The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman

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      The sun was already sinking behind the towers of the palace when their carriage turned onto the Strand. Frances’s heart lurched as she recognised the turrets of the Holbein Gate silhouetted against the deep crimson sky. She did not allow herself to glance right, towards Westminster Hall. It had been almost four years since she had visited the site of Tom’s death, but the pain of the memory was still raw.

      The cry of a trader made her look across to the houses that lined the south side of the street. Suddenly there it was: a tall, timber-framed lodging that seemed to lean precariously against the one next to it. Frances raised her eyes towards the tiny garret at the top of the house. The casement window was closed against the chill winter air. It was from there that she had seen Tom for the last time, his emaciated body jolting painfully over the cobbles as he and the other condemned plotters were dragged to the horrors of a traitor’s death.

      ‘Mama?’

      George’s voice brought her back to the present. She turned to her son, who had woken and was eyeing her uncertainly.

      ‘Why are you crying?’

      Quickly, Frances brushed away the tears she had been unaware were running down her cheeks. Thomas reached forward and stroked her hand, but she pulled it away, then inwardly chastised herself as she saw the hurt in his eyes. ‘Forgive me, it is nothing. I was remembering old friends,’ she said, giving her son’s hand a squeeze. She was aware that her husband was still watching her closely.

      ‘When will we be at the palace?’ George asked. ‘We have been travelling for weeks!’

      Frances smiled indulgently. It had been just two days since they had left Buckinghamshire, but the journey had seemed arduous to her, too. Thomas had insisted they rest at St Albans for a night, rather than attempt to cover the fifty or so miles in a single day. He had been right, of course – the horses were tired after trudging along the seemingly endless tracks that lay between the Tyringham estate and the old abbey of Woburn – but Frances had been impatient to reach their destination. Now, though, she was filled with foreboding and almost wished she had stayed in the relative safety of her husband’s estate.

      ‘We are only moments away now, George,’ Thomas said. ‘Look! That tall gatehouse ahead is the entrance to the palace. King Henry built it to impress all those who visited.’

      The boy’s eyes opened wide as they followed the direction in which his papa was pointing. ‘Even Hartshorn could pass under that,’ he said in wonder.

      Frances and her husband laughed, dispelling some of the tension that had crept in almost imperceptibly the closer they had come to London.

      ‘Your mother’s horse and many more besides,’ Thomas replied. ‘It was even high enough for the old queen’s giant sergeant porter to pass through without bumping his head.’

      George loved to hear stories of Thomas Keyes, who had guarded the riverside gate of palace. At almost seven feet tall, he had towered over the rest of the court. But Frances’s mother, who had served in Queen Elizabeth’s court for more than thirty years after her arrival from Sweden as a girl, had remembered him as the gentlest of souls. Pity for him that his choice of wife had been so unfortunate. The diminutive Lady Mary Grey, one of the sisters of the ill-fated Jane, had had royal blood. Her failure to seek Elizabeth’s permission for the marriage had led to her and her new husband being thrown into prison, never to see each other again. Frances shuddered at the unwelcome reminder of the dangers of court.

      The carriage rumbled over the cobbles that led under the gateway and into the main courtyard of the palace. Although there were numerous other courtyards in the maze of buildings beyond, this was by far the largest and could easily accommodate a dozen carriages or more.

      After a moment, a groom opened the door. George jumped to his feet and made to descend the steps the man had set in place, but Frances caught his arm just in time and pulled him back onto his seat. He scowled up at her.

      ‘We are here as guests of your papa, George. He must go first.’

      Thomas winked at the boy as he climbed down onto the cobbles, then turned and offered his hand to Frances. She hesitated, suddenly overcome with the enormity of what she had done. She could feel George wriggling next to her, desperate to explore the royal palace that was to be his home for – how long? A month? A year? Longer, perhaps. With a deep breath, she gathered up her skirts and alighted from the carriage.

      Frances stood for a moment, gazing around the courtyard. In contrast to most others, it was far longer than it was wide and stretched the full length of the privy garden that lay on the other side of the courtiers’ lodgings. Ahead was another gatehouse, smaller than the Holbein Gate but even more lavish in decoration, with domes atop its four towers and СКАЧАТЬ