘There is hardly need,’ she said nonchalantly, looking out across the Thames, ‘since we shall soon be acquainted in person.’

  ‘Of course,’ Frances replied. She paused. ‘I wondered if you knew anything of his character or interests.’

  ‘Our mistress knows that her suitor is a staunch defender of the true faith,’ Blanche remarked, in an imperious tone. ‘That exceeds all other qualities – as your brother the prince has observed on many occasions, Your Grace.’

  Frances felt as if she was engaged in a war of words, and that Blanche had struck a heavy blow. They both knew how much their mistress revered her brother and that she set his word above all others.

  ‘Indeed,’ she countered. ‘After all, of what consequence are such matters as intellect, taste and appearance when set against devoutness of belief?’

  She was glad to see Elizabeth’s brow crease with doubt.

  ‘He looked fine enough in the miniature I received,’ she said, a little too firmly. ‘And my father says that in martial prowess he is unsurpassed.’

  Frances framed her expression into one of admiration and fell silent, as if considering her mistress’s great fortune in attracting such a suitor. ‘Your mother must be delighted too,’ she observed.

  The princess pursed her lips, then turned so that her face was obscured from view. ‘The queen sets her native land ahead of her daughter’s happiness, it seems,’ she snapped. ‘Gustavus’s kingdom is at war with Denmark, so my mother is against the match – though such petty disputes are hardly of concern to our kingdom.’

  Frances bowed her head so that Blanche could not see the triumph in her eyes. She had heard that Anne had quarrelled with the king over the matter. Though she had little influence with her husband, she had made sure to voice her protests within earshot of several courtiers, who now whispered that the queen was right to insist James should not sever the alliance he had forged upon their marriage.

  The silence that followed was broken by a sharp rap on the door. Blanche was first to rise and crossed quickly to it. No doubt she hoped it was Prince Henry, whose visits to his sister’s bedchamber had become even more frequent of late. Frances kept her eyes fixed on her embroidery, waiting for the usual giggling and simpering as Blanche greeted him. But she had fallen silent, and instead of the brisk tap of Henry’s footsteps, Frances heard the rustle of skirts. She looked up and her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Mother!’

  Helena flashed her daughter a heart-warming smile before sweeping an elegant curtsy in front of the princess, who was regarding her with interest. She was dressed in an exquisite gown of russet silk edged with pearls, her old mistress’s favourite. Her hair was of a deeper red than it had been when Frances had last seen her, but there was still no trace of grey. Though she was a woman of sixty, she could still outshine most other ladies at court, Frances reflected proudly.

  Her mother had sent no word of her visit, and Frances could hardly believe she was there. How often these past five years had she longed to visit her parents at Richmond? Although they had written numerous times, she had always resisted their invitations, knowing that if she accepted, she would not be able to bear returning to Tyringham Hall. Neither had she wished to bring any scandal upon them. Her brother Edward had ordered her never to take her bastard son to Richmond, lest it spark gossip among the servants about the speed of her marriage to Thomas. Whenever she had been tempted to let them visit her instead, Edward’s words had sounded in her ears: You have shamed them enough.

  ‘My lady marchioness,’ Elizabeth said, as she turned from the window and walked slowly to where Helena was standing. She showed none of Frances’s surprise. ‘We are grateful for your coming with so little notice.’

  Helena inclined her head. ‘I am glad to assist Your Grace in any way I can.’

  Frances looked from one to the other in bemusement.

  ‘The king invited your mother to attend us,’ the princess explained, noting her confusion. ‘He thought Prince Gustavus might welcome the presence of his countrywoman, and that the marchioness could help us converse.’

  Frances was as surprised as she was delighted that James should have made such a plan. When he had given her parents charge of Richmond Palace at the beginning of his reign, it had been as good as banishment. They were never invited to attend any of the formal gatherings of court, even though her mother’s rank demanded it.

  The princess gestured for Helena to sit, and she chose the chair next to her daughter. Frances breathed in the familiar scent of rose and camomile, and smiled for the first time in days. She longed to reach out and touch her mother’s hand. Having her so close was both comfort and torture. How many times over the past five years had she ached for her embrace, imagining it would soothe away all the torment she had suffered since they were last together? She lowered her gaze as she struggled to maintain her composure.

  ‘I wonder that we have not seen you at court before now, my lady,’ Blanche remarked slyly. ‘Richmond society must be very diverting.’

  Frances jerked up her head and glared at her.

  ‘My husband and I are contented there, Mistress …’

  ‘Lady Blanche Pembroke,’ she retorted icily. Frances smiled at her obvious indignation.

  ‘Well, we are very glad that you are here now,’ the princess stated. ‘We will leave for Greenwich the day after tomorrow so that we are in good time for the prince’s arrival.’ She looked at mother and daughter for a moment, then added, ‘Perhaps you would show the marchioness to her apartments, Frances. They are close to your own.’

