The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  Frances felt joy at her words, the first she had experienced since that night at Richmond. ‘I am eager to hear what has passed during my absence. You must have had many diversions, with Prince Gustavus still residing here.’ She caught a fleeting look of unease on the princess’s face.

  ‘I have had a great deal to occupy my thoughts,’ the young woman replied quietly. ‘But the prince is away from court at present. My brother has taken him hunting.’

  Frances watched her for a few moments, considering. ‘Perhaps Your Grace would also like to take the air,’ she said. ‘It is a fine day – the warmest one yet this spring. We could ride out to the old deer park.’

  Elizabeth brightened at once. ‘What an excellent idea!’ she cried, leaping to her feet. ‘Blanche, tell the grooms to prepare the horses. Frances and I will be at the stables as soon as we have changed our attire.’

  Blanche hesitated. ‘Am I to accompany you too, Your Grace?’ she asked, darting a look at Frances.

  ‘There is no need,’ the princess said, distracted. She was already riffling through her wardrobe. ‘Besides, you are not as accomplished a rider as Frances so would only slow us down.’

  Blanche pursed her lips and left the room.

  As soon as she had helped her mistress into her riding boots, Frances hastened to her own apartment to make ready. Though she had suggested the ride as a means of gaining some time alone with the princess, her heart soared at the prospect of galloping through the park, breathing in the fresh, sweet air of spring.

  A few minutes later she was at the stables, where the princess was already climbing into the saddle. She soon mounted the horse that had been prepared for her and they trotted off through the courtyard, which echoed with the sound of hoofs clipping on the cobbles.

  There were many cries of ‘God save Your Grace!’ as they rode through the crowded streets. Elizabeth acknowledged every one, gracefully inclining her head and smiling. She would have made a fine queen, Frances reflected. God willing, she might still.

  As soon as they had passed through the gates of Hyde Park, the princess dug her heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped away, Frances following. The sweet tang of blackthorn filled her nostrils as she raced across the park, her hair whipping about her face. She closed her eyes, her senses alive with the freedom of being out in the open air, far from the stifling confines of Whitehall.

  Focusing again on the horizon, she could see that the princess was pulling up her horse. Slowing her own to a canter, she drew level with her.

  ‘Oh, Frances!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. ‘I feel happier than I have in weeks.’

  ‘As do I, Your Grace.’ Frances beamed. ‘Now that the weather has turned, we must ride out as often as we can.’

  The princess nodded enthusiastically and reached over to clasp her hand. ‘You always knew what would do me good, Frances,’ she said. ‘I have never had a friend such as you. I am sorry that I treated you harshly when you first returned to court.’

  Frances smiled. ‘It was I who was at fault, for leaving you so suddenly. I had little choice, but it grieved me sorely to think that you might suppose I did not care.’

  Elizabeth looked towards the woodland that lay on the eastern edge of the park. ‘I cannot think of that time without sorrow. I was a fool to be so easily deceived by those traitors.’

  Frances chose her words carefully. ‘You were not deceived. Catesby and his associates loved you truly and wanted only to serve you.’

  ‘By murdering my father and brothers!’ the princess cried.

  Her horse shook his mane and whinnied, and she pulled sharply on the reins. ‘How can you speak of them so favourably?’

  Frances knew she must have a care. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean that their crimes were not abhorrent, only that their intentions towards you were honourable – though horribly misguided.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Elizabeth said uncertainly. ‘But Henry says they will be burning in Hell, in the very fires they would have whipped up to destroy him and our father.’ She bit her lip. ‘Though I know he is right to rejoice in this, it grieves me sorely to think of it, Frances.’

  Frances felt a surge of hope. She had supposed her mistress to be entirely in thrall to her beloved brother, but her true feelings clearly ran contrary to her outward obedience. ‘And I too,’ she said earnestly, ‘though I cannot think that God would punish those whose faith was so strong.’

