The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  A shuffle of feet drew her attention back to the present. Glancing to her left, she saw her fellow courtiers standing in ranks, lining the inside of the western curtain wall of the Tower. They were here to join a procession marking the anniversary of the king’s coronation. Most were grim-faced, Frances noticed. Over the past year, the joy that James’s subjects had expressed at being free from fifty years of female rule had soon been replaced by mutterings about his strange habits and ‘unkingly’ nature. Already, they were looking back with longing to the reign of ‘Good Queen Bess’. Frances gave a wry smile. The old queen had known the fickle nature of her people all too well. Little wonder that she had waited so long to name a successor. ‘I am not so foolish as to hang a winding-sheet before my eyes,’ she had scolded one persistent adviser.

  For all his unpopularity, there was a palpable sense of anticipation for the arrival of the king. Frances felt it too, but not for the same reason. When the princess had told her, eyes wide with excitement, that Frances’s parents were to attend, she had hardly dared believe it. Every time that there had been a masque or other great gathering at court, she had hoped to see them among the throng. But on each occasion she had been disappointed. Clearly, their presence was required at Richmond – or perhaps it was their absence from court that was required, she reflected bitterly. But even Cecil could not exclude the highest ranking peeress in the kingdom from the anniversary celebrations. She took a deep breath to steady her heart. It could not be long now.

  Although it was not yet ten o’clock, the heat of the sun, trapped within the walls of the Tower, was growing so intense that Frances could see the faces of those who stood in line with her beginning to glisten. A bead of sweat was winding its way slowly down her neck, towards the apricot-coloured silk at the top of her bodice. The latter had been pulled even tighter than usual, so that she, like the other ladies present, could mimic the unfeasibly narrow-waisted gown that the queen had chosen to wear.

  In the Longford woods there would be cool shade. Enchanter’s nightshade, her favourite, would be in full bloom now, its tiny pink buds opening up into delicate white flowers that nestled amongst the roots and ferns of the forest floor. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell their sweet scent and feel the velvety petals against her fingertips. It seemed strange to think of the flowers still blooming there, the river winding its way gently along the boundary of the estate, and the men who worked the fields preparing for harvest.

  A blast of trumpets suddenly rang out across the courtyard, and all eyes turned towards the royal apartments that abutted the White Tower. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the echo slowly faded into silence. Several moments passed. Frances could feel a steady, rhythmic pulse at her temples. Her mouth was dry, and as she ran her tongue along her upper lip it felt parched and cracked. The base of her spine ached, as much from the restrictive clothing she wore as from the long hours of standing. She knew there would be many more hours to come.

  At length, the large oak doors in the middle of the curtain wall were slowly pulled open by two yeomen of the guard, their halberds gleaming as they reflected the sun, momentarily blinding Frances and her companions as they stared towards them.

  ‘Make way for the king!’ one of them cried. Then both turned sharply to face each other, several feet apart, so that there was room for their royal master to pass. A muttering could be heard from inside the archway, then James emerged, red-faced and cursing.

  ‘Damn ye, man, leave it!’ he snapped at an attendant who was stooped behind him, rearranging the long train of his cloak. The man scurried away into the shadows.

  As the king stepped into the blazing sunlight, Frances thought she heard a few sharp intakes of breath. He looked as if he had been dressed in several sets of clothes, one on top of the other. The white satin sleeves of his doublet were heavily padded, and the breeches even more so. The latter made the coat that he wore over them stick out so far that it resembled one of his wife’s farthingales, and he was obliged to hold his arms out at his sides, like a bird about to take flight. His neck was obscured by an enormous white ruff, the numerous layers of which pressed tightly up against his chin. On his head was the golden crown that had been worn by kings of England for centuries, but even this had been padded out with red velvet on top, and a thick layer of ermine around the base. The only part of his body not to be encased in reams of suffocating material were his legs from the knee down, which appeared ridiculously thin in their white silk hose.

