Читать книгу The Devil's Slave - Tracy Borman - Страница 15

The sun was already sinking behind the towers of the palace when their carriage turned onto the Strand. Frances’s heart lurched as she recognised the turrets of the Holbein Gate silhouetted against the deep crimson sky. She did not allow herself to glance right, towards Westminster Hall. It had been almost four years since she had visited the site of Tom’s death, but the pain of the memory was still raw.

The cry of a trader made her look across to the houses that lined the south side of the street. Suddenly there it was: a tall, timber-framed lodging that seemed to lean precariously against the one next to it. Frances raised her eyes towards the tiny garret at the top of the house. The casement window was closed against the chill winter air. It was from there that she had seen Tom for the last time, his emaciated body jolting painfully over the cobbles as he and the other condemned plotters were dragged to the horrors of a traitor’s death.

‘Mama?’

George’s voice brought her back to the present. She turned to her son, who had woken and was eyeing her uncertainly.

‘Why are you crying?’

Quickly, Frances brushed away the tears she had been unaware were running down her cheeks. Thomas reached forward and stroked her hand, but she pulled it away, then inwardly chastised herself as she saw the hurt in his eyes. ‘Forgive me, it is nothing. I was remembering old friends,’ she said, giving her son’s hand a squeeze. She was aware that her husband was still watching her closely.

‘When will we be at the palace?’ George asked. ‘We have been travelling for weeks!’

Frances smiled indulgently. It had been just two days since they had left Buckinghamshire, but the journey had seemed arduous to her, too. Thomas had insisted they rest at St Albans for a night, rather than attempt to cover the fifty or so miles in a single day. He had been right, of course – the horses were tired after trudging along the seemingly endless tracks that lay between the Tyringham estate and the old abbey of Woburn – but Frances had been impatient to reach their destination. Now, though, she was filled with foreboding and almost wished she had stayed in the relative safety of her husband’s estate.

‘We are only moments away now, George,’ Thomas said. ‘Look! That tall gatehouse ahead is the entrance to the palace. King Henry built it to impress all those who visited.’

The boy’s eyes opened wide as they followed the direction in which his papa was pointing. ‘Even Hartshorn could pass under that,’ he said in wonder.

Frances and her husband laughed, dispelling some of the tension that had crept in almost imperceptibly the closer they had come to London.

‘Your mother’s horse and many more besides,’ Thomas replied. ‘It was even high enough for the old queen’s giant sergeant porter to pass through without bumping his head.’

George loved to hear stories of Thomas Keyes, who had guarded the riverside gate of palace. At almost seven feet tall, he had towered over the rest of the court. But Frances’s mother, who had served in Queen Elizabeth’s court for more than thirty years after her arrival from Sweden as a girl, had remembered him as the gentlest of souls. Pity for him that his choice of wife had been so unfortunate. The diminutive Lady Mary Grey, one of the sisters of the ill-fated Jane, had had royal blood. Her failure to seek Elizabeth’s permission for the marriage had led to her and her new husband being thrown into prison, never to see each other again. Frances shuddered at the unwelcome reminder of the dangers of court.

The carriage rumbled over the cobbles that led under the gateway and into the main courtyard of the palace. Although there were numerous other courtyards in the maze of buildings beyond, this was by far the largest and could easily accommodate a dozen carriages or more.

After a moment, a groom opened the door. George jumped to his feet and made to descend the steps the man had set in place, but Frances caught his arm just in time and pulled him back onto his seat. He scowled up at her.

‘We are here as guests of your papa, George. He must go first.’

Thomas winked at the boy as he climbed down onto the cobbles, then turned and offered his hand to Frances. She hesitated, suddenly overcome with the enormity of what she had done. She could feel George wriggling next to her, desperate to explore the royal palace that was to be his home for – how long? A month? A year? Longer, perhaps. With a deep breath, she gathered up her skirts and alighted from the carriage.

Frances stood for a moment, gazing around the courtyard. In contrast to most others, it was far longer than it was wide and stretched the full length of the privy garden that lay on the other side of the courtiers’ lodgings. Ahead was another gatehouse, smaller than the Holbein Gate but even more lavish in decoration, with domes atop its four towers and three storeys of luxurious accommodation within.

