The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Her uncle smirked. ‘You will soon be stripped of your naivety at King James’s court.’

  Frances felt herself grow pale. ‘I have no plans to visit it at present, my lord,’ she replied carefully.

  ‘You have no need of any,’ the earl retorted. ‘I have made them for you. The king has seen fit to appoint you to the household of the Princess Elizabeth. You are to return to court at once.’

  Frances took in a sharp breath. Her uncle was right: she had thought herself safely forgotten in the tranquillity of Longford, many miles from London. Surely her elder sister, residing with her parents at Richmond, should have come to the king’s notice instead? Discreetly, she lowered her hand onto the back of the chair facing her uncle and gripped it hard.

  ‘There is no need to thank me,’ the earl snarled. ‘Although I went to a great deal of trouble on your behalf.’

  Frances spoke at last: ‘But it was agreed that I should remain here, to manage the household on my parents’ behalf.’

  ‘It is thanks to your parents that I was obliged to act. They should have heeded my advice and made themselves more pleasing to the king. Instead, they are as good as banished in Richmond, your sisters with them.’

  Frances’s eyes widened in horror. ‘But he cannot so insult a lady of rank, and one whose family has always been loyal to the crown.’

  ‘The king can slight whom he chooses. Besides, your mother is tainted by her association with the old queen. She should have deserted her like the rest of the court when it was clear that the old woman would not much longer draw breath.’

  Frances bit back a retort, but her eyes blazed. Never had she despised her uncle more.

  ‘It is well for you that I still enjoy His Majesty’s favour,’ he continued, ‘and that I am not without friends on the council. Even so, I had to pay handsomely for your appointment as a lady of the princess’s bedchamber.’ He eyed her closely. ‘But you will repay my debt in full. Your parents have fallen foul of the king, and Cecil conspires endlessly against me. You must strengthen our hand by coming to court and marrying whomever I choose for you. Our family’s reputation rests upon how well you perform.’

  ‘But my lord, you agreed with my parents that the risk was too great. His Majesty’s new Act against witchcraft has but lately been pronounced. The Reverend Pritchard made sure to read it out in full during his last sermon. My skills as a healer are well known at court, and Cecil will not miss an opportunity to cause trouble – as you yourself have pointed out.’

  The earl grunted. ‘Hang Cecil, the crooked devil! The king sneers at him, though he flatters and fawns. He has not the looks to retain favour for long, and there are many handsome boys to take his place. We need not fear him.’

  ‘Surely His Majesty’s favour is not decided by looks alone?’ Frances replied scornfully. ‘Besides, Cecil knows the workings of the council better than any. He is too useful to be so easily discarded.’

  Her uncle took a long swig of wine and set the glass down so hard that Frances feared it would shatter.

  ‘What do you know of the court?’ he demanded. ‘You have been absent from it for more than a year, and will find it much changed since that crooked old spinster sat on the throne. I will have no more debate. You must prepare to leave Longford tomorrow.’

  Frances stared down at her hands. Her mind was racing. She could not leave Longford, and everything she held dear, to live in that vipers’ nest, as her mother had called it. It was unthinkable. She would not do it. There would be ladies aplenty clamouring to take her place at court if she managed to stave off her uncle for long enough.

  ‘My lord, I am greatly flattered,’ she replied slowly so that she might keep her voice steady, ‘but as you know, I am here at my mother’s command.’

  ‘And her word means more to you than the king’s?’

  ‘I serve His Majesty above all others, of course,’ Frances replied calmly. ‘Only God excepted.’

  ‘Then you shall accompany me to Whitehall.’

  There was a pause. Frances could just make out the soft ticking of her mother’s silver-gilt clock, a New Year’s gift from the late queen.

  ‘My lord, I regret that I cannot leave Longford at present. Not without consent given by my lady mother’s own hand.’

  She noticed a muscle in her uncle’s jaw twitch. There was a long pause, during which she held his cold gaze. Slowly, he rose from the chair. His lips lifted into a lazy smile that did not reach his eyes. He stood in front of her.

