by Tracy Borman
Frances did not reply. She knew that he was referring to Sir George Villiers. Her suspicion that he had started the rumours had deepened into a firm conviction over the past few weeks. Thomas had also voiced it, though he had been careful to keep his counsel in the public court. He had no desire to sharpen Villiers’s antipathy towards him.
They were nearing the gates at the eastern edge of the park now. Frances was in no hurry to return to Whitehall but knew that her companion would soon be required there. He motioned for her to pass through ahead of him. She had just walked out onto the street when the thundering of hoofs made her step back into the gateway. Bacon stood next to her, shielding his eyes as he gazed towards the carriage. She saw his expression harden as it drew level with them, but it passed so quickly that she caught only a fleeting glance of the white-haired man inside. As the carriage retreated from view, she could just make out an elaborate red and blue crest on the back. She struggled to think where she had seen it before.
‘Do you know him?’ she asked, turning back to her companion.
He nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Yes – though I wish it were otherwise,’ he muttered. ‘Sir Edward Coke.’
Frances’s blood ran cold. He had presided over the trial of the Powder Treason plotters. She could still hear his sonorous voice echoing around the lofty chamber of Westminster Hall, urging the severest penalty be visited upon them, lest their contagion spread until the entire kingdom is in the grip of the devil and his minions. How much greater a devil held the kingdom in thrall now.
‘I wonder what business caused such haste,’ her companion mused.
As she watched the dark outline of the carriage disappear from view, she felt a creeping sense of foreboding.
The apartment was almost in darkness by the time her husband returned later that day. The air had grown chill, too, and Frances had just stood to make up the fire when she heard the click of the latch. She exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. Irrational though it was, during the hours since her return from St James’s Park, she had grown increasingly fearful that whatever had brought the lord chief justice to Whitehall might concern her husband. It made little sense, but in the febrile atmosphere of court it was all too easy to become gripped by the same paranoia that made the King see traitors everywhere.
Thomas smiled weakly at her as he pushed the door closed, then bent to kiss her.
‘You are behind your usual time.’ She tried to keep her tone light.
‘Forgive me – I should have sent word,’ he replied, crossing to the fireplace. ‘The King called a conference with his attendants,’ he explained, as he took some logs from the basket and placed them in the grate. When the flames had taken hold, he sat in front of it and Frances joined him.
‘His Majesty has appointed Sir Edward Coke to investigate Overbury’s death,’ he said at length. ‘He is concerned by all this talk of poison.’
‘But surely that is nothing more than rumour and hearsay.’
Thomas nodded. ‘That may be so, but the matter has excited enough attention to make the King anxious that justice is seen to be done.’
‘No doubt he has been encouraged in this.’
‘No doubt,’ he agreed. ‘But it seems that fresh intelligence has reached the King’s ears, prompting him to look closely at the matter. Overbury’s keeper, Richard Weston, has attested that his charge was murdered with a poisoned enema.’
Frances stared at her husband in dismay. No such claim had been made in the two years since Overbury’s death. That it had been levelled now was surely a blatant slur on Somerset’s relationship with his former confidant. Frances had heard of other sodomites being put to death by such means. If Villiers had bribed Weston to make the claim, then he was guilty of hypocrisy as well as slander.
‘What did Somerset say to this?’ she asked, after a long pause.
‘I have never seen a man so enraged.’ Thomas paled at the memory. ‘He used such words against the King that I feared he would be taken straight to the Tower. He ranted against Villiers, too, accusing him of calumny and lies. Ralph Winwood and I were obliged to restrain him, lest he ran Villiers through with his sword.’
Pity he did not, Frances thought. It would have rid the court of that serpent.
‘As soon as we released our grasp, he stormed out of the privy chamber, uttering curses against the King’s lapdog, as he called him.’
‘Where is he now?’ she asked.
Thomas gave a shrug. ‘With his wife in their apartment, I suppose. He begged leave to accompany her to Sherborne two days ago, but the King refused. Now it is obvious why.’
‘So she must travel alone?’ Frances asked, imagining the young woman being jolted along the rough tracks that lay between London and Wiltshire. She knew them all too well, having made numerous journeys from Whitehall to Longford. Somerset’s estate lay forty miles further west so his wife faced a journey of some four or five days when at last she was given leave to depart.
Thomas looked at her, grave-faced. ‘Lady Somerset is under suspicion too – perhaps even more so than her husband. Several of her associates have now been implicated in the scandal.’
Frances could not but feel pity for the young woman. Although she was certainly guilty of the sins of vanity and pride, she could not believe her capable of murder. ‘She will be birthing that poor child here if Sir Edward’s investigations are not swiftly concluded.’
‘And if they are not concluded in her favour.’
Villiers must be congratulating himself at having come within tantalising reach of his rival’s destruction. She wondered whom he would set his sights upon next.
CHAPTER 13
16 October
Frances held the letter close to her face and breathed in the achingly familiar scent of rose oil – her mother’s favourite. She placed it back on her lap and began to read the elegant script.
