The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
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At the far end of the chamber, Frances saw that the full-length portrait of King James had been replaced by a fine tapestry, similar to those that hung on the other walls.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.
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