The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘The Devil has hidden his mark well, Your Grace,’ he said. Frances caught the anticipation in his tone.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Then you must search harder.’

  CHAPTER 24

  31 August

  The baying of the crowds grew louder as the hangman stalked around the wooden scaffold, raising his arms now and then to whip up an even greater cacophony. Frances stared bleakly at the spectators who were jostling for a view. Their mouths moved with jeers and chants, but she could not distinguish any of them. She looked up and saw storm clouds gathering. A cold wind suddenly whipped around the enclosure. Frances reached behind to draw her cloak more tightly around her, but her fingers grasped only the gauzy linen of her shift. Horrified, she looked down and saw that it was soaked with blood.

  The cawing of a raven pierced her ears. She looked around for the bird, hoping it was the same one she had seen a few days before, but she could not see it anywhere. The raven’s cry persisted. Gradually, the crowds fell silent, listening. With a sudden impulse, Frances swung around to look behind her. The raven was sitting on the long coil of rope that would soon be placed around her neck. It cocked its head and blinked at her, then opened its beak and began cawing so loudly that Frances pressed her hands over her ears. She tried to scream so that she might drown out the noise, which seemed as a death knell, but she could make no sound.

  She awoke then, sweating and breathless. The scaffold and crowds had disappeared, and she was alone in her chamber. A movement at the window caught her eye, and she turned to see the raven sitting on the sill. It jerked its head and seemed to stare directly at her. After a few moments, it hopped out of sight. Soon, its cawing echoed around the empty courtyard.

  Frances lay staring out of the window. The sun had already sunk low in the sky, which was tinged with pink and gold. She had no idea how long she had slept. Time had long since ceased to hold any meaning for her. She might have been here for a week or a year. It was all the same. Her life at court seemed a distant memory; Longford a once cherished dream, now long since faded.

  After a while, her limbs grew stiff, and she rolled over onto her back. A shard of pain pierced through her, and she drew in a sharp breath. She held it until the stinging had dulled to a throb, then slowly exhaled. Gingerly, she ran her fingers along the top of her thighs. The space between was still sticky with blood, but the flow seemed to have abated. She resolved to stay still for as long as possible. Her body was covered in sores, and even the slightest movement triggered a fresh wave of pain. The witch pricker had been thorough in his work.

  An image came suddenly, of his hands pawing at her shift as she lay on the floor, the cold stone pressing into her back. The blade was smooth as he ran it across her thighs, pausing now and then to probe a freckle or other blemish with his rough fingertips. And then the shock of searing pain deep within her. Darkness had followed.

  She screwed her eyes shut, and tried to obliterate the terrible memories, but it was as if they had been seared into her mind with hot irons. She knew they would never leave her. The tears ran freely now, stinging the wounds on her face and neck as they coursed down. Her sobs turned to howls as she lay like an animal snared by a trap in the woods of Longford, unable to move for fear of sparking a new bout of agony. After a while, exhaustion overcame her, and she began to doze, her chest heaving now and then with a sob, before settling into a steadier rhythm.

  When she next awoke it was morning. Clouds filled the sky, so she could not judge the hour. But the smell of freshly baked bread came from the hatch in her door. Her stomach made a low growl, and she felt suddenly ravenous. Easing herself slowly and painfully out of bed, she edged over to the hatch and pulled it aside. The plate was more plentifully laden than the last time she had eaten in her chambers. Along with fresh white bread, there were generous slabs of cheese and ham, a pat of butter, and a trencher filled with ale. She carried it carefully over to the table by the window, and lowered herself down onto the wooden chair, wincing as she did so. She then devoured the food, stuffing large pieces of it into her mouth as if it might be taken away at any moment, and pausing only to take gulps of the ale.

