Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  ‘I can well imagine it,’ Frances replied, with feeling. ‘Lady Mary is an overbearing woman, and very fond of her own opinions.’

  ‘Yes!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘It is such a relief that you share my view. I have tried to remain patient, but her behaviour seems to have grown worse in recent weeks. If ever I decline her invitation to dine, she takes it as a personal affront and complains to my father.’

  ‘He is sympathetic, though, I’m sure.’

  ‘To an extent, yes,’ Kate said, ‘but he is preoccupied with other cares at present and I do not like to vex him.’

  Frances slowed her pace. ‘I am sorry to hear it. I confess that I have been a neglectful friend to him of late. Do you know what troubles him?’

  ‘He has received many letters from Belvoir lately. Although he assures me all is well, I fear that my brother still sickens.’

  ‘That must worry him greatly,’ Frances said. ‘It has been a long time now since Lord Ros first fell ill.’

  Kate nodded. ‘My father and stepmother have tried everything to bring him back to health. I pray daily that he might show some sign of improvement. Lady Mary has even offered to send her own apothecary to Belvoir.’

  ‘How kind,’ Frances observed. Like her son, the countess was not the sort of woman to do anyone a service unless it was in her own interests. ‘I will add my prayers to yours, Kate,’ she concluded.

  Frances tried to focus on the beauty of the scene around them, but her thoughts were too distracted by concern for Kate and her young brother. They had almost reached the path that led southwards out of the park, towards Chelsea, when the clatter of hoofs brought them to an abrupt halt. They stepped aside to let the riders past, but as they drew closer Frances recognised the young man at the centre of the entourage. She swept a deep curtsy, pulling gently on her companion’s arm so that she might do the same.

  ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘Please.’ The prince gestured for them to stand. Seated on his stallion, Charles appeared more at ease and of greater stature than when Frances had seen him at the various court gatherings he had attended. He was soon to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, she calculated, as she stole a glance at him, and had grown into a fine, if still rather delicate young man. He had the same high forehead and piercing eyes as his mother, and above his top lip she saw a few carefully manicured wisps of a fledgling moustache.

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you, Lady Frances, Lady Katherine.’ His voice was much softer than his father’s, and higher in tone. ‘I had not thought to encounter anyone else from court here on such a cold day.’

  ‘The walk from Whitehall has warmed our bones,’ Frances replied, with a smile.

  It was the first time the prince had spoken to her and she was a little surprised that he knew her name. But, then, he had been groomed as a future king, so his attendants would make sure he was familiar with his father’s court and everyone within it.

  He turned to Kate. ‘I trust you are well, Lady Katherine?’

  The young woman flushed a deep shade of crimson. ‘Very well, Your Grace, I thank you.’

  ‘Will you ride far today, Your Grace?’ Frances asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  ‘To Greenwich,’ he replied. ‘I wish to visit Her Grace the Queen. I fear I have been a neglectful son of late.’

  Frances resisted the temptation to ask whether his father the King knew of his excursion. He could hardly bear to hear Anne mentioned these days. ‘I trust she is well?’ she enquired instead, remembering the Queen’s pallor when she had seen her on the night of Gondomar’s reception.

  Charles did not reply for several moments. Then: ‘These late events trouble her, I think.’

  ‘As they do all faithful subjects.’ She saw that her words had hit their mark.

  The prince’s gaze intensified. ‘We must pray for patience and forbearance.’

  Beside her, Frances heard Kate’s sharp intake of breath. The King’s son had as good as acknowledged that he regretted Raleigh’s death, that he shared the faith that united them. Or perhaps she was reading too much into his words.

  After an interval, the prince touched the brim of his hat to both women, then nodded to his entourage and rode out of the park, straight-backed and chin held high. Frances watched his slender form fade from view. For the first time in many months, she experienced a flicker of hope for the future.

  CHAPTER 29

  22 December

  The sconces had long since been extinguished, but the room was lit by the soft glow of the fire that still flickered in the grate. Frances stretched out on the rug in front of it, revelling in the warmth that caressed her skin.

  ‘Do you think anyone noted our absence?’ she murmured, twisting to look at Thomas.

