by Tracy Borman
Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost two. She had arranged to call on Kate at half past, but she was sure her friend wouldn’t mind if she was a little early. Besides, she was anxious not to be thwarted by Lady Mary Villiers again. Twice this week she had arrived at the Earl of Rutland’s apartment only to find that his daughter had already been spirited away. The older woman showed the same disregard for prior engagements as she did for most other things – her precious son excepted. Kate had made no complaint, but Frances had seen enough to know that she found Lady Villiers just as irksome as she did herself.
The chapel bell was striking two as Frances reached the lodging. She knocked on the door and waited. Everything was silent within, and she began to fear that Lady Villiers had got there before her once more. She knocked again, louder this time, and was relieved to hear hurried steps on the other side of the door. A moment later, Kate appeared, clearly somewhat flustered.
‘Forgive me – I am before my time,’ Frances said, with a rueful smile. ‘I can come back if—’
‘No, please,’ Kate said hurriedly, pulling her inside. ‘I must attend to something for just a moment. Please – sit down,’ she said, gesturing towards one of several ornate chairs that were arranged around the large mahogany table. The apartment was a good deal larger than Thomas’s, and the light streamed in from the large bay windows overlooking the Thames. As she waited for her friend to return, Frances’s gaze roamed over the rows of books that lined the walls on either side of the fireplace. It did not surprise her that the earl was so well-read, but she wondered why he had not made up for his daughter’s woeful lack of education here, many miles from his wife’s scrutiny.
Her thoughts were distracted by a familiar aroma emanating from Kate’s chamber. Incense. That Rutland still clung to the old religion was well known throughout the court. The King himself was aware of it but his favour towards the earl had always been such that he had been prepared – for once – to turn a blind eye. But Rutland had always insisted his children had been raised in the reformed faith. Frances did not doubt that this was true of his sons – the countess would have made sure of that – but if the same neglect she had shown for her stepdaughter’s education extended to her devotions, then it was possible Kate had grown to cherish the comforts of her father’s faith. Perhaps it was her way of quietly rebelling against the countess’s many cruelties.
Kate came back into the room, taking care to close the chamber door behind her. ‘I’m sorry to take so long,’ she said, still a little flustered. ‘Where shall we go? Father says it will rain, but I see no sign of that. Greenwich, perhaps? Or Hyde Park?’
‘Kate,’ Frances said, reaching for her hand, ‘you do know that you may confide anything to me?’
The girl paled as she fiddled with the cords of her cloak. ‘Of course,’ she muttered.
Frances waited but Kate showed no inclination to say more, so she decided to let the matter rest for now. Though she longed to talk of their shared faith, she must be patient. Such talk was heresy, after all, and theirs was a friendship as brief as it was affectionate.
‘Here – let me help you,’ Frances said, rising to her feet. As she deftly untangled the cords, she noticed the glimmer of a jewel beneath the young woman’s cloak. Discreetly, she pulled back the fabric a little so that she could take a closer look. The large ruby was fashioned into a shell, with a diamond at its base. It was exquisite. ‘A present from your father?’ she asked, with a smile.
Kate flushed. ‘Not my father, no—’ She broke off and chewed her lower lip. Frances watched her with mounting unease. ‘Sir George sent it yesterday, with a note – here,’ she added, drawing a carefully folded parchment from her pocket.
Frances almost recoiled but forced herself to smile as she read its contents.
No jewel could outshine your beauty, but please accept this as a token of my esteem. I hope you might think of your poor servant whenever you look upon it.
GV
His initials were written with such a flourish that they took up more of the page than the message above. Even the gift boasted of the giver: the Villiers coat of arms included a red cross decorated with shells.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Frances became aware that the girl was watching her intently, her brow creased.
‘It is very pretty,’ she replied, taking care to keep her tone light. ‘Sir George is certainly generous to his friends. He is forever giving out such tokens, I hear.’
