Читать книгу The Devil's Slave - Tracy Borman - Страница 10

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted up the stairs, reaching as far as the library, where Frances was in her favourite window seat reading a collection of psalms translated by Sir Philip Sidney. She had loved his writings ever since Tom had bought her the cherished copy of Arcadia that now took pride of place among her father’s volumes. Her stomach rumbled, even though she had breakfasted just an hour ago. The child must be growing fast, she thought.

She closed the book and swung her feet to the floor. Even this small movement obliged her to rest and catch her breath before standing. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her brother riding along the drive, away from the house.

Good.

Her relief that she would be spared his company for the rest of the day was tempered by envy that he could ride about so freely while she was cooped up here, like one of the old queen’s canaries. With a sigh, she set off for the kitchens.

Many times, as a child, she had stolen down there to watch the cooks at work, their nimble fingers plucking the tiny sprigs of thyme, marjoram or rosemary with which to flavour the meat or sauces. She had begged to be allowed to help, and eventually the housekeeper had agreed that she could gather the herbs from the woods that lay between Longford and the village. Soon, Frances had learned the many varieties by sight and smell, and would return with an overflowing, fragrant basket.

‘They say she sickened last week, after returning from the market at Salisbury.’

Frances recognised the lilting voice of Mrs Lamport, the housekeeper. She paused at the foot of the stairs and listened.

‘Is it the sweat?’ Frances heard terror in Ellen’s voice. ‘Bridges said that two cases had been reported in the town just last week.’

‘She has no fever, but there is a great swelling in her neck and she cannot swallow food or water these past two days. The Reverend Pritchard has already delivered the last rites.’

Frances felt a surge of anger. The poor woman’s condition could hardly have been improved by the rector’s over-hasty ministrations. He would have done better to offer her words of comfort, to assure her that God would ease her suffering, as the Reverend Samuels would have done. The old priest had been as gentle in his manner as he was skilled in his healing. The villagers had been truly blessed during his tenure, even if it made the shock of his successor harder to bear. Although she longed to be able to walk to Britford, Frances was thankful that at least her enforced confinement meant she could not attend St Peter’s. Pritchard’s moralising sermons were as dreary as they were lengthy.

‘Then there is no hope?’ Ellen’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘Not unless something can be done.’ Mrs Lamport lowered her voice, so that Frances was obliged to lean closer to the door: ‘’Tis a pity she cannot be treated by a wise woman, but the priest says such practices are the work of Satan.’

Frances’s heart was hammering. Pritchard had as good as condemned the woman to death. His meddlesome actions would win favour with King James, who had made it his personal crusade to rid the world of witches, as he claimed all wise women and healers were.

Instinctively, Frances pressed her fingertips to the smooth ridge of skin at the base of her neck. The scar was barely visible now and the rest had healed. But she knew that the memories of her ordeal in the Tower would never fade. She flinched as she thought of the witch-pricker’s knife jabbing at the freckles on her skin as he searched for one that would emit no pain.

James had looked on eagerly as his servant performed the grisly task. Frances felt the familiar surge of fury at him, mingled with frustration that she could not attend the sick woman in Britford. The Reverend Pritchard would delight in having her arrested and sent to the king. She would not escape his justice a second time.

But Frances knew she could not stand by and do nothing. With a sudden resolve, she hastened back up the stairs. By the time she reached her chamber, she was panting, but she did not allow herself to rest. She lifted the casket out of the dresser and fumbled for the key that hung from a ribbon about her neck. Not troubling to untie it, she leaned forward and jabbed at the lock with trembling fingers until the key slid into it.

The rosemary released its pungent aroma as she plucked the tiny dried leaves from the stem and ground it into a powder with the pestle. She added a few sprigs of rue and then, more sparingly, hartshorn, binding the mixture with a little oil. If she had judged Mrs Lamport’s description of the symptoms correctly, then the woman was suffering from the same defluxion in the throat that had afflicted the late queen in her final days. Her tincture had eased Elizabeth’s breathing and helped her to sleep. She hoped it would do the same this time.

Carefully, Frances poured the mixture into a small glass phial and stoppered it with a piece of thickly woven linen. Not pausing to pack away the contents of the casket, she called for Ellen. Soon she could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps as she made her way up the stairs from the kitchens. Her face was red when she reached the top. Without explanation, Frances pressed the phial into her hands. ‘You must take this to the sick woman,’ she said.

