The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  His face showed he was stung. ‘It is more than that, for me at least, though I know it will never be so for you. Your love for Tom is as strong now as when he lived – stronger, even, I think. Of course I knew you still loved him when we married, but I dared to hope that you might look upon me with affection, in time.’

  Frances searched his eyes for any hint of deception, but they blazed with sincerity. Her love for Tom had blinded her to the true feelings of her own husband. She continued to stare at him, unable to form any words with which to respond.

  At that moment, a loud fanfare rang out and Frances turned to see Prince Henry and his entourage enter the crowded hall. He stood for a moment, as if to ensure that all eyes were upon him, then made his stately progress towards the dais. Frances glanced at her mistress, who seemed delighted yet apprehensive to see her brother. She rose to greet him, but he brushed past her and swept an elaborate bow before Gustavus.

  ‘Your Highness is most welcome,’ he pronounced, so that all of the assembled company could hear. He took his sister’s hand and joined it with that of her suitor. Elizabeth recoiled before she forced a graceful smile.

  ‘Through this union, our kingdom will be saved from papists and heretics, and the devil will have no more to do with my father’s people.’

  An uncertain cheer rose from the crowd. Henry gestured for Gustavus to join him at the front of the dais. The Swedish prince walked stiffly to him and stood surveying the room, his expression grave. Behind him, Frances could see the princess, her smile fixed.

  Suddenly, the queen stood. ‘Please, stay and enjoy the entertainments.’ Her voice echoed around the hall. ‘My daughter and I will retire now.’

  Elizabeth shot her mother a grateful look and followed in her wake, head bowed. Frances pushed through the crowds so that she might accompany them. This was too good an opportunity to lose. As she reached the door that led to the privy apartments, she looked back across the hall. The courtiers were talking in animated whispers, no doubt speculating upon the queen’s sudden departure. But Thomas was still standing where she had left him, staring after her. For a moment, theirs eyes met, then Frances turned and half ran from the hall.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Highnesses,’ she said, as she arrived, breathless, in Anne’s presence chamber a few moments later. ‘I feared the princess was unwell so was anxious to attend her.’

  She glanced across at the young woman, who was sitting at the window, gazing out across the park.

  ‘I am quite well,’ Elizabeth remarked sullenly, without turning.

  ‘But we are pleased you are here,’ the queen said quickly, gesturing for Frances to sit.

  ‘Tell me, what did you think of our Swedish prince?’ she asked, after a pause.

  Frances looked up at her, but Anne’s expression was as inscrutable as ever. ‘He seems the perfect model of an upright and pious young man,’ she replied carefully. ‘Even if he has not yet displayed any of the accomplishments that are prized so highly by the courtiers here, I am sure that he possesses many others.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elizabeth flinch but she remained silent.

  ‘Indeed,’ Anne agreed, taking up the theme. ‘Besides, my daughter is well enough versed in dancing, conversation and other such trivial pastimes to make up for any deficiencies on the part of her husband.’

  ‘They are hardly trivial, Mother,’ the princess snapped, turning to face them at last. ‘Henry encompasses them all, yet is just as serious and devout as Prince Gustavus.’

  Frances thought she saw a flicker of a smile on the queen’s lips, but it was quickly suppressed.

  ‘That is quite true,’ Anne said. ‘But we must not be too quick to judge poor Gustavus. Some men’s qualities are slower to emerge than others. That is all.’

  The princess scowled and turned back to the window.

  ‘It is a pity that his kingdom is presently at war with your brother’s, Your Grace.’

  Frances had not noticed Lady Drummond enter the room. Her steps were as soft as her voice.

  ‘Would that it were otherwise,’ Anne sighed.

  ‘Then this betrothal must be abandoned at once,’ the princess urged, choosing to overlook her earlier disregard for the matter. Her eyes filled with indignation – and, Frances thought, hope. ‘If my father knew of this …’

  ‘He does know,’ her mother snapped. ‘But the king sets matters of faith above those of family loyalty – as is entirely proper. God must come before all.’

