The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  Sir Richard opened it before the guard had the chance to knock. With a nod, he dismissed him and bade Frances enter. He showed her into a brightly lit parlour, where a fire roared in the grate. She lowered her hood, grateful for the warmth, and sat in the chair that Sir Richard indicated. An open book was turned face down on the table, a half empty glass of wine next to it. He can hardly have welcomed such an unexpected guest at this hour. Though he forced a pleasant smile as he sat down opposite her, she caught the panic in his eyes.

  ‘Sir Richard, I have come to see one of the prisoners in your custody,’ Frances began without preamble.

  A fleeting look of relief crossed the old man’s features.

  ‘Sir Walter is a popular resident here. Prince Henry himself came to visit but three weeks ago. However, I fear the hour may be a little late—’

  ‘It is not Sir Walter whom I wish to see,’ Frances interrupted. ‘It is one of the men suspected of involvement in the Powder Treason.’

  Sir Richard blanched. He reached for his glass of wine and took a long sip, holding her steady gaze as he did so. Frances noticed that his hand trembled as he set the glass down.

  ‘My Lord Salisbury has issued strict orders that they are to see and speak to no one except their interrogators. I cannot disobey him.’ He spread his hands and gave a slight shrug.

  Frances paused, but kept her eyes fixed on him. Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed hard before continuing.

  ‘You have ever been a faithful servant to Lord Salisbury, have you not?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘I am testament to that. He had an innocent woman tortured, and you delivered her to him, even though employing such methods is against English law. Tell me, Sir Richard, do you consider that just? Is that why you accepted the post of lieutenant, so that you could arrange the torture of innocent men and women?’

  She saw him flinch at her words.

  ‘The gunpowder plotters are hardly innocent, Lady Frances,’ he replied quietly. ‘Their guilt has been well proven, even before their trial.’

  ‘And have they freely confessed, or was it wrenched out of them?’ she demanded, her voice growing louder.

  The old man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He took another sip from his glass.

  ‘They are obstinate papists, Lady Frances, and so committed to their cause that they would say nothing to hinder it.’ He sighed and ran his fingers across his brow. ‘Fawkes had to be racked. He would have rotted away in his cell without speaking a word otherwise. But Wintour maintains his silence.’

  Frances took a breath and looked down at her hands.

  ‘And has he been racked too?’ she asked quietly.

  Sir Richard shook his head. ‘There is little point. He is tortured enough by his wounds.’

  She felt tears prick her eyes, but blinked them quickly away.

  ‘It is he whom I wish to see.’

  ‘My lady, I have already explained the impossibility—’

  ‘As lieutenant of the Tower, it is in your gift, Sir Richard. The hour is late, as you say, and there can be no one here who would recognise me. You can tell the guard that I am his sister, come to pray with her brother before his trial. This should keep his silence.’ She drew a bag of coins out of her pocket and placed it on the table in front of him.

  Sir Richard fell silent again, his gaze fixed upon the purse.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘But for a few moments only.’

  The smell of damp grew stronger as Sir Richard led her down the winding stairs, their only light the small lantern that he carried. At the foot of the staircase, there was a long narrow passageway with a number of doors on each side. As they walked along it, there was a sudden clattering of keys as a guard at the far end scrambled to his feet. When they reached him, the lieutenant leaned forward and spoke quietly in his ear, then pressed the bag of coins into his hand. The man nodded and unlocked the door next to him.

  Sir Richard turned to Frances. ‘I have told him you are to stay for a brief time only. I will leave you now.’

  He turned on his heel and walked briskly back along the corridor before she could thank him. The guard lifted the latch and pushed the heavy iron door open. Frances stepped forward uncertainly. She stood on the threshold, blinking into the gloom.

