The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Now that it is discovered, this plot cannot succeed, my lady. All those who thought to support it would be well advised to show their loyalty to the king.’

  His eyes bored into hers, and he made no move to release his grip. Frances felt her heart quicken. Not trusting herself to speak, she gave a curt nod, and, pulling her arm free, walked briskly from the room.

  CHAPTER 40

  1 November

  The sound of horses’ hooves made Frances jolt as she and the princess sat quietly at the breakfast table. Elizabeth shot her an anxious look, then crossed over to the window.

  ‘He is not wearing palace livery, at any rate,’ she said as she peered out, and then, with a nonchalant air, resumed her seat.

  Frances noticed that the girl’s hands trembled slightly as she cut herself another piece of cheese. They lapsed back into silence, both straining to listen as the visitor was admitted. There was a brief exchange, then the sound of the door closing and the man riding back down the drive. A moment later, Lord Harington walked slowly into the room. He was leaning heavily on his staff, and he seemed to have aged overnight. His face was pallid, and there were dark rings under his eyes. None of them could have had much sleep the previous night. She pulled out a chair for him, and he gave her a grateful smile. After he had caught his breath, he handed the princess a small folded note. She hesitated before opening it, studying the seal carefully.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, Your Highness,’ he said kindly. ‘I believe it is an invitation from Coughton Court.’

  Elizabeth brightened at once and ripped open the seal.

  ‘Sir Everard is holding a great feast this evening, and wishes me to attend!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘All of his companions will be there – Catesby, the Wrights, Tom – as well as our new acquaintances, Father Garnet, and the Vaux sisters.’ She turned to Frances. ‘I think the blue silk gown, do you, Frances? It will look so pretty with the silver necklace that Sir Everard gave me at Hampton Court. Or perhaps the purple …’

  She chattered on, oblivious to the expression on Lord Harington’s face.

  ‘I am sorry, Your Highness,’ he broke in at last. ‘But I am afraid it is quite impossible for you to attend.’

  Elizabeth looked across at him in dismay.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Lord Harington?’ she demanded. ‘It is not as if I have any other engagements. God knows there is little enough company in these parts.’

  Frances knew she had not forgotten that she was obliged to remain at Coombe until Lord Harington received further instructions from court; she was simply ignoring the fact. It was a tactic she had often employed when attempting to avoid one of Lady Mar’s many unwelcome strictures.

  The old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Your Highness, I regret that my orders are to keep you here at Coombe. You know that it is for your safety,’ he added quickly.

  ‘But I am only visiting a neighbour for the evening. Where is the danger in that?’ the princess demanded.

  ‘Coughton Court is some thirty miles away, ma’am. It is half a day’s ride at least, so you would be absent from Coombe for a good deal longer than an evening.’

  Elizabeth waved away his objections. ‘Sir Everard would be offended if we turn down his invitation. He knows we live very dull lives here at the abbey.’

  Lord Harington opened his mouth to reply, but Frances seized her opportunity.

  ‘You are quite right, Your Highness. So in order to avoid causing offence, I will go in your stead.’ She shot an appealing look at their host.

  ‘That is an excellent suggestion, Lady Frances,’ he said with relief. ‘I will arrange a carriage for you.’

  ‘There is no need, Lord Harington. I will enjoy the ride.’ She glanced across at the princess, who was scowling. ‘Well then, it is settled,’ she said briskly. ‘If you will excuse me, I will make ready.’

  The sun was low in the sky by the time Frances reached the parkland surrounding Coughton Court. There had been a hard frost that morning, and it had barely thawed all day, which had made the ride much faster than it might otherwise have been. Frances was glad of it. She had hardly noticed the gently undulating fields and valleys as she sped past, so lost had she been in her thoughts. If the news had not already reached Tom that the plot was discovered, then she must be the one to deliver it.

