The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
why you keep me here, when most other gentlemen bring their wives to court. Surely the king himself has remarked upon it.’
The look on Thomas’s face told her that her words had hit their mark. He opened his mouth to reply, then sighed as if resigned. ‘Where would you live? My lodgings at court are by no means as spacious as we are used to here. There is only one bedchamber. It would be harder to maintain the pretence that we live as husband and wife.’ He looked down at her hand, which still rested upon his, and shifted uncomfortably.
Sensing her advantage, Frances forged ahead. ‘That is of little matter. There will be room enough for the three of us.’ She did not add that, if George was obliged to share a bedchamber with them, there would be even less opportunity for intimacy than there was now, with their separate sleeping quarters.
Thomas rubbed his brow, as if trying to smooth out the creases. ‘You know the risks that this would carry, Frances. The last time you were at court, Cecil almost had you arrested for involvement in the Powder Treason. He suspects you still.’
Frances held his gaze. ‘But if what you have told me is true, he has been eclipsed by other favourites, and the king is too preoccupied with hunting and hounds to trouble himself with affairs of state.’
‘Has your sudden desire for court anything to do with your visit to Northampton?’
The abruptness of his question startled Frances, and it took her a few moments to recover her composure. ‘I do not understand your meaning, Thomas,’ she replied.
His gaze sharpened. ‘I will take you at your word, Frances,’ he said, his voice low. ‘But you must promise me that you will not become embroiled in the plots that still swirl about the Crown. Tom would not have wished you to place yourself and your son in such danger. It will spell death for all of us if you disobey me.’
Frances nodded, mute. She took a sip from her glass and her hand shook as she set it down. With an effort, she swallowed the wine, which burned her throat.
‘Then it is settled,’ her husband said, after a long pause. ‘I will send my steward ahead to make arrangements. We will leave as soon as it is light.’
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