Читать книгу The Devil's Slave - Tracy Borman - Страница 19

Frances tried to concentrate on the intricate pattern that her stitches were slowly bringing to life, but her fingers did not seem to belong to her today and the thread kept snagging on the stiff linen. Her son had been fretful when she had left him that morning, clinging to her skirts as he used to on the rare occasions that she had been obliged to leave him for a few hours when they had lived at Tyringham Hall.

Although George had gone eagerly to the prince’s household on the first day, filled with excitement at the prospect of meeting the king’s son, he had been unusually sullen that evening. Frances had eventually coaxed the reason from him. Charles had not been a kind companion, it seemed, but had seized the opportunity to flaunt the superiority of his years and status over the latest boy to share his lessons. The other young men of his household had been quick to join in the teasing, glad that that their royal master had a new focus for his jests. Their tutor had shown little interest when Frances had questioned him: his sole concern was to ensure that he remained in the good graces of the prince and his father. She would speak to the queen when she next had the opportunity, she resolved, as she jabbed her finger for the third time in as many minutes.

‘Perhaps you would like me to help you, Lady Frances.’ The silken voice broke the silence of the princess’s antechamber. ‘Our mistress praised your skill with the needle, but it seems she was excessively kind, as she is in so many things.’

‘Thank you, Lady Blanche, I can manage.’ Frances did not look up from the fabric as she spoke. ‘My eyes are a little tired today.’ With a sigh, she set the embroidery on her lap and gazed down into the herb garden below. Even on a beautifully clear day such as this, it appeared as dull and neglected as when she had crept unseen to visit it a little over two weeks before. If anything, it looked worse, the bright sunlight illuminating the withered plants and weeds that were enclosed by the overgrown hedges.

‘You show a particular fascination for the Witch’s Garden,’ Blanche observed slyly. ‘I wonder that nobody has pulled up all those dying plants by now and laid out a new lawn in their place. Perhaps the gardeners are afraid they will unleash some dreadful curse if they touch it.’

Frances stared at her companion. ‘The Witch’s Garden?’

Blanche bent her head to her needlework again. ‘Why, yes. Has it not always been called so, Lady Frances?’ she asked guilelessly. ‘Certainly that is how the princess referred to it upon my first entering her service two years ago. I had thought it an old name, but perhaps it dates to more recent times.’

She raised her grey eyes to meet Frances’s, her face a mask of innocence. Frances fought back the urge to slap it. Though she had been in Blanche’s company for only three days, she already harboured an intense dislike for her simpering flattery of the princess, and her barbed asides to anyone she judged to be a rival – Frances in particular. She forced her attention back to her own embroidery.

‘I knew it only as a simple herb garden,’ she replied, as nonchalantly as she could. ‘But, then, many things have changed since I was last here. I must learn to keep pace with them. Life passes more slowly in Buckinghamshire.’

Blanche gave a snort of derision. ‘I wonder it passes at all! You must be so relieved that your husband finally chose to bring you to court.’

‘Sir Thomas is a kind and attentive husband. He would have brought me here long before now, if he had fancied I had any inclination to leave the tranquillity of our estate.’

‘I am surprised you did not. You were all but raised at court, I hear, and your mother was a great favourite of the old queen. Yet you gave it up so abruptly, the princess said, without a thought for those you left behind.’

Frances knew that Blanche was goading her, but refused to show her rising irritation. ‘I was needed at my father’s estate, so had little choice in the matter. But I did think of the princess often – and some other cherished acquaintances to whom I bade farewell,’ she added, almost to herself.

‘Then why did you not visit, or even write?’

The princess’s voice made both women turn in surprise. Frances wondered how long Elizabeth had been standing in the doorway that led into her bedchamber. She and Blanche bobbed a hurried curtsy.

‘Well?’ The princess raised an eyebrow.

Her mistress’s eyes were glinting with anger, her lips pressed tightly together. Frances saw she had underestimated the hurt that her sudden departure had caused. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’ she said. ‘I thought you would forget me all the sooner if I did not pester you with letters and visits, that you would soon find another to take my place.’

She glanced at Blanche, who was clearly enjoying her discomfiture.

‘Perhaps your own affections are so lightly bestowed, Lady Frances, but mine are more enduring,’ Elizabeth said.

Her eyes seemed to shine with something other than anger now, and Frances felt remorse that she had caused the girl such pain. Her desertion, so soon after the executions of Elizabeth’s treacherous companions, must have dealt the princess a devastating blow. ‘I am truly sorry to have grieved you, Your Grace. I hope I may make amends, now that I am in your service once more,’ Frances replied.

