The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  ‘It is of little consequence,’ he said, with an exaggerated yawn. ‘If your treacherous schemes are not uncovered, you will be hanged as a witch anyway. I have more than enough proof to send you to the gallows. You will not escape them a second time, Frances.’

  The thorns seemed to grow sharper as she stared at them, so that they appeared as tiny, deadly blades. She imagined them piercing her skin, as the witch-pricker’s knife had done.

  ‘It is amusing to think that I will be master of Longford after all, is it not?’

  Frances swung around to him.

  ‘Our poor father’s efforts to disrupt the lawful inheritance will come to nothing. But, then, he could not have foreseen that his precious daughter would turn traitor and ruin everything.’

  ‘Longford will never be yours, Edward,’ Frances hissed. ‘If I am declared a traitor, the estate will be forfeit to the Crown.’

  Her brother’s smile widened and he closed his eyes as he turned his face up to the sun. ‘That is true, my dear sister,’ he purred. ‘But the prince has promised that as soon as he succeeds to the throne, he will restore Longford to me.’

  Frances gave a scornful laugh. ‘And you believe him? It is obvious that you have not spent enough time at court, brother, or you would know not to take anyone at their word. Even – or perhaps especially – the prince.’

  But Edward’s smile did not fade. Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and reached inside the pocket of his doublet. ‘How right you are, Frances,’ he said brightly, unfolding the paper. ‘Which is why I took the precaution of securing the prince’s written pledge.’

  She snatched the paper from his hands.

  Indenture, made this third day of August in the tenth year of the reign of His Majesty King James the First …

  The words seemed to dance in front of her eyes as she read on, fingers trembling. ‘Longford’ was repeated several times, as were the names ‘Edward, Baron Longford’ and ‘Henry, Prince of Wales’. She recognised her brother’s signature at the foot of the page, next to that of the prince. The large wax seal was imprinted with three elegant plumes. The Prince of Wales feathers.

  Frances let the paper slip from her fingers. With a deft move, Edward reached forward to pick it up and made a show of folding it with elaborate care before putting it back in his pocket.

  ‘Really, Frances, you should be more careful.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Well, I cannot stay here all day exchanging pleasantries, no matter how diverting your company is.’

  She kept her gaze fixed upon the ground as he stood up.

  ‘Ah, Sir Thomas,’ Edward exclaimed, ‘and my dear nephew.’

  Frances almost wept to see them approach. Seeing her expression, Thomas brushed past his brother-in-law and sat down next to her. ‘What is it, my love?’ he asked.

  She gave a slight shake of her head and glanced at Edward, who had scooped George into his arms and was swinging him around. The boy’s whoops of delight echoed around the walls of the garden. Sensing her discomfiture, Thomas stood and gripped Edward’s arm so that he was obliged to set down the boy. George swayed and staggered, then shot a resentful look at his papa.

  ‘It is growing late, Edward,’ Thomas said firmly. ‘We must go in for dinner before the king is seated.’

  Edward winked at his nephew, whose face brightened at once, then turned on his heel and strode back towards the palace.

  CHAPTER 44

  19 August

  Frances stared down at her shift. The blood glistened red on the linen. She clutched her stomach as it contracted in a fresh wave of pain. As it slowly receded, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her heart. She thought of Arbella’s haunting screams as her own child bled away. Was this God’s punishment?

  ‘Frances!’

  She had not heard the princess return. The young woman stared from Frances to the stained linen. Then she ran forward and put her arm around her attendant’s shoulder, guiding her to a nearby chair. Frances sat down gingerly, as if fearing that the movement might trigger another onslaught.

  ‘Is it – is it your courses?’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘You are so pale, though. I will summon my father’s physician.’

  ‘No!’ Frances cried, making the princess start. ‘Forgive me … I will be well.’