  Frances held back a retort. It was well known that the king’s conscience was little troubled when trying to secure the most advantageous alliance overseas. ‘But surely there are other suitors, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘After all, your daughter is widely admired – both for her beauty and her accomplishments, and for the powerful alliance she would bring. Half of the princes in Christendom must be clamouring to marry her.’

  A glance at the princess told her that her words had hit their mark.

  ‘Of course there are other suitors.’ Elizabeth raised herself to her full height. ‘I will speak to my father. He is due to attend this evening’s feast, is he not?’

  ‘It will do no good, Elizabeth,’ Anne replied softly. ‘I raised the same objections when the match was first spoken of. You know how unyielding he is when his mind is set upon its course.’

  ‘Then I shall ask Henry to plead my case. Though he favours the marriage, he would hardly do so if he knew how strongly opposed I am to it now.’

  Frances exchanged a knowing look with the queen. ‘I fear he will not be so easily dissuaded, Your Grace, given how greatly it will strengthen our war against heresy.’

  ‘So I am to be traded like a chattel, with no thought to my own wishes or desires?’

  ‘Such is the lot of princesses, my dear,’ her mother said sadly. ‘I know it all too well.’

  Frances saw Elizabeth’s face redden as it had when she had flown into one of her childhood rages.

  ‘It is not to be borne!’ she cried, then swept from the room and slammed the door loudly behind her.

  The queen took up her embroidery. ‘I had not expected the seed to take root so quickly,’ she murmured, with a smile.

  Lady Drummond moved to stand behind her mistress. As she rested her hand lightly on the back of the chair, a flash of blue caught Frances’s eye. She looked at the woman’s delicate white fingers and her heart lurched.

  The sapphire ring.

  Though she had seen it for just a second that day, she recognised it at once. So this was her husband’s mistress? She stared up at Lady Drummond as if seeing her for the first time. The woman’s eyes were lowered and her rosebud mouth was set in a demure smile. Frances judged that she was a few years younger than herself, and her small stature lent her an air of delicacy.

  Suddenly her eyes flicked upwards and Frances saw them glint with understanding. She held the other woman’s gaze coldly, expecting to see contrition. But Jane Drummond’s expression never faltered.

  CHAPTER 15

  28 March

  Frances closed the door softly behind her, but an echo still sounded across the empty pews. A solitary candle burned on the altar, illuminating the simple wooden crucifix above. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she could see that the church boasted few adornments. No hangings covered the cold stone walls, and only a row of empty plinths hinted at the former richness of the decoration. Even the Reverend Pritchard could find nothing at fault here, she reflected.

  She walked slowly towards the altar, pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders against the chill. Looking up at the crucifix, she made the sign of the cross, then sank to her knees on one of the cushions beneath. ‘Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy,’ she whispered, her breath misting in the cold, damp air.

  The tolling of the bells made her start. She paused, counting. Midnight.

  A moment later, she heard the soft click of the latch but forced herself to keep her gaze fixed upon the floor. She listened to th
e slow rustle of skirts as the woman drew closer, then knelt next to her.

  ‘You have done well, Lady Frances,’ she whispered, as she bowed her head. ‘I hear that the Swedish prince is not to Elizabeth’s liking.’

  ‘That is not entirely my doing. My mistress was greatly grieved when she discovered that his kingdom was at war with her mother’s, and the prince himself has done little to improve her opinion.’ Frances thought of the previous night’s assembly, the latest in a succession of entertainments staged in the prince’s honour since his arrival three weeks before. But though each had been more extravagant than the last, the atmosphere had been progressively more strained. The courtiers who had attended could not have failed to notice the sour looks that had passed between the princess and her elder brother, or the cold formality with which she had greeted her suitor. The king had not troubled himself to attend any of the gatherings, which had given the princess cause to hope that he might abandon the negotiations.

  ‘So it will come to nothing?’

