Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Kate’s eyes were wide with fright. Frances placed a hand on hers. ‘There may be many dissemblers in this place, Kate, but you can be assured that I am not among them,’ she said. ‘I seek nothing from you but friendship.’

  The young woman’s eyes filled with tears as she grasped her hand tightly. ‘I would trust you with my life, Frances.’

  CHAPTER 23

  16 August

  The apartment had to be one of the finest in the palace. Rich tapestries lined the walls, their gold and silver threads shimmering in the light from the gilded sconces. Several chambers led off the main hall, and the large mullioned windows commanded extensive views of the river.

  ‘You have done well, my lord,’ Frances remarked to her host.

  Bacon grinned. ‘The gossips whispered that I lived like a king while the real one was parading around Scotland with his favourite last year, so I thought I should justify their claims.’

  Frances had heard the rumours. Although her friend made light of them, Thomas had told her how vicious the sniping had been during James’s absence. Bacon’s promotion to the lord keepership had excited a great deal of envy.

  ‘They were my father’s lodgings,’ he went on. ‘I inherited them with his office. But I ordered their redecoration first – he and I had rather different taste.’ His eyes glinted with humour. Though they had never spoken of it directly, they both knew he was referring to more than his taste in furnishings. Sir Nicholas Bacon had sired numerous children, both within and outside wedlock.

  ‘I was delighted when I heard the news of your advancement,’ she remarked with sincerity. ‘Nobody deserves it more.’

  ‘Or has waited longer.’ His smile broadened. ‘Well, it is all the sweeter for that.’

  Frances took the glass he held out. She had been glad of the invitation to dine with him that evening. There had been little enough to celebrate since her return to court.

  ‘To our absent friends,’ Bacon said, raising his glass.

  Frances’s smile faded. ‘One in particular.’

  They both fell silent for a few moments. News of Raleigh’s arrest had reached the court six days earlier. The lord high ad miral had ordered his capture and he had been brought back first to Plymouth and then London.

  ‘Would that he had escaped to France, as he had planned,’ Bacon said quietly. ‘But Lord Howard had instructed his men to watch him like a hawk. He knows Raleigh of old.’

  ‘What will become of him?’ Frances feared the answer.

  Her friend shook his head. ‘The King wants him dead.’ His voice was flat, resigned. ‘Raleigh has written a defence of his actions at San Thomé, insisting that Guiana was English territory and his aggression was therefore justified.’

  ‘He is right, is he not?’

  ‘Perhaps. King Philip has withdrawn his complaint – it seems he is not such a hypocrite, after all.’ His knuckles showed white as he took a sip from his glass. ‘But it makes little difference. Raleigh’s real crime was in failing to bring back the gold he had promised. In James’s eyes, he has always been a traitor and should have had his head struck off years ago.’

  ‘But if the King of Spain is no longer demanding recompense for San Thomé, what grounds can there be to condemn him?’

  ‘The original charge of treason was never revoked,’ Bacon replied.

  ‘But that was fifteen years ago!’ Frances exclaimed. ‘There are few people who can even remember what it was for. If James revived it now, he would appear ridiculous, as well as irresolute.’

  ‘You are right and His Majesty knows it, which is why he has instructed his commissioners to interrogate every member of the crew, as well as Raleigh himself, of course. He means to find proof, however fragile, that Sir Walter was plotting to foment war between this country and Spain.’

  Frances gave a derisive laugh. ‘We should be grateful, I suppose. It would be worse for Raleigh if the King suspected his real motive was to ally with King Philip.’ She paused, her expression grave. ‘Our king is a master at deciding upon the crime before any evidence has been gathered to support it. I have experienced such justice at his hands. Can you do nothing to help?’

  ‘God knows I have tried. But to the King’s ear, my words are tainted. He has not forgotten how I argued for Raleigh’s release so that he might undertake this voyage.’

  ‘But as lord keeper your authority exceeds that of all his other advisers – even Buckingham,’ she said weakly, knowing that the King paid little heed to the hierarchy of his council. In his eyes, the marquess would always be head and shoulders above the rest.