  He bent to kiss her neck. ‘With the marquess leading a masque? We could have paraded naked through the banqueting hall and still all eyes would have been on him.’

  Frances smiled at the thought. ‘I wish we could spend every evening like this. The Christmas revels were so splendid in the old Queen’s day but they have long since lost their lustre.’

  Her husband groaned. ‘And they have not yet begun in earnest. Buckingham has taken it upon himself to arrange an endless series of feasting and revelry. With Gondomar still in residence, he is determined to ensure they are the most dazzling ever staged.’

  Frances pressed her back against Thomas’s chest. ‘He still pushes for a Spanish alliance, then?’

  ‘Relentlessly. Even the King is tiring of his unceasing arguments and persuasions in council.’

  She watched the flames gutter and flare. ‘He must stand to gain by it somehow.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ Thomas agreed. ‘King Philip may have failed to find El Dorado, but he has more gold than His Grace could even dream of.’ She felt his breath on her neck as he slowly exhaled. ‘Let us talk no more of him now, my love. He plagues me during my hours of service, and I would not have him do so when we are at leisure.’

  Frances turned over and snaked her hand around her husband’s neck, lacing her fingers through his hair and gently pulling him towards her. As their kiss deepened, she felt the warmth of desire uncoil inside her once more.

  ‘My lords!’ Buckingham’s voice rang out across the hall, bringing the chatter to an end. He had climbed onto a small platform that had been erected on the dais, directly in front of where the King and his family were feasting. Frances saw James’s eyes linger on the young man’s back and thighs as he swallowed deeply from his cup.

  ‘On this, the eve of the feast of the Holy Innocents, that pit eous day when King Herod slew all those babes-in-arms’ – he raised his arms, whipping up a chorus of boos and jeers – ‘we are required to make merry in preparation for the day of fasting ahead. And so . . .’ a dramatic pause ‘. . . to lead us in our revels and delights, I give you the master of merry disports, the Lord of Misrule!’ he shouted, stepping down to make way for the garishly dressed man who had just climbed onto the dais. There was a deafening roar of approval from the assembled crowds as the marquess swept an elaborate bow towards him.

  Buckingham had outdone himself, Frances had to admit. This was the latest in a series of outlandish costumes he had displayed before the courtiers during the seemingly endless festive entertainments. The Lord of Misrule was a tall, stout man, made even more imposing by an enormous headdress fashioned from holly, red satin and painted fruits. His green velvet cloak was bedecked with bright scarves and ribbons, gold rings and precious jewels that sparkled in the light from the sconces. Around his legs were tied numerous tiny silver bells with strips of green silk. The man’s face was painted brown to resemble the bark of a tree, and he wore a long curling wig of the same colour.

  ‘Where is your king?’ he bellowed, the bells jingling as he turned this way and that.

  There were loud cries and shouts from the diners as they pointed and gestured towards James, whose lips curled in amusement. But the Lord of Misrule pretended not to hear, and it was on
ly when the King himself called out that he turned. Drawing himself up to his full height, he held out a hand imperiously so that James might kiss it, as tradition dictated. The King flashed a smile at his favourite, then rose to his feet and walked slowly over to the platform.

  ‘I surrender to your greater power, my lord,’ he said. A loud cheer went up as he bent to kiss his hand.

  The costumed man’s eyes flitted across the long table and rested upon the Queen, who was seated next to her husband’s empty throne. Following his gaze, James addressed him again.

  ‘As king of this court today, you may have whatever your heart desires – even my wife!’ His grin widened at the answering whoops and cheers. Frances saw that Anne was looking on, impervious as ever. How she must long for the peace of Denmark House.

  The Lord of Misrule cast a mischievous glance towards the assembled courtiers, then looked back at James.

  ‘Ah, but which wife, Your Grace?’ he asked slyly.