  When she had finished, she felt tired again, but her desire to wash was stronger than the temptation to climb back into bed straight away. A large ewer of water had been placed on the table, with a quantity of fresh linen cloths. If only she had her cabinet of herbs, she thought. She could make up a tincture of woundwort and comfrey to dress her wounds. Would that you might not use them at all! Her mother’s voice suddenly sounded in her ears. Frances swallowed back angry tears as she realised that she should have heeded the advice. Her remedies had caused a great deal more harm than good. She had been a fool.

  Having soaked the first cloth in water, she gently dabbed at any sores she could reach. The water had taken on a pink hue by the time she had finished. She had deliberately omitted the part of her body that most needed cleansing because she knew that the water would be too soiled with blood to be used on anything else. But she began dabbing at the top of her thighs now with a new cloth, turning it over and over with each application, before plunging it into the ewer. At once, the water began to turn a deep red, and Frances had to wring out the cloth quickly so that it might be at least partially cleansed before she applied it to her wounds again. When she brought it back to the bowl, she saw that a small area of the cloth was drenched with fresh blood.

  With the remaining cloth and the belt from her gown – which she noticed had been folded neatly in the corner of the room – she fashioned a rudimentary girdle such as she wore during her monthly courses. She then put on the fresh linen shift that lay on top of the pile of clothes, and was about to lower herself into bed when she noticed that a small piece of paper had been pushed underneath the door. She padded across the oak floorboards and stooped slowly to pick it up.

  Lady Frances Gorges

  The hand was elegant, but understated, without the flourishes that were now fashionable among members of the court, for whom letter writing was more an art form than a means of communication. She turned it over. The seal, which had been broken, bore the letter ‘W.’ Frances felt her heart quicken. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.

  Dearest Frances,

  My friends and I are working day and night for your release. You cannot be kept there without charge, and what proof can they have? You have done no wrong. Your uncle also labours on your behalf, taking advantage of Cecil’s frequent absences of late. Take courage – it cannot be long.

  Your loving friend,

  TW

  Her mind racing, Frances read the note over and over again. What could he possibly do to help her, without endangering himself? He might easily be implicated for conspiring with a known witch. The penalty for that was almost as severe as for sorcery. And who were the friends that he spoke of? Sir Tyringham? She hardly thought so. What surprised her most, though, was the reference to her uncle. She had assumed that the earl had altogether disowned her, humiliated by the shame that she had brought upon the family. The notion that he was trying to exonerate her was difficult to comprehend.

  Turning the letter over distractedly, she noted the postscript.

  My lady princess is ailing. She pines for your presence almost as much as I, and has eaten little since you were taken. Lady Mar says she is often awoken by the child’s night terrors.

  Frances felt a wave of grief for the young girl. She was a slight child, and could ill afford to forgo any meals. Then another thought intruded. If the princess did not improve, the finger of blame would soon point at her favourite lady-in-waiting. No doubt Lady Mar had already been filling the princess’s mind with tales of her wickedness, conjuring up images of evil spells and potions concocted late at night in her apartments. Frances felt her heart contract with fear.

  She looked again at the letter, and saw that in one corner a tiny inscription had been written in a different hand: 23 Aug. The same day that she had been ta
ken to the Beauchamp Tower. How many days had passed since then?

  A soft knocking at the door interrupted her thoughts. Frances quickly tucked the note into the top of her bodice. Sir Richard Berkeley entered at her call. He gave a deep bow, then looked at her with a mixture of pity and shame.

  ‘I am sorry for what you have suffered, Lady Frances,’ he said after a pause, then lowered his gaze. ‘I fear it has been brutal.’

  Before she could answer, he continued: ‘There is a visitor from court to see you. Should you require any assistance from me, just send word.’

  Frances felt a jolt of apprehension as he backed hastily away, leaving the door ajar. A few moments later, she heard the tread of a different foot, and Thomas Sackville walked into the room. He gave a brisk bow and motioned for Frances to remain seated, for which she was grateful. His eyes alighted on the ewer filled with bloodied water, and then darted quickly back to her, taking in the wounds that were visible on her face and neck. He looked momentarily ashamed, and hesitated before speaking. Frances waited, careful to keep her expression impassive despite the rapid hammering in her chest.