  ‘Take this,’ the guard said, as he thrust a lamp towards her. A moment later she heard the door slam shut. She jolted forward and almost dropped the lamp. The candle flickered as she reached out to steady herself, and her hand brushed against a rough wooden post. Slowly, she lifted the light, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Lying on the bare pallet that she had touched was a man, his legs drawn up to his chest. He wore a long linen shirt and breeches, and there were dark stains around his shoulder and stomach. His face was obscured by his arms, which were drawn over his head as if to shield him from a blow.

  Frances drew in a deep breath. The air was dank and smelt of decay. She took a few steps so that she was level with the man’s face, then knelt down on the cold stone floor. She lifted her lamp and gently reached forward to touch his arm. It felt as cold and still as marble. Her heart lurched, and she clasped her hand to her mouth. Hope and despair flared within her. But then he made a slight groan and shifted on the pallet.

  ‘Tom,’ she whispered as she leaned forward and stroked his hair, which was tangled and matted. She held her lamp closer to his face. His lips were dry and cracked, and there were smears of dark blood on his deathly white cheek. After a few moments, his eyelids began to flicker and he slowly opened them, blinking against the light. She set the lamp down on the floor and placed her hands gently over his. His eyes widened with recognition and he tried to speak, but the words rasped in his throat.

  ‘Quiet, my love.’ Frances pressed her fingers gently to his lips. She hesitated as she gazed into his sunken eyes, which were clouded with pain. Willing herself to find the strength that she needed, she reached into her pocket and drew out the phial. Her hand trembled as she eased the tiny stopper from the top.

  ‘Here, drink this – slowly now.’

  Tom lifted his head, wincing in pain as he did so. Frances could hardly breathe as she watched him take the phial from her hands and bring it to his lips. She longed to turn away, yet her eyes were fixed upon his mouth.

  He tilted the phial, and slowly opened his mouth. Frances felt as if time had stopped. Her breathing came quick and shallow.

  Tom paused, the liquid suspended at an angle in the glass. The acrid smell of foxgloves filled the air as he peered at the tincture, then at Frances.

  ‘What is this?’ he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse.

  Frances held his gaze.

  ‘It is for your ease.’

  Still, he watched her, but made no move to drink the potion. Frances felt as if the breath was being squeezed from her lungs.

  ‘Please—’ she whispered.

  Tom gazed back at her with sadness and affection. She felt her resolve begin to crumble and her eyes welled with tears. Unable to look at him any longer, she lowered her head and began to sob. She was only vaguely aware of him taking the stopper from her and setting the phial down on the floor.

  ‘Frances.’ He reached out and stroked her hair. ‘Did you mean to end my suffering – here, tonight?’

  Her shoulders heaved with silent grief, and for several moments she was unable to answer. Then slowly she raised her bloodshot eyes to his.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I have prayed – prayed – that God would take you before you leave this place. But it seems that he has deserted us.’ Her eyes were wide with horror. ‘I cannot let you suffer the torments of a traitor’s death.’

  Tom sank back onto the pallet, but grasped her hands in his, which felt deathly cold. He continued to regard her steadily.

  ‘And I cannot let you forfeit your life for mine,’ he said quietly. ‘They know that my injuries are not enough to kill me – at least, not for some weeks yet. If they find me dead after you have left,
they will have you arrested as a witch. Cecil let slip his prey once; he will not do so again.’

  ‘But you know what awaits you. How will you bear it?’ Frances whispered, her eyes filling with tears again.

  Tom tightened his grip on her hands. His eyes shone in the pale light of the candle.

  ‘For the love of you, I would suffer any torment. It cannot be greater than knowing that I had sent you to your death.’

  Frances dipped her head to kiss his hands. When she looked up again, his eyes were glistening with tears.

  ‘We have little time,’ she whispered urgently, her face close to his. ‘The queen has tried to petition her husband for clemency, but he refuses to see her. I have had no word from my uncle, and I fear he too has failed – if he even tried. You must do what you can to save yourself. If you give Cecil the confession he seeks, you may yet live.’

  Tom gave a slight shake of his head.

  ‘He will only be satisfied if I name those at court with whom we conspired.’