  Feeling suddenly faint, she lowered her head into her hands, centring her thoughts upon the slow intake and release of her breath. She had slept badly again, her exchange with Edward playing in her mind until she had had to bite down on the sheets for fear of screaming out her terror and rage. Though she tried to calm herself with the thought that no accusations had yet been made, and that life had resumed its usual pattern since their return to Whitehall, it was as if Longford was lost to her already.

  A few minutes passed. The princess continued to sit quietly by her side, stroking her back. Frances felt her breathing begin to slow as the faintness receded. She placed her fingers lightly upon her stomach, but there was no more pain.

  ‘I will fetch you a new shift,’ Elizabeth said, stepping quickly out of the room before Frances could protest. She could hear the low hum of voices from the other side of the door. A moment later the princess returned, the neatly pressed linen draped over her arm. She helped Frances to stand, then began unlacing the back of her gown so that she could change into the fresh garment. Frances could not help smiling at the reversal of their roles. Though they were hardly practised at it, Elizabeth’s fingers moved with surprising deftness and Frances soon felt her stays spring open as the final thread was released.

  She breathed in deeply, relishing the feeling of lightness around her waist. Perhaps she should have loosened her stays before now, she reflected. A small swelling had begun to show a few days earlier. Thomas had seen it when she had undressed for bed, the light from the candle casting a shadow over the budding curve. He had fallen asleep that night with his hand still resting upon it.

  ‘There!’ the princess said as she smoothed the hem of the new shift, which skimmed Frances’s ankles. ‘I will have to gain a little in height before you and I can share our clothes, but it will suffice for now.’

  Frances thanked her and stooped to pick up her discarded gown, but Elizabeth snatched it away. ‘You have no more need of this today, Frances,’ she said firmly. ‘You must rest.’

  Frances opened her mouth to protest but at that moment the doors of the outer chamber burst open and Thomas strode into the room. Seeing the bloodied shift that the princess had draped over one of the chairs, his face grew ashen. ‘What has happened?’ He drew Frances into an embrace as he sat next to her.

  She hesitated and glanced at the princess, who discreetly left the room, closing the doors softly behind her.

  ‘Is it …’ he began, but the words died on his lips.

  Frances could not bear to see him so stricken, but neither could she offer any reassurance. Though she could no longer feel the blood seeping between her legs, she did not know whether the tiny life still pulsed inside her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘The pains started about an hour ago. They have stopped now but …’ She gestured at the bloodied shift.

  Thomas stroked back a strand of hair from her face, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘Come now,’ he said, as he scooped her gently into his arms. ‘It is time to rest.’

  By the time they reached their apartment, the rise and fall of Thomas’s footsteps had almost lulled her to sleep. Setting her down, he unlocked the door and guided her inside. Frances was grateful to see that the parlour was deserted. Mistress Knyvett was a kindly woman but liked to gossip, and Frances was in no mood to indulge her. She followed her husband to the bedchamber.

  ‘You are quite sure everything is well, Frances?’ He pulled the covers over her.

  She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but she knew that he was talking about more than the bleeding.

  ‘You’ve been so distant since our return from Hampton Court,’ he continued, sitting beside her and
taking her hand in his. ‘You do know that you may tell me anything, without fear of judgement?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, too quickly. Her heart began to flutter, like the wings of a tiny bird trapped in a cage.

  ‘Did Edward say something to trouble you?’ His expression darkened. ‘I do not trust him, after what he did to George.’

  Frances could not form the words of a lie but neither could she confide in him, as she longed to do. To reveal even part of her conversation with Edward would lead to more questions – which she could not answer truthfully without destroying everything that had grown between them. She hated to keep another secret from her husband when the burden of the other already weighed heavily upon her, but she had little choice.

  After a pause, she gave a slow shake of her head, then put her hand in front of her mouth, as if stifling a yawn.

  ‘Forgive me, my love, I have tired you,’ Thomas said, immediately contrite. He planted a warm kiss on her cheek, then left the room.

  When would the deception end?