  The princess gave her a long appraising look. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’

  For a moment, Frances considered feigning ignorance, but she knew it would be in vain. Though the princess had been little more than a child at the time, she was old enough to understand such things now. Besides, Frances had no wish to destroy the trust that had begun to flower between them again. Slowly, she inclined her head.

  Elizabeth gave a sad smile. ‘He loved you too – that was obvious to anyone with eyes.’ Then: ‘But you knew nothing of their schemes, did you?’

  ‘Of course not, Your Grace,’ Frances lied, looking down at the reins that were now slack in her hands. She patted her horse’s neck.

  ‘Though I know what you must have suffered by his treachery, I cannot but envy you,’ the princess said.

  Frances’s head jerked up.

  ‘You know what it is to love, and to be truly loved in return,’ her mistress continued. ‘I fear that I am not destined to enjoy the same good fortune.’

  Elizabeth pressed her lips tightly together as if to stop herself saying more. Her eyes were filled with such sorrow that Frances was overcome with pity – remorse, too. She had been so intent upon using the princess’s marriage to further the Catholic cause that she had given little thought to her personal happiness. In this, she was little better than the girl’s father or brother, who looked upon her as a chattel to be bestowed as it suited them.

  ‘You must not marry against your own inclinations, Your Grace,’ Frances said softly. ‘Though I know you wish to please the prince your brother, he would not wish to condemn you to a life of misery. Besides, many other suitors clamour for your hand, some of whom promise even greater riches than the Swedish prince.’ She prayed her voice held more conviction than she felt.

  ‘But Henry is resolved upon this match and will not be swayed from it. He thinks Gustavus possesses all the qualities that should be looked for in a suitor.’

  ‘And what do you think of him, ma’am?’ Frances ventured.

  ‘I think him a bore and a brute!’ she exclaimed, with sudden passion. ‘I know I shall never love him.’ She buried her head in her hands.

  Frances drew her horse closer so that she could reach out and clasp the girl’s hand in her own. ‘Then you cannot marry him,’ she said firmly. ‘You must speak to the king your father. If he will not be persuaded by reasons of the heart, then employ those of the mind.’

  Elizabeth raised her tear-stained face.

  ‘Already there are murmurs against the match among your father’s council,’ Frances continued. ‘They say it would bring dishonour upon this kingdom to ally with a country that is at war with his brother-in-law, the King of Denmark. If you join your voice to theirs, he will listen.’

  Frances could see the princess’s thoughts racing as she gazed back at her. Sensing her advantage, she pressed on: ‘The queen will be our ally in this. As soon as you have planted the seed in your father’s mind, she can speak to Prince Henry and insist that her honour will be compromised if he persists with the match. By these means – if we are patient – you will be spared a husband who can never make you happy.’

  The princess’s mouth lifted into a tentative smile. ‘Thank you, Frances,’ she whispered. ‘I pray God it will turn out as you say.’

  CHAPTER 18

  3 May

  Frances watched as Prince Henry downed the contents of his glass. His usually pale complexion was flushed, his hair dishevelled. Leaning across to Sir John, he laughed uproariously and slammed his palm down so hard on the t
able that it shook. The king shot a furious look at his son, but Henry seemed not to notice.

  ‘The prince is in high spirits tonight.’

  Though her husband’s tone was light, Frances caught the concern in his eyes. She made no comment, helping herself to more of the capon. The feast was plentiful this evening. It had been intended to serve Gustavus and his entourage, as well as James’s court, but they had left early that morning. The marriage negotiations had broken off the previous evening, the king declaring that for as long as Sweden remained at war with his wife’s native land he could not consider an alliance. Henry had stood at his right side, sullen and resentful. To the left, his sister had kept her gaze fixed upon the floor. Frances had seen her shoulders sink with relief when Gustavus had bowed abruptly to her father and stridden out of the room, without bidding his intended bride farewell.

  ‘How is your mistress?’ Thomas asked.

