The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
gasps around the room as she walked slowly into the hall, the thousand or more gems on her exquisite gold and ivory gown catching the light from the sconces above. Her hair, which was swept into an elaborate coif in imitation of her mother’s, had turned a deeper red than it had been when Frances had last seen her, and her face had lost its youthful plumpness.
Frances realised that all of the other ladies in the hall had dropped into a deep curtsy. As she hastily did the same, she thought that she caught the princess looking in her direction but forced herself to stare at the floor. The delicate tap of heels could be heard as the princess and her ladies took their places at the far side of the platform. There was a brief silence. Frances’s back and legs ached as she continued to hold the curtsy. Clearly, she was out of practice, she mused – either that or her limbs were no longer as supple as once they had been.
The musicians struck up the overture and there was a rustle of skirts as the ladies sat down while the men moved to the back of the hall. Frances watched as a troupe of female players walked onto the dais, in sumptuous gowns of white silk and with gold coronets on their heads. There were eleven in all, and most were somewhat older than was usual for a masque. Frances knew Anne Clifford, who had been a favourite of Queen Elizabeth as a child, and Lady Stanley, who had served her as a maid of honour.
On the right of the dais a beautiful young woman was carefully surveying the room, as if searching for someone. There was something familiar about her soft round face and small rosebud mouth, but it took Frances a moment to recognise her as Frances Howard, Countess of Essex. Her marriage to the third earl had taken place just a few weeks before Tom’s execution. Lady Howard had been a girl of fourteen then, her husband a year younger. They had made a handsome couple, but there had soon been rumours of discord. Nevertheless the countess still drew as much attention from the men at court as she had before her marriage.
Another loud fanfare rang out and the eleven ladies curtsied as a figure walked haltingly onto the dais. She was older than the rest and portly. Although dressed in the same white silk gown as her fellow queens, her crown was much more lavish and seemed to glitter with real diamonds and rubies. As she neared the front of the platform, Frances drew in a breath.
Anne.
The queen had always loathed the ostentatious masques that so delighted her husband. Glancing down at the paper she had been given upon arriving at the hall, Frances saw that tonight’s play was The Masque of Queens, written in Anne’s honour by the celebrated Master Jonson. She looked back at her royal mistress, whose face was suffused with pleasure as she gazed imperiously across the audience.
After a few moments, Anne walked slowly to a throne that had been placed at the back of the dais, and the other ladies fanned out on either side of her. There was a thunderous drum roll and the entire platform was plunged into darkness. Frances could see shadowy figures running onto it, and as the sconces were relit, she stared in disbelief. They were dressed in ragged black shifts and were stooped over the wooden staves they carried. Their hair had been whitened with powder, and deep lines painted onto their faces.
Witches.
Frances had heard that other playwrights had taken up Master Shakespeare’s theme to gain favour with the king, but she had not expected to witness one such example this evening. It was as if she had been transported back to that terrible evening, more than five years before, when Cecil had made her sit through a performance of Macbeth before declaring her a witch in front of the assembled gathering. She watched the grotesque enactment with mounting horror. Surely the Lord Privy Seal had not arranged this too, knowing she would be there. In panic, her eyes darted around the room, searching for his familiar, hunched frame. But he was not among the dignitaries seated closest to the dais, and he would hardly be able to endure standing throughout the performance with the gentlemen at the back of the hall.
Aware that she was attracting curious stares from the ladies sitting next to her, Frances diverted her gaze back to the platform, where the princess seemed enthralled by the story playing out in front of her. Now and again, she would grasp the hand of the fair-haired attendant on her right, as if for protection against the hideous figures that kept leering in her direction. Elizabeth had always been fond of such entertainments, Frances remembered.
Applause sounded in Frances’s ears as the players curtsied. She forced a smile as she stood to join in, anxious not to betray her private horror. After a final bow, the ladies filed off the dais. Only Anne remained, seated on her mock throne and smiling benignly at her court.
Frances was caught up in a press of bodies, eager to pay homage to the queen, who had now taken her place next to her daughter. She tried to turn and make her way out of the hall, but it was impossible and before long she found herself within a few feet of the royal party.
‘Lady Frances,’ Anne called, above the cacophony, signalling for her to approach.
The people in front of her turned to stare, then moved aside so that she could pass. Frances stepped onto the platform. She walked slowly over to the queen and offered a deep curtsy. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘How did you enjoy the performance?’ Anne asked. ‘I’ll wager you did not expect to see me among the players.’
‘Your Grace played your part to perfection,’ Frances replied.
‘You must lack such entertainments in Buckinghamshire.’
The words rang out in a clear, shrill voice. Frances looked up and saw that the princess was regarding her closely, a smirk playing about her lips. The young lady whose hand she had grasped during the performance raised her own to her mouth, as if suppressing a giggle.
‘Indeed, Your Highness. We enjoy no such spectacles, but take pleasure in simpler pursuits.’
Elizabeth’s smile faded and she raised her chin a little higher. ‘My mother tells me you are to attend me once more.’
Frances inclined her head. ‘If Your Grace pleases.’
‘It matters little whether it pleases me or not,’ the young woman replied curtly. ‘I will do as the queen bids me.’
‘We are most grateful that you are willing to return to the princess’s household, Lady Frances.’ Anne directed a reproving look at her daughter, ‘especially when you have ever preferred the peace of the country to the clamour of court. But your services will carry their own reward.’
Frances knew that she did not mean the riches that were to be won from attendance in the royal household. The queen was right: a far greater prize was to be had if she succeeded in her task.
‘Well, it is of no consequence,’ Elizabeth said, ‘for I am soon to be married, so I will not require your service for long, Lady Frances. I will take only my closest attendants with me when I leave for my husband’s kingdom.’
The young woman to the princess’s right gave a self-satisfied smile and raised hostile eyes to Frances.
‘You intend to marry a foreign prince, then, Your Grace?’ Frances was careful to keep her tone light, respectful.
Elizabeth stared coldly at her. ‘I shall marry a prince of the true faith, one who can help my father to rid this kingdom of papists once and for all.’
Frances saw defiance in her eyes, and felt as if she was looking at a stranger. The princess had been utterly beguiled by Tom and his associates and had sought out their company whenever there had been an opportunity. Frances wondered how much of her new-found hatred of Catholics was inspired by loyalty towards her father, and how much by her humiliation at learning they had deceived her. It must have stung her vanity to find that they had courted her only to further their plot.
‘I am sure many men will be eager to win such a prize, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, with what she hoped sounded like sincerity.
She was gratified to see her former mistress’s eyes light up at the compliment, before she remembered herself and reassumed her previously chilly demeanour. It gave Frances hope that, for all the princess’s hostility, she might still win back at least a measure of the favour she