  The next morning Frances heard muffled voices as she approached the princess’s chamber. One was the prince’s, she realised, recognising the high-pitched trill of laughter. She nodded to the guard, who opened the door.

  ‘Frances!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, clasping her hands. ‘You should be resting. What were you thinking to return so soon? You are still so pale,’ she gabbled.

  Frances kissed the princess’s hand. ‘I am much better, thank you, Your Grace, and eager to return to your service.’

  ‘Such dedication is commendable.’

  Both women turned to see the prince staring at them. Frances bobbed a quick curtsy, her eyes travelling to his companion. It was a long time since she had seen William Cecil. He had not been at any of the court gatherings that the prince had attended lately, and Frances had begun to think that Henry was as fickle in his friendships as he was in his other pursuits.

  ‘Your Highness, Viscount Cranborne.’

  William gave a stiff bow, but the prince remained seated. His cold gaze was directed at Frances, who came to sit by her mistress. Blanche was standing by the fireplace, her fingers interlaced demurely. Frances suspected she had chosen to stand so that she might display her figure to best effect in front of the prince.

  ‘My sister has been telling me just how far your dedication stretches, Lady Frances,’ the prince continued.

  Frances felt the princess flinch. She was staring intently at her brother, as if willing him not to say any more. Frances formed her own mouth into a pleasant smile as she waited for him to go on.

  ‘As well as helping her dress, stitching her linens and whatever else you ladies do, it seems you have also taken it upon yourself to direct her choice of husband.’

  Frances glanced at her mistress. A slow flush was creeping up Elizabeth’s neck and she was looking down at her hands.

  ‘Henry, please,‘ she said quietly, keeping her eyes lowered.

  ‘Tell me, what was it about Prince Gustavus that you found so disagreeable?’ His words were as sharp as flint. ‘I should have thought you would rejoice to see your mistress betrothed to a prince from your mother’s land. Perhaps his hair was too light, his expression too grave.’

  Frances’s gaze did not falter. How did he know of the part that she had played in dissuading her mistress from marrying the Swedish prince? She had always taken care to be discreet, only raising the subject when she and Elizabeth were alone. The princess had made her swear never to let another soul know of her own growing doubts about her suitor, which had given Frances assurance that her role in fostering them would not be discovered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Elizabeth’s face was now a deep red. It was she who had told him.

  ‘Or perhaps …’ The prince paused for dramatic effect.

  Even his sister now raised her eyes to look at him.

  ‘… perhaps it was his faith that offended you, Lady Frances.’ His eyes glinted with the same thrill she had seen in huntsmen as they closed on their prey.

  ‘Of course not, Your Grace,’ she replied calmly. ‘Prince Gustavus shared the faith of this kingdom.’

  ‘Ah, but did he share your faith, Lady Frances?’ the prince asked.

  She darted a look at William Cecil, who was regarding her steadily. Blanche gave a small cough, but Frances could not bear to see the triumph on her slender face so she focused upon the prince again. ‘I worship as the king directs,’ she replied. ‘As do all faithful subjects.’

  Henry continued to stare at her for a long moment. There was a soft creak from a floorboard as the wood swelled in the rising warmth of the room, which the sun’s rays had now penetrated.

  ‘I hope for your sake that is true,’ he said. A muscle in his jaw pulsed. ‘But I am minded to take no chances with my sister’s new suitor. Count Frederick will soon embark for England. We must ensure that he meets a compliant bride when he arrives.’

  Frances glanced at the princess. A solitary tear was weaving its way down her cheek. She felt a surge of fury that Henry should treat her as little more than a brood mare to be traded at market.

  ‘A great deal rests upon this alliance and I will not have it disrupted by meddlesome women,’ he continued. ‘I have therefore instructed my sister to speak of the count to no one but myself. I will know if she defies me. I have appointed Lady Blanche to be always in her presence.’

  Though Blanche still affected a modest demeanour, a sly smile played about her lips. Frances swallowed her revulsion and turned to the prince once more. ‘I am sure Her Grace is grateful for your solicitude,’ she said, taking care to keep her voice light.

