The Devil's Slave

by Tracy Borman

  He did not reply but she could feel the rapid beat of his heart next to her cheek.

  ‘Promise me you will do nothing to hazard your life,’ he murmured into her hair.

  She thought of the glass phial that still lay hidden inside her pocket. ‘I promise,’ she whispered.

  CHAPTER 55

  3 November

  Frances studied the prince’s face. His skin was so pallid that it gave him an almost ethereal appearance. His dark eyes never left her.

  She remembered the portrait being painted soon after she had first come to court. He had been ten years old then, but already insufferable in his pride and arrogance. How much worse would he become if he survived beyond his eighteen years?

  There was no sound from the chamber beyond, though Frances strained to listen. Henry had insisted that the princess go in alone. No doubt he intended to use the opportunity to press her on the matter of her marriage, find out how well she liked the count. Or perhaps he was already slandering his sister’s favourite attendant.

  Frances turned at a soft sound behind her. William Cecil entered the room. She made to rise but he gestured for her to remain seated and bowed.

  ‘Lord Cranborne.’

  How like his father the young man had grown, she thought, though he was tall and straight-limbed. His lips were slightly parted, as if weighing his words before speaking them.

  ‘His Grace will take comfort from seeing his sister, I am sure,’ he said at last. ‘It was good of you to accompany her, considering the risks.’

  Frances eyed him closely. What risks did he refer to? ‘Though we have received many reports from St James’s, the princess was anxious to see Prince Henry for herself and be reassured that he is out of danger.’

  William gave a small smile. ‘Your mistress is very wise. My father always said that one should judge a courtier by his actions, for his words are meaningless.’

  He was still dressed in mourning, Frances noticed. She wondered how deeply he had grieved his father’s passing. They had served different masters and had seldom been seen together at court, but that signified little. She had rarely seen her own father since she had come to Whitehall, but the bond between them had never weakened. Neither had her pain at his loss. ‘That is perhaps how we should judge all men, Lord Cranborne,’ she replied.

  William seemed to hesitate, then came to sit close to her. ‘I will always be grateful to you, Lady Frances,’ he said, in a low voice.

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  ‘You eased my father’s suffering greatly and gave him more life than he would have enjoyed if you had not attended him. There are few enough people at court who would have done the same. He was not well liked.’ He paused. ‘And you, Lady Frances, had less cause than any to help him.’

  She held his steady gaze.

  ‘I know how he persecuted you,’ he continued, when she did not reply. ‘He told me of it, soon after I began my service here. The prince had made some remark about you, after we met for the lion-baiting at the Tower that day. He said he would not have a witch serving his sister.’

  So Henry had been intent upon her destruction from the beginning. She glanced towards his chamber door.

  ‘Henry would say nothing further, so I asked my father about it.’ His voice was barely a whisper now. ‘He told me you were innocent, that he had brought the accusation against you to win favour with the king.’

  Frances had known it to be true, but to hear the words spoken aloud smote her. She had been nothing more than a pawn in Cecil’s game. And now the prince had taken up the pieces. ‘I am no witch, Lord Cranborne,’ she said at last. ‘I have only ever used my skills for good, not evil.’

  Until now.

  The voice she heard was Thomas’s. Her heart lurched.

  ‘I know that, and I am deeply sorry for everything you suffered at my father’s hands.’ He looked down for a moment. ‘He was sorry too, Lady Frances.’

  She opened her mouth to protest but he held up his hand. ‘Please – let me continue.’ He took a breath. ‘Our chaplain attended him at Marlborough. He said that my father was in great wretchedness of mind and took no solace from the rites that the old priest performed. He begged to make confession, though it is considered heresy now.’

  Frances drew a breath.

  ‘Seeing his distress, our chaplain eventually agreed,’ William went on, his face ashen. ‘My father told him of his crimes against you, that he would have seen you hanged, though he knew you to be innocent. Only when the priest had assured him of God’s forgiveness did he quieten.’

