The Devil's Slave Read online

  Also by Tracy Borman

  Henry VIII and the Men Who Made Him

  The King’s Witch (A Novel)

  The Private Lives of the Tudors:

  Uncovering the Secrets of Britain’s Greatest Dynasty

  Thomas Cromwell:

  The Untold Story of Henry VIII’s Most Faithful Servant

  Witches: A Tale of Sorcery, Scandal and Seduction

  Queen of the Conqueror:

  The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I

  Elizabeth’s Women:

  Friends, Rivals, and Foes Who Shaped the Virgin Queen

  King’s Mistress, Queen’s Servant:

  The Life and Times of Henrietta Howard

  Tracy Borman

  The Devil’s Slave

  Copyright 2019 by Tracy Borman

  Cover design by Royce M. Becker

  Cover artwork by John Everett Millais,

  Tate, London 2011 (public domain)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in Canada

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: September 2019

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2945-1

  eISBN 978-0-8021-2946-8

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  19 20 21 22 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Julian Alexander and Nick Sayers,

  with heartfelt thanks

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Tracy Borman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1: 1606

  Prologue: 7 April

  Chapter 1: 18 April

  Chapter 2: 21 April

  Chapter 3: 21 April

  Part 2: 1610

  Chapter 4: 26 January

  Chapter 5: 27 January

  Chapter 6: 29 January

  Chapter 7: 31 January

  Chapter 8: 12 February

  Chapter 9: 16 February

  Chapter 10: 22 February

  Chapter 11: 22 February

  Chapter 12: 1 March

  Chapter 13: 3 March

  Chapter 14: 6 March

  Chapter 15: 28 March

  Chapter 16: 28 March

  Chapter 17: 18 April

  Chapter 18: 3 May

  Chapter 19: 22 May

  Chapter 20: 4 June

  Chapter 21: 22 June

  Chapter 22: 9 July

  Chapter 23: 18 July

  Chapter 24: 13 August

  Chapter 25: 2 September

  Chapter 26: 2 September

  Chapter 27: 12 September

  Part 3: 1611

  Chapter 28: 4 June

  Chapter 29: 5 June

  Chapter 30: 7 June

  Chapter 31: 11 June

  Chapter 32: 14 June

  Chapter 33: 14 June

  Chapter 34: 6 July

  Chapter 35: 18 September

  Chapter 36: 23 September

  Chapter 37: 24 September

  Part 4: 1612

  Chapter 38: 25 May

  Chapter 39: 31 May

  Chapter 40: 8 June

  Chapter 41: 22 June

  Chapter 42: 29 July

  Chapter 43: 15 August

  Chapter 44: 19 August

  Chapter 45: 22 August

  Chapter 46: 25 September

  Chapter 47: 26 September

  Chapter 48: 17 October

  Chapter 49: 27 October

  Chapter 50: 27 October

  Chapter 51: 28 October

  Chapter 52: 28 October

  Chapter 53: 31 October

  Chapter 54: 1 November

  Chapter 55: 3 November

  Chapter 56: 4 November

  Chapter 57: 5 November

  Chapter 58: 5 November

  Chapter 59: 6 November

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Back Cover

  PART 1

  1606

  PROLOGUE

  7 April

  The amber seemed to glow as Frances held it up to the candle that burned on her dresser. The beads were perfectly smooth and round, yet as the light shone through them, she could see the myriad dark flecks and shadows that made each one unique.

  The rosary had been a gift from Queen Anne, who had slipped it quietly into her hands as Frances had taken her leave from court. ‘Keep faith,’ she had whispered, bending forward to kiss Frances on both cheeks. As she slowly threaded the beads through her fingers now, Frances wondered if Anne, too, would continue to abide by the faith that had bound her to the plotters – had made her countenance the murder of her husband and son. If so, then she would need to employ even greater discretion than usual. She knew that Cecil suspected the queen of involvement in the Powder Treason, as they were calling it, and would not rest until he had secured the proof.

  Frances reached into the small linen purse that was concealed in the folds of her dress and drew out the letter. She had kept it with her ever since it had arrived three days earlier, not daring even to leave it in the locked casket where she kept her most precious herbs and tinctures. Slowly unfolding it, she read it again.

  Lady Frances,

  I know you were a good friend to my late brother Thomas. He spoke of you often, and in terms of great affection. His loss must be as great to you – greater, even – as it is to those of his family who still draw breath. To have lost two brothers as well as my husband John is almost more than I can bear, though I hear that they all died bravely. I thank God that I have my precious boy. I have named him Wintour, to preserve our family name. I wish that you had the same consolation.

  Instinctively, Frances’s hand moved to her belly, which she stroked distractedly as she resumed reading.

