The King's Witch

by Tracy Borman

  ‘May God go with them,’ she whispered.

  Frances kept her gaze fixed on the empty platform. She remained there long after the last of the crowds had filed out into the winter sunshine, the echoes of their footsteps reverberating around the silent hall.

  CHAPTER 48

  31 January

  The bells of St Paul’s began to toll. Frances counted. The streets were still in darkness, and there was not a breath of wind, so the sound carried easily.

  One, two, three

  She drew her knees to her chest and looked up through the open window. The moon was beginning to wane, and the stars had faded from view. Frances had watched them, straining her eyes to catch the last light that they left behind.

  Four, five, six

  Silence.

  Could it be so close to the hour already? Though she had not slept, the time had passed too quickly. She had lain for a while on the small pallet bed that Elizabeth Rookwood had provided for her here in the garret of her husband’s lodgings on the Strand. She could have enjoyed greater comfort in one of the chambers below, but she preferred the solitude of this dark attic. The oak beams of the gable roof were high enough at their apex for her to stand upright beneath them, but she was obliged to crouch down if she moved to another part of the room. A few dusty chests were piled on top of each other in one corner, but otherwise the room was bare of furnishings. Frances welcomed the simplicity. The ostentation of court had seemed even more distasteful to her since her visit to the Tower. Even this tiny garret was comfortable by comparison, its timbers warmed from the fireplace below, and its lofty position keeping the walls free from damp.

  Frances had brought nothing but the clothes she had been wearing, and a tiny book of hours, tucked into the pocket of her dark grey dress. The queen had arranged the lodging for her as a gesture of kindness – or repentance, perhaps. She too had worn sombre clothes since the trial, obliging the ladies of her household to follow suit. The king would hardly have approved if he had seen his wife and her ladies dressed as if for a wake, but the court at Greenwich was now so depleted that it passed without notice. News of Father Garnet’s arrest had prompted the few courtiers who had remained there to hasten to Westminster so that they might see the ‘Jesuit traitor,’ as Cecil called him, brought before the Privy Council.

  The priest had finally been discovered on the day of the trial. He had only made it as far as Hindlip Hall, which lay some fifteen miles west of Coughton Court. The king’s messenger had been waiting outside the chamber at Westminster to relay the tidings of his arrest. Frances guessed that her father had been told before the proceedings came to an end, hence his hasty departure.

  The queen had dispatched a groom of her household to find out the details. The boy had arrived in time to see Father Garnet being escorted from his carriage. The old man had apparently been so frail from his long weeks of hiding that he could barely stand. Frances had heard that the priest hole had been so small that he had been unable to lie down, and the sheriff’s men had been obliged to pull him out by his shoulders. She wished that she could have made a poultice to reduce the swelling in his legs. Root of mandrake, ground with a little basil, would have soon worked its effect. Perhaps a little felwort to thin the blood and speed its progress to the heart. But her salves seemed of little use now. They were part of another, more innocent life, and when she tried to recall the comfort that they had once brought her, it was like grasping at a long-faded dream.

  The rumble of a cart on the street below disturbed her thoughts. Wincing from the stiffness in her joints, she slowly straightened and crossed to the window. Already, ropes had been positioned along the Strand in order to hem in the thousands of spectators who would soon be jostling for a view of the four remaining traitors as they were dragged from the Tower to Westminster. The place of execution had been hastily changed after the other four men had been put to death the day before. It was rumoured that the king had been disappointed by the lack of spectacle at St Paul’s Churchyard, so it was decreed that the remaining traitors should meet their end outside the place of their intended crime.

  Frances wished that she could have closed her ears to the reports that had reached the queen’s presence chamber on an almost hourly basis the previous day. The first to die had been Sir Everard Digby – a meagre compensation for Cecil’s betrayal, perhaps, that he should thus be spared the sight of his fellow traitors being ripped apart before he met his maker. Lady Mar whispered that when the executioner had cut out his still-beating heart and declared to the baying crowds that it belonged to a traitor, Sir Everard had cried ‘Thou liest.’

  Tom’s brother had been next to mount the scaffold, but little had been said about the manner of his death, except that he had gone to it quietly, muttering prayers to himself as the executioner’s blade did its work. John Grant had followed in his bloody footsteps. He had had to be led up the ladder to the halter, having been blinded by an explosion of gunpowder before the siege at Holbeach. But his spirit had been unbroken, and he had died insisting that he had not sinned against God. Thomas Bates had been less stoical, but he, like the rest, had upheld his Catholic faith to the end.

  A pale light was beginning to steal over the rooftops of the city now as Frances peered out of the small casement window. A steady trickle of spectators and stallholders was starting to fill the pavements below, and, as she glanced westwards, Frances could see a procession of guards approaching. She guessed that they would be stationed at intervals along the route to prevent any of the condemned men’s friends or family members from saying goodbye – or, worse, staging a reckless attempt at rescue – as their loved ones passed by.

  The bells of St Paul’s tolled again, but the sound was obscured now by the gathering cacophony below. Frances turned her back on the window and crossed to the middle of the room so that she might straighten out her aching limbs. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out her prayer book. There was just enough light to make out the tiny script.