Ellen looked at her in confusion. ‘Mistress Gardner?’ she asked. ‘But—’

‘I overheard you speaking with Mistress Lamport,’ Frances explained quickly. ‘If her symptoms are as grave as she said, then you must make haste.’

Ellen looked down at the dark green tincture, which glistened in the sunlight. ‘My lady, you know such things are forbidden. If anyone were to see me—’

‘Then you must not be seen,’ Frances interrupted, pushing down her sense of foreboding. ‘I wish I could attend the woman myself, but you know that I cannot venture from here. Yet neither can I leave her to suffer, when God has given me the skills to help her – cure her, even.’

Her nurse eyed her uncertainly before looking back at the phial.

‘Please, Ellen,’ Frances urged. ‘I can trust no one else.’

The old woman fetched a deep sigh, then drew a kerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around the tincture. ‘I pray that you will not ask this of me again, my lady,’ she said.

Frances leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. They walked slowly down the stairs and outside, where Frances watched anxiously as Ellen hobbled towards the bridge, fighting a sudden impulse to run after her. It was madness to have put her at such risk. But she could not let the poor wretch in Britford choke out her breath without trying to help her. No, she had done the right thing, she told herself, pushing down the fear that gnawed at her breast.

Once the child was born and the swelling in her stomach had subsided, word could be put out that she had recovered from the sickness that had obliged her parents to release most of the servants, for fear of contagion. Only those whom they were sure could be trusted remained. Frances had been surprised by how few they were. But she trusted her father’s opinion implicitly.

He had decided that, after several months had passed, his grandchild could be passed off as the orphaned offspring of some distant relative, whom he had agreed could be raised at Longford. In the meantime, Frances would make sure to be seen often in Britford and Salisbury, while her baby remained closeted in the nursery. She felt a rush of gratitude towards her father – her mother too – as she thought of what they hazarded for her sake. Most other daughters in her position would have been sent to a nunnery, their child taken from them as soon as it was born. If her father’s plan worked, she could raise her baby, while escaping the censure of society.

Frances watched until Ellen was out of sight, murmuring a prayer that God would keep her safe. She was loath to go back indoors just yet. Edward did not like her to stray from the privy garden behind the house, which was enclosed by a thick yew hedge, and her refusal to obey had prompted several arguments. But he was not here and she must take advantage. Perhaps she might even wander as far as the wilderness that lay at the edge of the estate, close to the woods.

A chill breeze blew across from the river and Frances shivered. She experienced a pang of guilt that she had not thought to give Ellen a cloak for her journey in case the weather turned, as it did so often at this time of year, with little warning. She decided to fetch her own cloak and was starting towards the house when she heard the distant rumble of a horse’s hoofs. Turning back, she squinted towards the road that led to Salisbury, and could just make out a cloud of dust in the distance. Even from here, she could tell that the rider was moving at speed. Surely Edward had not returned already? No, he did not ride with such skill. She felt a jolt of fear. There had been many such hasty messengers during the desperate weeks before Tom’s plot had been discovered. They had rarely brought welcome tidings. She knew that she ought to return to the house, but felt unable to move.

Gradually, the outline of a rider emerged from the plume of dust. There was something familiar about the slender frame that was slowly coming into view. At least it was not her uncle, she reflected wryly. His girth had expanded in recent years and he rarely travelled on horseback now.

At the long, final sweep of the path he disappeared from view for several moments. Frances held her breath as she waited for him to reappear. When at last he did, she exhaled.

Sir Thomas Tyringham.

She had not seen Tom’s friend and patron for almost a year now. He had taken leave of court the previous summer, on the premise of urgent business at his Buckinghamshire estate. She had barely given him a thought since. God knew there had been enough else to occupy her mind.

Sir Thomas drew up his horse a few feet in front of her, then swiftly dismounted. He swept a deep bow. His long boots were spattered with mud, and his neatly cropped hair was dark with sweat at the temples. ‘Lady Frances,’ he said, with apparent good humour. But though his mouth lifted into a smile, his eyes were grave as he studied her.

‘Sir Thomas,’ she replied. ‘I am surprised to see you.’

‘Forgive me. I did not have time to send word of my arrival.’ He looked momentarily shamefaced. ‘I trust you are well? I heard a report of some sickness.’