  ‘In matters of state, yes,’ Bacon replied. ‘But I no longer have pre-eminence in the law. I was obliged to surrender the post of attorney general upon my recent promotion. My successor has no wish to endanger his position by speaking up for our beleaguered friend.’

  Frances knew he was right. Sir Henry Yelverton had already courted James’s disapproval on a number of occasions – not least for making an enemy of Buckingham. Little wonder that he wanted to avoid any further controversy.

  ‘The people will protest against it,’ she said. ‘Sir Walter is as popular now as he was in the old Queen’s time.’

  He nodded. ‘Which is why His Grace means to arrange this as a private matter.’

  Frances sank down on one of the gilded chairs by the window. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes as she looked out over the Thames. The river was quieter now, and there were just a few small wherries tethered to the landing stage on the opposite bank. She thought of Raleigh, holed up in his apartments at the Tower. Had hope deserted him too? She prayed it had not, that his sharp mind was already turning over some fresh scheme to rid England of the heretic King. Even though he had lost her fortune – Thomas’s too – she could bear him no ill will. God willing, he would meet his death with the same sanguinity that had sustained him throughout the long years of his imprisonment.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ Bacon laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, ‘we should dine – though God knows I have little appetite for it.’

  CHAPTER 24

  12 September

  Frances looked up at her husband and smiled. Despite everything that had happened these past few weeks, she was enjoying being in his arms as they followed the steps of the dance. His hand felt warm on the small of her back and she could smell his familiar scent among the heavy perfumes with which the ladies had drenched themselves.

  ‘The count appears in good humour this evening.’ Thomas glanced over her shoulder to where the Spanish ambassador was supping wine with the King and Buckingham.

  Frances did not turn: she had seen enough of the marquess’s fawning and simpering. The arrival of Diego Sarmiento de Acuña, Count de Gondomar, had caused a stir at court. Relations between England and Spain had been hostile for so long that even James’s councillors had been of the opinion war was pending, especially after the disaster of Raleigh’s expedition. But now all the talk was of peace and mutual accord. The ambassador had even been charged with opening negotiations for a marriage between Prince Charles and the Infanta Maria. Their new-found amity made Frances uneasy, particularly as Buckingham was going out of his way to encourage it. What game was he playing now?

  ‘He seems to approve of the Madeira wine. It is fortunate that the King ordered such vast quantities,’ she replied sardonically.

  They had reached the end of the hall now and were obliged to change places as they began the slow procession back, keeping their steps in time with those of the other dancers. Frances’s eyes were drawn back to the dais. She stared, astonished, as Queen Anne walked slowly onto it, accompanied by her son, Charles. She was much thinner than when Frances had last seen her and was leaning heavily on the prince’s arm. Frances was as shocked by the change in her as by her sudden appearance at court. As she stared, she was jostled by the lady next to her, who gave an exasperated sigh. Quickly, Frances tried to fall back into step but stumbled over the skirts of another, who turned sharply and glared at
her.

  ‘Forgive us,’ Thomas said, pulling Frances gently away. ‘My wife is in need of a rest.’ He steered her towards a quiet recess. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Frances nodded towards the dais. She saw her husband’s eyes widen briefly as he noticed Anne, who was now lowering herself onto the throne next to her husband’s. It was placed there at every court gathering, but Frances had grown so accustomed to seeing it empty that she could hardly believe that the Queen was there now.

  ‘You did not know she was coming either?’ Frances murmured.

  Thomas shook his head, still gazing at the dais. ‘I had not thought to see her here again.’

  The Queen was extending her hand to the ambassador now, while Buckingham looked on approvingly. Frances thought back to the conversation they had had at Denmark House. Anne had admitted she had encouraged the King’s obsession with the young favourite, hinting that it was to serve a greater purpose than merely to satisfy her husband’s lust. Ever since Frances had puzzled over what that purpose might be.