It was not a lie. Thomas had told her how Villiers bribed his followers with gold and trinkets – though none as fine as this. She saw Kate’s face fall and experienced a mixture of remorse and relief.
‘Well now,’ she continued brightly, ‘I think you are right – the weather is set fair, so let us ride out to Greenwich, as you suggested.’
Kate’s eyes sparkled, all talk of her errant suitor forgotten, for now at least.
CHAPTER 20
12 July
Frances glanced across the aisle to where her husband was seated with the other senior officials of the King’s household. His jaw was tightly clenched and his lips were pressed into a thin line, but when their eyes met he flashed her a smile of such warmth that it melted her heart. She knew how much he had dreaded this day. Looking along the row of his grim-faced companions, she suspected he was not alone.
‘Somerset’s arms have not been taken down,’ she heard someone whisper behind her. Scanning the brightly painted sculptures above the ornate pews where the knights would take their places, Frances saw the distinctive upturned V decorated with three black stars. It gave her cause to hope that the rumours were true and the King intended to pardon his disgraced favourite. She hoped to see Sir Francis Bacon soon so that he could confirm it.
‘The King has granted him full liberty of the Tower,’ remarked another. ‘I hear he has been seen walking the ramparts, the Garter medallion around his neck.’
‘Better that than a rope,’ his companion sneered. The low murmur of laughter that followed was drowned by a sudden blare of trumpets. All heads were bowed as the King made his entrance into the hall, his heels clipping the ancient marble tiles. Stealing a glance at the procession, Frances was surprised to see the Queen following in her husband’s wake. She was resplendent in a gown of silver taffeta with a high collar of stiff white lace. Her hair had been fashioned into an elaborate coif, which was studded with tiny pearls and diamonds. Behind her walked Prince Charles, pale and solemn as usual. He had grown even more slender these past few months, but had gained little in height. The Knights of the Garter came next, the long white plumes of their hats fluttering as they walked.
Looking beyond them, Frances could just make out Villiers and the Earl of Rutland walking side by side. The younger man was clearly revelling in the moment as he held his head high, occasionally touching his black velvet cap in acknowledgement of the cheers and smiles of his supporters. By contrast, the earl was staring straight ahead, his mouth set. Last of all came Lady Mary Villiers, straight-backed, face suffused with triumph, and next to her Kate, her head meekly bowed.
The ceremony that followed was interminable. Frances’s skin prickled in the rising heat from the press of bodies and the hot July sun that streamed in through the stained-glass windows. She could see beads of sweat forming on the brows of the knights. How they must long to cast off their heavy velvet cloaks and caps, she mused. As Villiers knelt before his royal master, she wondered that he could appear as coolly indifferent to the searing heat as if his gown were made of ice.
She diverted her gaze towards the back of the dais, where the Queen was seated next to her son. Just then, Anne looked in her direction and her mouth lifted in the faintest smile of greeting. Frances slowly inclined her head in acknowledgement. The Queen’s expression was as inscrutable as ever as she turned back to watch her husband confer the highest honour in the land upon his favourite. Did she inwardly recoil, as Frances did? Perhaps not, given that she had encouraged the King�
��s obsession with him.
Unable to bear the sight of Villiers’s triumph any longer, Frances cast her eyes downwards. The child had grown so quickly this past month that there was no longer any hope of concealment. News of her pregnancy had spread rapidly throughout the court but had been the subject of only the most fleeting interest.
Far more diverting was the continuing uncertainty of the Somersets’ fate, or the question of when Sir Walter Raleigh would finally set sail for El Dorado. Frances was no less interested in that than her fellow courtiers, given how much she and her husband had staked upon the enterprise. But even though Raleigh had assembled a considerable fleet and the winds had been favourable for weeks, he had showed no inclination to embark. Frances had begun to suspect he had some other game in hand – that their fortune would be lost. She had confided her fears to Thomas, but he had urged her to keep faith. His own seemed unshakeable. Now, though, she saw in him the same air of desperation that had hung over him ever since Villiers’s rise to favour. She knew that his faith in Raleigh’s enterprise was grounded in the need to do something – anything – to rid himself of this devil.