  He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.

  She traced the exquisite illumination that ran alongside the familiar passage, her fingers weaving along the intricate briar with its tiny red and white roses. She mouthed the words silently as she read, then closed her eyes and repeated them over and over again, trying to shut out the growing noise from the street. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her hands trembled as she pressed them tightly together.

  By the time she opened her eyes, the room was filled with a pale grey light. As she wiped the tears with the linen of her sleeve, something caught her eye on the beams overhead. She looked closer, and saw that a series of upturned ‘V’s had been carved into the wood. At first, she wondered if they were the initials of the carpenter who had built the dwelling, but their order was too random. As realisation dawned, her mouth slowly lifted into a smile.

  Witches’ marks.

  Whoever had had this house built had taken care to protect its occupants from the workings of Satan’s whores. Similar markings would no doubt be found in the eaves of houses across the kingdom, Frances knew. She remembered her father showing her some in the attics of Longford when she was a girl. He had held his candle perilously close to the heavy oak beams so that she could glimpse the strange shapes carved into their smooth surface. Quite what protection they could offer had been as great a mystery to her then as it was now. Clearly, they had failed in their purpose, she thought, for a witch had dwelt beneath them for a full night without any harm befalling her.

  There was a sudden shout from the street below, followed by another. Soon the whole of the Strand seemed to be in uproar. The smile faded from Frances’s lips. They must be in sight.

  She crossed to the window and took a deep breath before looking down. The pavements were now thronged with people, and the king’s guards were hard-pressed to contain them as they pushed and jostled their way closer to the front. Frances craned her neck so that she could look eastwards, beyond the
edge of the windowpane. In the distance, she could see the first horse making its slow, plodding progress along the Strand. There was a harness around its neck that was attached to a rope on either side, and, although the bulk of its flank obscured whatever it was that it pulled behind, Frances knew with a sickening certainty that it was the first of the prisoners. The other four men had been dragged to their deaths in this manner, each strapped to a wicker hurdle rather than being pulled along the ground as Sir Edward had stipulated, for fear that they would already be dead by the time they reached the scaffold.

  The first of the horses was almost level with the house now, and Frances caught a glimpse of the ragged boots worn by the prisoner as they bumped along the rough cobbles. Quickly, she drew back from the window, appalled by the sight that was unfolding beneath her. But she forced herself to look down again, and recognised Guido Fawkes, his face twisting into a grimace as his limp body was jolted agonisingly along the street. He hardly seemed aware of the hordes as they jeered and spat when he passed by, so lost was he in bodily torment.

  The second horse followed so close behind that its hooves occasionally brushed against the soles of Fawkes’s boots. Robert Keyes strained at the ropes that tethered him to the hurdle, his head jerking from side to side and his eyes wild with fear. Frances made the sign of the cross over her breast as he passed by. As the next horse drew level, she heard an anguished cry from the window below. Ambrose Rookwood raised desperate eyes.

  ‘Pray for me, pray for me!’ he shouted.

  The crowd fell silent as his wife called back: ‘I will, and be of good courage!’

  One of the guards jerked his head up to the window, furious at the flouting of the king’s orders that none of the prisoner’s wives should see them before they died. But Frances’s eyes were already upon the next hurdle, which was slowly coming into view. Tom’s wasted limbs were strapped tightly to it, his right arm still covered by a sling. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were closed, but she saw that his lips moved in silent prayer.

  ‘Offer thyself wholly to God!’

  The shout came from the window below, as Elizabeth Rookwood tried desperately to comfort her husband before he moved out of earshot. Tom’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘I, for my part, do as freely restore thee to God as He gave thee unto me,’ she continued.

  Tom looked up to the source of the voice. Instinctively, Frances reached out her hands, as if to touch him. Catching the movement, his eyes flicked to the window above. When he saw her, his mouth slowly lifted into a smile. As she held his gaze, Frances could no longer hear the noise of the crowd below. It was as if the whole hideous spectacle had faded away, and she and Tom were standing before each other on the stage of the Banqueting House, his brown eyes dancing with amusement as the rest of the masque was played out around them.

  She gave an answering smile, and pressed her fingers to her lips. He nodded slightly, his eyes still bright, then slowly turned them up to the sky as the horse pulled him out of sight.

  One by one, the guards stepped from their stations and fell in line behind the procession. The crowds followed in their wake, eager to gain a good vantage point when they reached the courtyard in front of Westminster Hall. Frances knew that it would already be thronged with people. They would come along in their thousands to watch the execution of common felons. How much greater the prospect of witnessing the grisly fate of the traitors who had plotted to blow up the king and his entire Parliament. The whole of London would have turned out to see it.

  Before long, the Strand was deserted, and an eerie silence had fallen, interrupted only by the occasional sob from the chamber below. Slowly, Frances turned from the window and walked across to the pallet bed. Kneeling beside it, she closed her eyes and started to pray.

  The bells began to toll again. She held her breath. As the eighth toll faded into silence, a sudden roar rose up from the distant crowds.