  Frances finished her mouthful. ‘Her Grace is saddened, of course,’ she said, not quite meeting her husband’s eye. ‘She has wept a great deal since last night and was too grieved to attend this evening’s entertainments.’

  That at least was true, though the source of Elizabeth’s grief was not as most of those present supposed.

  ‘I had not thought her so enamoured of the prince,’ Thomas observed, ‘but the secrets of women’s hearts have always confounded the inferior sex. Perhaps Her Grace is grieving for a different reason.’

  Frances forced herself to hold his gaze. They had not spoken of the matter after retiring to their chamber last night, though the rest of the court could talk of nothing else. She had allowed herself to hope that Thomas was content not to question the king’s reason for rejecting the proposed match. She had been careful to avoid raising her husband’s suspicions since her meeting with Anne Vaux, but she knew he still wondered at the cause of her absence in the middle of the night.

  ‘The princess has a tender heart and is saddened that her brother’s hopes are dashed – though she was hardly the cause,’ she added quickly.

  Thomas reached out and clasped his wife’s hand. ‘Are you sure that is all, Frances?’

  His words were drowned in a sudden cacophony on the king’s table. The prince had stood so abruptly that his chair had toppled off the dais, clattering onto the flagstones below. He was glaring at his father with undisguised fury. ‘You treat me like a child!’ he cried, fists clenched at his sides.

  The king let out a bark of laughter. ‘That’s because you act like one,’ he replied scornfully.

  Beside him, Cecil smirked, his dark eyes flitting around the room. The company had descended into a deathly silence and everyone’s gaze was fixed upon the dais. Frances was thankful that her mistress was not there. The poor girl’s nerves were already in shreds after a bitter encounter with her brother, when he had upbraided her for defying him.

  James continued to stare at his son, apparently oblivious to his gaping courtiers. A slow smile crept across his lips. ‘I had a mind to make you Prince of Wales at last, but I see that you are still not ready for such an honour.’

  Henry’s face whitened. The whole court knew how impatient he was for the title that had been his right since his father had taken the English throne. He had made little secret of it, railing against his lack of authority to anyone who would listen.

  William Cecil reached out a hand as if to restrain his master, but the prince batted it angrily away. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then turned and strode from the platform instead, swiping at the table as he passed. The hall echoed with the sound of shattering glass.

  James raised his cup in a mocking gesture to the prince’s retreating form, then drained its contents. A trail of the ruby liquid slid from one side of his mouth, glistening in the light of the sconces. ‘God save the prince!’ he slurred.

  The courtiers looked at each other in bemusement. A few echoed the king’s words, but the rest remained silent. Several minutes passed before a low hum of chatter rose once more.

  Frances and her husband resumed their meal. She ate slowly, picking at the array of dishes in front of them, glad of the distraction they provided.

  ‘Forgive me, Lady Frances.’

  She started at the soft voice behind her. She had not noticed Jane Drummond approaching – the woman seemed to glide noiselessly around the court. Frances glanced at her husband and caught his mortification before he lowered his gaze.

  ‘The princess is asking for you,’ the young woman said, her eyes fixed upon Frances.

  Frances dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin then rose to her feet, aware that her husband was watching her closely. ‘Thank you,’ she said coldly. ‘I will attend her at once.’

  Jane Drummond walked briskly away. Frances made to follow her but the young woman was soon out of sight.

  ‘I will escort you there,’ Thomas said, rising quickly to his feet.

  ‘There is no need,’ Frances replied curtly. ‘I will not be long. The hour is late and my mistress will soon retire. Please,’ she urged, when he hesitated, ‘stay and finish your meal.’

  She swept away before he could protest, quickening her pace as she weaved through the long tables of diners, who were now engaged in such animated talk that they did not look up as she passed.