All of a sudden, there was a flurry of activity around one of the three arched passageways beneath the gatehouse. Frances watched, shielding her eyes from the dying rays of the sun, as the yeomen of the guard raised their halberds and a small figure emerged from the shadows of the central arch. As she strained to see the man who had caused a hush to descend across the courtyard, and the numerous servants and courtiers within to bow low as he passed, her heart contracted. Though she longed to run back through the Holbein Gate and far away from the palace, she stood stock still, unable to wrest her gaze from the figure as he walked haltingly but with purpose towards them.

‘My lord.’

Frances was vaguely aware of her husband bowing low next to her. Only after a pause did she think to make a similar obeisance. She lowered her eyes to the ground and waited.

‘Lady Frances.’

He spoke with the same mildly amused tone that she remembered, though his voice was frailer than it had been and she caught the faint wheeze as he drew in a breath.

‘We had not expected to see you so soon.’

She raised her eyes to his and was shocked by how much he had changed. The years had not been kind to him. His hunch seemed even more pronounced, and he was leaning heavily on his staff. The skin on his face was pallid and pinched, and his neatly cropped hair was more white than brown. ‘My husband kindly agreed that I might accompany him to court this time, Lord Salisbury.’ Though she was careful to keep her tone light, she tasted bile as she spoke.

‘Then we are fortunate indeed. The court has been a good deal less interesting since your departure and that of your … associates,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I have been hard-pressed to discover any news of you. Sir Thomas has kept you hidden away, like a prized jewel.’

Fury rose in her chest as she thought of the man whom Cecil had appointed to watch her ever since her arrival at Tyringham Hall. Thanks to him, his master was better informed about her movements than her own maid.

‘My wife has had other demands upon her time,’ Thomas cut in, before she could answer. He placed his hand on George’s shoulder and gently steered him from behind his mother’s skirts, where he had been hiding since Cecil’s arrival. How much more afraid George would have been if he had known what Cecil was capable of, Frances mused.

She watched as Cecil looked down at her son. Though he affected a humorous expression, she noticed his eyes narrow as he studied the boy. Instinctively, she moved to stand behind George. It took all of her resolve not to wrap him in her arms as if to shield him from the man who had as good as murdered his father.

‘You must be Master George,’ Cecil said. The boy’s eyes darted up to him, but he quickly looked down at his feet, which he scuffed back and forth across the cobbles until Thomas placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Your son is a fine lad, Sir Thomas. I wonder that he is so tall. I must have mistaken his age. How old are you, boy?’

‘He is but three years old,’ Frances said quickly.

‘I will be four in July,’ George added, straightening his back and lifting his heels off the floor.

‘Indeed?’

Frances could sense Cecil making a swift calculation. She glanced at her husband and noticed a tremor in his jaw.

‘Then you were even more discreet than I gave you credit for, Sir Thomas. Though I had heard it said you had married Lady Frances months before she left court, I scarcely believed it. I had always thought that traitor Thomas Wintour had stolen your wife’s heart.’

His smile never faltered as he looked from Thomas to Frances, whose hands were clenched at her sides.

‘I am surprised that the king’s chief minister would concern himself with such matters, my lord,’ she said. Her eyes blazed as she stared back at him.

‘It is a failing in me, I admit, Lady Frances. When he served the late queen, my father took an interest in all manner of things. He once told me it is often those which seem of little consequence that hold the greatest import. I have perhaps carried his lesson too far, but I am too old to change my habits now.’

There was an awkward silence. George had forgotten his shyness and was beginning to fidget. He yawned.

‘You must forgive us, my lord,’ Thomas said, seizing the opportunity. ‘Our son is tired from the long journey. I will take him and my wife to our chambers now.’

Cecil spread his hands. ‘Of course. How thoughtless of me to detain you for so long. I will have my page escort you there at once.’

‘There is no need,’ Frances said, as Cecil turned to one of his attendants. ‘My husband knows the way well enough.’ She did not add that she herself had visited the apartment once before. It seemed a lifetime ago now, though, and she had long since forgotten the way.

Cecil waved away her protest. ‘It would be a pleasure, Lady Frances,’ he said smoothly. ‘Besides, I would not wish you to go astray, as you did upon first arriving at Whitehall all those years ago. Why, I believe you ended up in the apartments of one of the queen’s own attendants.’

Frances opened her mouth to reply, but he gave a stiff bow, wincing, and gestured for them to follow his page. As they made their way across the seemingly endless courtyard, she could feel Cecil’s eyes upon her.