  EPILOGUE

  30 March

  An uncertain grey light had begun to creep along the quiet streets as Frances passed under the Holbein Gate. The cobbles glistened in the glow of the sconces on either side of the towering gateway. The onset of spring had brought no respite from the rains that had arrived two months before, dousing the city with an endless deluge so that its very walls seemed to weep, and its swollen river threatened to burst its banks. They had abated for now at least, although, as Frances glanced up at the sky, she saw that it was already thickening with more dark clouds.

  Quickening her pace a little, she drew up the hood of her cloak and kept her gaze fixed on the path in front of her. She felt a drop of rain on her face, soon followed by another. The vast expanse of St James’s Park lay to her right. If the rain became heavier, she could shelter for a while among the tree-lined pathways. But for now, she continued straight ahead, eager to reach her destination before the streets began to fill with people.

  Though she had only walked a short distance, her legs felt heavy and her shoulders ached. She had slept a great deal since Tom’s death, retiring early from the evening entertainments so that she could take her rest, and sometimes arriving late to attend the princess in the morning. Even when she had a few moments of leisure to pick up Master Gerard’s book, which she no longer troubled to conceal, her eyelids would soon grow heavy, and she would be able to read only a few pages before the words started dancing in front of her eyes. Arcadia had lain untouched on her shelves for many weeks, but not for the same reason. More than once, Elizabeth had become vexed with her favourite attendant, upbraiding her for being dull or neglectful. But the queen had been patient and solicitous, sending comfits or other delicacies in an effort to lift her melancholy.

  The tower of St Stephen’s was clearly in view now. Frances slowed her pace as she approached it. She had not set foot in Westminster for months, though it had been often in her thoughts these past weeks. Glancing over to her right, she saw the towering abbey silhouetted against the gloomy sky. She might go there to pray afterwards, though God seemed to have forsaken this miserable city. Certainly the king had deserted it, bored of the interminable debates in Parliament about the depleted treasury; bored even of the constant rumours of a fresh Jesuit conspiracy. Better to turn his back on it all and take his pleasure in the hunt, or in the yielding flesh of the latest young man to catch his eye.

  Frances crossed into the courtyard next to Westminster Hall and stood on its periphery. The ropes were still strung across the entrance to the hall, where the trial of Father Garnet had taken place two days earlier. The queen had attended in her husband’s absence, and had returned, ashen-faced, with tales of the priest’s eloquent and spirited defence, of his frail old body broken from the torments of the rack. He had been found guilty, of course, though Anne said the crowds had fallen silent when the verdict had been declared.

  The rain was falling heavily now, but Frances hardly noticed as she walked slowly over to the centre of the courtyard. The scaffold had been here. She had seen the pamphlet that had appeared at court within days of the executions, its pages filled with detailed drawings of the gruesome spectacle. Tom’s blood had long since been washed away, she thought, as she gazed down at the cobbles. She lowered herself to the ground and reached out to touch the smooth stones. The torrent of rainwater had pooled around them, and was now rising so fast that it threatened to engulf them altogether.

  She was to return to Longford tomorrow. Though the princess had objected furiously to her request that she might take her leave from court, the queen, guessing the reason, had swiftly agreed to it. Cecil had raised no opposition; he no longer had any use for her, after all. For all the terrors that he had suffered in the Tower, Father Garnet had refused to name her, and he was hardly likely to do so now. Neither had her father been implicated, but had returned to Richmond soon after Tom’s trial. He and her mother were there still, tending to the gardens and palace as if the plot had never existed. Even the king had lost interest in the idea that there were still conspirators a
t large, and had told Cecil to let the matter rest. Besides, Frances reflected, the chief minister had enough to do in trying to claw back ground from Sackville, who was rapidly beginning to eclipse him in power and favour.

  The sound of horses’ hooves echoed around the courtyard as a carriage passed by. The streets surrounding the ancient hall were starting to come to life now as people emerged from their houses, scowling up at the heavens. Frances looked down at the stones by her feet once more, then gathered up the sodden hem of her dress and slowly stood upright.

  As she turned back towards the palace for the last time, she paused and placed her hands lightly over her stomach, closing her eyes as she did so. The child had grown quickly this past month, though it was still concealed by the folds of her gown. God willing, it would open its eyes to a bright midsummer sky as the sun gently warmed the old stone walls of home.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This, my first novel, has been a long time in the writing. It began as a conversation at the Harrogate History Festival a few years ago, and gradually evolved into a story with ‘a beginning, a middle and an end’, as my Dad would say. It is entirely thanks to the inspirational guidance provided by my agent, Julian Alexander, and my editor, Nick Sayers, that the novel was slowly transformed into its final incarnation. I am deeply indebted to them both for their creativity, insights and patience. I have also benefited hugely from the wisdom and experience of George Gibson, my editor at Grove Atlantic.

  As ever, I have been supported by an excellent team at Hodder, notably Cicely Aspinall, Caitriona Horne and Rebecca Mundy. I am extremely grateful to Tom Duxbury for crafting such a beautiful cover. I would also like to thank my non-fiction editor, Maddy Price, for taking time out to read an earlier draft of the novel.