  Frances’s heart leaped at the prospect of spending some time alone with her mother, however brief. She beamed at her mistress and stood to make a deep curtsy, then held out her hand and led Helena from the room.

  ‘How I have longed to see you, Frances,’ her mother whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot. She grasped her daughter’s hand and pressed it to her lips. Frances saw that her eyes glistened with tears. She swallowed her own so that she might reply, but could not find the words. As they emerged into the hall, Helena held her head high, conscious of the curious stares of the ladies who stood in small clusters around the room.

  At last they reached the apartment that Frances guessed had been assigned to her mother: it had lain empty for some time. She pushed open the door and was glad to see that it was more spacious than her own, and richly furnished. A
s soon as the door had closed behind them, the two women embraced each other. Frances clung to her mother as if she would never let go and closed her eyes so she might savour every sensation, committing them to her memory for the turbulent times that must lie ahead.

  ‘You have been always in our thoughts and prayers,’ Helena said, when at last they parted. ‘You and our grandson,’ she added, her voice breaking.

  ‘He has asked many times to meet you both,’ Frances replied softly. ‘I have told him so much about you. I wanted you and Father to be as real to him as I am. I rejoice that you will see him at last.’ She glanced at the clock on the fireplace. ‘He will soon have finished his lessons.’

  ‘Your father made me promise to remember every detail of the precious boy and relay all to him when I return. He would have sent Master Critz to take his likeness if he could.’ She smiled.

  ‘How is he?’ Her own smile faded as she saw her mother’s expression change.

  ‘He suffered greatly with the ague last month,’ Helena said. ‘The chill of winter brought it on. He would not heed my warning to stay indoors,’ she added sharply, as if chiding him still.

  Frances felt a wave of anguish at the thought of her father lying sick at Richmond while she had been here, unknowing. She could have eased his suffering with a tincture of willow bark and elder – but even if she had known, a visit to him would have carried too great a risk. Cecil’s spies would have followed her there, and their master would have been delighted to hear the witch was making her potions once more. Well, she would find a means to prepare a phial of the medicine for her mother to take back to Richmond, in case the sickness should return. ‘He is recovered now?’ she asked, fearing the answer.

  ‘Enough for me to accept the king’s summons,’ Helena replied briskly. ‘Now, tell me more about my grandson.’

  Frances studied her mother closely before she replied. The joy she took in describing George’s character and accomplishments was marred by worry that her mother was concealing the extent of her father’s illness.

  ‘Thomas is a good father?’ Helena asked, when her daughter had finished speaking.

  ‘Very. George adores him.’

  ‘A good husband too?’

  Frances’s face clouded at the memory of what had happened two days earlier. She nodded, unable to meet her mother’s gaze.

  ‘He is an honourable man, Frances,’ Helena said earnestly. ‘Few men would make such sacrifices.’

  Frances bit her lip. She had no wish to speak of her husband’s infidelity – if she could even describe it as such. ‘He gives me little cause for complaint.’

  ‘It is thanks to Thomas that I am here, Frances.’

  She looked up, surprised.

  ‘The king would hardly have thought to enlist my help otherwise,’ Helena continued. ‘Your father and I have long since been forgotten. Your husband did you a great kindness in reminding him.’ She took her daughter’s hand and gently stroked it. ‘He must have known that you were in need of comfort.’

  Frances tried to order her thoughts. Her anger at Thomas’s transgression had blinded her to the many sacrifices he had made on her behalf. Shame at her ingratitude mingled with her ongoing bewilderment at the strength of her reaction when she had seen him that day. Now that she knew of this latest service, she could not but feel remorse that she had been so quick to judge him. ‘Then I am deeply grateful to him, Mama,’ she said at last.

  CHAPTER 14

  6 March

  Frances shielded her eyes against the sun as she watched the river snaking into the distance. Soon the prince’s barge would come into view. It had been half an hour at least since the queen’s steward had arrived to report that the procession had reached Woolwich.

  Beside her, the princess was fidgeting nervously, her fingers working at the grey satin sash that was tied at her narrow waist. ‘He should be here by now,’ she muttered.

  ‘I am sure the prince is just as eager to see you, Your Grace,’ Helena said. ‘It will not be long.’

  Frances glanced at her mother and smiled. George was at her side, his hand clasped in hers. He had soon overcome his initial shyness in meeting his grandmother, and in the space of just three days the pair had become inseparable. She watched as Helena smoothed his hair, then bent to whisper in his ear. He looked up at her adoringly.

