The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  The prince was now mounting the steps of the dais.

  ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost …’ The sonorous voice of Archbishop Bancroft echoed around the hall and the courtiers took their seats. He was elderly now and his shoulders were even more hunched than they had been when Frances had last seen him. His beard was still the colour of dark mahogany, though, and there was no trace of grey.

  There was a long pause before the ceremony of investiture began. Frances looked across the aisle to Thomas, whose gaze was now on the prince, kneeling before his father. She was about to turn back towards the dais when she saw, a few rows behind her husband, a solemn-faced young man staring directly at her.

  Seymour.

  Her blood ran cold. She had not seen him for several weeks, and Arbella had appeared only seldom at court since Gustavus’s reception in Greenwich. Frances had begun to hope that Cecil or one of his informants had thwarted their plans and that she would therefore escape any involvement. Now she feared not.

  Frances held Seymour’s gaze. His expression did not alter as he stared at her. A small movement at the edge of her vision made her turn. Thomas was watching her too. Frances forced herself to focus upon the ceremony of investiture that was now well under way on the dais.

  ‘I, Henry, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and truth I bear unto you, to live and die against all manner of folk.’

  Though he was in his seventeenth year, the prince still spoke with the same shrill voice that Frances remembered from her first meeting with him. She wondered if it would deepen in time. It was hard to imagine him commanding a parliament or an army if he still sounded like a child. She smiled at the thought that a king whom his subjects could not understand would be succeeded by one they could not respect. God willing, she would help to spare them that fate.

  The king was now standing over his son and placing a ring on his outstretched finger. Frances saw Henry wince as his father forced the bejewelled band over his delicate flesh. He then handed his son a sword with a ruby at its halberd that glittered in the light from the high windows. Finally, and with great solemnity, the aged archbishop passed the coronet to his sovereign. James lifted it above his son’s head, then held it suspended, as if taunting him. Henry kept perfectly still, but Frances noticed a red flush creep up the back of his neck. At last his father lowered the coronet onto his head and the prince stood to face the assembled throng. He reminded Frances of a child who had been allowed to try on his father’s clothes.

  Archbishop Bancroft rose unsteadily to his feet and read out the investiture oath – first in Latin, then in English. When his words had echoed into silence, the prince gave a stiff bow towards the throne, then walked slowly down the aisle. Two yeomen of the guard opened the heavy oak doors as he approached, flooding the crowded hall with bright sunlight. A loud cheer rose as Henry stood at the top of the steps. Frances could just make out his slender form as, slowly, he turned from side to side, raising his hand in salute.

  The rest of the royal party began to leave the dais, followed by the lords of the council. Frances stared resolutely forward as her uncle passed. She knew he was looking in her direction but could not bear to see him, self-satisfied in his robes of office. Behind him walked the Earl of Worcester, with his neatly trimmed white beard and pale grey eyes, which flicked from side to side, as if searching for a hidden assassin. Frances wondered idly whether his wife was still a favourite with her uncle. No doubt he lusted after younger flesh, these days.

  As she watched the other councillors progress towards the doors, she realised that Cecil had not been among them. Instinctively, she looked behind her, as if expecting to see him there, watching her. But the only faces she saw were those of the ladies of the household, who were studying the procession of other dignitaries following the lords.

  Where was he?

  Perhaps his absence had something to do with Arbella. Frances had not seen her among the crowds either. She looked across and realised that Seymour had gone. She must calm herself, order her thoughts according to logic not fear, as her father had taught her. Cecil had invested an enormous amount of time and energy in preparing for this day. Even if he had uncovered Seymour’s scheme, he would not choose this moment to pounce.

  ‘Mama!’ George was tugging impatiently at her sleeve. ‘We must hurry or we will miss the prince.’

  She felt an unexpected jolt of unease at her son’s eagerness, but smiled down at him. ‘We will see him at Whitehall, for the investiture feast,’ she said. ‘And there will be many celebrations to follow. I wouldn’t wonder if you had tired of the sight of him by the time they are over.’

  ‘Never!’ George protested. ‘He is the best prince in the world and will be my king one day.’

  Perhaps.

  Her son had already darted along the row of seats. She was hard-pressed to keep up with him as he scurried down the now crowded aisle, weaving between the brightly coloured skirts and silken hose. By the time she reached the small chapel that lay to the east of the nave, just before the main doors, she had lost sight of him.

  ‘George!’ she called, but her voice could hardly be heard above the excited chatter as the courtiers made their way out of the hall.

  All of a sudden, she was being jostled towards the chapel. ‘Lady Frances, please – come this way.’

  Frances knew the voice before she saw him at her side, steering her firmly towards the small doorway. She was about to turn and walk away when she saw her son crouched on the floor of the chapel. She ran towards him and heard the door close behind her.

  ‘George!’ She scooped him into her arms.

  He wriggled to be free, and Frances saw that a cluster of tiny bones and a bright red ball lay at his feet. Jacks. Her son had loved the game ever since Thomas had presented him with his first set the previous New Year.

  ‘Go ahead, young master – see how you fare.’

