The Devil's Slave. Tracy Borman

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      Frances shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her. A bitter east wind howled through the ramparts of the castle as she cowered against the thick stone wall of the postern gate. To her left, the motte dropped steeply away, and below she could see the dark waters of the swollen river glisten as they caught the moonlight.

      She stole another glance over her shoulder. Nobody was there, yet she had the creeping sensation of being watched. She crouched closer to the wall, as if it could shield her from view. He had followed her to Thomas’s estate, she knew. She had spied him on the road from Oxford, the deep blue velvet of his cloak marking him out as Cecil’s man. Though she had not seen him for several weeks after her arrival at Tyringham Hall, she sensed that he was close by. Then, one bright autumn day when she had been walking in the woods that lay to the north of the Hall, her infant son cradled at her breast, she had caught the flash of gold as he slid silently behind one of the large chestnut trees that were scattered across the estate.

      For a moment, she thought of running. It was madness to have come here. Even if Cecil’s man had not followed her, Thomas might discover the reason for her journey. She had seen the doubt in his eyes when she had told him of the relative who lay sick at Northampton, but he had not questioned her as to why she felt the need to visit someone of whom she had never previously spoken. He had, though, sent one of his servants to help her pack – seeking assurance, no doubt, that there were no herbs or tinctures among the few clothes and other belongings she chose to take with her. His interference had annoyed her, though he had done little else to deserve her censure.

      As a husband, Thomas had been attentive, ensuring that she had everything for her ease and entertainment. His library, which was far more extensive than her father’s at Longford, had been at her disposal from the moment she had arrived at Tyringham Hall. It had been one of her greatest diversions, second only to her precious son for the comfort it had brought her. She had spent countless hours among the works of Homer and Ovid, their ancient prose delighting her with its humour and warmth, or browsing the impressive array of books on plants and their medicinal properties. She suspected that some of these had been newly acquired – their pages were by no means as worn as her own copies of Gerard and his fellow botanists. Whenever George was sleeping or with his nursemaid, she would come to the library, its now familiar shelves and volumes distracting her from thoughts of the past, of Tom.

      The reminder of Thomas’s kindness induced fresh guilt. Frances had striven hard to abide by the terms he had laid down for their marriage. Though in private she still cherished her rosary and prayer book, she was as outwardly conformist as her husband, accompanying him to church, whenever he was in residence, to hear and utter the words of worship prescribed by the king. She had been careful to show no interest when her husband’s acquaintances had gossiped about the latest Catholic plot to oust James from his throne. Even during Thomas’s long absences, when he accompanied the king on the hunt as master of the buckhounds – a privileged position, given that James was said to be fonder of his dogs than of his favourites – she had had no contact with Tom’s family or associates.

      Until now. Dorothy’s letter had arrived two days ago. Frances had not heard from Tom’s sister since her brief time at Longford almost four years earlier, though she had often wondered if Dorothy had sent other letters. Edward would have had no scruple in opening them. She only hoped that he would have had the good sense to destroy them. This letter had been brief, giving the time and place that she wished to meet, and urging Frances not to forsake her. As her fingers closed over the folded paper now, she wondered again if it was a trap. She had destroyed Dorothy’s first letter before leaving Longford, but had read it so many times that she had recognised the СКАЧАТЬ