  There was a long silence. Frances tried to order her thoughts but she was still reeling from what she had heard. Even after his private chapel had been discovered at Hatfield, she had never quite believed the rumours that Cecil had been a closet Catholic. To act so contrary to his beliefs seemed impossible. But now she understood that he had spent his life sacrificing those same beliefs upon the altar of his ambition. Little wonder he had suffered such torment as death approached. He might have confessed many other crimes with his final breath. That it was his actions against her that had plagued him most shocked her to the core.

  ‘My father raised me in the true faith, Lady Frances,’ he whispered. ‘Though he could never express it in life, I mean to honour his death by restoring this kingdom to the Catholic fold.’

  The world seemed to shift around her.

  ‘The prince is an even greater heretic than his father. England will surely be damned if he lives to take the throne. But his younger brother is sympathetic to the Catholic cause. He might become more so, in time.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  William’s eyes burned with sincerity. ‘Because I know how you have tried to advance our cause – how you might still.’

  ‘What do you mean, Lord Cranborne?’ she said slowly.

  ‘You are wise not to trust the son of your enemy,’ he said with the flicker of a smile. ‘But you may depend upon my actions, even if you do not believe my words. We have a friend in common, Lady Frances. They told me to expect you.’

  Raleigh?

  ‘I will do everything I can to assist, of course,’ he continued, as Frances tried to hide her confusion. She had been naïve enough to think she was acting alone.

  At that moment, the door of the prince’s chamber swung open and the princess stepped out. ‘Oh, Frances, he is so much better!’ she exclaimed, her face alight with joy. ‘He is no longer feverish and his cheeks are rosier than I have ever seen them.’

  ‘I am glad for your sake as much as his, ma’am,’ she replied. ‘I know how anxious you have been.’

  ‘Does he require anything, Your Grace?’ William asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘He still has no appetite – but that will return soon enough, I am sure,’ she said quickly. ‘But he asked to see you, Frances. He knows how distressed I have been and wants to make sure that you are caring for me.’ She smiled. ‘He is such a dear brother and thinks only of my happiness.’

  Frances bowed her head to disguise the alarm in her eyes. ‘I shall be glad to attend him,’ she said, as she rose to her feet.

  She glanced at William as she curtsied to her mistress. He was watching her closely.

  Frances knocked quietly on the chamber door and it was opened a moment later by one of the yeomen guards.

  ‘You may leave us now,’ Henry called.

  She waited as the two men filed out of the room, then walked slowly in, closing the door softly behind her.

  The chamber was dimly lit, and the aroma of beeswax did not quite conceal the stale odour of sweat. Frances tried to calm her breathing as she made a slow curtsy.

  ‘Do not stand there like some coy girl, Lady Frances,’ the prince commanded. ‘We both know you are very far from that.’

  She gave a tight smile, jaw clenched. The stench grew stronger as she moved closer to the bed. Along with the sweat, she caught the sickly smell of decay. Henry was propped up against a
large stack of pillows. His face was flushed, his hair matted at the temples. ‘How is Your Grace?’

  He smirked. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Lady Frances, but as you can see I am much improved,’ he sneered. ‘You must have thought you would escape the rope a second time.’

  Her gaze did not waver as she stared back at him. ‘On the contrary,’ she replied. ‘It grieved me to see my mistress so distraught. I understand you wish to discuss my care of her?’ she added, in mock innocence.

  ‘Do not toy with me,’ he murmured, leaning towards her. ‘You know as well as I that my recovery spells death for you. That—’

  He was seized by a violent fit of coughing. Frances watched as his chest heaved with exertion. His shirt lay open and the skin beneath had the soft sheen of wax. As she looked more closely, she noticed a slight red mark just beneath his collarbone. Smallpox? No, it was more like a freckle than the angry red sores that marked the disease.