  Frances shook her head. ‘The outcome is far from assured. Prince Henry still favours the match, and the king has expressed no opinion about his daughter’s obvious aversion towards it.’

  ‘Then you must keep up your persuasions.’

  Frances fell silent. She had not seen Lady Vaux since their meeting at Coombe Abbey more than four years before, though in the past few weeks her numerous letters had made the woman seem a constant presence. Frances knew that she was one of the fiercest supporters of the Catholic cause and had almost paid for it with her life, yet she felt the same dislike she had formed upon first meeting her. She had always thought that Lady Vaux was motivated more by personal gain than by God’s truth.

  ‘Have you spoken to the princess about the King of Spain’s nephew?’ Lady Vaux asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Frances replied. ‘It would be precipitous, since the Swedish match has not yet been abandoned.’

  ‘All the more reason to present her with an alternative.’

  Frances bridled. ‘I am better placed to judge the right time to act, Lady Vaux,’ she said. Then, lowering her voice: ‘If I lose my mistress’s trust now, we are undone.’ She felt remorse for seeking to manipulate the young woman for whom she cherished such affection. She was little better than the king or his ministers, who treated the princess as a pawn in the game of diplomacy.

  ‘That may be so.’ Lady Vaux interrupted her thoughts. ‘But we do not have the luxury of time. The King of Spain grows impatient and our supporters here are beginning to lose faith.’

  ‘What has Sir Walter Raleigh to do with this?’ Frances asked abruptly.

  She was gratified when Lady Vaux stared at her in surprise.

  ‘He told me that the princess’s marriage is part of a wider plot,’ Frances continued. ‘If I am to advance it, I must not be kept in ignorance.’

  Lady Vaux hesitated but Frances kept her gaze steady.

  ‘That does not concern you, Lady Frances,’ she said at last. ‘Neither will you know more until you have proven your loyalty by bringing the Spanish match to pass.’

  Frances tried to calm her rising fury. Was she a mere puppet in the schemes of others, just like her mistress? Though she would gladly lay down her life for the Catholic cause Tom had so passionately espoused, she could feel nothing but distaste and mistrust for Lady Vaux and her associates. ‘I took too great a risk by meeting you here,’ Frances said, after a long pause. ‘I will not do so again. Neither should you persist in writing to me. The princess will begin to suspect my reason for visiting the kitchens so often – Lady Blanche has already remarked upon it – and you cannot hope to find another place to leave your letters.’ Lady Vaux opened her mouth to reply, but Frances continued, ‘I know the part well enough that I am to play. Unless the situation changes, you must keep your silence.’

  ‘Very well,’ Lady Vaux replied tightly. ‘But do not think to conceal anything from me. I have many eyes and ears at court.’ She stood abruptly and gave a curt nod to the altar before striding back down the aisle. A moment later, the slam of the heavy oak door echoed around the church.

  Greenwich Palace was still in darkness as Frances went through the park-side gate and locked it behind her, then crossed the small courtyard beyond. Her racing thoughts made her oblivious to the bitter chill of the night air. What was Raleigh’s part in all of this? There had been something in Lady Vaux’s expression when Frances had mentioned him that she could not quite fathom.

  She was still turning over the possibilities as she fumbled for the key to her apartment. Her husband had been sleeping soundly when she left; she prayed he still was. Perhaps he had sought diversion in Jane Drummond’s chamber. She tried to push away the thought. She had not troubled to tell him that she knew who his mistress was. It hardly mattered. If he had visited the young woman since his infidelity had been discovered, then he had been discreet.

  Frances pressed her ear to the door but could hear nothing. Slowly, she lifted the latch.

  ‘Frances.’ Thomas’s voice startled her as she entered the room. He rose from the seat by the fire and crossed quickly to where she was standing, the door still open behind her.

  ‘Forgive me, I could not sleep.’ Her words died as she saw the look on her husband’s face. He reached out and clasped her hands tightly.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, panic rising. ‘George?’