  ‘So good to see a dutiful daughter,’ he purred, and then, without warning, he struck Frances a stinging blow across the cheek, sending her stumbling to the ground.

  ‘You may not refuse me.’ His voice was as soft as velvet. ‘I am the head of the family.’

  CHAPTER 8

  27 June

  A wave of nausea swept over Frances as the stench of rotting meat filled the air, so different to the sweet scent of the forest and the cool waters of the Avon. Instead, she was surrounded by the noisy, fetid streets of London. She fumbled for her pomander, which she had filled with freshly picked lavender and rosemary from the courtyard garden at Longford. The fragrance was at once welcome and familiar.

  Outside, the rain began to fall. Before long Frances could hear it drumming on the carriage roof. Within minutes, the road would be a treacherous, muddy mire. She heard the coachman crack his whip, and the carriage lurched forward, trying to beat the onset of the deluge.

  It could be worse, she reflected. If her uncle had had his way, she would have been travelling with him, in his coach, but she had persuaded him to let her remain at Longford for a few days more, because she needed to set affairs in order there. Although this was true, what she had not admitted was that she had wanted to eke out some precious time in the castle and its parkland, to immerse herself in the familiar sights and smells as if she might capture them for ever in her senses.

  At last, the city’s western wall was in view. Progress from here would be slowed, she knew, not by the weather, but by the growing throng of people, carriages, workshops, stalls, and detritus that littered the streets of London. Soon, the cries of the market traders mingled with the clipping of horses’ hooves, and the screams of children darting perilously between the carriages that trundled relentlessly on through the crowded streets.

  For one brief, giddy moment Frances thought about calling for the coachman to stop the carriage so that she might escape. She imagined herself back in the wilderness of Longford, the late afternoon sun caressing her face as she lay listening to the soft rustling of the grass.

  ‘Get out of it!’

  The cry of the coachman jolted her back to the present. She opened her eyes and peered through the window, which was already splattered with the mud of the streets. A scrawny boy scuttled to safety on the other side of the track. His shirt, which was a dirty grey colour, was hanging out of his breeches, and his bare feet were caked in mud. Glancing over his shoulder, he made an obscene gesture at the coachman, who muttered a curse.

  As they drew away from the city gate, the throng of travellers and tradespeople gradually began to disperse and was replaced by open fields on either side. To Frances’s relief, the stench abated too, and as a gust of wind whipped across from the south, she caught the smell of the Thames. Frances knew that in the height of summer this, too, would normally have been rank enough to turn the strongest of stomachs, but because of the heavy rain that had fallen in the last few days it was mercifully fresher. A sudden break in the clouds threw a glimmer of sunlight onto the river in the distance, beyond the spires and rooftops, as it wound its way eastwards, past the great palaces of Whitehall and Greenwich, and out towards the sea. How she wished she might follow it.

  The sun was sinking now as the carriage continued eastwards. The pleasant manors of Chelsea, with their gardens sweeping down towards the Thames, punctuated the view to the right. Before long, though, the houses became smaller and more numerous, the bustle of the approaching city invading th
e relative tranquillity of Chelsea and its immediate surrounds. The ancient church of St Giles in the Fields lay at the crossroads ahead, its squat tower rising above the copse of trees that shielded the main body of the church. The coachman pulled hard on the reins, and Frances felt the carriage lean sharply to the right as it followed the road south through the city.

  Several men in court livery hastened alongside the carriage, weaving their way among the tradespeople and residents down towards the river, where they would catch one of the numerous barges to Whitehall Palace. They must be close now, Frances realised, her heart sinking. Her uncle had left strict orders that she should seek him out as soon as she arrived at the palace. He would make sure to present her to the king at the earliest opportunity, once he had assured himself that she was suitably attired – and, she assumed, compliant. Her heart quickened as she imagined being introduced to James – and his daughter – for the first time. For all her uncle’s assurances, she would have preferred a position that would not attract so much attention.