  ‘Then name them!’ Frances cried. There was the sound of feet scuffing on the flagstones on the other side of the door. She held her breath and waited, but the guard did not come in. After a pause, she continued in a low voice: ‘The queen is weary of her life. She would gladly be free of it. Not that James would dare to have her executed for treason. It would make him even more ridiculous in the eyes of his subjects. He would send her away to a nunnery, where she could live out her days in peace.’

  ‘And you?’ He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. ‘What would become of you?’

  Frances looked at him steadily.

  ‘Cecil knows that I am involved in this plot, and lacks only the evidence with which to persuade the king. If you give it to him, he will surely spare your life.’

  ‘Or have us both put to death,’ Tom said with a sad smile.

  There was a sudden rattle of keys, and the door was flung open. In panic, Frances turned to face the guard.

  ‘A few minutes more. Please,’ she urged. ‘We must have time to pray.’

  The guard hesitated for a moment, then grunted and slammed the door shut behind him. Tom leaned forward and drew Frances towards him so that their faces were almost touching. His breath on her lips was barely warm.

  ‘I must die knowing that you shall live, Frances. Only that will give me the courage I lack.’

  A tear ran slowly down her cheek as she gazed back at him. He pressed his lips to it, then to her own. She clung to him as he drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her. The urgency of his kiss gradually subsided, and he lay back on the pallet, breathing heavily. She gently lowered herself down behind him and they lay like that for several minutes, her arms wrapped around his torso and her face pressed into his neck.

  When she heard a movement behind the door, she knew it must end. Battling every instinct in her body, she raised herself from the pallet and knelt down beside him once more. As the guard walked in, she leaned towards Tom, whose eyes never left hers.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered, then kissed him gently on the mouth. ‘I always have.’

  Hearing his own words echoed back to him, Tom closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she had gone.

  CHAPTER 46

  23 November

  Frances pushed her way through the banqueting hall, which was crammed with courtiers chattering excitedly and craning their necks towards the empty throne on the raised dais. All of the windows were closed against the winter chill, and the air was stifling. A bead of sweat ran down her back as she surged forward, and when at last she found a relatively quiet corner next to one of the pillars, she was obliged to crouch down for a few moments to stop herself from fainting. Her breathing gradually became steadier, and she stood up slowly, holding onto the pillar. From her vantage point, she could see the lords of the council sitting grave-faced on two rows of chairs at the edge of the dais. Her uncle looked flushed and agitated, and every now and then he ran his finger along his collar in an attempt to loosen it.

  She turned her gaze towards the large doorway behind them as a fanfare sounded across the hall. The lords immediately got to their feet and bowed low as the king swept past, a triumphant expression on his face. Behind him came the queen. Frances studied her closely, but she looked as impassive as ever. In her wake was Cecil. Though his head was bowed, she caught the smile that played about his lips. It made her blood run cold.

  A hush descended as James walked to the front of the dais, flanked by six yeomen of the guard. Anne had sat down on her throne, staring straight ahead. To her left was Cecil, his hands placed neatly on his lap.

  ‘Faithful subjects,’ the king began, ‘I have summoned you here so that I can relay news of the greatest import.’ His accent was stronger than before, Frances noticed, no doubt thanks to having closeted himself away with his Scottish attendants. She strained to catch his next words, though she also feared what they might be.

  ‘Ye will know that all but one of the plotters in the late devilish conspiracy have been captured and thrown into the Tower. They thought to elude punishment through their refusal to confess, but their obstinacy has crumbled before the skill of my interrogators. Guido Fawkes was the first to admit his guilt, and today the other leader has capitulated.’

  Frances drew a sharp breath.

  ‘Thomas Wintour has signed a full confession of the part that he – and others – played in the treasonous plot.’ The king held a rolled parchment aloft with a dramatic flourish and smiled in satisfaction at the excited murmurs around the room. Frances’s eyes darted across to the queen, but her expression had not altered. ‘His words, written in his own hand, have provided my ministers with ample evidence to proceed to trial. This shall take place at Westminster Hall, where they intended to murder me and my Parliament, at a date to be assigned by us.’

