The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman
my place.’
She glanced at Blanche, who was clearly enjoying her discomfiture.
‘Perhaps your own affections are so lightly bestowed, Lady Frances, but mine are more enduring,’ Elizabeth said.
Her eyes seemed to shine with something other than anger now, and Frances felt remorse that she had caused the girl such pain. Her desertion, so soon after the executions of Elizabeth’s treacherous companions, must have dealt the princess a devastating blow. ‘I am truly sorry to have grieved you, Your Grace. I hope I may make amends, now that I am in your service once more,’ Frances replied.
‘Oh, it matters little to me any more,’ the princess responded. ‘You were right – there were others to take your place.’ She walked over to Blanche and took her hand. ‘And my brother is even dearer to me now than he was when you last saw him. He has been my teacher, as well as my companion, and has brought me to the joy and comfort of the true faith. My only regret about taking a husband is that it will mean leaving him behind. But, as Henry has told me, through this sacrifice I will bring our father’s subjects to salvation.’
‘Indeed you will, Your Grace. And I shall rejoice therein,’ Blanche declared.
‘Well, now, we must make haste. My brother cannot abide lateness.’
Blanche went to fetch her mistress’s cloak. Clearly she knew about whatever excursion the princess planned. Frances stood, uncertain whether or not she was to accompany them.
‘Come, Frances! Did you not hear me?’
She decided not to ask where they were going, but busied herself with smoothing down her mistress’s cloak before putting on her own.
The sun shone brightly and there was not a breath of wind as they waited at the landing stage, but the air was colder by the river and Frances could see her young mistress shivering beneath the folds of her gown and cloak. The bells of a church on the opposite shore began to toll the hour. Ten o’clock.
The three women turned at the sound of brisk footsteps and Frances recognised the prince approaching, flanked by two companions. Henry had grown a good deal taller than when she had last seen him, though he was just as thin. His hair was darker, which made his complexion seem paler than before, and he had the same air of fragility that she remembered.
‘Good day to you, sister,’ he said, as Elizabeth dipped a curtsy. His eyes soon moved to her companion. ‘Lady Blanche,’ he said, in a softer tone. Frances saw that the young woman’s face was flushed with pleasure.
‘And you, Lady FrancesTyringham, as I believe we must call you now. I had heard you were back at court.’ He eyed her coldly.
His opinion of her had clearly not improved since their first meeting all those years ago, Frances reflected. She had been careful never to cross him, but suspected that her closeness to the princess had been the source of his antipathy. He had always guarded his sister’s affections jealously. Well, that jealousy was needless now.
‘Your Highness.’
As Frances rose from her obeisance she looked at the young gentlemen on either side of him. They were both a little older than the prince, but the one on the left was a good deal shorter. Even though she had not met them before, there was something familiar about both.
‘May I introduce Sir John Harington?’ the prince announced.
Frances started at the name.
‘Of Coombe Abbey,’ Henry added, with a small smile.
The young man bowed elegantly, then regarded her coolly with his pale blue eyes. He bore little resemblance to his father, except in his small stature. A delicate jewel hung from one ear, and he wore the same elaborate style of ruff as the prince.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Frances. I believe you know my father?’ His voice was as delicate as his appearance.
Frances inclined her head, taking care to keep her expression neutral as she thought of the turbulent time that she and the princess had spent as guests of old Sir John. Although Elizabeth had been sent to Coombe ostensibly for her education, it lay close to the plotters’ estates, and Frances had promised Tom that she would keep her mistress safe there until such time as she could be crowned queen. But that time had never come. When Tom had finally arrived at the abbey, it had been with the news that Fawkes had been discovered with the gunpowder just hours before Parliament would assemble.
‘Sir John was a generous host to the princess and myself,’ she said now, aware that his son was watching her closely. ‘I trust he is well?’
‘I thank you, yes. Though his generosity cost him dear. The estate is now ruined and he is yet to receive any recompense.’
He cast a sorrowful gaze at the prince, who bristled at his words. ‘I have petitioned my father daily, but still he does not honour the debt.’ Henry’s voice rose with the petulance that Frances remembered. ‘It is dishonourable to treat a loyal subject thus.’
Frances was surprised that he should criticise the king so openly, though she knew there had been little love lost between them.
The taller gentleman gave a small cough. He seemed uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. He must be twenty years old, Frances judged, and in both appearance and manner was the opposite of the prince’s other friend. His large brown eyes and grave expression suggested wisdom and maturity, and though his dress was as fine as his companion’s, his clothes were of a more sombre hue.
Henry scowled at him briefly, then resumed his pompous air. ‘And this is Viscount Cranborne.’ A pause. ‘William Cecil.’
As Frances stared at the young man, it was as if his father’s eyes were gazing back at her. How could she not have recognised him at once? His height had deceived her – he must be almost two feet taller than the elder Cecil. His hair was much darker too. But he had the same narrow face, the same neatly clipped moustache and beard. He seemed to be appraising her just as carefully. Did he know?
She was so lost in thought that she almost forgot to curtsy, and was grateful when Prince Henry declared that they must be on their way. He stepped into the magnificent gilded barge, ignoring the page, who stood dutifully by, waiting to assist, and held out his hand for the princess. Their attendants followed, Frances last of all.
Only as the oarsmen began to row the barge away from the landing stage did Frances remember that she had no idea where they were going. She was still reeling from the shock of meeting the prince’s companions, who seemed to her as shadows of the future.
They were heading eastwards, and though the river was as crowded as usual, their progress was rapid, thanks to the barge, which was superior in size and manpower to the other vessels that bobbed in its wake. Frances was hardly aware of the lively chatter between the prince and princess, which their other attendants occasionally joined in – Sir John more than most. She kept her eyes fixed upon the horizon as she struggled to calm her racing thoughts. When the domes of the Tower came into view, she instinctively turned away, but was aghast when Prince Henry called, ‘We are almost there – see how bright the walls of the keep are today. They must have been newly whitewashed.’
The oarsmen seemed to pick up their pace, and Frances watched with mounting horror as they drew closer to the high stone walls of the fortress. She could see the characteristic scarlet uniforms of the yeomen who were standing by the steps of St Thomas’s Tower, waiting to greet them. As they passed under the water gate, she shuddered. She clutched the side of the barge, assailed by a recollection of the last time she had been brought there, on Cecil’s orders, as a suspected witch. Terror gripped her now as it had when the king’s yeomen had dragged her from the barge, their rough fingers bruising her flesh. She clamped her eyes shut but now the blade was before her, glinting in the light of the fire as her blood dripped from it.
‘Are you well, my lady?’
The quiet voice was close to her ear. She opened her eyes to see William Cecil looking at her with concern.
‘Yes