LITMIR.BIZ

      The smell of freshly baked bread wafted up the stairs, reaching as far as the library, where Frances was in her favourite window seat reading a collection of psalms translated by Sir Philip Sidney. She had loved his writings ever since Tom had bought her the cherished copy of Arcadia that now took pride of place among her father’s volumes. Her stomach rumbled, even though she had breakfasted just an hour ago. The child must be growing fast, she thought.

      She closed the book and swung her feet to the floor. Even this small movement obliged her to rest and catch her breath before standing. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her brother riding along the drive, away from the house.

       Good.

      Her relief that she would be spared his company for the rest of the day was tempered by envy that he could ride about so freely while she was cooped up here, like one of the old queen’s canaries. With a sigh, she set off for the kitchens.

      Many times, as a child, she had stolen down there to watch the cooks at work, their nimble fingers plucking the tiny sprigs of thyme, marjoram or rosemary with which to flavour the meat or sauces. She had begged to be allowed to help, and eventually the housekeeper had agreed that she could gather the herbs from the woods that lay between Longford and the village. Soon, Frances had learned the many varieties by sight and smell, and would return with an overflowing, fragrant basket.

      ‘They say she sickened last week, after returning from the market at Salisbury.’

      Frances recognised the lilting voice of Mrs Lamport, the housekeeper. She paused at the foot of the stairs and listened.

      ‘Is it the sweat?’ Frances heard terror in Ellen’s voice. ‘Bridges said that two cases had been reported in the town just last week.’

      ‘She has no fever, but there is a great swelling in her neck and she cannot swallow food or water these past two days. The Reverend Pritchard has already delivered the last rites.’

      Frances felt a surge of anger. The poor woman’s condition could hardly have been improved by the rector’s over-hasty ministrations. He would have done better to offer her words of comfort, to assure her that God would ease her suffering, as the Reverend Samuels would have done. The old priest had been as gentle in his manner as he was skilled in his healing. The villagers had been truly blessed during his tenure, even if it made the shock of his successor harder to bear. Although she longed to be able to walk to Britford, Frances was thankful that at least her enforced confinement meant she could not attend St Peter’s. Pritchard’s moralising sermons were as dreary as they were lengthy.

      ‘Then there is no hope?’ Ellen’s voice brought her back to the present.

      ‘Not unless something can be done.’ Mrs Lamport lowered her voice, so that Frances was obliged to lean closer to the door: ‘’Tis a pity she cannot be treated by a wise woman, but the priest says such practices are the work of Satan.’

      Frances’s heart was hammering. Pritchard had as good as condemned the woman to death. His meddlesome actions would win favour with King James, who had made it his personal crusade to rid the world of witches, as he claimed all wise women and healers were.

      Instinctively, Frances pressed her fingertips to the smooth ridge of skin at the base of her neck. The scar was barely visible now and the rest had healed. But she knew that the memories of her ordeal in the Tower would never fade. She flinched as she thought of the witch-pricker’s knife jabbing at the freckles on her skin as he searched for one that would emit no pain.

      James had looked on eagerly as his servant performed the grisly task. Frances felt the familiar surge of fury at him, mingled with frustration that she could not attend the sick woman in Britford. The Reverend Pritchard would delight in having her arrested and sent to the king. She would not escape his justice a second time.

      But Frances knew she could not stand by and do nothing. With a sudden resolve, she hastened back up the stairs. By the time she reached her chamber, she was panting, but she did not allow herself to rest. She lifted the casket out of the dresser and fumbled for the key that hung from a ribbon about her neck. Not troubling to untie it, she leaned forward and jabbed at the lock with trembling fingers until the key slid into it.

      The rosemary released its pungent aroma as she plucked the tiny dried leaves from the stem and ground it into a powder with the pestle. She added a few sprigs of rue and then, more sparingly, hartshorn, binding the mixture with a little oil. If she had judged Mrs Lamport’s description of the symptoms correctly, then the woman was suffering from the same defluxion in the throat that had afflicted the late queen in her final days. Her tincture had eased Elizabeth’s breathing and helped her to sleep. She hoped it would do the same this time.

      Carefully, Frances poured the mixture into a small glass phial and stoppered it with a piece of thickly woven linen. Not pausing to pack away the contents of the casket, she called for Ellen. Soon she could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps as she made her way up the stairs from the kitchens. Her face was red when she reached the top. Without explanation, Frances pressed the phial into her hands. ‘You must take this to the sick woman,’ she said.

      Ellen looked at her in confusion. ‘Mistress Gardner?’ she asked. ‘But—’

      ‘I overheard you

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