‘I present to you these knights of the most noble Order of the Garter.’
The King’s voice rang out in St George’s Chapel. Everyone rose to their feet and bowed towards the two men, who had turned to face the crowds. Frances focused her attention on Rutland, who bore himself with the same quiet dignity that distinguished him from most of his peers – none more so than the one standing next to him. Out of the corner of her eye, Frances could see Villiers, proud as a peacock, relishing his moment of glory.
When the applause had died down, the King led the royal party from the dais and they began their slow procession back down the nave, closely followed by the knights. Frances caught the smile Villiers flashed at Kate as she fell into step behind him.
After several long minutes had passed, Frances shuffled along the pew to join the throng of guests making their way along the aisle. The atmosphere in the chapel was now suffocating, and she longed to fill her lungs with fresh air. She placed her hands protectively over her belly as she was jostled along towards the huge west door. Feeling faint, she focused her gaze upon the exquisite gilded ironwork, its curling leaves, flowers and tiny animals picked out against the deep crimson paint on the wood.
When she finally emerged onto the steps the sunlight was so bright that she was dazzled and had to pause, much to the annoyance of the courtiers who were almost treading on her heels in their eagerness to secure a good seat at the feast. She stepped aside to let them pass and, on a sudden impulse, slipped away in the opposite direction. Ahead of her was King Henry’s Gateway. She hastened towards it, hoping that the guards who usually stood sentry there had been diverted to the great hall, where the feast would soon begin. The idea of taking her place among another stifling throng was unbearable. Thomas would soon look for her, but she must first gain the solitude she had craved ever since arriving at Windsor that morning. Soon, she was enveloped in the blissfully cool shade of the gatehouse. It appeared deserted, so she decided to rest there, her back pressed against the cold stone of the archway.
‘You must have patience, Mother.’
Frances froze. She peered into the shadows but could see nothing.
‘Our debts are mounting and you spend more than you receive at the King’s hands.’ A woman’s voice, this time.
Frances felt a draught behind her and turned to see a narrow door. She had not noticed it before. It was slightly ajar. She held her breath and leaned closer.
‘A Knight of the Garter must dress in robes befitting his rank.’
Frances could hear the smile in Villiers’s voice.
‘Money has always passed through your fingers like water, George. You could have the riches of Croesus and still find your pockets empty before you have bought all that you desire.’
‘You fret too much, Mother. This marriage will make us one of the richest families in the kingdom.’
‘Only if that boy should die – and you have not ruined your reputation in the meantime. I have heard people whisper that you prefer the King’s bed to any other, and the earl will not want such a man for his precious daughter. She might be ill-favoured, but if the fragile thread that tethers her young brother to this life should snap’ – Frances heard Lady Mary click her fingers – ‘she will be the most sought-after bride in the kingdom. And you must make sure that you are her first choice.’
There was a long pause and Frances heard a faint rustle. When Villiers spoke again it was so softly that she was obliged to press her ear against the door. ‘How can you doubt my ability to bewitch the fairer sex?’
The silence that followed was so prolonged that Frances wondered if they had become aware of her presence. She thought of running away, but the temptation to find out what was happening in that chamber proved too great. She took a breath, then quietly pushed the door open another inch so that she could peer inside.
What she saw made her clamp her hand over her mouth for fear of crying out. Lady Mary was seated on an ornate chair close to the window, the bright sunlight illuminating the flush that was creeping up her neck as her son trailed his lips over it. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy as his fingers stroked the plump flesh above her bodice before moving slowly down to her thighs.