‘Oh, it matters little to me any more,’ the princess responded. ‘You were right – there were others to take your place.’ She walked over to Blanche and took her hand. ‘And my brother is even dearer to me now than he was when you last saw him. He has been my teacher, as well as my companion, and has brought me to the joy and comfort of the true faith. My only regret about taking a husband is that it will mean leaving him behind. But, as Henry has told me, through this sacrifice I will bring our father’s subjects to salvation.’

‘Indeed you will, Your Grace. And I shall rejoice therein,’ Blanche declared.

‘Well, now, we must make haste. My brother cannot abide lateness.’

Blanche went to fetch her mistress’s cloak. Clearly she knew about whatever excursion the princess planned. Frances stood, uncertain whether or not she was to accompany them.

‘Come, Frances! Did you not hear me?’

She decided not to ask where they were going, but busied herself with smoothing down her mistress’s cloak before putting on her own.

The sun shone brightly and there was not a breath of wind as they waited at the landing stage, but the air was colder by the river and Frances could see her young mistress shivering beneath the folds of her gown and cloak. The bells of a church on the opposite shore began to toll the hour. Ten o’clock.

The three women turned at the sound of brisk footsteps and Frances recognised the prince approaching, flanked by two companions. Henry had grown a good deal taller than when she had last seen him, though he was just as thin. His hair was darker, which made his complexion seem paler than before, and he had the same air of fragility that she remembered.

‘Good day to you, sister,’ he said, as Elizabeth dipped a curtsy. His eyes soon moved to her companion. ‘Lady Blanche,’ he said, in a softer tone. Frances saw that the young woman’s face was flushed with pleasure.

‘And you, Lady FrancesTyringham, as I believe we must call you now. I had heard you were back at court.’ He eyed her coldly.

His opinion of her had clearly not improved since their first meeting all those years ago, Frances reflected. She had been careful never to cross him, but suspected that her closeness to the princess had been the source of his antipathy. He had always guarded his sister’s affections jealously. Well, that jealousy was needless now.

‘Your Highness.’

As Frances rose from her obeisance she looked at the young gentlemen on either side of him. They were both a little older than the prince, but the one on the left was a good deal shorter. Even though she had not met them before, there was something familiar about both.

‘May I introduce Sir John Harington?’ the prince announced.

Frances started at the name.

‘Of Coombe Abbey,’ Henry added, with a small smile.

The young man bowed elegantly, then regarded her coolly with his pale blue eyes. He bore little resemblance to his father, except in his small stature. A delicate jewel hung from one ear, and he wore the same elaborate style of ruff as the prince.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Frances. I believe you know my father?’ His voice was as delicate as his appearance.

Frances inclined her head, taking care to keep her expression neutral as she thought of the turbulent time that she and the princess had spent as guests of old Sir John. Although Elizabeth had been sent to Coombe ostensibly for her education, it lay close to the plotters’ estates, and Frances had promised Tom that she would keep her mistress safe there until such time as she could be crowned queen. But that time had never come. When Tom had finally arrived at the abbey, it had been with the news that Fawkes had been discovered with the gunpowder just hours before Parliament would assemble.

‘Sir John was a generous host to the princess and myself,’ she said now, aware that his son was watching her closely. ‘I trust he is well?’

‘I thank you, yes. Though his generosity cost him dear. The estate is now ruined and he is yet to receive any recompense.’

He cast a sorrowful gaze at the prince, who bristled at his words. ‘I have petitioned my father daily, but still he does not honour the debt.’ Henry’s voice rose with the petulance that Frances remembered. ‘It is dishonourable to treat a loyal subject thus.’

Frances was surprised that he should criticise the king so openly, though she knew there had been little love lost between them.

The taller gentleman gave a small cough. He seemed uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. He must be twenty years old, Frances judged, and in both appearance and manner was the opposite of the prince’s other friend. His large brown eyes and grave expression suggested wisdom and maturity, and though his dress was as fine as his companion’s, his clothes were of a more sombre hue.

Henry scowled at him briefly, then resumed his pompous air. ‘And this is Viscount Cranborne.’ A pause. ‘William Cecil.’

As Frances stared at the young man, it was as if his father’s eyes were gazing back at her. How could she not have recognised him at once? His height had deceived her – he must be almost two feet taller than the elder Cecil. His hair was much darker too. But he had the same narrow face, the same neatly clipped moustache and beard. He seemed to be appraising her just as carefully. Did he know?

