by Tracy Borman
The tickle of a spider as it darted busily this way and that across her forearm made her itch to brush it away. But the longer it stayed, the more she delighted in its gossamer touch, imagining its tiny black legs picking their way between the fine hairs on her arm. She fancied that she might become invisible here, just one of a thousand creatures that inhabited the gardens surrounding the house.
‘My lady!’
The voice was so at odds with her surroundings that for a moment Frances wondered if she had imagined it. But soon she heard brisk footsteps approaching through the grass. Sighing, she pulled herself up onto her elbows and shielded her eyes against the low sun. The wiry frame of Dymock gradually came into view.
‘My lady, we have received word from the marchioness,’ he panted, before coming to a halt in front of her. ‘They will be at Longford the day after tomorrow.’
Frances’s heart soared. Daily, she had looked for her parents’ return, longing for their comforting presence.
‘The house must be made ready,’ she declared with a sudden resolve. ‘Have you informed Mistress Dawson?’
‘Yes, my lady, it is already in hand.’ Frances thought she caught a hint of annoyance in his tone. Of all the servants at Longford, she knew the least about Dymock. Ever since his appointment three years before, upon the recommendation of one of her father’s agents, he had kept himself apart from the rest of the household. Ellen had remarked upon the sparseness of his room, which had only a solitary cross on one wall and nothing pertaining to his comfort – or so the steward had told her. Although unfailingly courteous, Dymock’s manner towards Frances had, she fancied, become rather cold since her return from court. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she picked up her shoes and ran barefoot towards the house.
Frances rose early. She felt happier than she had in months, the prospect of seeing her parents again overshadowing the sorrow that had weighed upon her ever since the old queen’s death. Dressing quickly, she hastened to the parlour, where a breakfast of manchet bread and cold meat had been laid out for her. She had always loved this cosy room, which overlooked the courtyard garden at the centre of the castle. One of the gardeners, a kindly old man named Bridges, was already at work trimming the low yew hedge that bordered the garden on all three sides. Frances felt the familiar sense of calm as she sat quietly observing him. Tearing off another piece of bread, she headed out into the garden.
‘Good morning, Bridges.’
The old man stopped his work, and, turning, doffed his cap, his face crinkling into a smile.
‘Ma’am.’
She breathed deeply next to the rectangular herb beds that ran alongside the hedge. The sharp, sweet fragrance of sage combined with the tang of chives and aromatic rosemary made a heady mixture. Master Gerard’s own garden could surely not rival this.
‘Did you sow the comfrey, Master Bridges?’
‘Aye, my lady.’
‘And the milk thistle?’
Bridges grinned. ‘I can’t fathom what you want with all these weeds, my lady.’
Frances returned his smile, but said nothing. They had had this conversation many times before, and it had become a kind of ritual. For all his gentle mockery, she knew that the old gardener liked to indulge her various whims, glad of the interest that she took in his work.
She wandered into the centre of the garden so that she might stand in the sunshine. Shading her eyes, Frances slowly turned around in order to gaze at each of the three walls that enclosed the garden. The grey stone was flecked with gold and interspersed at regular intervals with pale cream and black bricks, so that the whole had the appearance of a chessboard – a subtle reference to her father’s crest.
Frances remembered that as a child she had been fascinated and perplexed in equal measure by the odd configuration of the castle, built as it was in a triangular formation. Most of the other gentry houses she knew were constructed around square courtyards in imitation of the royal palaces, so this design seemed both perverse and, at times, inconvenient.
The shrill sound of a horn shook Frances from her reverie. She ran back inside to the hall and gazed out at the hills that lay beyond the Longford estate, straining her eyes just as she had as a little girl watching for her parents’ return. Soon, she knew, the train of wagons would come rumbling along the drive, laden with dozens of coffers and chests filled with her parents’ clothes, tapestries, jewels, and other belongings. It was the same with every remove. Her mother’s status as a marchioness demanded it, even if Helena herself would have been content with far less. Only a royal progress eclipsed such removes in scale and splendour.
