Читать книгу The Devil's Slave - Tracy Borman - Страница 16

Frances glanced around the deserted courtyard. The torches that had blazed in the sconces the night before had long since burned out. She would have welcomed a little of their warmth now, as she drew up her hood against the early-morning chill. A cold, damp mist hung low about the cobblestones, almost obscuring them from view. Ellen used to tell her that such mists were the shadows of unquiet souls, wandering the earth in search of vengeance or forgiveness. Frances could almost believe such tales now as she waited in the stillness, as if suspended between this world and the next.

It was four years to the day since Tom had died. She had lain in bed last night, pretending to sleep as she listened for the distant chimes. Time had not lessened her grief, only numbed it. But it often broke out without warning, prompted by some small recollection, and would sear through her.

Was Tom seeking vengeance, she wondered. Certainly he had never repented of his crimes and had died with the words of the Roman Catholic creed on his lips, begging all those of the faith to pray for him. The king’s pamphleteers had seized upon this as a sign of his unrelenting wickedness, for which they declared he would suffer the eternal torments of Hell. Frances thrust the image from her mind. God would surely have claimed him for his own. It was Cecil and his heretic king who were damned, not those who had tried to blow them to the skies.

The mist grew thicker as she stood there, lost in thought, and the few tendrils of hair that were not hidden beneath her cloak felt damp against her face. She must make haste. The court would soon be stirring, and if her husband awoke to find her gone he would fear that she had betrayed him.

Keeping close to the easternmost wall, she made her way silently along the courtyard and through an archway that led into the privy garden. She could just make out the silhouettes of the brightly painted beasts that clung to a series of wooden poles speared into the ground. The mist had risen so high now that the panthers, leopards and griffins appeared to be floating among the clouds. Stepping carefully, Frances found one of the paths that led around the knot gardens, turning left at the corner of the first hedge. If she had judged correctly, she would soon pass by the magnificent sundial that King Henry had boasted could show the time in thirty different ways. There was little hope of it doing so now, she thought.

At length, she reached the long stone gallery that stretched across the southern side of the garden and ducked under the second of its ornate arches. Her old apartment lay directly above her. She glanced up, as if expecting to see the neatly appointed room that looked out over the Thames. She wondered who lived there now. Her place in the princess’s household would have been quickly filled. Though there were more positions for ladies at a court that boasted a queen consort and her daughter, the competition for them was hardly less fierce than it had been in the days of the old queen.

Reaching out, she felt the smooth, damp oak of the door that led into the small herb garden beyond. As her fingers closed over the iron handle, she hesitated. This garden had been her solace during her time in the princess’s service. She had spent many hours there, gathering herbs for her tinctures and salves, until Cecil had marked her for a witch and she had been obliged to employ greater discretion.

Slowly, she turned the handle. The sound of the latch scraping against the stone was deadened by the mist that had seeped into the passageway. Pausing on the threshold, she inhaled deeply to catch the familiar scent of myrtle or the sharp tang of rosemary. But there was only the same smell of damp stone that permeated the gallery behind her.

Frances took a step forward. In the small courtyard she could see the outline of the low box hedge that enclosed the garden. Crouching, she ran her fingers along the top and gave a low cry as one snagged on a sharp thorn.

As the mist was dispersed in the gathering light, she watched, with mounting dismay, as the features of her once-cherished garden gradually came into focus. The myrtle had been allowed to grow unchecked and was tangled with brambles. The neatly divided squares of turf it had once enclosed were now indistinguishable from each other, and the herbs she had tended so carefully were choked with weeds. The once bright green sprigs of thyme had withered into brown stalks, and as she reached out to touch the velvety leaves of sage that hung limply from the plant, they crumbled into dust.

Frances rose slowly to her feet. She felt exhausted as she gazed out across the long-neglected garden and wondered vaguely if anyone had set foot in it since she had last been there. Then, among the tangled weeds, she noticed a dark green sprig, its tiny leaves seeming to reach up towards the frail sunlight. Rosemary. She had come here to gather it, not for an ointment or potion – she knew better than to prepare such remedies so soon after arriving back at court – but for remembrance. She cast an anxious look at the sky, which was now the deep yellow of tansy. There was no longer time to walk to Westminster Palace as she had planned and lay a sprig of rosemary upon the place where Tom had died. But she would gather the herb nevertheless and keep it in the locket around her neck, close to her heart.

As she bent to pluck the delicate stem, a movement above caught her eye. She froze, heart thumping, and her eyes darted up to the windows that overlooked the garden. In the smallest, set in the southernmost wall, she thought she saw the pale skin of a woman’s face, but it retreated from view. Quickly, she pulled at the rosemary with more force than she had intended and the entire plant broke free, fragments of dry soil scattering from its delicate roots. She had destroyed the only herb to survive in the wrecked garden. Tears rose, and she angrily brushed them away. Absurd that she should weep for such a thing when the tears she had thought would flow freely for Tom today were still choked in her throat.