‘I will do as you have taught me, Mother,’ he murmured, against her neck, as he lifted her skirts. Frances stood, transfixed and appalled, as his hand moved inside them. But when his mother gave a loud gasp, it was as if a spell had been broken, and Frances stole silently away. As soon as the gatehouse was out of view, she broke into a run, desperate to escape the depravity she had seen within.
‘You are sure nothing ails you – or the child?’
Thomas was watching her closely. She knew she should have told him what she had seen the day before, but she hardly knew how to form the words. It sickened her every time she thought of it. She had slept little that night, the image of Villiers’s hand sliding up his mother’s thigh tormenting her until she wanted to scream out her revulsion.
‘I told you, I – we – are quite well,’ she said, a little too brightly. ‘We will be better still for the ride back to Whitehall.’ That, at least, was not a lie. It promised to be another fine day and the sun was already high in the sky.
‘I will be with you by nightfall. The King is out of humour after last night’s feast so will not wish to hunt for long.’
‘Do you presume to know His Majesty’s desires now, Tyringham?’
The sound of Villiers’s silken voice made Frances’s blood run cold. She kept her head bowed after a brief curtsy, unable to bear the sight of him.
‘I have readied the hounds, sir,’ her husband said quietly.
‘Good. Now you may ready my horse – make haste, man. The King wishes me to ride out ahead of the party, to ensure the keeper of the Great Park is prepared for our arrival.’
Thomas glanced from his wife to his master. Frances gave a slight nod. He hesitated a moment longer, then walked briskly to the stables. Villiers waited until he had disappeared from view before turning to address her. ‘I did not see you at the Garter feast, Lady Frances.’
‘I felt a little unwell so retired early,’ she replied, stroking her belly distractedly.
‘I do not think I have congratulated you yet. When will it be born?’
Frances had been asked the question many times these past few weeks and had always been vague in her answer.
‘I cannot be sure,’ she repeated now, ‘but it will be months yet before I leave court.’
‘I rejoice to hear it,’ he drawled, his mouth curling into a slow smile. ‘I would find this place a good deal less diverting without you in it.’ His long fingers stroked his chin. ‘But I pity you, when the time does come for you to return to the country. I cannot imagine that a woman of your intellect, of your . . . curiosity will find enough to amuse her, so far from court.’
Frances stared at him, he
art thudding. Had he seen her yesterday? Surely he had been too steeped in his perverted lust to have noticed her flee from the gatehouse. Seeing his eyes spark with fury, she suddenly felt far from sure.
At that moment, there was the clatter of hoofs and Frances exhaled quietly as she saw her husband approaching with Villiers’s horse. ‘I am sure I will find plenty to entertain me, Sir George,’ she said pleasantly.
He looked at her for a moment longer, then went to the mounting block and leaped gracefully into the saddle.
‘Will you not bid me adieu, Lady Frances?’ he called.
She gave a tight smile.
‘Come now,’ he persisted, holding out his hand. ‘Let us offer each other the mark of friendship.’
Frances’s smile did not waver, though she inwardly recoiled at the thought of touching him. But to refuse would be an insult and, intense though her loathing was, she had no wish to make an even greater enemy of him. She made to step forward, but Thomas placed a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Do not let him bait you, Frances,’ he murmured, under his breath.
She closed her hand over his and gave it a squeeze to convey her reassurance, then walked slowly to Villiers. His smile broadened as she approached and he leaned towards her. ‘I am glad to see that you are biddable after all, Lady Frances, but you must learn to be more so, if you and I are to be friends.’
His grip on her hand tightened as he lowered his lips to it. They felt cool on her skin, but she snatched away her hand as if they had burned it. He gave a low chuckle and turned his gaze to the road ahead, gently patting the horse’s neck. Then, without warning, he jabbed his heels so sharply into its sides that it reared in fright. Before Frances could react, she fell backwards onto the cobbles, a crushing pain searing through her stomach. The last thing she was aware of was a hot, oozing wetness seeping between her legs. Then everything was darkness.