  She felt her stomach knot with anxiety at the thought of what awaited her, but she also experienced the old rush of excitement at seeing Tom again. She had no idea where he had been living these past few months, but she could not imagine that it was in any great luxury. She pictured him, pale and emaciated, his cheekbones sharp through his long beard, then shook the thought away. Already, her fingers tingled to touch the smooth skin of his hands, or stroke the hair that curled at his neck.

  Frances spurred her horse on, dipping her head close to its neck as they gathered speed. Only when she reached the top of the drive did she slow it to a canter. As she rode along it, she rehearsed her plan again. She would seek out Tom before dinner, and this time she would insist that Catesby came too. He must hear the truth from her own lips. If the gathering was as great as Sir Everard implied in his invitation, then there would surely be ample opportunity to slip away unnoticed to a quiet corner, where they would not be overheard. She must take particular care not to arouse Sir Everard’s suspicions. He would no doubt be reporting everything back to Cecil.

  The house came into view as she rounded the next corner, the last rays of sunlight illuminating the golden stone façade. It reminded her a little of Hampton Court, with its turreted gatehouse and low, elegant ranges at either side. The Throckmortons had profited from their years at court, despite the taint of treason that had hung about their name since one of their number had led a conspiracy against the old queen. A torch blazed on either side of the great archway that led through into a courtyard.

  Frances glanced around. She had expected it to be filled with carriages, but it was empty save for a mounting block, next to which a pageboy was waiting patiently to help her climb down from the horse. Neither was there any sound of revelry within the house. Had it not been for the lights that shone from the tall windows of the main range, she might have begun to think that the place was completely deserted.

  After she had dismounted, the boy gestured towards a small doorway in the corner of the courtyard, where a footman was waiting to escort her. Frances nodded her thanks and followed him up a wide stone staircase, the walls either side of which were hung with faded tapestries. As they reached the landing that led into the hall, she heard subdued voices within. Her heart was racing by the time that she stepped over the threshold.

  ‘Lady Frances Gorges,’ the footman announced.

  She stood for a few moments, her eyes scanning the room. Instead of the bustling reception that she had expected, there was just a handful of guests, all seated by the fire. Sir Everard stepped forward.

  ‘You are most welcome, Lady Frances,’ he said with a small bow. ‘As you can see, we are rather few in number this evening.’

  She followed the arc of his hand and saw Anne Vaux and her sister. Lady Vaux’s expression did not alter as she looked back at Frances, but Eleanor forced a weak smile. Next to them was a pretty young lady with blonde ringlets and a small, heart-shaped face. She got up from her chair and bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘I do not believe you have met my wife?’

  Frances inclined her head. ‘Lady Digby.’

  She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and a figure emerged from the window embrasure, which was in shadow. Frances’s heart leaped, but then she saw that it was Father Garnet. His face was ashen.

  ‘The rest of our friends were unable to join our celebration after all,’ he said quietly. ‘Important business has detained them in London.’ His eyes bored into hers.

  ‘So our party is complete?’ Frances asked as she glanced back towards Sir Everard and the ladies.

  ‘I fear so, Lady Frances,’ their hos
t said, with a rueful smile. ‘By the time we heard from Catesby, it was too late to send word to you. But we will do our best to make a merry party, eh ladies?’

  His wife beamed adoringly at him, and Eleanor Brooksby nodded obligingly. Lady Vaux regarded him coldly and remained silent.

  ‘Lady Frances, will you take some spiced wine before we go in to dinner?’ Lady Digby addressed her shyly.

  Frances thought quickly. It was enough that she had been robbed of the chance to warn Tom in person; she could not bear the prospect of waiting until after dinner for an opportunity to speak to Father Garnet.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Digby, but I have a message from the princess to convey to Father Garnet and would rather do it now, before I get diverted by the delights of your table.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘It is of a personal nature, so I would be grateful if you would excuse us for a few moments. It will not take long,’ she added, when she saw Lady Digby glance anxiously at the clock.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Father Garnet cut in. ‘We must always put spiritual affairs ahead of those of the flesh, eh, Sir Everard?’