  He broke off again and looked around the hall to make sure that his words had taken full effect. The answering babble of animated voices assured him that they had. The guards who stood on either side of him were also scrutinising the faces of the crowd, but their expressions were anxious and watchful. Frances could no longer see any of them. Her vision had become clouded and her skin prickled with heat. She gripped the pillar tighter and willed this audience to end. Through the haze, she could hear the king’s voice again.

  ‘Lord Salisbury has seen to it that copies of Wintour’s confession be distributed throughout the kingdom so that all my subjects might learn the heinousness of his crimes, and those of his fellow papists.’ He nodded to Cecil, who handed several large scrolls to a group of attendants. They immediately began tacking them to each of the pillars, and, as soon as the king and his entourage had left the dais, everyone surged forward so that they might read the plotter’s words.

  Frances was jostled and pushed aside as a copy was fixed to the pillar next to her.

  THE VOLUNTARY DECLARATION OF THOMAS WINTOUR OF HUDDINGTON IN THE COUNTY OF WORCESTER, THE 23RD OF NOVEMBER 1605 AT THE TOWER.

  These were the only words she was able to read before the parchment faded from view. Desperate for air, she forced her way out of the crowds and ran for the doorway that the king had walked through a few moments earlier. As she rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, she came to an abrupt halt. Cecil was standing before her, his arms crossed in front of him, and an expression of mild amusement on his face.

  ‘You are a fast reader, Lady Frances,’ he remarked softly. ‘Once Mr Wintour had broken his silence, the words came spilling out. My scribe was hard-pressed to keep up. He might as well have written his own death warrant, and that of his fellow papists. The trial will be over in a matter of minutes.’

  ‘Did you loosen his tongue for him?’ Frances asked, her voice dangerously low.

  ‘Oh, there was no need,’ Cecil retorted airily. ‘The poor wretch is already bent double with his wounds. If we had pulled him straight on the rack, it would have stopped his breath before he could spit out the words.’

  Frances
felt the colour drain from her cheeks as she glared at him. Cecil took a step closer and leaned towards her.

  ‘He did not name you – or your treacherous queen,’ he whispered in her ear. Then suddenly he gripped her arm, squeezing it so that Frances winced with pain. ‘But I know you were up to your necks in it,’ he hissed, the spittle falling on her cheek.

  He held her there, his breathing hot and rapid against her neck as she struggled to free herself. ‘Sir Everard kept me well informed – for a time at least – and I made a show of having lost interest in the plot so that they would keep to their course. It would have been so disappointing if they had lost their nerve and lived out their lives in peace, don’t you think?’

  Frances wrenched her arm free and sprang away from him, her eyes filled with loathing. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath. Cecil’s smile broadened.

  ‘I could not bring the king’s witch to the gallows, but I will see her lover suffer the torments of a traitor’s death,’ he sneered.

  Without pausing to think, Frances lunged forward and slapped him sharply across the face. The sound reverberated along the marble corridor as Cecil put his fingers up to his cheek, his eyes blazing with shock. When he lowered his hand, she saw a deepening red welt, and felt a stab of triumph.

  ‘I wish that I were a witch,’ she said quietly. ‘I would curse you and your wretched schemes to hell.’

  She stepped slowly forward so that she was standing directly before him, her eyes alight with fury. Her mouth lifted into a slow smile, then, without warning, she spat in his face. Barely registering the look of rage that suffused his features, she pushed past him, striding briskly down the corridor and out into the bright winter sunshine.

  1606

  CHAPTER 47

  27 January

  The angel’s eyes were closed, and he wore an expression of quiet bliss. A crown of perfectly symmetrical curls framed his peaceful face, and clasped in his hands was a large shield bearing the arms of England. On his back was a pair of wings, stretched out wide as if ready to take flight.