  Frances felt an urge to laugh. The fashions that James had brought with him from Scotland had certainly drawn a sharp contrast to the elegant sophistication of the old queen’s court, but this outfit was something else entirely. Then it dawned upon her. James was dressed not for fashion, but for safety. Even the sharpest assassin’s rapier could not penetrate the thick layers of tightly-woven fabric.

  Frances had heard it whispered many times that ever since he took the throne, the king had been jumping at his own shadow, and she had seen how he eyed his courtiers with a mixture of suspicion and disdain. Now he was more timorous than ever. Fear made him irritable, so that he lashed out at even those closest to him – most often the queen, who bore it all with a quiet, detached dignity that pained Frances to watch. The atmosphere at court had become as unbearably oppressive as the sultry July weather.

  All humour had left Frances as she watched the king now, his usual awkward gait heightened by the cumbersome clothes into which he had been sewn. In his left hand he held a silk handkerchief, ready to hold to his nose as they made their way through the crowds that were lining the streets to Westminster. A case of the plague had been reported close to Greenwich the previous week, and there were now more across the city. James had been set upon issuing a decree ordering his new subjects to keep to their homes this day, and had only reluctantly been persuaded of the evils that would arise if he did so. God knew, there had been little enough cause for celebration so far in his reign.

  On the king’s feet were shimmering gold satin shoes, each narrowing to an uncomfortable-looking point that was decorated with a large white silk bow. That they were causing him pain was obvious from the halting manner of his steps as he made his way past the line of courtiers. He neither acknowledged nor looked at them, but stared grimly ahead towards the archway that led to the outer ward of the Tower, and along the riverside wall.

  Just before he passed under it, James suddenly stopped and turned to the dozen or so dignitaries who were following him in a single, straight line. At their head was the Lord Privy Seal, dressed in the heavy robes of his office. His coat was fashioned from deep red velvet, over which was a cloak of the same material in black, lined with ivory silk. A stiffly starched ruff was around his neck, and the seal of office, its rubies glittering in the sunlight, was carefully placed around his shoulders. In his right hand he carried a long wooden staff. Frances noticed that he was leaning on it rather heavily.

  ‘Why the devil do you follow at such a distance?’ the king demanded.

  ‘Forgive me, sire,’ Cecil soothed. ‘I did not wish to infringe upon your dignity.’

  ‘To hell with it!’ James shouted. ‘You act like some simpering flower girl. Stand up straight, like the man you pretend to be.’

  Frances saw Cecil’s right eye twitch, and he quickly suppressed a wince as he drew himself up to his full height. His hands were clenched into tight fists, the knuckles showing white through the skin. Frances knew that after the torments he had inflicted on her, she should have enjoyed his humiliation. But she could feel only pity.

  ‘God’s wounds! Your back is as crooked as your advice,’ the king cried out, loud enough for all to hear. Frances saw one of the pretty young men at the back of the entourage place a delicate gloved hand in front of his mouth, which had the intended effect of drawing attention to, rather than concealing, his amusement.

  Suddenly, James reached forward and grabbed the staff from Cecil’s hand.

  ‘Here,’ he declared
. ‘This will straighten it out.’

  Before Cecil could do anything, his royal master had yanked him around so that his deformed back faced the crowd. Then, pulling on his minister’s ruff so that there was a small gap between it and his neck, James took the staff and rammed it roughly down the length of Cecil’s spine. The sniggering boy now let out a peal of high-pitched laughter as the hapless minister stood, his head as low as it could be without causing the ruff to dig into his neck even more. The staff was clearly visible through the back of his breeches, and it stuck out above Cecil’s head. James took a step backwards to admire his handiwork, and Frances saw him exchange an amused look with his young favourite. She could sense that many of the onlookers were torn between flattering the king with laughter and not wishing to antagonise his chief minister. Cecil would not forget any who scorned him.