  The few titters were quickly suppressed and an ominous silence descended. All eyes were trained upon the King, whose face was deathly pale. Behind him, Frances could see Buckingham, eyes alight with fury. A faint tinkle of bells could be heard as the Lord of Misrule shifted uncomfortably on the platform, his gaze darting from his patron to the King. But suddenly James’s face brightened and he gave a loud, mirthless laugh. The marquess took up the theme, laughing uproariously and clapping the Count de Gondomar on the back. The ambassador looked at him uncertainly, then joined in. Soon the whole room was in uproar, though Frances judged that they were laughing more with relief than amusement.

  Buckingham gave the signal for the minstrels to begin playing. The Lord of Misrule stepped hurriedly down from the platform and half ran from the dais. Frances caught the look his patron shot him as he passed. Any hopes he might have had of further advancement after this night’s revels had been dashed. He would be lucky to escape with his life.

  ‘The man only said what we were all thinking.’ Bacon took a delicate sip of wine. Frances smiled at him, gratified that he had chosen to sit with her and Thomas, rather than taking a place on the dais, to which his status entitled him.

  ‘That may be so, my lord,’ Thomas replied, with a grin, ‘but some thoughts are safer in our heads than upon our lips.’

  ‘You are in danger of becoming as seasoned a courtier as the smiling marquess over there,’ Bacon retorted. ‘Little wonder you have survived in this place for so long.’

  Frances placed a hand over her husband’s and gave it a squeeze. She rejoiced that he had seemed so much more himself in recent weeks. The burden of their debts had begun to ease, thanks to the rents they received from Thomas’s newly leased lands, and Lord Rutland had offered his support, having heard of their troubles from his daughter. Even the constant menace from Buckingham seemed to have abated, now that he was preoccupied with securing a Spanish alliance. He had spent so much time courting Gondomar that he had neglected the royal stables and Thomas had been able to perform his duties unimpeded, for the most part.

  ‘Tell me,’ Bacon continued, ‘when will I meet your fine boys, of whom I have heard such praise?’

  Frances’s heart gave a familiar lurch.

  ‘We hoped to visit them two weeks ago, but the King decided to make the most of the fine weather and go hunting before the Christmas revels began,’ her husband explained.

  ‘Can you not bring them to court?’

  ‘No,’ Frances said, a little too quickly. ‘That is, William is too young to travel far, and John and Robert will hardly be parted from him.’

  Their housekeeper Mrs Garston had often written of how the two boys doted on their little brother. Although Frances loved to think of the bond between her sons, it pained her that she was a stranger to the youngest. Perhaps John and Robert were beginning to forget her, too.

  ‘How old are they now?’ Bacon interrupted her painful reverie.

  ‘John is four and Robert three,’ she replied. ‘William will be six months old tomorrow.’

  ‘And George?’

  Thomas answered this time. ‘He is thirteen.’

  ‘A man already,’ Bacon remarked. ‘I’ll wager that beautiful mother of yours dotes upon him.’

  Frances smiled but did not trust herself to speak.

  ‘I am sure they are all a credit to you both, my dear,’ he said kindly.

  The spiced wine warmed her throat as it slipped down, and she felt herself relax. Looking towards the dais, she saw that the King’s face had regained its usual high colour and he was guffawing at some jest his favourite had made. On his other side, the Queen seemed to wince, then regained her usual placid expression. Her skin was waxy pale, despite the rising heat of the room.

  On the table next to the dais, Frances could see Kate seated opposite her father. The earl was as solemn as she had seen him many times of late, and he spoke little – not that he had much opportunity, given that next to him the Countess of Buckingham was holding court.

  At that moment, she caught a movement to the left of her vision and turned to see a liveried servant weaving his way through the tables. He stopped when he drew level with Lord Rutland and bent to whisper something in his ear. Frances saw the alarm on the older man’s face, before he recovered himself and forced a bright smile in his daughter’s direction. Placing his napkin on the table, he rose and gave a curt bow towards the dais, then hastened from the room, the countess staring haughtily in his wake.

  ‘My dear?’

  Frances tore her gaze away from Lord Rutland’s retreating figure. ‘Forgive me, my lord. The revelry has quite exhausted me. If you will both permit it, I shall retire now,’ she said, already rising to her feet. Thomas made to follow, but she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Please – stay and keep Lord Bacon company,’ she said, with a smile. Her husband looked up at her with concern, his eyes searching hers, but eventually gave a nod of acquiescence.

