The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman

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      Hundreds of candles blazed in their golden sconces, illuminating the brightly coloured bejewelled swags that were strung across the pillars of the banqueting hall. Frances breathed in the enticing aroma of spiced wine and sweetmeats as she stood on the threshold. Though the king was away on the hunt, the reception was still crowded with courtiers, and as she slowly made her way to the seats in front of the dais, she was constantly jostled and pushed. By the time she reached the back row of chairs, she was hot and out of breath, and gulped down the cup of wine she had taken from a harassed servant on the way.

      The excited chatter and squeals of laughter had risen to such a crescendo that the royal musicians, who were performing on the dais, could hardly be heard. She looked around at the ladies in gowns of peacock blue silk, scarlet satin and a riot of other dazzling colours, which caught the light as they swayed and curtsied, lowering their eyes coquettishly as the male courtiers swarmed around them. Frances recognised a handful. She would have felt just as much of an outsider at the court of Henri of France, she reflected.

      Eager though she was to play her part, she wished herself back at Longford, strolling in the cool shade of the woods with George at her side. She did not belong there either, though – not any more. Edward had made sure of that. Neither did the rural beauty of her husband’s estate hold any appeal. It seemed she was destined to spend her life like the restless spirits of whom Ellen had spoken, never finding that for which they searched.

      A blast of trumpets jolted her from her melancholy thoughts. Immediately, the cacophony died down as the assembled throng looked expectantly towards the large doors to the right of the dais. A moment later, they were flung open by the yeomen of the guard and an elegant young woman stepped lightly through, head held high. There were gasps around the room as she walked slowly into the hall, the thousand or more gems on her exquisite gold and ivory gown catching the light from the sconces above. Her hair, which was swept into an elaborate coif in imitation of her mother’s, had turned a deeper red than it had been when Frances had last seen her, and her face had lost its youthful plumpness.

      Frances realised that all of the other ladies in the hall had dropped into a deep curtsy. As she hastily did the same, she thought that she caught the princess looking in her direction but forced herself to stare at the floor. The delicate tap of heels could be heard as the princess and her ladies took their places at the far side of the platform. There was a brief silence. Frances’s back and legs ached as she continued to hold the curtsy. Clearly, she was out of practice, she mused – either that or her limbs were no longer as supple as once they had been.

      The musicians struck up the overture and there was a rustle of skirts as the ladies sat down while the men moved to the back of the hall. Frances watched as a troupe of female players walked onto the dais, in sumptuous gowns of white silk and with gold coronets on their heads. There were eleven in all, and most were somewhat older than was usual for a masque. Frances knew Anne Clifford, who had been a favourite of Queen Elizabeth as a child, and Lady Stanley, who had served her as a maid of honour.

      On the right of the dais a beautiful young woman was carefully surveying the room, as if searching for someone. There was something familiar about her soft round face and small rosebud mouth, but it took Frances a moment to recognise her as Frances Howard, Countess of Essex. Her marriage to the third earl had taken place just a few weeks before Tom’s execution. Lady Howard had been a girl of fourteen then, her husband a year younger. They had made a handsome couple, but there had soon been rumours of discord. Nevertheless the countess still drew as much attention from the men at court as she had before her marriage.

      Another loud fanfare rang out and the eleven ladies curtsied as a figure walked haltingly onto the dais. She was older than the rest and portly. Although dressed in the same white silk gown as her fellow queens, her crown was much more lavish and seemed to glitter with real diamonds and rubies. As she neared the front of the platform, Frances drew in a breath.

       Anne.

      The queen had always loathed the ostentatious masques that so delighted her husband. Glancing down at the paper she had been given upon arriving at the hall, Frances saw that tonight’s play was The Masque of Queens, written in Anne’s honour by the celebrated Master Jonson. She looked back at her royal mistress, whose face was suffused with pleasure as she gazed imperiously across the audience.

      After a few moments, Anne walked slowly to a throne that had been placed at the back of the dais, and the other ladies fanned out on either side of her. There was a thunderous drum roll and the entire platform was plunged into darkness. Frances could see shadowy figures running onto it, and as the sconces were relit, she stared in disbelief. They were dressed in ragged black shifts and were stooped over the wooden staves they carried. Their hair had been whitened with powder, and deep lines painted onto their faces.

       Witches.

      Frances had heard that other playwrights had taken up Master Shakespeare’s theme to gain favour with the СКАЧАТЬ