  Their host was scowling, but he forced a tight smile and bade them follow him to a small antechamber along the corridor. He lingered in the doorway after they were seated, and for a moment Frances feared that he was going to insist upon joining them. Eventually, though, he sighed and gave a small bow as he closed the door behind him. Frances waited until she had heard his footsteps fade.

  ‘So Cecil has revealed the plot already,’ the priest said in a low voice before she could speak.

  Frances nodded, her expression bleak.

  ‘Monteagle’s letter gave him little other choice, I suppose,’ Father Garnet continued. ‘The king would soon have learned of its contents. But I had not expected betrayal to come from another corner. We were watching Sir Everard so closely that we neglected others, it seems. At least none of the plotters has yet been captured.’

  Frances felt a flicker of hope.

  ‘So they have made their escape?’

  The old man turned desperate eyes to her. Slowly, he shook his head.

  ‘Catesby will not give it up,’ he whispered. ‘He says it changes nothing, that Cecil already knew about the plot, but is still in the dark about when or where it will be executed – or by whom.’

  Frances stared at him in horror.

  ‘But he surely knows everything now. Lord Harington’s instructions suggest so – Cecil has told him to keep the princess under strict guard at Coombe.’

  The priest gave a heavy sigh and ran his hand across his brow, as if trying to smooth away the deep lines of his anxiety.

  ‘It is madness to forge ahead, I know, but Catesby is blind to it – or chooses to be. He believes that God is on their side and will hand them victory.’

  ‘God has no part in this!’ Frances retorted angrily. ‘Catesby acts for himself alone. Well, his vanity will cost not just his own life, but that of all his confederates.’

  She stood up and began pacing the room. Her fury was laced with frustration that after all these months of waiting, it had come to this. And she was utterly powerless to prevent the plot careering towards certain disaster. Surely Tom could see that it was doomed? How could he forfeit his life, and that of his brother, out of blind loyalty to their vain and foolish cousin?

  Father Garnet grabbed hold of her wrist to halt her frantic pacing.

  ‘I pray you, Lady Frances, be calm. We will not help them with anger. There is enough of that already.’

  Frances rounded on him. ‘Then how shall we help them, Father?’ she demanded. ‘When they seem so utterly bent upon their own destruction?’

  The old man shook his head sadly. ‘I fear they are beyond our help, Lady Frances. We can only help ourselves.’

  She looked away, not wanting to hear what he might say next.

  ‘I will leave this place as soon as I am able to do so without raising suspicion,’ he continued after a pause. ‘Sir Everard will shortly be moving to Dunchurch, a village that lies very close to Coombe Abbey. Cecil has no doubt instructed him to be ready to seize the princess, if Catesby and his men should think to come here. Coughton Court will be all but deserted, so I can make my escape. There are those who will gladly provide refuge in Flanders. I would urge you to follow me. When the plot fails, and Catesby and the rest take flight – assuming they are not apprehended immediately – every sheriff in the land will be sent to find them. Nobody will notice our absence until we are safely across the seas.’

  Frances stared at Father Garnet in disbelief. As soon as the tide had turned against the plotters, he had left them to their fate. Could any man be trusted not to turn his coat?

  She fell silent. Nothing would be gained from trying to persuade him to alter his course, or from revealing her own intentions.

  ‘I will think on it, Father,’ she said at last. ‘Now, we must return to the company, before Sir Everard’s dinner is ruined.’

  The priest looked at her uncertainly for a few moments, then gave a small bow and walked out of the room. Frances watched his hunched form retreating into the shadows. An image of Tom flitted before her.

  ‘I will not forsake you,’ she whispered into the gloom.

  CHAPTER 41

  5 November

  There was a light tap at the door, and one of the chamber women entered the parlour with a burning taper. She padded quietly over to each of the sconces and lit them, taking care not to drip any wax on the fine Turkey carpet. Frances glanced out of the window. The light was fading fast, though the clock on the fireplace had not yet struck four. A square of embroidery lay limp on her lap. Now that she had light to work by, she picked up her needle again, but her fingers trembled so much that she was unable to thread it. She set it back down with an impatient sigh, and picked distractedly at the tiny stitches that she had sewn a few hours before.