  After a brief pause, James broke the tense silence. Sighing deeply, he motioned for one of his attendants to remove the staff from the Lord Privy Seal’s back so that they might continue with the procession. As soon as the king and his immediate entourage had passed through the archway, Frances and her fellow courtiers fanned out into a long line, three people across, and followed in their wake.

  She kept her head bowed for most of the slow walk along the southernmost wall of the fortress, grateful for the shade that this narrow walkway afforded, its towering ramparts on either side lined with dozens of yeoman warders. She knew from the previous day’s rehearsal that the procession would come to a halt halfway along, so that the queen and her entourage, along with a group of high-ranking courtiers, could join it. Her heart leaped at the thought that her parents would be among the latter.

  Already, James was drawing level with St Thomas’s Tower. Frances glanced at that ominous watergate, under which so many prisoners had passed for the last time. She jumped as another blast of trumpets sounded, and the procession came to a standstill. A few moments passed before the queen emerged, bedecked in a gown of dark silver, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light as she moved. Large rubies had been sewn at intervals across the sleeves and bodice, and at her neck and wrists she wore several strings of soft white pearls. More pearls were studded across her dark blonde hair, which her ladies had fashioned into a stiff, high coiffure. Despite the intensity of the heat, Anne’s complexion was characteristically pale, and her thin lips had been made bright red by the careful application of beeswax and cochineal.

  Impressed though she was by this dazzling ensemble, Frances could not help feeling that there was something familiar about it. As Anne inclined her head to the dignitaries at the front of the procession, the sunlight reflected off the silver and gold thread of the bodice, and Frances had a sudden recollection of the old queen being carried on an elaborately decorated white sedan, so delicate that it resembled one of the sugar work sculptures of which she had been so fond. She remembered that there had been an ethereal quality to her late mistress that day, her skin made whiter still by the reflection of the silver dress that she had been wearing.

  With a jolt, Frances realised it was the same dress that she was looking at now. She had heard the rumours among the queen’s ladies that their mistress had visited the Great Wardrobe at the Tower, and had declared that nothing could surpass Elizabeth’s robes. But she had not believed the reports that Anne had set her dressmakers to work at once in having some of these old robes altered so that she might wear them. Such thriftiness should have been commendable, yet there was something distasteful about it – as if Anne had stolen the clothes from the old queen’s back. Frances pushed the thought away.

  Anne’s expression remained unchanged as she approached her husband. He stepped forward and kissed her on the mouth, the movement swift and awkward. Without speaking, he then resumed his former position at the head of the procession. His wife joined it a few paces behind. Their three children appeared from the shadows of the archway, Henry strutting out in front, and Elizabeth holding the chubby hand of her younger brother. Even with her assistance, Charles walked with such an unsteady, tumbling gait that Frances judged it would not be long before his lady mistress, Lady Carey, would step forward and carry him in her arms, as she had been appointed to do. The princess was then to walk alone, directly behind her elder brother, to reinforce her maturity. Royal childhood was all too brief, Frances reflected, as she looked at her young charge. The princess stole a glance in her direction, and they exchanged a quick, furtive smile.

  A line of high-ranking ladies and gentlemen then emerged from underneath the archway to join the procession. Frances craned her neck, and her eyes darted this way and that. Her heart was beating so fast that she was sure it must be visible to the courtiers on either side of her. Then, at last, she saw her: a vision of elegance and nobility unparalleled in James’s court. She was arrayed in the red velvet dress and ermine cloak that Frances had seen in her bedchamber at Longford the previous year. Her best robes. Frances was not sure if they were intended to flatter the king or uphold her dignity. On top of her head she wore a tiny gold coronet with a single pearl suspended from the front, just touching her forehead.

  Frances’s eyes filled with tears, but she hastily blinked them away, desperate not to miss a precious moment. Now her father emerged from the shadows, taking his place next to her mother, but a fraction behind, as was his custom. He was dressed in a dark grey doublet and matching hose, and Frances knew that his choice of such a sombre colour was deliberate, so that he should not deflect any attention from his wife. It reminded her of a ploy by the old queen, who had insisted that her ladies wear only black or white, so that the gorgeous colours of her own gowns were shown off to best effect.