‘Who is Wintour?’ George asked, when they had almost reached the gatehouse.

Frances exchanged a look with her husband, who answered before she could. ‘He was an old friend of your mother’s and mine, George,’ he said briskly. ‘Now, which of these archways do you think we should choose? Careful now – select the wrong one and we could end up lost in the palace for ever.’

Instantly diverted, the boy pointed to the one on the left. Cecil’s page, who was several paces ahead, had disappeared through the central one. Even though she knew they all led to the same courtyard beyond, Frances found herself hoping they could escape him. The encounter with his master had unnerved her. Though her husband had told her that Cecil no longer wielded the same power as he had when she was last at court, he was still a deadly adversary. He had known she had been up to her neck in the Powder Treason, but had lacked the proof to condemn her. And now he had a new focus for his schemes.

She looked down at her son, who was scurrying ahead, eager to lead the way, though he had never before set foot in the palace. Her chest tightened with panic and she was consumed by remorse for bringing him into such danger. Tom would hardly have willed it. She shook the thought from her mind. It was too late now. She must fulfil the task for which she had taken such a risk. If she succeeded, George’s future would be better assured than if they had stayed in Buckinghamshire.

After crossing another courtyard, Cecil’s page disappeared through a large doorway on the right. This led into a passageway that ran the length of a small knot garden. Frances slowed her pace and took George’s hand so that he might not stumble in the gloom. Her husband stayed close behind as they followed the young man up four flights of stairs to a series of apartments on the top floor. He came to a halt outside a large oak door.

With a jolt, Frances recognised the archway above, into which was carved the emblem of the House of Tudor. The first Stuart king to reside in the palace had not troubled to erase the many traces of his predecessors. She wondered briefly that Cecil’s page had found Thomas’s lodging in such a vast, sprawling palace without any false turns. Had Cecil been watching her husband too? It would hardly surprise her.

Thomas nodded his thanks to the young man, who waited until they had entered the apartment before going on his way. Frances stood on the threshold, struggling to control her emotions as memories of her last visit, six years before, filled her mind.

It had been the first time she and Tom had conversed together, after their fleeting introduction on the stage of the masque. Her uncle had arranged the invitation to dine with Thomas, whom he judged to be an ideal suitor for his niece. She smiled as she recalled his irritation at discovering their host had invited another guest: his friend Tom Wintour, a rising star at Gray’s Inn. Tom had baited the earl over dinner, which had greatly enhanced Frances’s enjoyment of the evening – that, and the conversation she and Tom had had when he had escorted her afterwards to her apartments. She had never met anyone like him and had been able to think of little else in the days and weeks that followed. By contrast, Thomas had faded rapidly from her memory. She would not have believed that it would be him, not his friend, whom she would marry.

‘They usually light the fires before my return,’ her husband said, with a hint of annoyance, as he walked over to a large dresser and rummaged in a drawer. The encounter with Cecil had unsettled him too, Frances realised. He brushed past her with a handful of tapers and returned a few moments later with them lit.

‘My neighbour was obliging,’ he said, as he handed one to Frances. ‘I will start the fire if you light the sconces.’

She did as he bade her, and before long the room was suffused with a mellow light. Frances inhaled the warm scent of beeswax. Not all courtiers were afforded such luxury. Her husband must have succeeded in winning favour with the lord chamberlain, as well as the king.

The apartment was as tastefully furnished as she had remembered. Above the large stone fireplace in which her husband was crouched, attempting to coax the meagre flames into life, was a beautifully carved overmantel, with the same intertwined Tudor roses that could be found throughout the palace. The handsome oak dining table was still positioned on the opposite side of the room, close to the three large bay windows that overlooked the river and the mansions that clung to its southern bank. George had already scrambled onto one of the velvet cushions that lined the central window seat and was peering out, his nose pressed against the glass.

At the far end of the chamber, Frances saw that the full-length portrait of King James had been replaced by a fine tapestry, similar to those that hung on the other walls. She wondered if it had been reclaimed by the lord chamberlain for a public part of the palace, or if Thomas had arranged for its removal. She found herself hoping it was the latter.

‘The bedchamber is over there, on the left,’ her husband called over his shoulder as he continued to stoke the fire, which was now roaring in the grate. Though he tried to appear nonchalant, Frances knew he was as apprehensive as she.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I will find our nightclothes from among the coffers and prepare George’s bed.’

