The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman

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      Without pausing to think, she had rushed to Thomas’s study and sought his permission to go. She had hated lying to him, but there had been nothing else for it. It would be the only time, she promised herself.

      A sudden noise behind Frances made her turn. The ramparts were still deserted. After a few moments, she heard it again – like a sharp whisper. Peering into the gloom, she could just make out the edges of the chimney breast that jutted from the wall. As she stared, its base seemed to dissolve and billow in the wind. She took a step backwards, but lost her footing and felt herself begin to fall. Suddenly, an icy hand grasped her wrist and pulled her back onto the narrow path. Panting with fear, Frances stared at the woman before her, but her face was shrouded in the folds of her hood.

      ‘I was afraid you would not come.’ Her voice, though soft, had the same lilt as Tom’s.

      ‘Dorothy.’ For a moment, Frances was unable to say anything more. She allowed herself to be led along the path towards a small recess in the wall that offered shelter from the howling wind. Dorothy lowered her hood, and Frances caught her breath. The resemblance was astonishing. It was as if Tom’s large brown eyes were steadily appraising her.

      ‘You did not answer my last letter.’

      It was a statement rather than an accusation, but Frances felt ashamed. Dorothy must have thought her fickle to have turned her back on the cause for which Tom had died.

      ‘I heard that you had left Longford soon afterwards, to be married.’

      There was an edge to her voice now, and Frances’s guilt and shame deepened as she realised how she must appear in the eyes of Tom’s sister. As faithless to his memory as she had been to her fellow Catholics. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Sir Thomas Tyringham was a true friend to Tom. It was for his sake that he married me.’

      ‘And for the sake of your son.’

      Frances started at her words. She could not know. As she struggled to control her rising panic, she forced herself to hold the other woman’s gaze. ‘Our son,’ she replied carefully.

      Dorothy continued to stare at her, then shook her head. ‘Do not try to deceive me, Frances. I know that the boy is my nephew. That it was why you left court so suddenly.’

      Frances felt hot, despite the bitter wind.

      ‘Sir Thomas is a man of honour and sacrificed a great deal for the cause,’ she continued, when Frances did not answer. ‘It must have cost him dear to pass off the boy as his own, though I hear he dotes upon him now.’

      Had Dorothy set spies to watch her too? The thought alarmed her.

      ‘You are mistaken,’ Frances replied. ‘Grief for your brother has given you false hope that a part of him lives on. I wish it were so. I loved him truly and would gladly have forfeited my life for his.’

      She looked down at her hands as she struggled to maintain her composure. Dorothy reached forward and took them in her own. ‘I understand your fears, Frances,’ she said softly. ‘These are dangerous times for those of us who share the true faith. I know that you wish to protect your son, as I do mine. But you cannot condemn him – and yourself – to a life of falsehood, of heresy. To do so would be to damn him in the next life, as well as this one. You cannot think that is what Tom would have wished for his son.’

      ‘Tom would have wished for him to stay alive!’ Frances cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. ‘What would you have me do? Parade him as the son of a condemned traitor? Forfeit his safety, his happiness, his life? And all for what? A cause that died with Tom and the rest.’

      Dorothy fell silent, but her grip on Frances’s hands tightened. ‘It did not die, Frances,’ she said. ‘It is stronger now than ever. The death of Tom and his companions has intensified people’s hatred of this heretic king and drawn thousands more to our cause. I do not speak out of blind faith,’ she continued, as if reading Frances’s thoughts. ‘We have learned from the lessons of the past. Cecil’s spies are now outnumbered by those of our cause. How do you suppose I was able to find out about my nephew? The time is almost ripe to act. We have powerful supporters at court, and the King of Spain stands in readiness with a huge army.’

      Frances’s mind was reeling. Amid the shock and fear that Dorothy’s words had engendered, she felt a surge of hope, such as she had not experienced since Tom’s death. It was as if she had been living in a trance, devoid of any real feeling, save the fierce love and protectiveness she harboured for her son. Time and again, she had told herself that this was the only way: Tom would not have wanted her to hazard her life and that of their young son by furthering the cause for which he had died. And she had almost believed it. But now it was as if Dorothy had opened a door into her old life, the one she had shared with Tom. She felt the familiar rush of anticipation at the thought of wreaking vengeance upon the king and his advisers. Though her fear had not left her, she felt alive for the first time in years.

      Frances was only vaguely aware of Dorothy, who was watching her, as if following the thoughts that were racing through her mind.

      ‘What would you have me do?’ she asked at length.

      Dorothy’s lips lifted into a smile. ‘The princess is still at the heart of our plans. Though she pretends to the same heresy as her father and brother, she will be crowned a Catholic queen. When the time comes.’

      Frances thought of her former charge. Elizabeth would be thirteen now, she realised – old enough to be married. She tried to imagine the young woman she had become. When she had last seen her four years earlier, she had had already the elegance and charm of a lady twice her age – and the intelligence to match. But in other respects she had been very much a child. Frances recalled the petulant outburst that had marred their farewell, the princess berating her favourite attendant for deserting her, and swiftly withdrawing her hand as Frances had tried to kiss it. She had often thought of writing, but fear that she would implicate the girl in some way, should Frances’s part in the Powder Treason be uncovered, had always prevented her.

      ‘But our plans will be in ruins if she marries according to her brother’s wishes,’ Dorothy continued, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Already he has paraded several heretic princes before her. None has been to the king’s liking, thank God, but there is always a danger that the next one will be.’

      Frances looked at her in confusion. ‘But she is surely bound to marry according to her father’s faith? The king will hardly countenance a Catholic husband.’

      ‘The king hankers after earthly rather than heavenly treasures,’ Dorothy replied, with a sneer. ‘The King of Spain has a nephew of about the same age as the princess. If Elizabeth proves amenable, her father will overlook his religion in the interest of securing a powerful ally – and several coffers of Spanish gold. He does not know that Philip intends to use this match as a means of restoring England to the papal fold – and as a premise for invasion.’

      ‘What has this to do with me?’ Frances asked, pushing down the excitement that flared in her breast. ‘I have been a stranger to the princess since leaving court. You cannot hope that I still have any influence over her.’

      ‘You were as dear to her as a sister, and will be again,’ Dorothy told her. ‘No other attendant has come close to replacing you in her affections, and the queen is only seldom at court, preferring the solitude of Greenwich. The princess longs for a confidante once more.’

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