Pausing to check her appearance in the looking glass, Frances hastened to the courtyard. The voice of the family’s chamberlain, Sir Richard Weston, echoed around the walls as he arranged each member of the household in order of rank. Meanwhile, Mrs Lamport, the housekeeper, bustled about, red-faced, brushing down the skirts of the maids and giving a yawning groom a sharp tap on the back of his neck. Frances watched, amused, until the chaos had subsided, then took her place at the head of the entourage.
Looking through the archway of the courtyard, she could see her parents’ coach, its gilded finials catching the sun so that it glittered like a jewel as it made its way slowly along the drive. She kept her eyes fixed upon it as if fearing that at any moment it might dissolve like an illusion. As she stared, the second carriage came into view, some distance behind that of the lord and lady, so that the coachman would not be engulfed in its dust. Frances imagined her two sisters in there, jostling and bickering. Elizabeth had turned twenty-five last month, and exalted in her status as the eldest of the Gorges children. Bridget was several years her junior, but consistently failed to show her the respect that Elizabeth felt was hers by right.
At last, both carriages rumbled slowly over the cobbled path that led under the large archway at the front of the house, and into the courtyard.
‘My lady, the Marchioness of Northampton, and Sir Thomas Gorges,’ announced Sir Richard, as if no one here knew them, Frances thought wryly. He opened the carriage door, and Frances’s heart lurched with joy as she saw her mother gathering her skirts in preparation to alight from the carriage. The voluminous russet silk temporarily obscured the figure of her father, who was seated opposite his wife.
‘Come now, Elin,’ she heard her father chide softly, ‘you are not under His Majesty’s scrutiny now.’
He had always called her mother by her Swedish name, even though she was anxious to appear as English as all of the other ladies at court. Her dress was entirely in keeping with that of a home-grown peeress, and her flawless English was spoken with only a hint of an accent.
‘My lady Mother.’ Frances made a deep curtsey, her skirts brushing against the cobbles of the courtyard, then leaned forward to kiss her hand. Helena gently laid her other hand on her daughter’s head. Frances caught the familiar scent of rose and chamomile. Even now, it had the same calming effect that it had had on her throughout her childhood, soothing away thoughts of malevolent sprites hovering just beyond her windowpane.
Frances saw her father’s eyes sparkle with their accustomed affection and good humour as she greeted him. His neatly trimmed beard was flecked with grey – more so, she fancied, than when she had taken her leave of him at court.
‘I trust you have kept the house well, Frances?’ He smiled. ‘I hope that you have not planted a herb garden in the gallery, nor given my study over to a distillery?’
She grinned. ‘Not yet, Father. But if you had been away a day longer, I might have been able to execute my plans.’
Sir Thomas reached forward and stroked his daughter’s cheek.
‘Sister!’ They turned to look at Elizabeth, who was alighting from the second carriage, with flame-haired Bridget following close behind. ‘How we have missed you at court. Why, you have grown so flushed!’
‘Good day, Elizabeth,’ Frances replied evenly. ‘And to you, Bridget.’
Her younge
r sister grinned mischievously. ‘Did you miss us too, Fran?’
‘Of course,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But I know His Majesty could hardly have spared you.’
‘Indeed not,’ cut in Elizabeth. ‘He showed us great preferment, did he not Mama?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Helena distractedly. She was studying Frances closely.
‘But he noted your absence,’ Elizabeth crowed, her features suffused with a look of deep satisfaction.
‘We are greatly fatigued from the journey,’ their mother cut in. ‘Let us go and take our rest before dinner.’ She swept ahead of the group, then suddenly stopped and turned.
‘Frances, I would be grateful if you could accompany me,’ she said. ‘Nobody has a steadier hand with a needle, and I fear one of my dresses will be quite ruined without your attention.’