  Henry reached across to the jug on the table next to him, but stopped, his hand suspended above it, as another fit overcame him. Frances poured him some of the ale and held it to his lips. He gulped at it, then sank back against the pillows, gasping.

  She waited.

  ‘This sickness will soon pass,’ he rasped, when his breathing had slowed. ‘Already the fever has broken and I can feel the humour draining from my lungs. My physicians tell me that I will be well enough to receive my father within two days at the most.’

  His eyes never left hers. She understood the threat that his words carried.

  ‘I pray that God will speed your recovery,’ she said.

  The prince cocked his head, his lips twitching with amusement. Frances shifted slightly and felt the cool glass of the phial through the linen of her skirt.

  ‘Indeed?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you are more of a fool than I thought.’

  CHAPTER 56

  4 November

  Frances stopped pacing and stared out of the window. The great hall of St James’s was in darkness now and the soft glow of candlelight spilled from only a few windows on either side. There had been no feasting again this evening, and though the prince had ordered the entertainments to continue during his confinement, in case his father should deign to visit, few had had the heart for them. Whenever a groom of his chamber appeared in the hall, all eyes would turn to him expectantly. But then the servant would walk past the dais, pausing only to bow to the princess and the empty throne next to her, and continue on his errand. The king had evidently chosen to wait another day.

  Elizabeth had spent the afternoon with her brother, conversing and playing cards. Frances had been relieved not to be invited to join them. Instead, she had occupied her time in writing to Thomas and George, assuring them that she would return soon. Her husband would have been concerned for her since her departure. God willing, she would be with him tomorrow.

  She glanced again at the clock. It was almost half past eleven, the time at which William had told her he would be taking up his post outside the prince’s bedchamber. He had mentioned it as something of no greater significance than any other detail of his master’s domestic arrangements. But she knew what it portended.

  Was this a trap?

  The thought had tormented her ever since William had told her that he knew of her plan, that he shared her faith. If he had said it to lure her into committing treason, she would face a terrifying fate.

  Our faith will sustain us.

  Her father’s words. She had repeated them over and over to herself since that bleak night at Richmond almost three years before. They gave her strength now, as they always did. She must fulfil his wishes, protect her son’s inheritance. There was no other way.

  In the distance, she caught the solitary toll of a bell. Her heart skipped a beat. The hour had come. Mustering her resolve, she stole quietly out of her chamber.

  As she walked along the gallery that led to the private apartments, she heard the low murmur of voices ahead. Quickly, she moved into one of the window recesses, pressing herself against the pane as she gathered in her skirts. She held her breath as the voices grew louder. A few moments later, the guards passed by – so close she could almost have touched them. But they were too intent upon their conversation to notice her.

  ‘It will be tomorrow,’ one remarked. ‘The chamberlain received a messenger earlier.’

  ‘I’ll wager he’ll greet his son from a safe distance,’ the other replied. ‘Kings are always fearful of disease.’

  ‘He need have no fear. Half the palace would have sickened by now if it was serious.’

  Frances waited until their chatter had echoed into silence, then padded quietly along the rest of the gallery.

  When she reached the room at the end, she paused and looked all around her. A single candle burned in each of the sconces on either side of the door, illuminating the faces of the characters in the rich tapestries that lined the walls so that they appeared eerily lifelike. The chairs upon which she and William had sat the previous day were empty. It was almost as if their exchange had never happened. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw that the gallery was still deserted, too, the paintings on either side stretching out into the gloom.

  She turned at the soft click of a latch. The door of the prince’s chamber slowly opened. There was a long pause. Frances held her breath as she waited. Then the familiar outline of William Cecil emerged from within. He drew the door closed behind him, taking care to make no sound.

  Frances stepped out of the shadows. She saw him tense and place his hand on his sword, but his features relaxed as he recognised her. He waited until they had drawn close together before addressing her in an undertone. ‘He is sleeping now. But you must make haste. The next guards will make their way here as soon as the others return to their quarters.’