  ‘He is fast asleep,’ he replied quickly. ‘It is your father.’

  Frances felt the colour drain from her face.

  ‘A servant arrived from Richmond an hour ago. Lord Thomas is gravely ill. You must make haste.’

  Frances stared at him, as if uncomprehending, then wrenched her hands free. ‘I must go to my mother. She can travel with me,’ she said, as she turned back towards the door.

  ‘She has been told, Frances, and is already on her way to Richmond,’ her husband said, guiding her gently back into the room. ‘She came here to see you and was sick with worry when we found you had gone, but I urged her to set out at once and promised you would follow as soon as you returned.’

  Frances felt a wave of remorse. Was God punishing her for betraying her husband? She had taken a risk by agreeing to meet Lady Vaux, but had hoped Thomas would remain in ignorance. Would it be too late by the time she reached Richmond? She shook away the thought as she hastened to her room and, with trembling fingers, unlocked the chest that contained her herbs and tinctures. The glass phials clinked together as she stuffed them into a leather pouch. George gave a small moan from his pallet bed and she padded over to kiss his forehead, then hurried from the room.

  ‘I have ordered a barge to be made ready for you,’ her husband said, as he draped her cloak over her shoulders. ‘With luck, you will be there before daybreak.’

  Frances nodded but could not speak. As she turned to go, Thomas pulled her to him. She tensed, but the warmth of his embrace soothed her troubled soul and she surrendered to it, pressing her face against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, and then his warm lips against her hair. Eventually she pushed herself free.

  ‘Frances!’ he called after her, but she was already out of sight.

  CHAPTER 16

  28 March

  The turrets of the palace were silhouetted against the dark grey sky as the barge at last approached the landing stage. It had been an agonisingly slow journey, the tide against them all the way. With every twist of the river, Frances had craned her neck, hoping to see the fields surrounding the city give way to the gently sweeping hillsides of Richmond. Please God may I be in time, she had prayed over and over.

  Before the oarsman had even tethered the boat, Frances had leaped onto the wooden platform and begun to run towards the house, her heart in her mouth. It was still in darkness, save for a solitary light that blazed from an upper room in the east wing of the palace. Her father’s bedchamber.

  Frances hammered on the door and waited, panting. A few moments later, it was opened by the elderly
steward. His features were grave, and she swept past him, not daring to ask if she was too late. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and hurried along the dark corridor that led to her father’s room. A soft light seeped under the door, but all was quiet within. Frances knocked, then pushed it open.

  As she stepped over the threshold, she breathed in the stale aroma of sweat. The room was only dimly lit, and the curtains had been pulled around her father’s bed. As she walked around it, she saw her mother sitting on the mattress, her head bent over her husband’s hand. She turned at the sound of Frances’s footsteps and leaped up to embrace her. Her cheek was wet against her daughter’s neck and Frances began to weep. She could not bear to look past her to the bed and see her father’s lifeless body.

  ‘This is a fine greeting, after so many years.’

  His voice was so faint that Frances wondered if she had imagined it. Gently, she released herself from her mother and stepped slowly forward. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw her father smiling up at her, his hand outstretched. With a cry, she flung herself down on the bed and pressed her lips to his fingers, smothering them with kisses. They felt cold and waxy, and though she continued to clasp them, she could not warm them. When at last she raised her eyes to his, her heart contracted. His face had the grey pallor she recognised all too well. Though she tried to reason that it was just the effects of the fever and that his strength might yet return, she knew that her herbs could offer no resistance to the inexorable march of death. The most that she could hope was to ease his suffering.

  ‘Father,’ she croaked, as she leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

  With an effort, he raised himself on his pillows. Frances tried to hide her dismay at the sight of his wasted chest, the ribs showing through his nightshirt.

  ‘My love,’ he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. His hand soon fell away and he was panting as he tried to recover from the exertion. Frances’s throat tightened as she tried to hold back her tears.