Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Kate’s young brother Francis still lingered, impervious to the attentions of the earl’s physicians. Countess Cecilia’s disappointment that her son had not recovered upon Joan’s death must have been bitter indeed, Frances reflected.

  ‘We are almost there,’ she said now, as Kate turned to her. The young woman looked frozen, though she had made no word of complaint during the long boat ride. She had readily agreed to accompany her to Hampton Court, eager to see the magnificent Tudor palace for the first time.

  ‘Shall we stay for long?’ she had asked, when Frances had proposed the visit. She had offered only a vague response. In truth, she did not know if their time there would be brief or prolonged. Lady Ruthven had written only that the Queen, her mistress, had asked for Frances to attend her. Her Grace had spent the past few winters at Hampton Court, enjoying the peace and repose it offered. Frances feared that this latest stay had not been for pleasure but to hide from the prying eyes of the court. Since Buckingham had taken up residence on the Strand, Denmark House had no longer provided the tranquillity the Queen craved. She had retreated to Hampton Court as soon as the Twelfth Night celebrations had ended.

  The boatman tethered the barge to the landing stage and helped Frances and her companion to alight. It was a short distance along the covered walkway that led to the royal apartments. As they neared the Queen’s presence chamber, Frances summoned one of the pages who were stationed outside.

  ‘Please – show Lady Manners to her chambers.’

  ‘Am I not to attend the Queen with you?’

  Frances squeezed her hand. ‘Her Grace has asked to see me alone this time,’ she replied with greater reassurance than she felt, ‘but I am sure she will soon be well enough to receive more visitors, and she cannot but be eager to make your acquaintance. I have told her all about you,’ she added quickly, seeing her friend’s crestfallen face.

  ‘I hope so,’ Kate replied. ‘Pray send Her Grace my greetings.’

  ‘The Queen will receive you now,’ the groom said, leaving the door ajar.

  Frances rose to her feet. On the threshold, she listened for any sound within. All was silence. The shutters were closed against the meagre light that still lingered outside, and only a solitary candle burned beside the Queen’s bed. The curtains were drawn around it. There was a rustle of skirts and a sombre lady rose from the seat she had occupied by the fireplace. Frances had not seen her there, but quickly swept a curtsy. She was of about Anne’s age, Frances judged, and very finely dressed in a gown of dark grey satin, the bodice and sleeves edged with white lace.

  ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Lady Tyringham.’

  The lilt in her voice made Frances’s scalp prickle. She wondered that she had not recognised her. Anne had defied her husband by bringing Lady Beatrice Ruthven with her to England soon after he had inherited the throne. James had always despised her – perversely jealous of the affection his wife cherished towards her – so Anne had kept her hidden. But her secret had been discovered when Lady Ruthven had fallen dangerously ill. The memory of being summoned to treat her upon first arriving at James’s court was still vivid in Frances’s mind. It had helped to damn her for witchcraft, as well as to expose Lady Ruthven’s presence. Frances wondered when her favourite attendant had returned to her service – or whether, indeed, she had ever left it. She said nothing, but inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  The older woman led her towards the bedside. Frances saw that the curtains were pulled back a little at the end. Her heart thudded as she drew near. She suppressed a gasp. Anne’s face, illuminated by the candle, appeared ghostly. Her cheeks were sunken and her breath rasped between her lips, which were slightly parted. A thin sheen of sweat glowed on her brow.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Frances made a deep obeisance, though the Queen seemed to be sleeping.

  ‘Frances?’

  Her voice was so faint that Frances wondered if she had imagined it. Anne’s eyes fluttered open and flicked quickly from side to side, as if searching for her.

  ‘I am here, Your Grace.’ Frances knelt to kiss her hand. The skin felt cold and clammy.

  ‘I am sorry you find me in such a state as this.’ Anne croaked, then paused, her mouth open as if she was gasping for air.

  ‘I will do anything I can to ease your suffering,’ Frances said. She began to fumble in her pocket for the small pouch of herbs she had hidden there, but the Queen gripped her wrist.

  ‘I fear that I am beyond even your help, my dear.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile and her eyelids fluttered down once more. ‘Even my eyes have forsaken me – they open only onto darkness now.’ Frances was overcome by a wave of pity. ‘I asked Bea to summon you here because there is something I must tell you before I die,’ Anne continued. ‘Please, sit close to me.’

  Frances did as she was asked. As she waited for the Queen to continue, she saw that her chest was rising and falling in rapid, jerking movements, as if each breath pained her. A salve of feverfew and spurge would bring her ease, Frances knew. Her fingers itched to prepare some now.

  ‘I know how much you hazarded for his sake,’ the Queen murmured, as if in a dream. ‘Raleigh,’ she said, opening her eyes.