  ‘Is it for Raleigh, I wonder?’ Thomas mused. ‘The Count de Gondomar has said his master expects the King to make recompense for San Thomé. Perhaps the Queen intends to soften his opinion.’

  Frances hoped he was right: Sir Walter had little other chance of avoiding the fate that seemed more certain with each passing day. Bacon had confided at their last meeting that he had received instructions to prepare for a private hearing at Whitehall.

  At that moment, the musicians struck up another tune and the courtiers formed themselves into two neat rows in preparation for the pavane. Frances saw Lady Kate Manners take her place among them, her eyes cast down but her face flushed with excitement. She loved to dance and would often beg to practise the steps with Frances when they were alone. Frances’s smile vanished as she saw Buckingham weave his way through the assembled throng and come to a halt directly opposite Kate, pushing two gentlemen out of the way in his eagerness to be her partner. He made an ostentatious bow, one hand clasped to his chest as if in reverence, then stepped forward and pulled her towards him as the dance began.

  Frances watched as the marquess swept her along. He moved with such impeccable elegance and precision that the rest of the dancers appeared awkward and graceless by comparison. Now and again, he cast a sly glance over his shoulder towards his royal master, whose eyes never left him, even though the ambassador was trying to engage him in conversation.

  Unable to bear the sight of him any longer, Frances looked to the opposite side of the hall and was surprised to see Lord Rutland among the company.

  ‘He does not approve of the dance, it seems,’ Thomas observed, following her gaze. ‘Or perhaps it is his daughter’s partner who offends him?’

  Frances did not reply. She had seen little of the earl in recent weeks, for he had been preoccupied by affairs at Belvoir Castle. She suspected he would have left to attend to them in person if it had not been for his fear that Buckingham would make the most of his absence. That he was intent upon marrying Lady Katherine was well known to everyone at court, the King included. Thomas had overheard a furious row between the two men, during which James had accused his lover of playing him false. Far from prompting Buckingham to employ greater discretion, this seemed to have encouraged him to flaunt his flirtation with the hapless Kate even more. Perhaps he knew that stoking the King’s jealousy would intensify his obsession.

  Frances glanced at the throne as James took a long draught from his goblet. She noticed the fleeting disdain on Gondomar’s face as he watched a thin trail of red wine snaking down the King’s chin. But he arranged his mouth into a smile as soon as James leaned forward to address him.

  It was obvious they were talking about Buckingham, judging from the frequent looks they turned in his direction. The King’s cheeks were flushed – with wine or rage, Frances could not tell. She watched as his favourite deftly twirled Kate towards the dais, drawing her even closer so that by the time they were within a few feet of the King their faces were almost touching. The dance was ending now, and as the other couples made their obeisance towards James, Buckingham kept his eyes fixed upon his partner. As the music faded into silence, he leaned forward and slowly pressed his lips against hers.

  ‘How dare you, sir?’

  There were murmurs of surprise as Lord Rutland pushed his way through the crowds. Kate had managed to pull away from the marquess and was standing, head bowed, colour rising to her face. Buckingham smirked at her father as he drew level with him.

  ‘Your daughter is an excellent dancer, my lord,’ he remarked languidly. ‘She follows the steps perfectly.’

  Rutland glowered at him. ‘You dishonour her.’ His voice was so low that Frances strained to hear. ‘I should have you horsewhipped for this.’

  The marquess opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment a loud scraping noise echoed across the room and everyone turned to see the King rising from his throne. ‘Come, Steenie,’ he commanded. ‘You have had enough sport this evening.’

  He did not wait for an answer before he staggered from the dais, the Count de Gondomar staring after him. An awkward silence followed. Frances could see tears pooling in Kate’s eyes as she stared at the floor. She moved to help but Thomas laid a hand on her arm. He would not wish her to make even more of an enemy of Buckingham than he was already.

  At that moment, a delicate cough sounded around the hall and Lord Bacon stepped from the shadows, the heels of his exquisite satin shoes clipping on the flagstones. ‘My lord marquess.’ He swept an ostentatious greeting. ‘I have been admiring your dancing all evening. Why, you move with such grace that Apollo himself must be wringing his hands with envy.’