  ‘Do you presume to know my sister’s thoughts, Lady Frances?’

  The princess stood up suddenly, as if unable to bear the tension any longer. ‘Forgive me, Henry. I am tired.’ Her voice was broken.

  After a long pause, her brother rose to his feet. Motioning to his companion, he held out his hand for his sister to kiss then walked slowly from the room. As soon as their footsteps began to fade, Elizabeth made a noise that was halfway between a sigh and a sob and ran into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 45

  22 August

  ‘They say that the old woman took the longest to die.’

  Frances tried not to listen as she tore off another piece of bread, but the rest of the chatter died down and all eyes were turned to her uncle, who was clearly relishing the attention.

  ‘You would have thought her scraggy neck would snap as soon as the rope tightened around it, but it took a full five minutes for her to choke out her last breath.’

  Frances repressed a shudder. An image of the woman she had seen hanged at Tyburn came to her. The glazed, bulging eyes had haunted her for many nights since. Thomas reached out to touch her knee. The reassuring warmth of his hand calmed her. Though she had expected news of the Lancashire witch trials to reach the court this week, she had dreaded it, too. Every mealtime passed in the idle chatter of court gossip had been a relief.

  ‘Were all twelve hanged?’

  The question came from the far end of the table.

  The earl shook his head as he drank some wine. ‘One was acquitted.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Another died in gaol – fortunate for her, though she will not escape the fires of Hell so easily.’

  ‘Why was she acquitted?’ the woman next to Frances asked, sitting forward on the bench.

  ‘Probably pleaded her belly,’ another said, before the earl could reply. Instinctively Frances’s hand shot to hers. ‘They often use that trick. Did you hear about Old Mother Williams? When the verdict at her trial was pronounced, she claimed she had a child in her womb, even though she was nearly four score.’

  There was a loud roar of laughter around the table. Frances wanted to shut her ears. Thomas’s hand twitched on her lap.

  ‘I doubt that was the reason in this trial,’ her uncle continued, when the hilarity had died down, ‘or she would h
ave been thrown back in gaol to wait out the months while the guards watched for any swelling beneath her stays. Making such a plea buys only time, not life.’

  Frances’s vision blurred and she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she saw that Thomas was watching her, his brow knitted with concern. ‘Let us talk of other things,’ he murmured.

  Frances smiled. She kept her hand on her belly, as if to protect it from the horror that was being spoken of by their fellow diners. Still she did not know if she was protecting an empty womb, as a blackbird might sit on her nest after her eggs have been stolen by a crow. ‘What time do you leave tomorrow?’ she asked, saddened by the prospect of his absence.

  ‘Before daylight, I fear,’ Thomas replied. ‘His Majesty has a mind to ride up to The More, some thirty miles north-west of here. He has heard that there is excellent hunting ground thereabouts, though the house itself has fallen into ruins since King’s Henry’s day.’ He paused. ‘I do not like to leave you at such a time.’

  ‘You worry too much, Thomas,’ she chided gently. ‘I have plenty to occupy me here and will fare a good deal better without a troublesome husband to distract me.’

  She was glad to see his eyes crinkle at the corners, and they resumed their meal in companionable silence. Frances felt hungrier than she had in weeks, so took full advantage of the food that was laid out before them. As she reached to spear a piece of beef, she stopped, her fork suspended above the dish. There it was again – a movement so slight that it might be mistaken for the tickle of fabric against her skin. Discreetly, she laid down her fork and placed her hand tentatively on her belly. There was no mistaking it this time. The fluttering was rapid and strong, like the wings of a butterfly trapped against a pane of glass.

  Frances felt a surge of joy, as pure and exhilarating as a crisp winter’s day. She turned to her husband, beaming. His confusion cleared as she moved his hand to her stomach. A slow smile crept across his mouth and his eyes sparkled as he gazed at her.