Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  1616

  CHAPTER 14

  6 January

  Frances stole a glance at her husband as Sir George Villiers mounted the steps to the dais. The King’s eyes flashed as he watched him walk slowly to the throne. The jewels on Villiers’s scarlet cloak glittered in the candlelight when he swept an elaborate bow. James rose unsteadily to his feet and looked up adoringly at the young man. He was a good deal shorter than Villiers, who towered over most others at court. An attendant stepped forward and handed his master a gold satin sash, from which was suspended a crest bearing the King’s arms. Villiers sank to his knees and lowered his gaze.

  ‘My most trusty and well-beloved servant, Sir George Villiers, I confer upon ye’ the office of master of the horse.’

  James bent to place the sash around the favourite’s neck, his hand brushing against the skin that showed above Villiers’s richly embroidered collar. ‘Ye’ are charged with the management of all ceremony attendant upon the office, as well as of the keeping of my stables, coach houses and kennels, and of the horses and hounds therein.’

  Villiers had taken great delight in telling Thomas of his promotion two days before. It was one of the greatest prizes to be had at court, for as well as superintending all of the magnificent displays and pageantry associated with the King’s public appearances and progresses, the master of the horse was also entitled to a place on the privy council. Thomas was not the only one to feel aggrieved at the young man’s meteoric rise. But he had particular cause, for as master of the buckhounds he was now directly answerable to him. Frances knew as well as he that Villiers would delight in exercising his authority to the full. The prospect of his proving as fair a master as the Earl of Worcester, whose place he had usurped, seemed entirely distant.

  The new master was rising to his feet now, his eyes triumphant as he turned to receive the obeisance of the assembled company. Frances gave her husband’s hand a quick squeeze. As she rose from her curtsy, she saw Villiers staring at him with a look of faint amusement that made her blood run cold.

  The banquet that followed was even more lavish than those staged in honour of visiting princes or ambassadors. Platters bearing exquisitely crafted sugarwork and intricate marchpane were carried aloft by the servers. As one drew closer, Frances noticed that the delicacies were all inspired by Villiers’s new office: there were tiny stirrups, horseshoes and collars, the details picked out in bright dyes and gold leaf.

  ‘I will take some air.’ Thomas raised his voice to be heard above the growing cacophony. ‘It is even more stifling in here than usual.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ she replied, but her husband shook his head.

  ‘Please – stay and enjoy the banquet, my love. I shall be back soon.’

  He had already started in the direction of the balcony at the opposite end of the hall before Frances could protest. She watched with a sinking heart as he weaved his way through the crowds.

  ‘Have you tried the stirrups? They are quite delicious.’

  Sir Francis Bacon was standing before her, his face lit with his usual good humour. She smiled. ‘How are you, Sir Francis? I have hardly seen you these past few weeks.’

  He spread his hands. ‘I know, my dear – and I am sorry for it. But His Majesty has found much business to occupy my time.’

  Bacon had told her that the King had appointed him to gather evidence for the Somersets’ trial, which made her glad she had not confided what she knew of the matter. The couple had languished in the Tower since their arrest almost three months before. Lady Somerset had given birth to a daughter there in the early days of December. The King had shown no pity when informed that her labour pains had begun and had refused to have her moved to more comfortable lodgings. The child had been taken from her almost as soon as it had drawn breath. Frances’s heart lurched with pity again as she thought of the young woman in that grim fortress, consumed by grief and terror.

  ‘Is there a date for the trial yet?’

  Bacon shook his head. ‘Everything is made ready, but still the King has not given word.’ He leaned towards her so that he would not be overheard. ‘Another of Somerset’s attendants was executed yesterday. That brings the tally to three. I fear there will be more before this business is concluded.’

  Frances felt cold, despite the oppressive heat of the hall. She glanced towards the dais and saw James feeding his new master of the horse a sugared apricot. Their heads were so close together that Villiers’s luscious brown locks brushed against the King’s brow. It did not seem so very long ago that Somerset had enjoyed such intimacy. Now he looked set to be hanged at his master’s orders.

  The thunderous boom of a drum rang out across the hall, signalling the start of the dance. Frances almost dropped her glass, and her hand trembled as she clasped it more tightly. The crowds were forming two lines down the centre of the hall. Seizing the opportunity, Frances signalled to her companion to follow her to one of the window recesses, where they could talk at greater liberty. She judged that everyone else would be too intent upon the dance to heed their conversation.

  ‘Have you found anything to support the accusations against Somerset?’ Frances asked, when they were settled on the window seat.

  ‘No,’ he answered shortly, ‘though the King would have me seize at even the most trivial of details and twist it into something darker.’ A shadow flitted across his face and he hesitated before continuing. ‘The same is not true of Lady Somerset, though.’

  Frances took a sip of wine but struggled to swallow.

  ‘It seems she used her influence to have Sir William Wade replaced as lieutenant of the Tower by Sir Gervase Helwys.’ His dark eyes appraised her carefully.

  ‘And you think Sir Gervase played a part in Overbury’s death?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Perhaps – even if it was only to turn a blind eye to events.’

