The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
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.