  She could hear the smile in Seymour’s voice before she turned to him. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed. Casting a quick glance at George, who was now engrossed in the game, she walked over to Seymour. ‘How dare you take my son?’ she hissed.

  The young man shrugged, clearly amused. ‘I did not take him. He gladly followed,’ he replied, flashing a smile at the boy. ‘You should be more careful with him, lest he fall into the wrong hands. The court is full of villains, Lady Frances. One of them wears a crown.’

  Frances glared at him, fear and fury rising in her breast. ‘You will not touch him again. He has nothing to do with your twisted schemes,’ she spat.

  Seymour’s smile broadened. ‘Ah, but he does, Lady Frances – as you well know.’ He glanced again at George. ‘But so long as you play your part, no harm shall come to him.’

  She fought the urge to lash out at him. Her breathing was rapid and she could feel her face burning, but she kept her gaze fixed upon him.

  ‘God is smiling on us this day,’ he continued at length. ‘We have seen the prince ennobled, and we will soon have cause for further celebration.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everything is made ready. The nuptials will take place as soon as the court moves to Greenwich two weeks hence. Let us hope that the king’s little Beagle has not recovered by then. He would not be a welcome guest.’

  ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘He has taken to his bed, complaining of stomach pains. Perhaps the lamprey had not been well enough salted or the Burgundy wine was too strong for his palate.’ He smirked.

  Frances stared in horror. Had Seymour had him poisoned?

  Before she could reply, he continued, ‘You will receive word of the time and place. Do not think to betray us. You know what you would hazard.’

  She turned to follow his gaze. George had stopped playing and was staring at them, an uncertain smile on his lips.

  ‘It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Tyringham,’ Seymour said, as he made an elaborate bow. ‘I hope we will
meet again.’

  George scrambled to his feet but the man was already striding towards the door, which slammed behind him.

  CHAPTER 21

  22 June

  Frances padded silently along the corridor, heart pounding. The candle she held was guttering as she quickened her pace so she shielded it with her other hand. Though she knew Greenwich Palace well, she had only a vague notion of where Arbella’s apartment lay and could not hope to find it in the dark.

  She had not slept that night, tormented by thoughts of what lay before her. George had been dreaming peacefully when she had stolen out of their room, entrusting his care to Mistress Knyvett, the woman her husband had appointed to attend them. Frances was glad that Thomas was away on the hunt. He had left two days after the prince’s investiture, his royal master not troubling to stay for the stream of celebrations that had followed. But his departure had been a mixed blessing, leaving her feeling relieved … and bereft.

  There was no time to dwell upon that now. Ahead, she could see a soft light spilling out from underneath one of the doors that lined the passageway. She stopped and strained her ears for any noise within. But the only sound was of her rapid breathing.

  She walked slowly forward, pausing again outside the door. She closed her eyes briefly and uttered a silent prayer, then softly tapped on it. She heard a chair scraping on the flagstones, followed by footsteps, which seemed to pause on the other side of the door. Frances held her breath.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Seymour’s voice.

  ‘Lady Frances.’

  She heard the latch being lifted and Seymour opened the door a crack, peering through it to make sure she was alone, then pulling her quickly inside.

  The chamber was dimly lit and only sparsely furnished – certainly less than Frances would have expected for one of Arbella’s rank. A young man dressed in black sat by the fire, clutching the large wooden crucifix that hung about his neck. He stood as Frances entered. She saw her own fear reflected in his eyes, which kept darting behind her to the door, as if he was expecting Cecil’s men to arrive at any moment.

  ‘Is she here?’ a woman’s voice called from an adjoining room.

  Frances caught irritation on Seymour’s face. He strode to the doorway that linked the two chambers and gestured impatiently for her to join them. A sharp yelp made Frances and the young priest start. It was followed by a scuffle, then Arbella emerged, a tiny white and brown lapdog in her arms. Her dress was jet-black, with a white lace collar and ruff that made her already pale complexion appear almost ghostly.

  She stared at Frances, eyes narrowing. The deep lines around her mouth and across her brow made her appear older than her years, and as Seymour stood next to her Frances thought them more like mother and son than bride and groom.

  ‘I wonder that my cousin allowed you back in his court, given your associations,’ Arbella said abruptly. ‘More fool him,’ she added, with a sniff. She turned to Seymour. ‘And you are sure she can be trusted?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he replied earnestly. ‘She knows what will follow if she betrays us.’

  Frances thought of her son, so young and so vulnerable. She was his only protector now, but her actions had also placed him in great danger. If her part in this marriage should be discovered, she would forfeit her life – and Longford. James would hardly allow the son of a convicted traitor to hold onto such an inheritance. Aiding this union also threatened the plans she had so carefully advanced these past weeks for the princess’s marriage. The thought was bitter and she tried to push it out of her mind, as she had many times since Seymour had first involved her in his plan. Pray God the King of Spain’s nephew would arrive soon. His presence would give the Catholics hope and surely dash those of Seymour and his bride.

  ‘We must begin,’ the priest said hurriedly, glancing again towards the door. He drew a small missal from the pocket of his gown and held it with trembling fingers as he began to read the familiar words.