  Lady Somerset’s distress had seemed genuine when she had confided in her that day. Was she really such an arch dissembler? ‘Is there other evidence?’

  Bacon sighed. ‘Trifles – an overheard conversation here, an apothecary’s visit there. Not enough on their own, but when taken together . . .’

  Frances knew too well how such details could be presented as conclusive proof. She herself had been arrested for far less.

  ‘Coke is determined that they be made an example of, naturally,’ he continued, with a sneer. ‘Pity for him that his own enquiries did not turn up anything of use.’

  ‘It must pain him that the King appointed you to succeed where he had failed,’ she observed.

  Bacon smiled. ‘I cannot deny that it gave me some satisfaction – though my prospects of success are far from certain. And, to be plain, I would rather have nothing to do with the business.’ He drank some wine and they turned to survey the throng. A volta was in full swing, and the hall was a riot of swirling silks and red-faced courtiers, all trying to keep pace with the music. The heat in the room was growing even more oppressive and Frances wished she had accompanied her husband outside. He was still nowhere to be seen.

  ‘You do not care to dance, my dear?’ her companion asked, when the musicians began the more sedate chords of the pavane.

  ‘A lady of my age can be forgiven for preferring to observe,’ she said, with a grin. Thomas never tired of telling her that she was at the height of her beauty, but at thirty-five she knew it would soon fade. Looking around at the other ladies now, their faces flushed from the dance and their eyes bright with excitement, they seemed so much younger than she. Most were, she admitted: her mother had introduced her to court when she was just fourteen. Had she ever been so fresh-faced, so hopeful? The court soon stripped young women of their innocence, turned naivety into cunning and ambition. She did not envy the nubile ladies their youth: the wisdom she had gained since first coming to this place – though hard-won – was a far greater prize.

  ‘Here you are!’ Thomas’s voice, edged with irritation, interrupted her reverie. He nodded briefly to Baco
n, who had stood to bow. ‘I have been searching everywhere for you.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Thomas – the fault was mine,’ Bacon put in smoothly. ‘Your wife’s company is far too diverting. I have detained her much longer than I ought.’

  Thomas smiled tightly as the older man made another bow before bending to kiss Frances’s hand. She watched as he made his way from the hall, then turned to her husband. ‘Must you be so discourteous?’

  Thomas looked momentarily ashamed. ‘I was worried about you,’ he said defensively. Studying his expression, Frances realised her assumption that he was not jealous of her friendship with Bacon might have been misplaced. His eyes flicked to the dais. ‘Come – I have no stomach for tonight’s revelries.’ He held out his hand. Frances searched his face, hoping to see some of his usual good humour, but he was too agitated. She rose to follow.

  The shock of the chill night air hit her as they stepped outside. But she was glad of it after the stifling heat of the hall and took a deep, cleansing breath. They walked on in silence, their footsteps echoing in the deserted courtyard. Frances’s hand twitched to hold her husband’s, but fell back to her side.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly at last. ‘I should not have taken out my ill humour on you – or Sir Francis. I must learn greater tolerance if I am to remain in this place.’

  Frances felt the tension begin to abate and reached over to him. His hand felt warm as he clasped hers. ‘You have much to bear,’ she soothed, thinking of Villiers’s smirk as he looked out from the dais, the emblem of his promotion glinting in the candlelight.

  ‘I will have a good deal more yet,’ he said grimly.

  Frances brought his hand to her lips. ‘We have borne much worse. The King’s fancy will soon pass to another. And when it does, the best that Sir George can hope for will be to live out his days in peaceful retirement.’

  They fell silent and Frances knew that her husband, too, was thinking of Somerset. She drew her cloak more tightly around her. They were close to their apartment now and she looked forward to the warmth of her husband’s embrace as they lay cocooned in their bed. Those precious hours always acted as a balm to their troubles at court.

  ‘I do hope you are not thinking of retiring already, Sir Thomas?’

  She and her husband jumped at the silken voice as Villiers stepped out of the shadows. In the gloom of the corridor, she sensed, rather than saw, the smile that was playing about his lips.

  Thomas moved in front of her and made a stiff bow. He did not return to her side but kept her hand tightly clasped in his. ‘Sir George.’

  The young man folded his arms and leaned against the wall. ‘The King always speaks so highly of you. I have often heard him say that you are the most assiduous of all his servants for the care you show towards his beloved hounds.’ A pause. ‘I do hope he has not laboured under a misapprehension all these years.’

  Her husband bristled, but when he replied his voice was calm. ‘I have always sought to serve His Grace to the utmost of my ability – as my lord of Worcester would attest.’

  Villiers chuckled. ‘That preening old fool? I wonder he could find the stables, let alone ensure their efficient management.’

  Thomas did not reply.

  ‘Well, it is no matter. I mean to order things to my satisfaction. Hunting is the King’s greatest solace – one of them anyway – so it is imperative that everything is made ready that we may depart as soon as His Grace gives the order. He was waiting a full fifteen minutes for his hounds when we set out for Hampton Court last week.’