  It is beholden upon those of us who remain to honour their memory by continuing to further the cause for which they died. Lady Vaux assures me that you can be trusted as a supporter of the true faith, and that you enjoy great favour with Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth. You must return to court as soon as possible. It is there that you can do most good for our cause. No matter how much you love Longford Castle – Tom told me it is dear to your heart – your love for him must surely be greater. I urge you, therefore, to make this sacrifice for his sake. I wish I could do the same, but I am now sole mistress of Norbrook and cannot leave my child at so tender an age. Though you will be returning to a place of danger, you will not be friendless. Lady Vaux tells me that there are many great persons there who conspire to return this kingdom to the Catholic fold. I beg you, make haste.

  Your loving friend,

  Dorothy Wintour
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br />   Frances’s hands shook as she refolded the letter and slid it carefully back into the purse. She had never met Tom’s sister, and he had rarely spoken of her – anxious, no doubt, to avoid implicating her in his plans. How had she known to write to her here? Lady Vaux must have enquired after her upon arriving at court – she was tenacious enough to do so. Or perhaps there were others there, besides the queen, who still watched her movements. The thought made her shudder.

  I urge you to make this sacrifice for his sake.

  The words sounded in her ears, but it was Tom who spoke them. She had heard them many times since the letter had arrived. She knew she should burn it, but somehow this single piece of paper seemed the only trace of him that was left to her. The thought of returning to court filled her with dread, and hers was not the only life to consider now. Surely Tom would not wish it, if he knew of the precious burden she carried. No. She would remain here at Longford, raise their child in the safety and comfort of her beloved home.

  But how much longer would it be her home?

  Frances pushed away the unwelcome thought. For as long as her parents lived, they would never allow Edward to turn his sister out of Longford, even though she threatened to bring shame upon the family. She knew that their father disapproved of his heir’s haughty behaviour – even more so of the Protestant doctrine he had spouted since his arrival at Longford. Frances suspected that her brother cared little for spiritual matters but had an eye to preferment at court. Please God, her parents would leave Richmond and return here themselves soon enough. Even as she mouthed the silent prayer, she knew it was unlikely to be answered. The king, capricious as ever, had made clear that he wished to retain her parents at Richmond, though he could have little need of them there. As Marchioness of Northampton and the old queen’s closest favourite, her mother Helena deserved better – as did her father, Lord Thomas Gorges, who had the blood of the powerful Howard family coursing through his veins.

  With a sigh, Frances stood, walked slowly over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Although her limbs sagged with fatigue, she had little desire to climb into it, knowing it would offer no repose. Instead, she would lie there for hours, as she had every night since Tom’s death, waiting for the dawn.

  CHAPTER 1

  18 April

  Frances drew a sharp breath as she lowered her feet through the icy water until they brushed against the smooth pebbles of the riverbed. Her skin looked white, almost translucent, beneath the surface.

  A tiny fluttering in her stomach made her sit up straight on the grass. She laid her hands gently over it and waited. There was the movement again, stronger this time. She smiled, then stroked the neat, warm swelling that lay beneath the stiff fabric of her dress. Ellen had been obliged to loosen her stays last week, and though her body was still slender, there was no longer any disguising her growing belly.

  The surge of joy she had felt when the child moved dissipated as she recalled the angry words she had exchanged with her brother Edward the night before. He had returned to Longford the previous summer, having at last completed his studies in Cambridge. She guessed that Theo, who was still there, had proved something of a distraction. With just a year separating her two brothers, they had always been close. She could remember many occasions when, as children, they had run off into the woods straight after breakfast, only returning as the light was fading. Her mother had chided them for missing their lessons, and for their dishevelled state, cuts and grazes on their skin, their fine linen shirts spattered with mud.

  How different Edward was now. Frances had noticed the change as soon as she had arrived two weeks before. It wasn’t so much physical – though he had certainly grown into a tall, muscular young man – but rather in his manner. There had been something distant in the way he had bent to kiss her, his eyes coolly appraising. As the second son, he had enjoyed a carefree youth, with no expectations of inheritance. But the death of their elder brother, Francis, had changed that. Edward, then aged seventeen, had shared his siblings’ shock and grief, but Frances would always recall seeing excitement in his eyes, even as their father told them the news, his voice cracked with sorrow.

  Edward had left for Cambridge soon afterwards, and Frances had seen little of him, or her three other brothers, since. But now it was clear that he revelled in his status as heir to the Longford estate.

  Her thoughts were disturbed by a movement at the edge of her vision – her old nurse, Ellen, walking slowly over the bridge. She stopped to rub her back, then plodded on, wincing at the pain in her hip. It had grown a good deal worse since Frances had last seen her almost two years before. Ellen had been standing on the threshold of the castle as Frances’s carriage had made its steady progress along the drive a fortnight ago. Frances had felt the bones of Ellen’s shoulders as her nurse had embraced her. She had tried to hide her dismay at the sight of Ellen’s grey hair and pinched, sagging skin. In those two years, she had become an old woman.