  ‘My lady, I am to accompany you back to court.’

  The words were so unexpected that Frances could not mask her surprise. Her mind was racing, but before she could respond he continued: ‘You are required to attend my lady princess without delay. She is gravely ill.’

  Frances reeled, as much from the news of her young mistress as the notion that she – a suspected witch – should now be called upon to try to save her.

  ‘But Sir Thomas,’ she said at last, ‘you must know of what I have been accused? How then can I be asked to attend the princess?’

  Lord Sackville shifted uncomfortably. The lines in his brow grew deeper as he struggled to form an answer.

  ‘His Majesty – that is, Their Majesties – have seen fit to pardon you for your supposed offences. His Grace informed the council that no proof of witchcraft was found, despite’ – he hesitated again, unable to meet her gaze – ‘despite a thorough investigation.’

  Frances stared at him as she fought to control her churning emotions. Was this, too, a trap? But the king had made it clear that Mistress Knyvett’s accusation was enough to bring her to trial, even though Balfour’s blade had not provided any further proof. What would be served by testing her again? Besides, the princess’s life was surely too precious to be toyed with. They must be desperate if they had summoned her.

  ‘His Majesty’s officers were indeed most thorough,’ Frances replied quietly after a long pause, her voice as cold as ice. She continued to look at him until he at last lifted his eyes to hers. An image of the princess came into her mind, her small, slender frame racked by fever. She took a breath, then rose slowly to her feet.

  ‘Well then, Sir Thomas, we must make haste.’

  CHAPTER 25

  1 September

  The rain was falling steadily by the time Lord Sackville’s barge reached the watergate. Frances welcomed its cleansing coolness and turned her face up so that she might catch more of the drops. For all her anxiety about the princess, she was sorry that the journey was over. She had relished the feeling of freedom as they glided along the vast grey waters of the Thames, putting an ever greater distance between themselves and the Tower. There was a sharp jolt as they butted up against the landing stage, where an attendant was waiting to tether their barge and escort them into the palace. His cloak was clinging to his shoulders, and droplets of water fell steadily from his cap. He must have been waiting there for some time. Frances noticed the panic in his eyes as she took his arm and climbed out of the barge. It reminded her of the boy who had rushed her to Lady Beatrice’s apartments upon her first arrival at James’s court, although that now seemed like a lifetime ago. More than ever, she wished that she had been allowed to remain at Longford.

  Walking briskly alongside Lord Sackville, but not taking the arm that he had proffered, Frances passed under the gateway and into the courtyard. It was the usual hive of activity, but she fancied that there was a more subdued air than usual.

  Just before they passed under the archway that led through into the first series of courtier lodgings, a small movement caught Frances’s eye. Looking up, she saw a familiar figure watching her from one of the windows. His features were partially obscured by the leadwork, but she could see his dark eyes staring down at her. Her heart contracted.

  Tom.

  Suddenly conscious of the marks on her face and neck, she drew up the hood of her cloak, but kept her gaze fixed on him. Even at this distance, she could see dark shadows under his eyes. Her mouth lifted into a small smile. He did not return it.

  The scraping of Lord Sackville’s boot on the cobbles made her turn away abruptly. She had momentarily forgotten the cause of their haste, and, ashamed, walked on quickly without looking back at the window.

  As they made their way through the succession of familiar rooms and passages, Frances felt as if she were looking at them through a dirty window. The gilding, tapestries, and other decorations seemed to have lost all of their lustre, and appeared as drab and lifeless as a tree in winter. She sensed that even when the candles were ablaze in their sconces, their light would not bring everything to life as it once had, but rather show it up as a hopeless façade, devoid of any true beauty. Even the lingering scent of beeswax and rush matting, which before had suggested warmth and comfort, now smelt stale and sickly.