  Frances’s gaze moved to her husband, who was standing behind them. His expression was, as ever, inscrutable as he stared at the horizon. Relations between them had thawed a little since her mother’s arrival. She had found it impossible to remain angry with him now that she knew he was responsible for bringing her there. Helena had enjoyed his company, and seeing them together, Frances had been struck by how similar in character he was to her father. Little wonder they got on so well. Thomas looked at her now and their eyes held, until Frances glanced away.

  A sudden fanfare of trumpets signalled that the prince was in view. Elizabeth grasped Frances’s hand and held it tightly as the gilded barge drew closer, the pennants at either end fluttering in the breeze. At last, it reached the landing stage in front of them and a stout young man climbed out. He was shorter than Frances had imagined, and though he was dressed as might be expected of a royal prince, with starched white lace collar and sleeves, and, across his doublet, a sash that matched the princess’s, he appeared rather awkward and ill at ease. He marched up to the assembled company and gave a stiff bow to the princess. As he raised himself, Frances saw that his face was flushed and there were beads of sweat on his high forehead.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet Your Highness.’

  His voice was flat, as if he had learned the phrase by rote, and his accent was strong. It was fortunate that her mother was there to aid their conversation, Frances thought.

  The princess made the briefest curtsy. ‘You are most welcome, Prince Gustavus,’ she replied, studying him closely. Frances heard the disappointment in her voice and felt a rush of hope. Perhaps her task would not be so difficult after all.

  The prince glanced at the assembled company, his eyes darting from one courtier to the next. His neatly clipped blond moustache twitched occasionally, whether from nervousness or disapproval Frances could not tell.

  ‘I bid you come and take your ease,’ Elizabeth said as she gestured towards the palace. ‘My mother is waiting to receive you.’

  He took the hand she proffered and they walked slowly towards the gatehouse. Frances watched them closely as she and the rest of the company followed in their wake. Although her mistress’s hand was now resting lightly on the prince’s arm, she stared straight ahead. Neither she nor her suitor spoke another word.

  The great hall was crowded with courtiers waiting to greet the royal couple, and a hush descended as they entered. At the far end of the room, Queen Anne sat enthroned on a high dais. She made no move to stand as she saw her daughter and the prince, but remained motionless as a statue while they approached, her eyes never leaving them.

  Frances scanned the crowds on either side of her as she followed her mistress through the centre of the hall. She recognised several members of the Privy Council, before whom she had been obliged to swear allegiance to the king a few days earlier. The chamber was thronged with ladies, too, all dressed in their finest silks, jewels twinkling. Lady Howard shone brightest, as usual, and Frances saw Prince Gustavus’s head turn towards her as he passed.

  As Frances neared the dais, another figure caught her eye. The young man was leaning against a marble pillar with an air of nonchalance, but his features were suffused with tension. He was tall and muscular, with long fair hair and light blue eyes, which now and again glanced over to the courtiers who stood on the opposite side of the stage. She followed his gaze to a proud-looking woman, who was staring back at him, her small blue eyes burning.

  Arbella Stuart.

  Frances recognised her at once. She had aged considerably since she had last seen her, though she must only be in her mid-thirties, Frances calculated. Old enough to
have been married long before now, if she had been content to take a husband without royal blood.

  Frances glanced back at the elegant gentleman who held Arbella’s interest. The look that passed between them unnerved her.

  ‘Welcome to court, Prince Gustavus.’ The queen, still seated, addressed him. All eyes were upon him as he knelt to kiss her hand. An awkward silence followed. The princess, who was standing behind him, eyes downcast, made no move to help. At last, her mother gave a signal to the musicians and they struck up a lively tune. The courtiers quickly formed themselves into a line and began to dance, their chatter soon rising above the sound of the flutes and violins. Thomas took Frances’s hand and guided her over to join them before she could protest.

  ‘He is not to her liking, I think,’ he said in her ear, as they drew close and parted again.

  Frances nodded. ‘Though she will wish to please her brother in this, as in all things.’

  They followed the steps of the dance, their hands meeting from time to time as they weaved in and out of the long line of courtiers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, when next they came together.

  Thomas looked at her questioningly.

  ‘For bringing my mother here,’ she explained. ‘I am very grateful.’

  He inclined his head and his shoulders sagged as if in relief. ‘It was the least I could do after—’ He stopped abruptly.

  Frances forced herself to concentrate on her steps. Following the others, Thomas put his hands about her waist and lifted her into the air, but did not release her afterwards and instead guided her away from the throng. She could feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back as he led her to a quiet corner, far from the dais.

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, Frances,’ he said. ‘I cannot but be ashamed of what I have done, but I want you to understand the reason.’

  ‘You owe me no explanation,’ she replied coldly. ‘Ours is a marriage in name only – as you promised it would be. How you choose to spend your hours of leisure is of no concern to me.’