  Their progress slowed again, then after about half an hour of rumbling along at barely a walking pace, the carriage veered to the left, and there before them was the great gatehouse of Whitehall Palace, a huge red-brick edifice with four towers. Peering beyond it, Frances could see the unmistakable grandeur of the royal apartments and Great Hall. These had once formed part of Cardinal Wolsey’s luxurious London residence, before his fall from grace, and she recalled how the older members of Elizabeth’s court had still referred to it as York Place. Despite its rather haphazard appearance, there was no mistaking that this sprawling mass of buildings was a royal palace, so magnificent was the whole effect.

  Her old nursemaid suddenly awoke, looking startled for a few moments until she realised that they had at last reached their destination. She rubbed her eyes and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘What a tiresome journey,’ she grumbled. ‘I feel bruised to my very bones.’

  Frances looked at her with affection.

  ‘It is a wonder that it did not interrupt your sleep,’ she said.

  They passed under the great gatehouse, and Frances noticed a high, neatly clipped hedge on the left. Behind it lay a lavish suite of apartments. She reached across to lower the window on that side, and the scent of roses filled the coach. She breathed deeply.

  ‘Those are the queen’s chambers,’ remarked Ellen, assuming the role of guide. ‘Not as grand as the king’s, of course, but I have always thought them more pleasant.’

  ‘And they must command a fine view of the river,’ Frances observed.

  The path widened out ahead into a square courtyard, large enough for carriages to turn around in after their passengers had alighted. Frances and Ellen were jolted as the coach drew to an abrupt halt. The finality of it struck Frances suddenly. She gazed up at the red-brick façade that towered over the courtyard. This was her life now. There would be no return to Longford – at least, not for many months, even years. Ellen was already busying herself with smoothing down her skirts and pinching her cheeks to take away the pallor of sleep. By contrast, Frances sat as still as a statue. She felt unable to move, even if she had wished to.

  The sudden opening of the carriage door broke the spell. A yeoman of the guard stood to attention, his bright red livery bearing the initials ‘JR.’ He stared straight ahead, but held out his hand so that Frances might step down from the coach. She looked around the courtyard and saw numerous messengers, pages, and other members of the royal household scurrying this way and that, like so many ants, all intent upon their business.

  ‘Lady Frances.’

  She swung around to see a smartly dressed official in the deep scarlet livery of the king’s household. She recognised the Lord Chamberlain at once, having encountered him many times in the late queen’s presence chamber. He had cut short his famously long pointed beard so that he might mimic the closely cropped style favoured by the new king. Soon James would glance around his court as if looking in a mirror, Frances thought. The official bowed quickly, and clicked his heels together.

  ‘Welcome to court, my lady. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Howard. All was well.’

  Behind her, Ellen climbed gingerly down from the carriage, wincing at the stiffness in her joints. She bobbed an awkward curtsey to the official.

  ‘My lady wishes to be shown to her apartments so that she might take her ease before dinner,’ she said in the superior, clipped tone that Frances knew was a sign that her old nurse felt at a disadvantage.

  Lord Howard sniffed. ‘Of course,’ he replied smoothly. As Lord Chamberlain, he was the most senior court official, and controlled everything that took place in the household above stairs – or Domus Magnificence as he preferred to call it. ‘Wait here, please. I will summon an escort.’

  Several minutes passed. Frances glanced around the courtyard. A series of large mullioned windows were set into the red-brick façade on each side of the quadrant. Through one of these, Frances could see a precarious stack of books, so high that they must have blocked out the light in the room beyond. She supposed the chambers might belong to the Lord Chamberlain and his staff.

  The sound of rapid footsteps heralded his return. He looked a little flushed, Frances thought. In his wake was a boy of about twelve years old. He was tall and thin, with the awkward gait of a young colt. His doublet was of the deep blue worn by members of the queen’s household. He did not look at Frances, but stood with his head lowered, fiddling with his cap.

  ‘My lady, this page will escort you.’

  Ellen stepped forward, ready to follow.