  Her parents were just a few feet away from her now. She could almost touch them, if she reached out. It took all of her resolve to keep her hands by her sides. But she would not divert her eyes, even if Cecil was watching her every move. She began to fear that they were unaware of her presence and would pass by unnoticing, but just as they had almost drawn level, her father suddenly glanced in her direction. His eyes were merry as he held her gaze, then he gave the slightest wink, before turning back to face the direction of the procession. Without moving her head, her mother shot her a brief look filled with affection – and, Frances thought, some anxiety – but her mouth remained expressionless. All too soon, they had passed, and Frances was left gazing in their wake. This encounter, as sweet as it was brief, may have to suffice for many more months to come, she realised with a pang.

  When all of the dignitaries had assumed their places, the procession continued towards the westernmost tower that led out into the city. As the king passed under the gateway and the huge portcullis was raised, a sudden clap of thunder reverberated around the walls of the ancient fortress, closely followed by a flash of lightning.

  Frances glanced up. With luck, the rain would soon come, and they would be obliged to pick up their pace so that this whole charade would be over more quickly. As they turned onto Eastcheap, there was a thunderous roar from the crowds that thronged each side of the street, pushing and jostling each other to get a view of their king. Frances kept her eyes fixed on the towering spire of St Paul’s, the top of which was obscured by dark grey clouds, so that it seemed to pierce heaven itself. She knew that when they drew level with the cathedral, they would be almost halfway to the abbey.

  The first, heavy drop of rain splashed onto the paving stones in front of her, quickly followed by another, which ran down the length of her spine. She drew her shoulders together, relishing the feel of the water, like an icy blade being drawn along her sun-baked skin. The drops were falling quickly now, and soon became a torrent. It was as if the heavens were weeping at the sight of this king, who was cowering beneath the small canopy that his attendants, blinded by the driving rain, struggled to hold aloft.

  The plays and pageants that lined the route still continued, but James did not so much as glance in their direction. Instead, he stared doggedly ahead, his impatience and discomfort showing pla
inly on his face. The brightly painted flags and streamers that had been draped from every balcony soon hung limp and sodden, their colours dripping onto the pavement below.

  The crowds quickly began to scatter, some running into nearby buildings, and others seeking shelter in the many taverns that lined the route of the procession. By the time that they reached the Temple Church, its ancient, honey-coloured stones washed a dull brown by the torrent, there were only a few hardy souls, hunched and sodden, to greet their king. Their frail cheers were drowned out by the rush of the water as it raced along the gutters, spilling their stinking detritus into the path of the courtiers. Frances watched, amused, as Lord Sackville grimaced at his shoes, the fine ivory satin now smeared with filth. She herself looked as if she had been plunged into the Thames. Her neatly plaited hair hung in sodden knots around her face, and her gown was so mud-spattered that she doubted Mrs Banks would ever be able to brush it clean. But she hardly cared. The cooling rains seemed to wash away the oppressive atmosphere – not to mention the heat – that had hung over the court these past few days. Even if it was a temporary blessing, she was grateful for it.

  They had passed St Paul’s now, and were trudging along Fleet Street. Frances looked across at the handsome red-brick gatehouse to her right, its archway picked out in marble that had been washed so white that it glistened. A figure stood beneath it, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. As she drew level with him, her heart gave a lurch.

  Tom.

  He pulled back his hood and smiled, then gave a small bow. He wore a plain black gown with a high collar and white ruff, together with a simple black hat, rising to a point in the centre. Lawyer’s clothes. This must be the entrance of Gray’s Inn, Frances realised. Suddenly conscious of her own rain-soaked appearance, she put a hand to her hair and pushed back one of the tendrils that clung damply to her cheek. She smiled ruefully and gave a shrug. His grin widened, making her feel warm despite the rain that coursed down her neck and seeped under her tightly laced bodice.