  When she reached the courtyard that lay behind the great hall, she took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool evening air. The moon cast its silvery shadow across the cloisters that ran along each side of the quadrangle, illuminating the ornately carved stonework above the archways. Crossing to the opposite corner, her soft leather soles making no sound on the cobbles, worn smooth by the footsteps of many thousands of courtiers, she wondered briefly if she should collect some tinctures from her apartment first, in case the princess was ill. But she dismissed the thought. Even though she had regained her mistress’s trust, it would offer little protection if she was found to have reverted to her old ways. Blanche would be only too happy to twist her rival’s healing into an accusation of sorcery and report it to Cecil – of that, she was certain.

  Passing under the archway on the far side of the courtyard, Frances found herself plunged into darkness. The page had not yet lit the sconces – supposing, no doubt, that the feast would continue long into the night. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she reached out to touch the inner wall of the cloister to use it as her guide, but an icy hand gripped her wrist. She made to cry out but another hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pushed roughly back against the wall, the cold bricks pressing against her neck.

  ‘Do not speak or I will stop your breath,’ the man whispered, his breath hot against her face, his hand gripping her throat. He was much taller than Frances, and though she strained her eyes to make out his features, they were entirely in shadow. She could feel her pulse throbbing against his fingers, which were soft. Gentleman’s hands.

  After a long moment, he relaxed his grip but kept his fingers close to her throat while his other hand still clasped her wrist. Frances tried to quell her fear, though her legs felt as if they would collapse.

  ‘You have performed a great service by getting rid of the Swedish fool,’ he continued. ‘The princess would have married him to please her brother, had it not been for your persuasions.’

  Frances opened her mouth to protest but he pressed his fingers to it. ‘Now you must perform an even greater one.’

  Whose schemes had she become involved with now? Was this the plot Raleigh had hinted at?

  ‘England will soon be saved from heresy by another marriage,’ he continued.

  Even though he spoke quietly, his voice was laced with excitement and Frances thought she caught the flash of a smile.

  The King of Spain’s nephew must have embarked for England. She had not wanted to speak to the princess of another marriage so soon, but she must find a way, before the prince reached these shores. Her mind raced on, despite the terror that consumed her.

  ‘The negotiations for the princess’s hand are as nothing to
this – though they provide a useful distraction,’ he said, ‘and while the eyes of the court are focused upon the husband that milksop the prince will choose, a far greater alliance will have been forged.’

  Frances stared at the dark outline of his face as she struggled to understand his words. Another alliance? Surely Catholic hopes rested upon the princess alone.

  ‘Our plans are now almost in place. We await only the court’s return to Greenwich, where my mistress resides.’

  ‘The queen?’ Frances whispered.

  He pressed his fingers to her lips again. She inhaled the sharp tang of tobacco. ‘No – though my mistress will be called by that name soon enough.’

  A shaft of moonlight pierced the gloom, illuminating his handsome features. Frances gasped as she recognised the serious young man she had seen at the Swedish prince’s reception two months earlier. His sensuous mouth curled into a slow smile and his eyes glittered as he gazed down at her.

  ‘William Seymour,’ he said, and made an exaggerated bow.

  Seymour. The name had been synonymous with royalty from the time that the virtuous Lady Jane had become King Henry’s third wife. Though her triumph had been brief, her family had hankered after the Crown ever since. This latest scion was as blinded by the same ambition as his grandfather, who had married Lady Katherine Grey in secret. Frances’s mother had told her of the scandal. Far from winning him the Crown, it had landed him in the Tower at the old queen’s orders. Clearly William had learned nothing from his grandfather’s example.

  ‘Who is your mistress?’ Frances asked, though she already knew the name before he spoke it.

  His smile broadened. ‘Arbella Stuart.’

  Frances tried to order her thoughts. ‘And what has this to do with me?’

  ‘You will be our witness,’ he said simply.

  Frances stared up at him, incredulous. Why had they chosen her from all the courtiers who thronged the chambers of the royal palaces? She had not spoken a word to either of them until tonight.