Frances nodded her assent, and followed in her mother’s wake. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the cool gloom of the reception hall, which was dominated by an ornate fireplace. With its Doric arches supported by half-naked mythical figures carved into the design, it had always reminded Frances of an ancient temple. As a child, she had been entranced to watch the figures as they seemed to move in the flickering light of the fire, their bodies weaving and swaying in a hypnotic dance.
Her mother’s shoes tapped lightly against the polished mahogany as she began to mount the tightly twisting staircase. Frances followed closely behind, past the huge portraits of her ancestors that lined the walls. She drew a sort of comfort from the reminder that she was just one branch of the tree. Her bloodline had flowed through its ancient trunk for many hundreds of years and – God willing – would continue to give life to new shoots for many years to come. What she thought, felt, and feared was of little consequence, in the end.
At the first landing, the steps branched left and right. Helena took the latter, which led to her apartments. Her husband’s, in a mirror image, were in the west turret of the house. Frances followed at a respectful distance. The gallery ahead was suffused with light, which streamed in through the long windows at either side, and at the far end. Even in winter, this part of the castle was noticeably warmer than anywhere else, and was a welcome refuge from the elements, but today the bright sunshine made it unbearably hot. Frances and her mother quickened their pace.
Passing through the doorway at the end of the gallery, their eyes had to become accustomed to the sudden gloom. It was mercifully cooler here, the thick tapestry curtains drawn across the small mullioned windows to preserve the privacy of Helena’s apartments. The lavender that had been strewn on the rush matting released its potent scent as their soft leather soles pressed upon it.
When they reached the marchioness’s privy closet, there was a bustle of activity as three of her ladies unpacked the coffers that were stacked precariously, one on top of the other. Each was covered with deep brown leather embossed with the Northampton crest in gold.
As Frances gazed around the room, her eyes feasted upon a riot of colour, the vivid silks, satins, and cloth of gold of her mother’s dresses strewn across chairs and dressers, waiting to be brushed, wrapped in linen, and carefully placed into the huge wooden chests that lined the closet. There was a flash of blue as a string of sapphires caught the light, before one of the ladies carefully placed it inside the enamel cabinet that was set upon one of the dressers.
‘You may leave us.’
The marchioness spoke softly, but with authority. Her ladies bobbed a curtsey and left the room quietly, their heads bowed.
Helena glanced around with a look of exasperation.
‘Always such a trouble,’ she said with a sigh. ‘The packing and unpacking.’
‘Your rank requires no less, Mama.’
Her mother smiled weakly. ‘You are right, Frances. The late queen would have chided at such impatience. She always made much of exterior shows.’
She paused, all trace of her smile disappearing.
‘But when it is for such a short time …’
Startled, Frances shot her mother an anxious look.
‘Surely you have no plans to leave Longford just yet? The king cannot expect your presence at court again so soon.’
Helena reached out and stroked her daughter’s cheek. Without answering, she scooped up the blue and gold brocade gown that lay across one of the chairs and placed it on top of another nearby. She gestured for Frances to come and sit on a cushion at her feet, as she had so many times as a child.
‘My love, we can only stay until the sickness has left London. It arrived the day after His Majesty entered the city. Already it has claimed many hundreds of lives, the king’s own attendants among them.’
Frances stared at her hands and fought to maintain her composure. She could not bear the thought of saying goodbye to her parents again so soon. With difficulty she swallowed, then remarked quietly: ‘It does not augur well for the new reign.’
‘Indeed. Already plenty of the court hanker after the days of our old queen – they, who were so quick to leave her side in order that they might hurry north to meet their king in waiting. They are just as quick to regret him now. People … people talk in whispers. They said that his accession was like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the kingdom in a brief, dazzling glow that seemed to leave it darker as soon as it had passed.’
‘How was he received, upon his arrival in London?’