  William’s face was in shadow but she caught the glint of anticipation in his eyes. He reached out suddenly and took her hands. ‘God go with you, Lady Frances,’ he said, then walked quickly back to the door and pushed it open just far enough for her to slip inside.

  The narrow shaft of light disappeared as William shut it silently behind her. She blinked into the darkness. After a few moments, she could make out the silhouette of the bed, its canopy suspended above. She took a tentative step forward, reaching out as she did so, in case there was some unseen obstacle in her path. A few more steps and her fingers brushed against the soft damask of the bedcover. Using it as her guide, she moved silently around the bed until she felt the warmth of the prince’s skin. He gave a moan. She froze and held her breath. But soon his breathing became slow and rhythmic again.

  Frances edged closer, leaning forward so that her face was almost touching his. The same stale aroma emanated from his body, but there was no sign that the fever had returned. She started as his breath caught in his throat and he gave a loud, rattling cough. Glancing back towards the door she strained her ears to listen but there was no sound of the guards approaching yet. Henry’s breathing steadied once more.

  Frances could see that his lips were parted. She slipped her hand inside her pocket and pulled out the tincture. Feeling for the stopper, she gently prised it out. At once, the pungent, earthy aroma hit the back of her throat and her eyes watered as she swallowed a choking cough.

  At that moment, she heard the creak of a floorboard outside the chamber.

  She must do it now.

  Leaning forward, she held the phial to the prince’s lips. Her fingers trembled as she brought it closer and began to tilt it. One tiny move more and the liquid would begin to drip into his mouth, burning its way down his throat as it slowly sucked the breath from his body. She paused as, in the distance, she heard the faint chiming of a bell.

  Midnight.

  All of a sudden, it struck her. It was the fifth of November. The day when, seven years earlier, Tom and his fellow plotters would have blown up Parliament, if Fawkes had not been discovered with the gunpowder. Now was her chance to avenge their deaths.
r />   He sees what is in our hearts, Frances.

  Thomas’s words sounded in her ears as clearly as if he had been standing next to her. She froze, the tincture suspended in her grasp. No matter how much the prince had wronged her – would do so still – this was murder. It was the devil’s work. In saving her life, she would be destroying her immortal soul, condemning herself to eternal damnation.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to focus on the tincture. Slowly, she withdrew her hand and, with trembling fingers, pushed the tiny stopper back into the neck of the bottle. Just then, Henry gave another groan and turned his head away, as if he, too, knew that the moment had passed.

  Beyond the door, Frances heard the low rumble of voices. The guards were almost there. She hastened to her feet and padded quickly out of the chamber, closed the door behind her. The outer chamber was deserted. William had gone.

  There was no time to find him now, she thought, as she ran towards the doorway that led down towards the servants’ halls. The guards’ footsteps were so close now that she knew they would emerge into the antechamber within half a breath.

  ‘Where’s Cranborne?’

  A man’s voice rang out as she pressed her back against the wall, not daring to creep down the stairs until she was sure she was not in view.

  ‘Young wastrel,’ the other muttered. ‘I’ll wager he’s already in his bed. We had best make sure all is well with the prince.’

  Frances listened as they walked over to the chamber door. As soon as she heard the click of the latch, she ran down the stairs. The corridor below was in darkness but she hurried along it, reaching out for the cold stone walls to guide her. By the time she arrived in the courtyard, she was panting for breath and her skin was damp with sweat, but she did not stop running until she had passed under the gatehouse.

  Ahead, she could see the dark mass of the park, the skeletal trees dimly outlined against the night sky, the moon obscured by heavy clouds. A fine drizzle cooled her burning cheeks. Crossing the deserted promenade, she passed through the gates. Her breath sounded in her ears as she weaved her way between the trees towards the path that led westwards through the park, breathing in the comforting scent of damp oak and grass.