  Frances was glad that the darkness masked her dismay. It had been Villiers who had delayed their departure, insisting on changing his attire just as the King was about to mount his horse. Thomas had told her of it when he had returned that evening. She willed him to defend himself now but he remained silent.

  ‘You may send word when you are done,’ Villiers said, his tone suddenly brisk.

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Why, yes, preparing His Grace’s buckhounds, of course. Surely you have not enjoyed so much of the King’s hospitality this evening that you have forgotten your duties.’

  Frances felt her husband’s fingers twitch.

  ‘A night’s rest is the only preparation they require, Sir George,’ he replied quietly. ‘If I disturb them now, they will be tired and intractable by the time we depart for Ashridge.’

  Villiers took a step closer but Thomas did not flinch. ‘I am fully aware of that, Sir Thomas,’ he snapped. ‘But what of their accoutrements? The harnesses were still spattered with mud from the previous hunt when we rode out at Hampton Court. It is fortunate for you that the King did not notice them. Such slovenliness disgraces his honour.’

  Frances bit down so hard on her lip that she tasted blood. How would her husband bear to serve this devil? His taunts had been infuriating enough before his promotion, but as Thomas’s superior they would become utterly intolerable. Part of her wished that her husband would lash out at him. But she knew that that would be almost as deadly as striking the King himself.

  She heard Thomas draw in a long breath. ‘I will repair to the stables as soon as I have escorted my wife back to our chambers, Sir George.’

  He made another stiff bow and strode down the corridor, gripping Frances’s hand even more tightly than before. As they rounded the corner, she glanced back and saw Villiers still standing there, his eyes fixed upon them.

  CHAPTER 15

  20 February

  Frances sat back on her haunches and waited for the sickness to pass. She knew that within minutes she would be ravenous again, though the thought of food made her stomach turn. She had been so preoccupied with worry for Thomas that she had hardly noticed the absence of her courses these past few weeks. It was only when the newly churned butter began to taste sour and she was beset by a craving for meat that she realised she was with child again. The knowledge had brought her less joy this time, for it meant she must leave Thomas as her confinement drew near, even though he needed her now more than ever.

  Villiers had more than justified the dread she had felt upon first hearing of his appointment as master of the horse. She hardly saw her husband any more – indeed, she had been surprised to find herself with child. He would return to their apartment long after dusk, and some nights she had been unable to stay awake until she heard the click of the latch. It was barely light when he left for his duties each morning, and although she always rose with him, he spoke little and left untouched most of the breakfast she had prepared. It pained her to see him so pale and gaunt. Even the news that she was with child again had lifted his spirits only for a day or so. She supposed he had the same dread of her leaving as she had herself.

  As she began to dress, she smoothed her linen shift over the swell in her belly. This child seemed to grow more quickly than the others. She hoped it might be a girl this time.

  A knock disturbed her thoughts. She finished the lacing and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. When she opened the door, a page handed her a note, then scampered off on another errand. Frances recognised the hand at once and her heart leaped.

  My dear Lady Frances,

  You will think me quite a stranger – if, indeed, you have not forgotten me altogether. I beg your forgiveness for being so long out of your company. I have missed it greatly. The King’s affairs are such that I am afforded little leisure, but I would be glad if you might accompany me on a short boat ride this afternoon. It promises to be a fine day and less cold than of late. I will wait for you by the water gate at two of the clock.

  Your humble servant,

  Fr. Bacon.

  Frances brightened at once. She had barely seen her friend since the New Year celebrations. He had been absent from the few court gatherings that had been staged since, and she had begun to fear that her husband had been right. Thomas had not troubled to hide his disdain at how Bacon had fawned over Villiers when he had been summoned to attend the King in his privy chamber a few weeks before.
She had been disappointed but not surprised. A seasoned courtier like him knew whom to flatter and whom to avoid. She doubted his admiration was sincere.

  Frances finished dressing more carefully and took time over brushing her hair. The chestnut colour had deepened over time, just like her mother’s. Helena’s still had no trace of grey, though she was now a woman of sixty-seven. Frances hoped hers would be the same. She plaited it, then wound it around into a simple coif at the base of her neck. Although she now had far greater liberty for such vanities, she had little patience with them. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had some purpose at court, beyond supporting her husband. Her years spent in the princess’s service had given her companionship, and she had taken pride in her duties. But there were few positions for ladies at court now that Elizabeth had left for the Palatine and her mother, the Queen, was a virtual exile.

  She stood and crossed to the bookcase, taking down The Interpretation of Nature. If she could not be among her beloved flora at Tyringham, this was the next best thing. She had already marked several pages she wished to discuss with Bacon next time they met and was glad they would finally have the opportunity that afternoon. Settling on the window seat, she began to read.

  ‘You look a little pale, my dear,’ Sir Francis said, as he helped her into the boat. ‘Are you well enough for our excursion?’

  Frances smiled. ‘The fresh air will soon bring the colour back to my cheeks. I have had too little of it lately.’

  When her companion was seated opposite her, the boatman pushed the vessel away from the landing stage and rowed them upstream, towards Lambeth. Frances soon glimpsed the red-brick gatehouse of the archbishop’s palace in the distance.