You would rejoice to see how your son thrives here, Frances. He has grown so tall that he will soon outstrip me in inches, as well as energy. He loves Longford as if he has never known any other home. It would gladden your dear father’s heart to know that he left our estate to one so worthy.
Frances had to look away. How she wished that he had lived to see his grandson mature into such an admirable young man.
I have appointed a private chaplain to attend us. He was a friend of the Reverend Samuels, so I know he can be trusted. George is glad that he no longer has to attend St Mary’s. I was never able to stop his fidgeting during Pritchard’s sermons.
Frances smiled as she read that part. She could hardly blame her son for not paying attention to the priest’s moralising addresses. She had suffered many of them since his arrival in the parish soon after the old Queen’s death. Eager to curry favour with the new King, he had made it his business to root out any remnants of the old religion that still lingered in those parts – as they did in many other parishes far distant from court. He had also proved as rapacious a witch hunter as the King himself.
I hope that my other grandsons are thriving and that Thomas’s affairs prosper. He must be glad of your presence. Sending you every blessing, my daughter.
Frances read the note several more times, then kissed it and placed it carefully in the casket with the others. Although she always rejoiced to hear from her mother, it sharpened her longing to see her – George too. It would surely be many months yet before she was able to make the journey to Wiltshire. She hated living so far from her mother and sons, but tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that they were safest in the tranquillity of the country, well away from the perils of court.
It was almost two weeks since the lord chief justice had begun his enquiries and the brittle atmosphere within the King’s privy chamber and throughout the court was almost palpable. Even the walls of the palace seemed to emit tension. Sir Edward Coke had summoned numerous courtiers and attendants for questioning – Thomas included. Her husband told her that he had been most thorough, demanding the details of any conver
sations he had had with Somerset or his wife, any visits to the Tower. She prayed that Coke would not extend his enquiries to her. Although her own visit there had had nothing to do with his investigation, she had no wish for her treatment of Lady Arbella to come to his ears – or her conversation with Lady Somerset, for that matter. A number of the Somersets’ associates had been taken into the King’s custody for far less.
Frances tried to shake the thought from her mind as she dipped the quill into the ink and began to write. She would not confide her fears to her mother: Helena already worried about her, now that she was back in the vipers’ nest of court.
My dearest Mother
She set down the quill, suddenly too weary for the task of writing banalities and half-truths. The creak of a floorboard outside the apartment door made her start. She glanced at the clock. It was only just past three. Surely Thomas could not be back already. She waited for the click of the latch but everything was silent. Whoever it was could not have moved on because she would have heard their footsteps along the corridor. Suddenly uneasy, she moved quietly to the door and pressed her ear to it. Did she imagine the sound of steady breathing? That was ridiculous, she told herself. She had become as fearful as the King himself, seeing danger where none existed. She lifted the latch and opened the door.
Her breath caught in her throat. Standing before her, his sensuous lips curled into a smile, was George Villiers.
‘Lady Frances,’ he drawled, as he made a lazy bow, then leaned against the doorframe.
She stared at him, then forced a smile. ‘Forgive me, Sir George, I am surprised to see you here.’
‘But not disappointed?’ he replied, with a wolfish grin.
Frances did not answer. Neither did she invite him into the apartment. Her instinctive fear of him was greater than her curiosity as to why he had come.
‘I am afraid my husband is not here, Sir George,’ she said, when he made no attempt to explain his presence.
‘I should hope not.’ His voice was laced with scorn. ‘Those of us who serve His Majesty are obliged to dedicate many hours to the task. Why, my own duties often extend long into the night.’
His eyes glittered as she held his gaze.
‘Then I would not wish to keep you from them,’ she replied coolly. ‘Are you here at His Majesty’s request?’
‘How eager you are to be rid of me, Lady Frances.’ He clasped his hand to his breast as if wounded.
It was easy to see why he had so intoxicated the King. He was tall and lithe, and moved with an easy grace that drew all eyes to him. The skin of his face and long, delicate fingers was so white that Frances wondered if he used the same paste her mother had applied to the old Queen’s skin every day. She peered closer, as if focusing on this trivial detail would distract her from the rising agitation his presence had provoked. No, his beauty had been bestowed by Nature, not craft. His artifice lay only in his words and deeds.
‘You are blessed to have such a conscientious husband,’ he continued, when it was clear that she was not going to respond. She saw his eyes flick behind her to the hall of their lodging. ‘Our royal master values him highly – of that there is no doubt. A less favoured man might have found himself out in the cold after that accident at Apethorpe. His Grace did so love Oswyn. Poor beast.’
He affected a look of sorrow. Frances’s scalp prickled as she stared at his downturned face.
‘I am most fortunate indeed – as is the King,’ she said carefully. ‘Sir Thomas is as loyal a servant as he is a husband.’
‘I am delighted to hear it, Lady Frances,’ he purred. ‘When you first arrived at Whitehall, I wondered if you had come to reassure yourself that he was not indulging in the many . . . delights that the court has to offer.’
She gave a humourless laugh. ‘What a dim view you have of marriage, Sir George. It provides more joy and comfort than any passing diversion. I wonder that you have not sought it for yourself before now.’