  Frances glanced to where Lady Ruthven was seated, her fingers toying with the embroidery on her lap.

  ‘Do not mind Bea,’ Anne said, sensing her hesitation. ‘She knows all my secrets and can be trusted to keep them. Neither has she forgotten the debt she owes you, my dear.’ She fell silent, tears in her eyes. Then: ‘I am to blame for his death.’

  Frances took care to conceal her shock as she held her unseeing gaze.

  ‘His expedition was my idea,’ Anne went on. ‘It was I who arranged it with the King of Spain, I who helped to pay for it. I had to do so from my own funds, of course – my husband allows me little enough from the privy purse. Like you, my dear, I staked everything I had upon its success. Ah, I sense that you doubt me,’ she said, gesturing weakly. ‘I lie here in the splendour of this palace, surrounded by luxury, just as I did at Denmark House. But it is all the king’s. I own nothing but the jewels I carried with me when I sailed across the North Sea thirty years ago. Even my dresses are borrowed from the late Queen’s wardrobe.’

  ‘I am sorry, Your Grace.’ Disappointment was mingled with pity for the Queen. She had allowed herself to hope that Anne might help her and Thomas out of their predicament. It was not a hope she had voiced to her husband – she had been too ashamed even to acknowledge it to herself – but when she had received the summons to Hampton Court, it had flared again. Looking at the Queen now, she felt a wave of remorse for her selfishness. She was little better than the sycophants of court, who flattered and fawned their way to advancement.

  ‘I wish I could make amends – to you as well as Raleigh,’ Anne went on, as if reading her thoughts, ‘but there is nothing I can do. I must go to my grave knowing I caused the death of a man of truer faith than any in this kingdom, and the ruin of many more besides. I pray—’ She broke off, a paroxysm of coughs racking her. Frances raised her on the pillows then poured a cup of water and held it to her lips. She took a small sip, but most of it dribbled down her chin as another fit overtook her. Eventually, the spasms subsided and she sank back onto the pillows.

  ‘You should rest, Your Grace,’ Frances murmured.

  Anne shook her head slightly. ‘I can have no rest – in this world or the next. God will not forgive my sins.’

  ‘He has nothing to forgive, Your Grace,’ Frances whispered, clasping the Queen’s cold fingers in her own. ‘You sought only to honour him, to restore this kingdom to the true faith. There are many sinners at court but you have never been among them. God will reward your righteousness.’

  ‘I should have heeded the signs He sent, Frances,’ Anne persisted. ‘None of the plots to restore this country to the Catholic faith have succeeded. The Powder Treason, Arbella, Raleigh . . . So many lives blighted – yours more than most, my dear. Can you forgive me, even if God cannot?�
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  A solitary tear weaved its way down her cheek as she stared towards Frances, her unseeing eyes imploring. Frances tried to answer but her throat constricted, so instead she bent to kiss the Queen’s fingers. Anne exhaled deeply and closed her eyes. After a few moments, her breath became slower, more rhythmical. Frances released her hand and rose from the bed. She made to step quietly away, but jumped as the Queen’s cold fingers suddenly gripped her own again.

  ‘I beg of you, stay a little longer,’ Anne rasped.

  Frances held her breath as she gazed down at her.

  ‘I have lost all my children, save one,’ the Queen began. ‘God saw fit to claim Henry as His own, Mary and Sophia, too. Elizabeth sailed from these shores to marry a heretic, so her soul was lost to me, as well as her body.’ Her eyes were wide with grief and she clasped Frances’s hand even more tightly. ‘I have only my precious little servant now.’

  Frances smiled that the Queen still referred to Prince Charles in this way, even though he was now eighteen.

  ‘I know that I should see this as God’s will – His punishment of my manifold sins. But I cannot. I will not.’ Her dark eyes were alight with a fervour that Frances had not seen for many years. ‘My husband will soon choke out his breath from lechery and excess. Our son Charles must marry a Catholic princess. Only then will this kingdom be saved.’

  Frances stared at the dying Queen in alarm. Surely she was not asking her to involve herself in a fresh plot, after everything she had just said.

  ‘Do not be afraid, my dear,’ Anne said, her expression softening. ‘I know I cannot beg your forgiveness with one breath and ask that you plunge yourself into danger again with another. There are those who have already agreed to do my bidding in this. I ask only that you do nothing to hinder them – no matter how greatly you may wish it.’

  Frances looked at her in confusion. She had ceased to involve herself in the plots that swirled endlessly about the throne, but she would always cherish her faith in her heart. How could Anne think that she would defy it altogether?

  ‘I ask more of you than you think, my dear.’ The Queen’s voice was so faint now that Frances had to lean forward to catch her words. ‘Please do not forsake me, after I am gone.’

  ‘I do not understand, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, her eyes searching Anne’s. ‘Why would I betray you – betray our faith?’