She was so lost in thought that she almost forgot to curtsy, and was grateful when Prince Henry declared that they must be on their way. He stepped into the magnificent gilded barge, ignoring the page, who stood dutifully by, waiting to assist, and held out his hand for the princess. Their attendants followed, Frances last of all.

Only as the oarsmen began to row the barge away from the landing stage did Frances remember that she had no idea where they were going. She was still reeling from the shock of meeting the prince’s companions, who seemed to her as shadows of the future.

They were heading eastwards, and though the river was as crowded as usual, their progress was rapid, thanks to the barge, which was superior in size and manpower to the other vessels that bobbed in its wake. Frances was hardly aware of the lively chatter between the prince and princess, which their other attendants occasionally joined in – Sir John more than most. She kept her eyes fixed upon the horizon as she struggled to calm her racing thoughts. When the domes of the Tower came into view, she instinctively turned away, but was aghast when Prince Henry called, ‘We are almost there – see how bright the walls of the keep are today. They must have been newly whitewashed.’

The oarsmen seemed to pick up their pace, and Frances watched with mounting horror as they drew closer to the high stone walls of the fortress. She could see the characteristic scarlet uniforms of the yeomen who were standing by the steps of St Thomas’s Tower, waiting to greet them. As they passed under the water gate, she shuddered. She clutched the side of the barge, assailed by a recollection of the last time she had been brought there, on Cecil’s orders, as a suspected witch. Terror gripped her now as it had when the king’s yeomen had dragged her from the barge, their rough fingers bruising her flesh. She clamped her eyes shut but now the blade was before her, glinting in the light of the fire as her blood dripped from it.

‘Are you well, my lady?’

The quiet voice was close to her ear. She opened her eyes to see William Cecil looking at her with concern.

‘Yes – thank you.’

She cast a glance at the princess, hoping she hadn’t noticed her distress. But Elizabeth was laughing at some remark of Sir John’s. Frances’s misery increased as they mounted the steps, which were as slippery as ice.

Once inside the Tower, the prince led the way, surrounded on all sides by yeomen, and walked briskly in the direction of the western entrance. As they drew near the huge, squat tower in front of the drawbridge, a loud roar rang out along the passageway. The princess grasped Frances’s arm in fright, but quickly released it when her brother laughed at her. Despite her own fear, Frances could not help but feel gratified that it was to her, not Blanche, that Elizabeth had turned for reassurance.

‘King James heralds our arrival!’ Henry called over his shoulder. Sir John let out a peal of laughter, but William Cecil continued to stare straight ahead, grave-faced.

As they passed under the gatehouse, they were plunged into darkness – or so it seemed after the dazzling sunlight that their eyes had grown accustomed to. Frances stumbled on one of the cobbles and almost fell, but a strong hand pulled her backwards and she regained her balance. ‘Thank you, Lord Cranborne.’

He did not reply, but stayed close to her side as they made their way into a semi-circular courtyard. Five large archways were cut into the thick stone, each one closed off by a portcullis. The yeomen led them over to the one in the centre, and Prince Henry pressed his face against the heavy iron bars. The rest of the party gathered around him, trying to make out any shapes in the darkness.

All of a sudden, an enormous beast leaped from the shadows, its huge paws clawing at the bars and its razor-sharp teeth glinting white as they caught the sun. The prince gave a terrified yelp and jumped backwards. His sister screamed, and a commotion ensued as the yeomen rushed to their assistance. A deafening roar rang out across the courtyard, bringing everything to a standstill. Frances watched as the lion flung its weight against the bars again, causing them to rattle loudly in their stone casing. She feared that it would give way at any moment and made to grab the princess’s arm so that she could lead her to safety.

‘All is well, Your Highness,’ a calm voice called.

They turned to see a man of middling years strolling towards them. A leather apron was strung about his waist and he carried a large stick in his right hand. He gave a stiff bow as he drew level with the prince. ‘Jim is a bit fretful just now, Your Grace. He wants his breakfast, that’s all. I like to keep him hungry before a fight.’

Henry straightened and gave an unconvincing bark of laughter. ‘Do not concern yourself, Master Keeper. I merely wanted to surprise my companions. I knew we were in no danger.’

He almost shouted the words, but Frances caught the tremor in his voice and his forehead glistened with sweat.

‘Now, if you will kindly show us to the gallery, we will not keep the king from his breakfast any longer.’

The keeper bowed again, then led them back into the gatehouse and up a flight of spiral stairs to a small chamber on the first floor. A row of seats had been arranged in front of the window overlooking the courtyard. Frances sat down with the others. The prince leaned forward eagerly in his seat. His sister did the same, though Frances noticed the fear in her eyes.