There were sounds of the court gradually coming to life now as she stood motionless in the garden, the rosemary in her hand. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out a linen kerchief and wrapped it around the plant, then hastened from the courtyard. As she closed the door behind her, she felt those eyes watching her still from the window of her old chamber.

‘We had almost given you up for lost, Frances,’ her husband gently chided as she hurried into their apartment. She had run all the way back from the garden, and her cheeks were flushed as she bowed her head in greeting.

‘Forgive me – I could not sleep so I decided to walk around the palace to remind myself of it and became rather lost.’

Thomas tore off another piece of bread and continued his breakfast. George, who was sitting next to him, was gobbling a thick slice of ham and hardly seemed to notice his mother’s arrival. Frances took a seat next to him. Suddenly hungry, she helped herself to the generous selection of dishes that were spread in front of them.

‘You are to be presented to His Majesty today,’ Thomas said, without looking up from his plate.

Frances’s heart skipped a beat. She had not expected it to be so soon – and on this day, of all days. Would James realise the significance? She had no doubt that Cecil would – indeed, he had probably planned it so he might watch her for any reaction.

‘And I too, Papa?’ George cut in eagerly.

‘Of course. The king would not overlook so important a subject,’ he replied, with a wink.

The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Will he wear a crown?’ he demanded eagerly. ‘And carry a sword, like King Arthur?’

Thomas grinned and ruffled his hair. ‘I am sure he will dress in his finest clothes to meet you, George.’

Frances was hardly aware of her son’s chatter as he fired off another volley of questions and began practising how he would bow before his sovereign. How far from the boy’s chivalric image of a king James was. George could not be other than disappointed when he met him. She should prepare him, but was too preoccupied by what lay ahead. The encounter with Cecil had been unsettling enough, but the idea of making her obeisance before a king she despised – and whom she had resolved to help destroy – was almost too much for her. With luck, he would pay her little heed – she was, after all, of the wrong sex to hold his interest for long.

‘At what hour are we required to attend?’ she asked, interrupting her son’s animated babble.

Thomas gave her a long look. ‘At eleven o’clock, just after he has breakfasted. He has a mind to go hunting in Greenwich today, to break in the horses before our excursion to Oatlands.’

‘Then you must excuse me,’ Frances said. ‘I will prepare our attire.’

She did not look at her husband as she bobbed a swift curtsy and hastened into the bedchamber, closing the door firmly behind her.

Their brisk footsteps echoed along the corridor as they made their way towards the presence chamber. Frances clasped George’s hand tightly in her own as he scurried alongside her. His chatter ceased as he looked about him at the tapestries and painted ceilings that grew ever more lavish as they drew closer to the king’s private apartments.

Two yeomen of the guard were standing at the entrance, halberds crossed.

‘This is Lady Frances, my wife, and our son George,’ Thomas announced. ‘We have an audience with His Majesty.’

Frances recognised the guard on the left, who was peering at her with interest. She prayed that he would hold his tongue. She had no desire to answer the many questions that George would ask if the man made any indiscreet remarks about her previous sojourn at court. Thankfully, he merely smirked, then nodded to his companion and they raised their weapons as the doors to the chamber were opened.

Heavy drapes were pulled across the windows and the room was dimly lit by the half-dozen candles that flickered in the sconces. It was stiflingly hot, thanks to the fire that roared in the grate. Frances regretted her choice of dress: its heavy brocaded silk was lined with sable at the neck and sleeves.

The chamber was dominated by the ornate throne that stood on a raised dais. The intricate gilded carvings on the arms and legs glimmered in the candlelight, and a sumptuous crimson canopy edged with gold thread hung above. On either side of the throne stood a gentleman dressed in the deep-scarlet velvet of the king’s livery. George was staring nervously at them, all trace of his former ebullience gone.

After a few moments, footsteps could be heard, followed by a sharp rap of a staff on the wooden floorboards, which made Frances and her son jump. The doors to the left of the throne were flung open, and a cavalcade of young attendants – all male – walked briskly into the room, fanning out on either side of the throne. Frances cast a discreet glance at them but recognised only one or two. She had heard it said that James liked to keep a fresh supply of handsome young men in his chambers, lest he grow bored. It was just another way in which he differed from his predecessor, who had surrounded herself with the same faithful attendants for most of her reign.

Looking towards the throne, Frances noticed that a space had been left next to it. She did not wonder long who might fill it, for a second later a slender young man stepped nimbly into the room. The first thing Frances noticed was his bright red hair, which was combed back from his high forehead and curled at the stiffly starched collar of his shirt. He had a flamboyant moustache and a neat beard that narrowed to a long point. His dark eyes were coolly appraising as he stared back at her.