The marchioness paused before replying. ‘As magnificently as might be expected,’ she said at length. ‘All those of rank flocked to London for the occasion. They were hard-pressed to find space in the palace. And the streets outside seemed paved with men, women, and children.’
‘It must have pleased His Majesty to see so many loyal subjects come to pay him homage,’ Frances remarked.
‘Naturally,’ her mother replied. ‘But perhaps he has not been used to such ceremonies in his kingdom. They seemed to … tire him.’
The two women exchanged a look of mild amusement. Even in the old queen’s time, Frances had heard that the King of Scots had little patience for the elaborate pageantry of court, preferring to spend time alone with his favourites.
Frances turned towards the window, and a flash of scarlet caught her eye. Rising, she crossed to the chest below it, over which was laid the most luxurious gown she had ever seen. The outer skirt and sleeves comprised at least two dozen ells of bright red velvet material, while the kirtle and bodice were fashioned from creamy ermine flecked with black. A long cloak that fastened to the collar of the gown was made from the same rich material. Frances could not resist reaching out to stroke the smooth, soft fur. Gathering it up in her arms, she was surprised at its weight. It would be stifling in the heat of summer.
‘You will outshine all of the other ladies at the coronation in July, Mother,’ she said wonderingly.
Helena waved away the compliment. ‘I would be a good deal more grateful for such warmth on a winter’s day.’
There was silence for a few moments, then Helena bade her daughter sit with her again, and clasped both of Frances’s hands in her own.
‘My daughter.’ She pronounced the word as ‘dotter,’ a rare hint of her native tongue. ‘You are my precious jewel. If only I could keep you as safe as these trifles—’ she gestured to the coffers surrounding them, each secured with a brightly polished lock, the keys to which were only entrusted to her highest-ranking attendant.
Frances looked up into her mother’s dark brown eyes. She had long since seen her fiftieth year, but with her pale skin, high cheekbones, and small rosebud mouth, she was still beautiful.
‘Lady Mother?’
‘Frances, you must know that the court – the kingdom – is greatly changed,’ Helena began, her voice low. ‘King James has no patience with the traditions upheld by the late queen. Already the court is beset with scandal and vice. It will bring shame upon the kingdom.’ A scornful look crossed her face. ‘Yet neither does he respect our former mistress’s moderation in matters of religion, but insis
ts upon the strict observance of the Protestant faith. He seems determined to bend his subjects to his will.’
Helena looked down at her hands for a moment, and when she raised her eyes to Frances again they were clouded with anxiety.
‘He has declared a war on witches, Frances. He says that they are a canker in our midst, and that God has appointed him to destroy them all. He will not leave a stone unturned in his search for the “whores of Satan”, as he calls them. Already Cecil is drafting a new Act against witchcraft. Any practice that is deemed to be sorcery will be punishable by death.’ She paused, eyeing Frances closely. ‘Even the arts of healing are under suspicion. There is to be no mercy.’
Frances looked doubtful. ‘Surely the king does not mean to hunt down the wise women and cunning folk? His officials would have to scour every village in the kingdom, and to what purpose? Their skills have always been used for good, not evil.’
‘All, Frances. Nobody is safe. Not even—’ Her mother stopped abruptly, and Frances saw that her hands shook as she reached up to smooth her forehead, as if trying to press away the frown.
Frances felt her chest tighten. Deliberately, she slowed her breathing, as her mother had taught her. Panic is the enemy of reason. The court was far away, she told herself now. Here, at Longford, the world went otherwise.
‘What proof can they find that such healing is harmful?’ Frances demanded. ‘Most of those who practise it do more good than apothecaries and physicians – and demand a lot less in return.’
‘An accusation is enough to bring a witch to trial now,’ her mother replied quietly. ‘The authorities do not require further proof, beyond hearsay and rumour. A confession would be gratifying, of course, and no doubt King James intends to employ the means to wrest a few of those, as he has in Scotland.’