  ‘No madam,’ Lord Howard said firmly. ‘You are to be taken to Lady Frances’s apartments so that you may unpack her coffers.’

  Ellen cast Frances an anxious look.

  ‘But surely that is where my lady mistress is going to, Lord Howard?’

  He gave a quick, tight smile.

  ‘Lady Frances will be there presently. Now please,’ he added, ‘there must be no further delay.’

  With that, he motioned to the page, who made a quick bow to Frances before walking off in the direction of the large doorway that led into the palace. Her uncle must have been informed of her arrival already, she reflected with a creeping sense of dread. She gave Ellen’s hand a brief, reassuring squeeze, then followed in his wake.

  As soon as they were out of sight, the boy quickened his pace so that Frances was obliged to gather up her skirts and take longer strides in order to keep up with him. Darting this way and that, the boy led her through a series of interconnecting chambers, each one gloomier than the last. She would have liked to take her time to look at the paintings and tapestries that hung on the walls. Even at a glance, she could see that they were exquisite. Most of the portraits were of the new king’s ancestors, both in England and Scotland. She guessed they must have been procured from his native palaces.

  A burst of sunlight momentarily dazzled Frances as the page opened a narrow door in the last chamber. It gave out into a small courtyard, which was paved with cobbles. A climbing rose covered the entire wall on the south side, and its sweet scent filled the air. Frances stood for a moment, steadying her breathing. She reached up to her neck, which felt clammy and warm.

  The boy rapped sharply on the door, then hastened away before Frances had time to ask him where they were. It was opened by a young woman dressed in the fine but simple attire of a lower ranking privy chamber attendant.

  ‘Lady Frances?’

  She was flushed and agitated, and seemed close to tears. Frances nodded, smiling with an assurance that she did not feel.

  ‘There is little time,’ the woman said hurriedly. ‘Come, my lady.’

  Frances followed after her, taking care to close the door quietly first.

  A strong smell of stale sweat hit her as Frances entered a small, stifling chamber. A large fire was roaring in the grate, and heavy curtains had been drawn across the window. S
itting on the bed, blocking Frances’s view of its occupant, was a finely dressed lady. Her robe was of slate-grey satin, edged with white lace and pearls along the square neckline, and with stiffly padded sleeves that rose to a point at each shoulder. Her dark blonde hair had fallen loose about her shoulders, but she held herself erect.

  Frances stepped forward and saw a woman lying on the bed. Her skin glistened with sweat, and strands of matted hair clung to her face, which was puce. Tossing from side to side, she made a low, keening sound that occasionally broke into an unbearable wailing.

  ‘Hush, my dear, hush!’ the lady urged, smoothing away a tendril of hair, and dabbing gently at her forehead with a silken cloth.

  In her distraction, she had not been aware of Frances’s arrival.

  ‘Lady Frances is here, ma’am,’ the attendant announced quietly.

  The lady turned around and gave Frances a slow, appraising stare.

  ‘Forgive this unexpected summons, but I understand you possess some skill in healing.’

  She spoke with a soft, clipped accent that reminded Frances of her mother. The conversation at Longford came back to her. You take too many risks. Frances hesitated. Was this a trap? She glanced again at the woman on the bed. Her sickness was no pretence.

  ‘Only modest skill, I fear, my lady, but whatever I can do, I will,’ she replied after a pause. ‘How long has she been in a fever?’

  ‘Three nights and two days. She had attended me all evening and showed no sign of discomfort. But a servant awoke me that night to tell me she had sickened.’ A haunted look crossed her face. ‘I think it must be a judgement from God.’

  ‘What has been done to ease her, my lady?’

  ‘We did everything the physician instructed. She was bled several times, and has been given nothing to drink – though she did ask for it, at first.’

  Frances bit back a scornful remark. She had seen too many victims of physicians’ ministrations to hope that they might have worked a positive effect. Without hesitation, she strode over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and threw open the pane. She then grasped a ewer from a nearby table and poured its contents onto the fire. A sharp hiss rose from the embers, and smoke filled the room.