The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
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,’