  It seemed to Frances as if a lifetime had passed since she had last sat here by the Avon, in the shade of her beloved home. She herself had changed, she knew. How naïve – arrogant, even – she had been when she had first arrived at Whitehall Palace a year after King James’s accession. Despite her mother’s warning, she had made little effort to conceal her skills at healing, as if the herbs could somehow protect her from the evil that pervaded the new king’s court. She had soon learned, to her cost, that they were as nothing against his perverted obsessions or the twisted schemes of his closest adviser.

  Cecil.

  Frances felt the familiar loathing at the thought of the king’s crook-backed minister. He had been a constant, menacing presence throughout her time at court. Even in the privacy of her lodgings, she had felt his eyes upon her. He had conspired in her arrest for witchcraft, had watched, impervious to her screams, as the torturer had searched her body intimately for the Devil’s Mark. She remembered the elation she had felt upon hearing that Tom and his fellow plotters had succeeded: that Cecil had been blown to the heavens, along with the king and his entire parliament. But the news had proved false. Fawkes had been discovered with the gunpowder just hours before the lords assembled in the ancient hall above.

  Frances shook her head as if to dispel the thoughts that she knew would follow. Of Tom, his body racked with pain, being pulled along to his death.

  ‘Wintour looked as pale as a dead man when he mounted the scaffold,’ she had heard someone say as, a few days later, she had hastened through the public rooms of the palace, desperate to avoid the subject that was on everyone’s lips.

  ‘Fear makes cowards of us all,’ another had responded. Frances had rounded on them then, all of the grief she had tried to contain spilling out in her fury.

  ‘Are you well, my lady?’

  Ellen’s brow was creased with concern. She was breathing heavily from the exertion of her walk. Frances gave a weak smile of reassurance. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Ellen. I am quite well, thank you.’

  Her gaze moved to the basket that the older woman had set down upon the grass. ‘Were you able to find the willow bark, and the hyssop?’ she asked.

  Ellen nodded as she sank down next to her. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘though I searched in the woods a long time. My eyes are not as sharp as they were, so I had to stoop down on my knees.’ She kneaded them as she spoke.

  Frances suppressed her impatience. ‘I am sorry for it, Ellen, but with the herbs you have gathered I will make you a salve to ease your aching limbs.’ She paused. ‘I wish I could have gone myself.’

  Ellen clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘And risk your secret being discovered?’ she demanded, then gave a sigh and reached over to pat Frances’s hand. ‘You know you must have a care, now that your young knave is starting to show himself.’ Her voice was softer now.

  ‘It might be a girl,’ Frances pointed out.

  Ellen shook her head. ‘Not when you carry the child like that, all at the front.’

  They sat in co
mpanionable silence for a few moments. Frances watched as a hawk circled over the woods, dipping down now and again as it sought its prey. How she longed to be among the ancient oaks, to smell the sweet scent of the primroses, which she knew would be in bloom now. Though she cherished her home, it had felt more like a prison this past week. She chided herself for the thought. Her only solace during the long days and nights that followed Tom’s death had been the prospect of returning to Longford. Now she was here, yet the restlessness and misery still hung over her.

  ‘The pain of parting will lessen in time,’ Ellen said, as if reading her thoughts. Frances opened her mouth to reply, but the older woman continued: ‘I do not ask you to name him. I respect your parents’ wishes, and would not vex you by pressing the matter – not for the world. Whatever the reason you have returned here unmarried, yet with child, I will not attempt to discover it. I want only to care for you, when the time comes—’ She broke off, her eyes glistening with tears.

  Frances swallowed her own. She had wept so much these past weeks that she wondered there could be any tears left. But soon she must go in for dinner, and she was determined to avoid her brother’s scorn by concealing her grief.

  ‘Thank you, Ellen,’ she said quietly. ‘You have always been like a mother to me, and I have missed you sorely since we were parted at Whitehall.’

  ‘And I have fretted about you endlessly, my lady,’ the old woman replied, her forehead furrowed with deep lines. ‘The court is a good deal more dangerous since King James took our old queen’s throne. There are many who would rejoice to see him murdered.’

  ‘Hush, Ellen,’ Frances remonstrated, her voice low. ‘You know it is treason to speak of such things.’

  Her old nurse gave an indignant sniff. ‘I hated to think of you in that place, friendless and alone, while plots gathered about the king. When news reached us of the Powder Treason last November, I begged your brother to bring you home. But he would have none of it.’

  Frances gave a sardonic smile. ‘I am sure he did not wish to upset the king by taking away his daughter’s favourite attendant,’ she said quietly. ‘Besides, Ellen, I was neither alone nor friendless. The princess was a kind and loving mistress and, though still a child, an excellent companion. There were others, too.’