  ‘You are such a dolt today, Frances!’ the princess exclaimed scornfully as she laid down her cards and cupped her hands around the coins in the centre of the table, dragging them over to add to the large pile in front of her. ‘I would have done better to challenge Patch to a game.’

  The Irish wolfhound raised his head expectantly at the sound of his name, then lowered it back down onto his paws and gave a small whine. Frances reached down and patted his soft grey back. His tail beat the floor a couple of times, then he gave a wide yawn and lapsed back into sleep.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ she replied quietly. ‘I couldn’t sleep for most of the night, so I am a little tired.’

  That at least was the truth. As soon as she had retired to bed, thoughts of what might be transpiring in London had come closing in, and she had known that any attempts at sleep would be hopeless. She had risen early, before it was light, and, though she had busied herself with various dull but time-consuming tasks throughout the day, her mind had been drawn inexorably back to it. Were Tom and his fellow conspirators even now in that dark cellar beneath Westminster Hall, carefully lifting another barrel of gunpowder into place, while the king presided over his Parliament in the chamber above? Were James and his ministers already dead, their corpses burning to cinders in the scorched ruins of St Stephen’s Chapel? Or had Catesby finally realised the madness of his schemes, and fled for the Continent with his followers in tow? Again and again, Frances willed her mind to picture Tom on board a boat as it sailed across the Channel to safety. But the image would fade as soon as it appeared, like a fleeting glimpse of the sun in a stormy winter sky. In its place came a vision of Tom, a rope tightening around his neck, his face slowly turning blue as he fought for breath.

  Frances shook the thought away again now, and, with trembling fingers, reached for her goblet. As she did so, she brushed against the house of cards that the princess, bored of playing such a distracted opponent, had been carefully building. They collapsed in a heap. Elizabeth gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Really, Frances. It is too much to bear. I am kept here like a caged bird, while you are f
ree to go riding, visit acquaintances, and anything else that takes your fancy. And when you do at last stay to keep me company, you are as dull as one of Lord Harington’s statues.’

  Frances felt a surge of impatience as she stared back at her young mistress, who had turned away from her and was idly toying with a ribbon that she had pulled loose from her hair. She bit back a retort, and fell into a resentful silence.

  The opening of the door made them both start.

  ‘Ah, Lord Harington, perhaps you would care to play cards with me?’ the princess asked, before he had the chance to speak.

  He smiled tightly and glanced across at Frances.

  ‘Gladly, Your Grace, though I would not wish to deprive Lady Frances of her place,’ he replied.

  ‘You need not worry on that score,’ Elizabeth retorted indignantly. ‘She has no interest in keeping me company today.’

  Feeling suddenly cold, Frances stood abruptly and moved to the seat next to the fire. She was only vaguely aware of the princess’s endless chatter as she and Lord Harington began their game. Drawing her chair closer to the fire, she held out her palms and felt them tingle against the heat. As she stared into the grate, she suddenly saw an image of Tom writhing in torment, his skin blistering as the flames licked higher, the acrid smoke filling his lungs so that he choked for breath. Without warning, a log suddenly fell from the fire, landing on the stone hearth, sending sparks flying across the carpet. Patch leaped to his feet and began barking furiously. Quickly, Frances whipped the shawl from around her shoulders and threw it across the smouldering embers, stamping on it until each one was extinguished.

  Lord Harington grabbed his dog by the collar and gave the howling animal a sharp tap across his flank. Patch yelped, then began to whimper quietly, hanging his head low as he skulked away into a corner. A plume of smoke rose from the charred rug and the fallen log, and the princess was seized by a dramatic fit of coughing. Frances busied herself with brushing the sparks from the carpet, then reached for the fire tongs and carefully placed the log back in the grate.