  Frances forced herself to walk slowly from the hall, anxious not to draw attention. As soon as she was in the corridor beyond, however, she quickened her pace. The air was much cooler there and the noise of the revellers grew fainter as she made her way through the succession of public rooms towards the earl’s apartments. When she reached the courtyard that lay next to them, she saw him standing by the mounting block in the centre. His agitation was clear as he kept glancing towards the archway that lay to the east of the courtyard.

  ‘My lord?

  He jumped. Then his shoulders drooped slightly as he saw her approach.

  ‘Forgive me – I did not mean to startle you,’ she said. ‘Is all well? I saw you leave the feast.’

  Lord Rutland turned anxious eyes to her. ‘I received a message from Belvoir. Joan Flower and her daughters have been arrested for witchcraft.’

  Frances felt suddenly cold.

  ‘The countess has threatened it many times these past months,’ he went on. ‘Always, I have dissuaded her, tried to make her see how groundless her suspicions are. But while she assented to my requests, I knew that the ill will she conceived against those women persisted – increased, even. She insists that our sons were bewitched and that the only way to lift the spell is to have those who cast it put to death.’

  ‘Your youngest son still lives?’ Frances asked tentatively.

  The earl pressed his lips together and nodded. ‘Though whether the poor boy will still draw breath by the time I reach Belvoir, I do not know. Cecilia writes that he has not woken for days now. That he—’ He broke off, his voice faltering.

  ‘I am heartily sorry, my lord,’ Frances said softly. ‘I wish that there was something I could do to help him. You know I have a little skill in such matters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘But I would not hazard your life by asking. It is enough that poor Joan and her daughters stand accused.’ He hesitated. ‘There is something you might do, though.’

  ‘Anything,’ Frances vowed. ‘I would gladly repay your many kindnesses.’

  The earl sm
iled weakly. ‘I fear you have little enough to repay. I promised to provide you and your husband with succour but will not be able to arrange it until this business is settled, which may take many months.’

  ‘Please do not trouble yourself. Our affairs can wait – yours are far more pressing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder towards the archway. ‘Although you can do nothing to help my son, at present, I beg you to look out for my daughter while I am gone. Kate is such a sweet child and so trusting – too much so. I fear she will be preyed upon by those who seek to profit by it.’ His jaw twitched as he held her gaze.

  ‘Of course,’ Frances replied. ‘Lady Katherine is a dear friend to me. I love her as a sister and will protect her as such. You can entrust her care to me entirely.’

  The earl bent to kiss her fingers. His lips were as cold as ice.

  There was no time to say anything more because the sound of rapid footsteps echoed across the courtyard and a moment later a groom appeared from underneath the archway. ‘Your carriage is made ready, sir,’ he said breathlessly.

  Lord Rutland nodded briskly, bowed to Frances and hastened from the courtyard.

  1619

  CHAPTER 30

  27 February

  The chimneys of the palace were coming into view now, the elaborately twisting brickwork silhouetted against the deepening grey sky. Frances looked at her companion, wondering again if she should have brought her there. But the thought of leaving Kate alone at Whitehall, where Buckingham would no doubt be swift to grasp the opportunity, had decided her.

  It was two months now since Rutland had left for Belvoir. At first, his letters had been frequent, but neither she nor her charge had heard from him lately. Frances knew that her friend was as troubled by his silence as she was herself. The last news she had received from him had been deeply alarming. Having heard that Joan Flower and her daughters were to appear before the assizes in Lincoln, the sheriff had been instructed to escort them there. It was a journey of some thirty miles, but they had been obliged to make it on foot. Many times since Lord Rutland’s letter had arrived, Frances had imagined the three women trudging along the frozen lanes that led northwards to the ancient cathedral city, the icy winds whipping across the flat expanse of fields and pastures that stretched out on either side, as far as the eye could see. Frances remembered the bleak landscape from when she had travelled there to attend her husband as he lay, grievously wounded, in the earl’s castle. Poor Joan had not survived the journey – but, then, perhaps that was a mercy, with what surely lay ahead for them in Lincoln.