The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman

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СКАЧАТЬ I too, Papa?’ George cut in eagerly.

      ‘Of course. The king would not overlook so important a subject,’ he replied, with a wink.

      The boy’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Will he wear a crown?’ he demanded eagerly. ‘And carry a sword, like King Arthur?’

      Thomas grinned and ruffled his hair. ‘I am sure he will dress in his finest clothes to meet you, George.’

      Frances was hardly aware of her son’s chatter as he fired off another volley of questions and began practising how he would bow before his sovereign. How far from the boy’s chivalric image of a king James was. George could not be other than disappointed when he met him. She should prepare him, but was too preoccupied by what lay ahead. The encounter with Cecil had been unsettling enough, but the idea of making her obeisance before a king she despised – and whom she had resolved to help destroy – was almost too much for her. With luck, he would pay her little heed – she was, after all, of the wrong sex to hold his interest for long.

      ‘At what hour are we required to attend?’ she asked, interrupting her son’s animated babble.

      Thomas gave her a long look. ‘At eleven o’clock, just after he has breakfasted. He has a mind to go hunting in Greenwich today, to break in the horses before our excursion to Oatlands.’

      ‘Then you must excuse me,’ Frances said. ‘I will prepare our attire.’

      She did not look at her husband as she bobbed a swift curtsy and hastened into the bedchamber, closing the door firmly behind her.

      Their brisk footsteps echoed along the corridor as they made their way towards the presence chamber. Frances clasped George’s hand tightly in her own as he scurried alongside her. His chatter ceased as he looked about him at the tapestries and painted ceilings that grew ever more lavish as they drew closer to the king’s private apartments.

      Two yeomen of the guard were standing at the entrance, halberds crossed.

      ‘This is Lady Frances, my wife, and our son George,’ Thomas announced. ‘We have an audience with His Majesty.’

      Frances recognised the guard on the left, who was peering at her with interest. She prayed that he would hold his tongue. She had no desire to answer the many questions that George would ask if the man made any indiscreet remarks about her previous sojourn at court. Thankfully, he merely smirked, then nodded to his companion and they raised their weapons as the doors to the chamber were opened.

      Heavy drapes were pulled across the windows and the room was dimly lit by the half-dozen candles that flickered in the sconces. It was stiflingly hot, thanks to the fire that roared in the grate. Frances regretted her choice of dress: its heavy brocaded silk was lined with sable at the neck and sleeves.

      The chamber was dominated by the ornate throne that stood on a raised dais. The intricate gilded carvings on the arms and legs glimmered in the candlelight, and a sumptuous crimson canopy edged with gold thread hung above. On either side of the throne stood a gentleman dressed in the deep-scarlet velvet of the king’s livery. George was staring nervously at them, all trace of his former ebullience gone.

      After a few moments, footsteps could be heard, followed by a sharp rap of a staff on the wooden floorboards, which made Frances and her son jump. The doors to the left of the throne were flung open, and a cavalcade of young attendants – all male – walked briskly into the room, fanning out on either side of the throne. Frances cast a discreet glance at them but recognised only one or two. She had heard it said that James liked to keep a fresh supply of handsome young men in his chambers, lest he grow bored. It was just another way in which he differed from his predecessor, who had surrounded herself with the same faithful attendants for most of her reign.

      Looking towards the throne, Frances noticed that a space had been left next to it. She did not wonder long who might fill it, for a second later a slender young man stepped nimbly into the room. The first thing Frances noticed was his bright red hair, which was combed back from his high forehead and curled at the stiffly starched collar of his shirt. He had a flamboyant moustache and a neat beard that narrowed to a long point. His dark eyes were coolly appraising as he stared back at her.

      The shrill sound of a trumpet rang out, heralding the king’s arrival. Frances and her husband sank to their knees and she tugged on her son’s doublet, prompting him to do the same. It took all of her resolve to keep her gaze fixed upon the floor when she heard James huffing and cursing as he made his way onto the dais, then sinking onto the throne with a heavy sigh. A long silence followed. Frances felt a bead of sweat trickle between her shoulder blades.

      ‘Sir Thomas,’ the king drawled. ‘Ye’re welcome. Are my buckhounds made ready?’

      His accent was even thicker than Frances remembered. She had heard that since the Powder Treason he had insisted upon being attended in his private domain only by Scotsmen. His face was ruddier than before, his hair more streaked with grey. Glancing down, she noticed that his white satin doublet was pulled tight over his stomach and the buttons looked set to give way at any moment.

      ‘They are, Your Majesty,’ her husband replied.

      James grunted. ‘And you have brought your wife with ye – your son too. Stand up, boy!’

      George started at the king’s command and looked across at his mother in alarm. Gently, she cupped his elbow and raised him to standing. His legs quivered as he stared at the floor.

      ‘Come closer, so I can see you,’ the king demanded.

      George took a few faltering steps towards the foot of the dais. With an effort, James hauled himself up from his throne and leaned forward so that his face was almost level with the boy’s. Frances might have been watching her son in a lion’s den, about to be devoured by the prowling beast. She had to fight every instinct to run forward and sweep him into her arms.

      ‘You’re a fine lad, sure enough,’ James said, as he pinched the boy’s chin between his finger and thumb. George flinched as spittle fell upon his cheek. ‘You’ll make an even finer attendant one day,’ he added, turning to share a knowing look with the red-haired man, who placed a delicate white hand to his thin lips.

      The king gestured for George to return to his place.

      ‘And you, Lady Frances,’ he said, as his gaze slowly travelled the length of her body. ‘I did not think to see you here again. Your husband’ – he emphasised the word – ‘has always told me you were content to remain in Buckinghamshire.’

      ‘Indeed I was, and would be still, Your Majesty,’ Frances replied, holding his gaze. ‘But our son is of an age to be introduced at court, and I would not wish to hinder his prospects, no matter how settled we were at my husband’s estate.’

      James eyed her closely. ‘My little Beagle informs me that you kept better company there than you did when you were last at court.’

      Frances had thought that Cecil’s spy had been keeping his master informed, not the king. The chief minister must have delighted in letting James know that he had appointed someone to watch her. It was proof of his diligence, after all, and had no doubt been richly rewarded.

      ‘I only hope that you will continue to do so now that you are here, particularly as I am about to deprive you of your husband’s company for several weeks,’ he continued.

      ‘I am sure that I will not lack for diversion, СКАЧАТЬ