He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Ah, if only I could, Lady Frances. You make it sound so much more appealing than most other reports I have heard. I had begun to think that court marriages were made only for gain, not for love.’ His mouth twitched with amusement. ‘But sadly my duties here allow me no leisure to enter such a state myself, at present. The King requires me at his beck and call, day and night. Little wonder he calls me his wife!’ He gave a high-pitched titter, but his eyes were watching Frances closely. She knew that he was trying to shock her into a reaction, so she was careful to keep her expression neutral.
‘Well, I hope you may enjoy its consolations one day – when the King has moved on to a new favourite, perhaps.’ She was gratified to see anger flare briefly in his eyes.
‘You think His Grace’s favour so lightly bestowed?’
She knew she must have a care. He would delight in twisting her words if he reported their conversation to the King, as he surely must. Why else would he have come here, if not to cause trouble for one of his rivals?
‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘No more so than any monarch.’
He shifted so that he was no longer leaning on the doorframe, then moved a step closer. ‘I must heed your warning, Lady Frances,’ he whispered, in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Would that Somerset had done the same. He might have been better prepared for his fall from grace.’
Frances did not allow herself to look away, even though his face was now uncomfortably close to hers. ‘I did not know that he had lost his position,’ she said.
Villiers touched his index finger to his lips, as if to stop them betraying more confidences. ‘You draw out my secrets as cleverly as a mother coaxes a toy from her baby’s grasp,’ he murmured. ‘It is as if you have bewitched me.’
A long pause followed. Frances was only vaguely aware of holding her breath. She imagined the King recounting the details of her arrest to his favourite, proud of the part he had played in her interrogation. The thought sickened as much as terrified her. She had come here to help Thomas, not drag him into more danger.
Villiers straightened himself and glanced down at his pocket watch. ‘Well, it has been such a pleasure, Lady Frances,’ he said airily, ‘but duty calls – as it always does. I do hope there will be another opportunity soon for us to become better acquainted.’
He bent to kiss her hand and she had to resist the urge to pull it away. His lips felt cool as they brushed her skin. She watched as he sauntered back along the corridor, towards the King’s apartments.
The bedchamber was already flooded with light when Frances woke the next day. She had slept only fitfully, her mind turning endlessly over the conversation with Villiers. Thomas had been aghast when she had told him of his visit, as bemused as she about its cause. She had been hard-pressed to persuade him not to abandon his duties that day so that he could stay with her. He had eventually conceded that this would play into Villiers’s hands. If the man’s hints about Somerset had been true, then being absent from the King’s service at such a time could be twisted into complicity with the disgraced favourite.
She flung back the covers and padded over to the window. It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun reflecting off the gilded weather vane above the gatehouse. She regretted having promised her husband that she would not venture out of their apartment, keeping the door locked against any visitors. The evening walk he had proposed seemed less of a consolation now that she had seen how fine the weather was. The sun would long have disappeared by the time she and Thomas stepped out into the privy gardens.
Resigned, she pushed open the window so that she might at least enjoy the fresh air during her confinement, then went to dress. As she tied the laces of her skirt, her eyes alighted on the slender book that lay on the table next to her bed. She could just make out the gold lettering imprinted on the rich blue binding: The Wisdom of the Ancients. She had been delighted when it had been delivered to her the previous morning by a young page wearing the livery of Gray’s Inn. Bacon had spoken to her of it during their time in S
t James’s Park, dismissing it as a collection of fables. It was a good deal more: that it had been dedicated to the late Earl of Salisbury was proof. Villiers’s visit had left her too distracted to begin reading, but it would provide the perfect companion now.
She finished dressing, then took it to the hall and settled on the window seat. She had just opened it when there was a loud shout from the courtyard below.
‘The King! I demand to see the King!’
Frances set down the book and knelt up on the seat so that she could peer out of the open casement. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset was being marched across the courtyard by two yeomen of the guard, each grasping an arm as he struggled to free himself.
‘Unhand me, churls!’ he yelled, thrashing like a fish caught on a hook.
Frances heard more rapid footsteps approaching. She craned her neck to see, then sprang back in horror as she saw Lady Somerset following in her husband’s wake. She did not fight her guards but walked slowly and with dignity across the cobbles, her hands resting on her distended stomach. Frances fought the urge to look away, to press her hands against her ears and shut out the terrifying spectacle in the courtyard below. She watched the lady’s skirts billow behind her as she made her steady progress, as if she were taking a leisurely morning stroll. Surely the King would not confine a woman so close to her time in the Tower. Even as she thought it, she knew with a creeping certainty that he would.
Another shout drew Frances’s gaze back to Somerset.
‘Villain!’ he yelled, twisting around. His face was puce with rage. Frances followed his gaze. There, standing at the entrance to the courtyard, just below her window, was Sir George Villiers.
‘This is your doing!’ Somerset shrieked. ‘I will see you hang for this!’
As the captive’s frantic scuffling echoed into silence, Frances caught Villiers’s low chuckle. He watched as his vanquished rival was dragged through the gateway that led to the river, his wife following quietly behind. Then, slowly, he raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss towards their retreating shadows.