She watched his eyes flick over her body, and thought she saw them linger a moment too long on her belly. Folding her arms across it, she said brightly: ‘I am afraid my brother is not at home, but do come inside for some refreshment. I will send for someone to tend your horse.’

Not pausing for an answer, she walked briskly towards the house. Her thoughts kept time with her steps as she crossed the hallway, calling for the stable boy and housekeeper.

Sir Thomas had been one of several suitors whom her uncle had tried to foist upon her. She had thought of their first meeting many times, at the dinner he had hosted in his apartments at Whitehall Palace. But the vividness of the memory was not because of Sir Thomas. It had been the first time she had spoken to Tom. She could remember almost every word of their conversation as he had escorted her to her chamber afterwards. Sir Thomas gave a small cough, bringing her back to the present.

Why was he here? Had her uncle encouraged him to renew his suit, now that Tom was dead? He would hardly have done so if he had known of her condition, she reflected bitterly.

As they entered the hall, Frances gestured for Sir Thomas to take a seat next to the fire. She sat opposite, in her father’s chair. Mrs Lamport broke the brief, awkward silence that followed as she bustled in bearing a tray of wine and sweetmeats, set it down and left, closing the door behind her.

Frances poured wine for her guest, then sat back and waited. She had no patience for pleasantries.

Sir Thomas took a slow sip, then put the glass down. ‘I am sorry for the loss you have suffered, my lady,’ he said, eyeing her intently.

For a moment, Frances did not know what to say. It could hardly have escaped Sir Thomas’s notice that she and his protégé had become close companions by the time he left court. But did he know that they had been much more than that? The earnestness of his tone – of his gaze now – suggested so. Not trusting herself to speak, she inclined her head and shifted her focus to the fire.

‘Tom’s death was a loss to me too,’ he continued. ‘I loved him as a brother and would have done anything for him – as he would for me, God rest his soul.’

He took another sip of wine, and Frances noticed that his hand trembled slightly.

‘You know that I furthered his legal endeavours, putting him in the way of some influential clients?’

Frances nodded, still mute. Where was this leading?

‘The queen was among them,’ he continued. ‘I initiated the introduction at Tom’s request. He and his … friends were eager to make her acquaintance, as I think you know.’

Frances’s pulse quickened.

‘She proved a powerful supporter of their cause.’ He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. ‘As did I, my lady. It was my connections – at court and abroad – that swelled their ranks, my gold that paid for the house in Westminster, the weapons with which they fought at Holbeach …’ he took a breath ‘… and the gunpowder.’

Frances’s heart was now thudding painfully as she stared at him. Was this a trap? Had Cecil sent him to secure a confession? No. The Earl of Salisbury had greater subtlety than that. Did Sir Thomas speak truth, then? She could not understand why else he would make such treacherous claims, and to a woman he hardly knew.

‘You know, I think, that I secured the king’s consent to leave court for a time last summer, so that I might resolve an issue that had arisen at my estates.’

She nodded again, and he continued, ‘I was not in Buckinghamshire all those months, but in Flanders. Tom and his companions had already gathered a considerable body there – armed men, ready to do battle. I was to lead them across the Channel, as soon as I received word that the plot had succeeded. But, of course, that word never came.’

By now his breathing was rapid and his eyes blazing as he stared at Frances, searching for reassurance – forgiveness, even.

‘I know that I should not have encouraged their schemes,’ he went on, his voice steadier. ‘That it was madness to imagine they could destroy a king and his entire regime. I should have made them see reason – made Tom see reason – but I was too caught up in their fervour, in the blindness of my faith.’

He could no longer look at Frances, but her eyes never left him. As she watched him now, his gaze fixed upon the fire and his lips pressed tightly together, she pictured him as a rebellious traitor. She had remembered him as a mild-mannered, affable man, whose breeding and discretion made him an ideal courtier. How well he had concealed his true beliefs, his true nature.

It was not the first time she had been fooled by a man of the court. Tom’s revelations had been strikingly similar, yet they had shaken her to the core. There was a time when she had believed Tom’s dishonesty had been more than just concealment: it had been a betrayal of everything they had had together – their intimacy, their trust, their love. She knew later that he had kept the truth from her simply to protect her.

‘Why are you here?’

Sir Thomas looked up at her. Frances knew her abruptness surprised him but cared little for that. He sipped his wine, then set the glass on the table. ‘I know what you and Tom were to each other,’ he said quietly.