‘But, Mama, it is still early,’ her son protested. ‘And I am not yet tired,’ he added, stifling a yawn.

Frances smiled at him affectionately. ‘That may be so, George, but we all need rest after our journey. Besides,’ she added slyly, ‘I am sure you would not wish to sleep too late tomorrow morning and miss any adventures that the court might offer.’

Her son gave a heavy sigh, then resumed his careful study of the world beyond the windowpane. ‘I have never seen so many houses,’ he said, in wonder.

Frances turned and walked into the bedchamber. Though she was familiar with the rest of the apartment, she had never stepped over this threshold. She held the taper in front of her. This room, too, was well appointed, though it was much darker than the rest of the apartment because there was only one small window, on the opposite wall to the fireplace. A large tester bed with crimson drapes dominated the room. Though she knew her husband to be a man of his word, Frances shivered as she looked at it. She had grown used to the convenience of their separate chambers at Tyringham Hall, and although she had brushed away Thomas’s concerns about their sleeping arrangements at court, now that she was faced with the enforced intimacy they entailed, she felt uncomfortable.

She tore away her gaze and surveyed the rest of the room. She soon noticed that a small truckle bed had been positioned at one side of the large tester, furthest from the window. It was already made up with a rich coverlet and three pillows, so she had little to do except prepare their night attire. With customary efficiency, the lord chamberlain had ordered that their coffers be brought up as soon as their carriage had drawn to a halt, and she soon found the one that contained the shifts and other linens.

As she unfolded her husband’s nightshirt on the chest next to her own and George’s, Frances wondered how many other wives had first laid hands upon such garments after almost four years of marriage. An image of Tom came before her, so sudden that it took her breath away. She closed her eyes so that she might keep it there a moment longer, as she remembered his fingertips trailing down the length of her spine, his warm mouth pressed to her neck.

‘I hope it is to your liking, Frances.’

The words, softly spoken, made her jump so that she almost dropped the taper. Her eyes snapped open and her fingers trembled as she watched the flame gutter, then burn as brightly as before. ‘Yes – thank you. Though it has reminded me of how tired I am. I will retire as soon as George is settled.’

She did not look at her husband as she spoke, but she knew he was watching her carefully.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I have ordered some supper to be brought to our chambers – I did not think that you would wish to dine with the court this evening. We can retire as soon as we have eaten. I hope the food is swift to arrive – George is complaining that he is half starved,’ he added. She heard the smile in his voice.

Less than half an hour later, there was a knock on the door and a page entered, bearing a tray of cold meats, bread and ale. Frances and her husband ate sparingly, in contrast to George, who devoured the food as if he had not eaten for a week. As soon as he had finished, Frances saw that his eyelids were heavy so she led him gently into the bedchamber, closing the door behind them so that she might change into her own shift after helping her son into his. Once they were dressed, they knelt beside his bed and offered up their nightly prayers. Frances made them shorter than usual lest George fall asleep before they were over. He climbed into his bed without protest, and when Frances bent to kiss his forehead, his eyes were already closed. With a smile, she began to walk towards her own bed.

‘What is a traitor?’

She stopped at the small, sleepy voice and turned back to see her son peering up at her expectantly.

‘That man said Wintour was one,’ he added, when his mother did not answer.

Frances knelt by his bed. ‘A traitor is someone who betrays the king or tries to harm him in some way,’ she said. ‘But Thomas Wintour was no traitor,’ she added, clasping his small hands in her own. ‘He was a man of great courage, who fought hard for what he believed in. He—’

She stopped as she saw that her son’s eyes had closed and his little chest was rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. It was as well. She had already said too much. Slowly, she rose to her feet and walked over to the bed. Drawing back the covers, she slipped quietly between them, then blew out the candle on the small table next to her. She lay there for what seemed like an eternity. Though her bones ached with tiredness, sleep evaded her as she waited, listening for movement from the chamber beyond.

At length, there was a soft tapping on the door. Frances held her breath but did not answer. After a few moments, she heard the latch being carefully lifted and Thomas padded into the room. His footsteps stopped at the end of the bed and he stood there for so long that she wondered if he had stolen silently away. Then at last she heard him walk over to the chest and there was a soft rustling as he changed into his nightshirt.

Frances continued to feign sleep as her husband climbed into their bed. She strained her ears to listen for his breathing becoming slower, deeper. But there was no sound as they lay there side by side, as still and silent as the carved stone figures of a tomb.