  Frances hardly heard them as she stared at the grim-faced couple. She had never seen so little joy at a wedding, even the many that had been arranged between noble families to further the prospects, rather than the happiness, of bride and groom.

  ‘… and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding …’

  She could not help smiling at these words. Surely they had never been so little required. She wondered if there would be any fruit from their union. Even if Seymour was prepared to set aside his obvious distaste to bed her, Arbella must be approaching the end of her childbearing years.

  The couple began to repeat their vows as if by rote, like novices in a play. Arbella still clutched the little dog to her breast, and when Seymour tried to slide the ring onto her finger, the creature snapped at him and the gold band clattered to the floor. Cursing, Seymour stooped to pick it up. ‘Put the wretched animal down!’ he muttered.

  For a moment Frances thought Arbella would refuse, but then she bent to kiss the dog’s head and placed the wriggling creature gently on the rug by the fire.

  Frances tried to imagine the couple sitting side by side on their thrones. The idea seemed ludicrous. For all his twisted, heretical beliefs, James’s royal blood was pure, uncontested – even the old queen had acknowledged that. It might save his subjects’ souls to be ruled by a Catholic queen, but with a claim as questionable as Arbella’s, it would surely also plunge them into civil war.

  The rest of the service was soon concluded, the priest uttering the words so quickly that they could hardly be distinguished from each other. ‘O Lord, bless them both, and grant them to inherit thy everlasting kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ Frances repeated softly, hoping they might inherit it before their schemes came to fruition.

  Frances’s eyelids were growing heavy as she tried to focus on the masque that was being played out before them. An elegant young lady dressed in silks of azure blue was emerging from the lake, which was fashioned from long strips of white gauze held at either end by the other players. They flapped and twisted it so that it rippled around her like water, the tiny glass beads that had been sewn onto it glittering as they caught the light. The effect was mesmerising.

  Jonson had written the masque in anticipation of the prince’s investiture – although Henry had ordered the first performance in January. He had been so delighted with it that there had been several more since then.

  ‘You do not find the entertainment diverting, Lady Frances?’

  Cecil was crouching next to her, his face close to her ear so that his words would not be overheard. She had not known he was there. The other lords were seated on the far side of the dais, and though a chair had been reserved for Cecil at the centre of the row, it had stood empty. She had assumed he still lay sick at Salisbury House.

  ‘It is an excellent masque, my lord,’ she replied, without turning her head.

  A groom hurried over with a chair, which he placed behind Cecil. Frances heard him groan quietly as he raised himself onto it. Glancing at him now, she was shocked by how frail he was. His cheekbones showed sharp beneath his pallid skin, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Frances could see that his chest was rising and falling in a rapid, jerking movement, and it was several moments before his breathing began to slow.

  ‘I trust you are recovered?’ she ventured.

  Cecil waved away her concern. ‘It was nothing, Lady Frances, just an imbalance of humours in my stomach.’

  She resisted the urge to press him further, but knew it must have been a good deal more than that for him to miss the prince’s investiture and all that had followed.

  The thundering of drums reverberated around the hall, heralding the arrival of a troupe of heavily armoured knights. Frances and Cecil watched as they proceeded to engage in mock combat, their swords swooping and clashing. Prince Henry was sittin
g forward on his throne, his face alight with excitement. His sister was equally enthralled – although afraid, too: she shrank back with each new thrust and parry. Frances’s eyes strayed to the group of courtiers sitting just beyond them. She had surveyed the room upon entering in the princess’s train, but had not seen Seymour or his new wife. Their absence was a source of anxiety, as well as relief.

  ‘It is well that the king is not here,’ Cecil remarked. ‘He has not the same stomach for violent sports as his son.’

  ‘And yet he loves to hunt,’ Frances replied sardonically.

  ‘You are quite right, as ever, Lady Frances. Have you received news from Oatlands?’ he added. ‘Your husband must have little enough leisure to write.’

  She nodded. ‘All is well.’

  Cecil gave a heavy sigh. ‘If only it was here too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frances asked sharply.

  He held her gaze, his brow furrowed. ‘I have received news of an intended marriage,’ he replied quietly.

  Frances felt her scalp prickle. ‘The princess’s?’ she asked guilelessly.

  Cecil slowly shook his head. ‘No, though I am sure that will happen soon enough. This one concerns the Lady Arbella.’

  Frances forced herself to focus on the figure of Merlin, who had just made his entrance on the stage, dressed in a dazzling gown of deep blue edged with gold. His long white beard almost trailed on the floor, and as she tried to steady her breathing, she watched it sway while he began his long, moralising speech.

  ‘Oh?’ she replied at last. ‘I did not think the Lady was inclined to marry. She might have taken a husband long before now.’

  ‘Ah, but the hearts of those with royal blood are not so easily bestowed, Lady Frances. The Duke of Parma would have married her to one of his sons, but the old queen opposed it – little wonder, too, given that even as he treated for the lady’s hand, he was lying ready with a vast fleet to join the Armada.’

  ‘And you think there is another Catholic prince now?’ Frances asked carefully.