Frances held back the tears that threatened to betray her. His eyes softened as he looked at her. I do not want your pity, she thought.

‘I know, too, that a part of him has stayed with you.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘The queen sent for me upon my return to court, I thought, to warn me that her husband knew me for a traitor, though I had remained in Flanders until I could be sure my name was not among those he still seeks.’ Another pause. ‘But it was of you that Her Majesty wished to speak.’

Frances’s head jerked up.

‘She told me you are with child,’ Sir Thomas said bluntly.

Instinctively, Frances’s hands flew to her belly. How could Anne betray her secret so readily? Had she told others too?

‘You must not be angry, my lady,’ Sir Thomas said soothingly. ‘She wished only to help you.’

‘By betraying me to a man I hardly know?’ Frances retorted.

‘Her Majesty is aware that, even here, you are in danger. Though I am sure your servants can be trusted, it would take only an idle slip to ruin your reputation, and that of your family.’

‘Do you think I do not know that, Sir Thomas?’ Frances demanded, her face now pale with fury. ‘My parents have taken great care in this. None of us is as thoughtless as you suppose.’

‘Please – let me continue. Though nobody but the queen and I knows that the child is Tom’s, if your pregnancy were to be discovered beyond the confines of this estate, it would not take long for Cecil to hear of it. And he would use it as proof that you conspired with a notorious traitor to destroy the king and his entire parliament. You would be put to death – the child too.’

The truth of his words smote her. Though she had known the dangers of her situation, she had been so consumed by grief for Tom that they had lurked at the edge of her vision. In truth she would care little for what might happen to her, should her part in the plot be discovered. She had stood ready to deliver the Princess Elizabeth to the plotters once they had blown up the king and his Parliament, so that they might set her upon the throne and marry her to a Catholic prince. That was high treason. Yet, on some days, she felt she would welcome death as a release from her wretchedness at losing Tom. Her desire to protect the child always proved stronger, though. It was the only part of him that she had left.

‘Then what do you propose, Sir Thomas?’ she asked.

He leaned forward and took her hands in his. ‘To marry you,’ he said simply.

Frances recoiled. ‘You think I am a chattel to be bought? That I could transfer my affections to you now that the man I loved more than my own soul – the man you claim was a dear friend – lies cold in his grave?’

She made to snatch away her hands, but his grip was stronger.

‘You are in great danger, Lady Frances.’ His eyes bored into hers as he spoke. ‘I promised Tom that if he were to perish, I would do everything in my power to protect you. When the queen told me of your condition, I knew what I must do – as, I think, did she. If you accept, I will raise the child as my own and tell my household we married last year, shortly after I took my leave of absence. They will not think to question it – I have been a virtual stranger to them these past few months.’

Frances struggled to order her thoughts. Though her anger had abated at the mention of the vow Tom had obliged his friend to make, the idea of marrying a virtual stranger was abhorrent, even if it brought her his protection. She had surely lived long enough on her own wits to safeguard herself and her child.

Sir Thomas continued, ‘I expect nothing from you. I do not ask for your love,’ Frances flinched at the word, ‘or even your esteem. It would be a marriage in name only. But I make this offer on one condition: you must vow never to make contact with any of Tom’s family or associates, or with any of those who seek to finish what he and Catesby started. You must utterly relinquish any allegiance to the Catholic cause.’

Frances shot him a scornful look. ‘You would so easily abandon the cause for which you have fought all these years? For which Tom and his friends died?’ She stopped abruptly, trying to control her rising fury. ‘Well, if your principles are so malleable, then mine are not. I will abide by the true faith and support those who seek to destroy this heretic king.’

Sir Thomas stared back at her, his chest rising and falling. ‘We would live as the king’s faithful subjects,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Though we may believe differently in our hearts, the days of plotting are over. There are many others of our faith who have chosen to conceal their true beliefs and conform to the king’s so that they may live in peace. Only those too blind to see still cling to the hope that the Catholics will prevail. You must open your eyes, Frances, as I have done. If you do otherwise, you will destroy yourself and your child.’

He stood, and the sound of the heavy oak chair scraping on the flagstones echoed around the hall. ‘I do not expect an answer now,’ he said. ‘I have lodgings in Salisbury and will return the day after tomorrow. If you accept my offer, we will leave for Buckinghamshire the same day.’

Frances sat quite still, long after the echo of the front door slamming had faded into silence.