The shrill sound of a trumpet rang out, heralding the king’s arrival. Frances and her husband sank to their knees and she tugged on her son’s doublet, prompting him to do the same. It took all of her resolve to keep her gaze fixed upon the floor when she heard James huffing and cursing as he made his way onto the dais, then sinking onto the throne with a heavy sigh. A long silence followed. Frances felt a bead of sweat trickle between her shoulder blades.

‘Sir Thomas,’ the king drawled. ‘Ye’re welcome. Are my buckhounds made ready?’

His accent was even thicker than Frances remembered. She had heard that since the Powder Treason he had insisted upon being attended in his private domain only by Scotsmen. His face was ruddier than before, his hair more streaked with grey. Glancing down, she noticed that his white satin doublet was pulled tight over his stomach and the buttons looked set to give way at any moment.

‘They are, Your Majesty,’ her husband replied.

James grunted. ‘And you have brought your wife with ye – your son too. Stand up, boy!’

George started at the king’s command and looked across at his mother in alarm. Gently, she cupped his elbow and raised him to standing. His legs quivered as he stared at the floor.

‘Come closer, so I can see you,’ the king demanded.

George took a few faltering steps towards the foot of the dais. With an effort, James hauled himself up from his throne and leaned forward so that his face was almost level with the boy’s. Frances might have been watching her son in a lion’s den, about to be devoured by the prowling beast. She had to fight every instinct to run forward and sweep him into her arms.

‘You’re a fine lad, sure enough,’ James said, as he pinched the boy’s chin between his finger and thumb. George flinched as spittle fell upon his cheek. ‘You’ll make an even finer attendant one day,’ he added, turning to share a knowing look with the red-haired man, who placed a delicate white hand to his thin lips.

The king gestured for George to return to his place.

‘And you, Lady Frances,’ he said, as his gaze slowly travelled the length of her body. ‘I did not think to see you here again. Your husband’ – he emphasised the word – ‘has always told me you were content to remain in Buckinghamshire.’

‘Indeed I was, and would be still, Your Majesty,’ Frances replied, holding his gaze. ‘But our son is of an age to be introduced at court, and I would not wish to hinder his prospects, no matter how settled we were at my husband’s estate.’

James eyed her closely. ‘My little Beagle informs me that you kept better company there than you did when you were last at court.’

Frances had thought that Cecil’s spy had been keeping his master informed, not the king. The chief minister must have delighted in letting James know that he had appointed someone to watch her. It was proof of his diligence, after all, and had no doubt been richly rewarded.

‘I only hope that you will continue to do so now that you are here, particularly as I am about to deprive you of your husband’s company for several weeks,’ he continued.

‘I am sure that I will not lack for diversion, Your Majesty.’

James sniffed loudly. ‘Indeed ye will not. I know ye’re a great reader, Lady Frances – ye certainly taught my daughter well enough – and I can give ye matter enough to hold your attention.’

Frances was at a loss. The king was not renowned for his literary tastes, and barely had patience for even the shortest plays during the entertainments at court.

‘I’m sure your husband, faithful subject that he is, has told you of the oath of allegiance that all those who have come to my court since the Powder Treason have been required to swear.’

Frances felt suddenly cold, despite the rising heat. Thomas had been obliged to take the oath when it had first been issued, shortly after they were married. In so doing, he had sworn his fealty to the king and denounced the Roman Catholic religion as heresy, punishable by death.

‘I will have no more of the damnable popish practices that almost led to my destruction!’ James shouted, slamming his fist on the arm of his throne with such force that the entire dais shuddered.

Frances heard her son gasp and she put her arm around him as he cowered against her.

‘The worst of those traitors went to their deaths on this very day, four years ago. I will never forget it – nor will their heretic associates. So perish all enemies of the king!’

An ominous silence followed. Thomas gave a small cough, prompting. Frances steadied her breathing before she spoke. ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ she said at last. ‘I shall be glad to declare my faithfulness.’

James grunted. ‘Even that troublesome woman has taken it,’ he muttered. ‘Arbella Stuart is a curse upon our name. I know she still hankers after my throne, for all her professed loyalty.’

Frances remembered the last time she had seen the haughty woman, at the christening of the king’s short-lived daughter, Mary, almost five years before. She wondered that she had not yet been married off to some low-ranking nobleman who could keep her out of trouble.

She was still forming a reply when James stood abruptly. ‘Well, now,’ he said, turning to his favourite again. ‘Before I leave for the hunt, let us have some other sport, Rabbie.’

Frances watched as the king gently stroked the young man’s chin and playfully tugged on his beard. He stepped down from the dais and walked out of the room without a backward glance, closely followed by the red-haired attendant. After a pause, one of the servants walked slowly to the doors through which the pair had left and drew them softly shut. Frances could hear muffled laughter and cries from the bedchamber beyond as she led her son out into the public rooms of the court.