  Every courtier or attendant they passed bowed low to Lord Sackville, then their eyes flickered across to Frances. In one courtyard, a cluster of ladies who had been talking animatedly suddenly fell silent as they approached. Frances continued to stare straight ahead, but she could feel their eyes upon her. So this was to be her life now. She had heard it said that those who stood accused of witchcraft were damned, whether or not they went to the scaffold. Now she understood why.

  At last they reached the entrance to the princess’s apartments. The guards immediately raised their halberds so that they might pass through. Lady Mar was sitting in the antechamber, but leaped to her feet when she saw them approach.

  ‘My Lord,’ she said, dropping a deep curtsey.

  Straightening, she regarded Frances coldly.

  ‘Lady Mar,’ Frances said, holding her gaze until she received a curt nod in reply. ‘How fares the princess?’

  ‘Worse. Her fever is still high, and she has taken no food or water for three days now.’

  Frances frowned as she unlaced her cloak and handed it to the older woman, giving her no time to protest as she swept past and into the young girl’s bedroom. Lord Sackville followed in her wake, closing the door behind them.

  The curtains had been drawn across the window, and a solitary candle burned in the sconce above the fireplace. Frances had to stare for several moments before she could make out the small form that lay as still as a statue on the bed. The heavy coverlets that had been placed over her did not move. Frances walked slowly towards the head of the bed. She held her breath as she leaned forward and placed her hand on Elizabeth’s forehead. It was icy cold, but when Frances drew her hand away it was covered with beads of sweat. The girl’s skin had the pallor of wax, and her lips, which were parted slightly, were tinged with blue. Frances held her hand in front of them for a few moments, but could feel no warmth. Panic began to rise in her chest, and she cast an anxious look at Lord Sackville, who still stood uncertainly by the door.

  Just then, a small sound came from the bed. It was so quiet that Frances wondered if she had imagined it. She listened intently, her eyes fixed on the girl’s face. After a few moments, she heard it again, more distinct this time – a dry, clicking sound that seemed to come from Elizabeth’s throat. Quickly, Frances reached for the small tumbler on the cabinet next to the bed and, cradling the princess’s head, poured a few drops into her mouth. Elizabeth started to splutter at once, coughing and rasping as if she were being choked. Alarmed, Frances lifted her forward so that she was almost sitting. She was as ligh
t as a bird, and Frances could feel her ribs through the linen robe that she wore. The coughing fit grew more intense so that her whole body jerked with each fresh onslaught. All of a sudden, she started to retch, and, before Frances could fetch the ewer from the cabinet by the fireplace, she vomited over the bedclothes, the black bile soaking into the soft satin.

  ‘Tell Lady Mar to bring a fresh gown and sheets,’ Frances commanded Lord Sackville. ‘And go to Lord Cecil. He must come without delay.’

  The man hastened from the room, and Frances could hear the urgency in his voice as he issued her directions to Lady Mar.

  The princess now lay limp in her arms, her wasted body exhausted from the coughing fit. Frances smoothed the damp tendrils of hair back from her forehead and rocked her very gently back and forth, caring nothing for the bitter stench that rose up from her gown. The girl’s thin arms were marked with angry red blisters. Frances felt a surge of fury. The physicians’ leeches had sapped her of blood, weakening her still further.

  ‘Hush now, my lady,’ she said softly, though the child did not stir, and seemed insensible of her presence.

  The sound of brisk footsteps heralded Lady Mar’s arrival. She entered the chamber bearing the linens that Frances had requested, and as she set them down on the bed her nose wrinkled. She glanced quickly at the princess, then turned and walked quickly from the room.

  The princess did not awaken as Frances gently pulled the gown over her head and dabbed at her chest with a dampened linen cloth. She looked so frail that Frances’s eyes filled with tears. Without pausing, she removed the stained coverlet and bundled it up with the gown, then fetched the fresh linens. As she eased the girl’s small body into her new nightgown, it reminded her of the hours she had spent dressing her ragdolls as a child, pushing their pliant limbs into the tiny outfits that her mother had sewn.