  Frances held her breath as she saw Buckingham turn his gaze to her friend, eyes narrowed.

  ‘And, if you will permit me to observe, your coat is the finest cut of any I have seen here at court – even in the old Queen’s day. Is that Venetian silk?’

  ‘Persian.’ The younger man drew himself up to his full height.

  His flattery has hit its mark, Frances realised, with a mixture of astonishment and admiration. She had not thought that even a man of Buckingham’s vanity would be so easily distracted.

  Bacon clicked his tongue, then reached out to touch the doublet, his eyelids fluttering closed as if in wonderment. ‘You are the brightest jewel of this court, my lord,’ he declared, hand on his chest, then raised his glass aloft. ‘To the Marquess of Buckingham!’ The words echoed into silence and Frances darted an anxious glance around the company.

  ‘To the marquess.’ The heavily accented voice came from the dais. Gondomar had risen to his feet and was holding his glass towards the assembled company. He gave a slight bow as his gaze fell upon Buckingham, then brought the wine to his lips.

  The other dignitaries on the dais followed suit and, before long, the toast was repeated by everyone in the room, Frances and her husband included. For once, she was gratified to see how the King’s favourite preened as he acknowledged the gesture. Then, without troubling to take his leave of Kate, he strutted slowly from the hall. Only when he was out of sight did Bacon turn to Frances and flash a brief conspiratorial smile.

  CHAPTER 25

  5 October

  As the boat drew level with the landing stage, Frances reached into her pocket and clasped the note. Pressing some coins into the oarsman’s palm, she climbed onto the platform and hastened towards the Byward Tower. The guards looked at her askance and lowered their halberds as she approached. This gate was usually reserved for the King and his family.

  Frances held out the letter. The elder of the guards frowned but she saw his expression change as he recognised the seal. Anne had needed no persuasion to write it. She was as sympathetic towards Raleigh’s plight as Frances was. Frances watched as he read it, then carefully refolded it.

  ‘You must show this to the yeoman at the Bloody Tower,’ he said, as he handed it back. ‘I presume you know the way, my lady.’

  Fr
ances nodded and walked past them as calmly as she could. It was only a short distance to Raleigh’s lodgings and she could see a light glowing from the upper window. She passed under the archway, the spikes of the portcullis above silhouetted against the grey sky. The huge edifice of the White Tower loomed into view on the left and she shuddered, quickening her pace.

  As she neared the steps that led up to the Bloody Tower, Frances breathed in the faint scent of myrtle. Glancing down, she saw that Raleigh’s garden was sadly neglected. The basil plants had long since withered and died, and the once neatly laid-out beds were now a mass of weeds. Only the hedge that encircled it still thrived, but it had grown unkempt. Bacon had told her that Raleigh had devoted many hours to the garden’s cultivation. He was unlikely to be allowed such liberty again.

  Feeling suddenly weary, she climbed the steps to his lodging. After she had shown the yeoman Queen Anne’s letter, he nodded her through. When the door had closed behind her, she paused, inhaling the familiar aroma of tobacco and wood smoke. The apartment smelt damp, too, and was colder than she had remembered it. Neither was there any sign of the servants who had attended Raleigh throughout the long years of his incarceration. Everything was as still and silent as a tomb.

  With mounting apprehension, Frances stepped quietly into the parlour. A meagre fire flickered in the grate, and on the table next to it was a plate of stale-looking bread and cheese. Neither had been touched. Turning, her breath caught in her throat as she saw Raleigh seated on the same high-backed chair she remembered from her many visits here. His eyes were closed and he was so still that she feared he might be dead. He seemed to have shrunk into himself. His once ruddy face was pale and wan, and his cheekbones showed beneath his waxen skin. Frances turned towards the window and brushed away a tear. He must not see her grief when he awoke.

  ‘I am a pitiful sight, am I not?’