The Devil's Slave: a Novel by Tracy Borman

Author:Tracy Borman [Borman, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780802129468
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2019-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 29

5 June

The bells were already chiming eight when Frances hastened to the princess’s apartments. She had not slept the night before. The image of Arbella’s face had flitted before her every time she had closed her eyes. She had tried to convince herself that she had been mistaken, that the figure had been a manservant or some agent of Raleigh’s. But she had recognised those small blue eyes as they peered out of the shadows, the smirk …

She wondered how the woman had managed to escape captivity unnoticed, let alone gain access to Raleigh’s lodgings in the Tower. Had Raleigh been helping her to visit her husband, or had she been in his lodgings for another reason?

As she reached the door to her mistress’s chamber, she heard sobbing. Her heart gave a lurch and she rushed inside.

Blanche was kneeling in front of the princess, whose face was buried in her hands.

‘What has happened?’ Frances asked, fearing the answer.

‘He is not coming!’

Frances was astonished. She had been certain that whatever had caused Elizabeth’s grief related to Arbella. The princess threw a crumpled note to the floor and began to pace the room. ‘Am I destined never to marry?’ she demanded between sobs. ‘To remain a barren virgin, like the old queen?’

‘Please – calm yourself, Your Grace.’ Frances grasped her hand and guided her to the window seat, away from the other ladies, who were gawping helplessly at their mistress. Even Blanche seemed at a loss as to how to comfort her.

‘Who do you mean?’ she asked, though she already knew the answer.

‘Prince Victor!’ Elizabeth cried, then fell into a fresh bout of sobbing. ‘Cecil writes that my father has reached a private accord with the King of Spain and no longer needs the assurance of marriage to forge their alliance. No doubt a consignment of Spanish gold was enough.’

Frances had spent the past few days willing the Spanish prince to arrive. It would give heart to the Catholics, whose hopes were vested in the match, and would make them less inclined to support Seymour and Arbella, should they make their move – which seemed more likely now those hopes had been dashed. ‘But we had received news that the prince had already embarked for England,’ she reasoned.

‘His uncle recalled the fleet just a few hours after it had left the port at Cádiz – so Cecil says,’ the princess mumbled, her chest still heaving.

No doubt Cecil had worked hard to bring this private accord to pass, Frances thought, tempting his royal master with the lure of riches. He could have no wish to see the king’s daughter espoused to a Catholic prince – not when there were Protestant suitors with whom an alliance might be forged. Prince Henry would be crowing when they saw him next. She wanted to weep: the plans for which she had laboured so hard now lay in tatters. Tom had died in vain. Catholics would never thrive again in this kingdom. They would do well to cast away their relics and rosaries and find what solace they could in heresy.

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