  But the queen had closed her eyes once more, as if to signal an end to their conference. Frances waited for a few heartbeats, then slowly straightened and padded silently towards the door, her mind racing. Lady Beatrice raised her eyes from her needlework as she approached.

  ‘God go with you, Lady Frances.’

  CHAPTER 31

  9 March

  The cortège was so close now that Frances could see the late Queen’s coat of arms picked out in gold thread on the black velvet cloth draped over the coffin. The cart was pulled by four horses, all richly caparisoned, and six of Anne’s ladies walked behind. Although their faces were obscured by heavy black veils, Frances recognised Lady Ruthven at the front of the sombre procession. That she had been selected as chief mourner was perhaps a final act of defiance by the late Queen against her husband.

  Behind the ladies rode Prince Charles, ashen-faced, eyes fixed firmly ahead. A few cries of ‘God save Your Grace’ echoed across the Strand, but he did not turn to acknowledge them. Frances felt a surge of pity for him. He had adored his mother but could look for no comfort from his father.

  As the coffin passed, Frances bowed her head and discreetly made the sign of the cross over her breast. Raising her head, she watched as the cortège continued its slow progress towards Denmark House, where the Queen’s body was to lie in state until arrangements were made for the funeral.

  The King had given no indication of when or where this might take place; neither had he made any pronouncement about his wife’s passing. Upon hearing the news, he had retreated at once to his privy chamber, giving out that he was too grief-stricken to appear in public. Frances no more believed this than the rest of the court did. She suspected James was using it as an excuse to indulge in several days of uninterrupted privacy with his favourite. The thought sickened her.

  As the procession rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Frances uttered a silent prayer that Anne would find the peace in death that had been denied her in life.

  ‘Only a lady so enamoured of nature would be found in these gardens on such a day.’ Lord Bacon was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a light blue satin doublet with fine white lace around the collar and cuffs. His exquisitely pointed shoes were made from the same material and Frances noticed that, as usual, the heels were even higher than was the fashion. He was conscious of his diminutive stature.

  ‘Please,’ she said, motioning for him to join her on the seat. He shuddered as he lowered himself onto the cold stone. They sat in silence for a while, looking out across the muted greens and browns of the garden. Frances found it hard to believe that in just a few short weeks the barren branches and damp soil would burst forth with life and colour.

  ‘God Almighty first planted a garden,’ her companion said. ‘And indeed it is the first of human pleasures – even in winter.’

  He was right, Frances reflected: there was a melancholy beauty to the garden, as if Nature had lulled it into a deep slumber.

  ‘I am glad to see you,’ she told him. ‘It is so long since we last met that I had begun to fear you had forsaken me for the marquess.’

  Bacon gave a rueful smile. ‘Buckingham is as excessively fond of flattery as ever – mine in particular, it seems.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But while he might offer riches and preferment to those who serve him, for his intellectual gifts he is as poor as a kitchen boy.’

  ‘Most men would set the first of those prizes at a higher price.’ She could hardly blame her friend for courting Buckingham’s good graces since the reception for the Count de Gondomar. It disguised his true allegiances. Besides, there was little to be gained by making an enemy of the King’s favourite.

  He spread his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘I have seen little more of the marquess than I have of my dear friend lately,’ he said. ‘Our Spanish visitor has required his presence a great deal since the Christmas revels. In fact, Buckingham has spent so much time with Gondomar that it has excited the jealousy of his royal master.’

  Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘I wonder that the count has had time. My husband tells me that he has spent so many hours with the King that he should be assigned lodgings in the privy chamber.’

  ‘Sir Thomas is right,’ Bacon concurred. ‘They have become known as the two Diegos.’

  The King must have been delighted to discover that when translated into Spanish his first name was the same as the ambassador’s, Frances thought. ‘Perhaps that is why His Majesty has not yet advanced the plans for the late Queen’s funeral.’

  He caught the edge to her voice. ‘The people mutter against it. Her Grace should have been laid to rest long before now. But the King seems more preoccupied with settling her estate. He has appointed me to resolve certain difficulties with her will.’

  ‘Oh?’ Frances turned to him. ‘I thought the Queen had little to bestow.’

  ‘And so it appeared. The lands that formed part of her marriage settlement have long since been distributed elsewhere and she spent all of her income in the last months of her life – though I am at a loss to find out the beneficiaries. Her Grace was ever generous to those who served her,’ he added, casting a meaningful glance at Frances. She suspected he knew well enough that Anne had been among those to venture their fortunes on Raleigh’s expedition.

  ‘There were only the jewels she brought with her from Denmark, which she bequeathed to the prince,’ he went on.

  Frances held his gaze. It was as the Queen had told her. ‘Surely the King does not mean to quibble over those?’

  Her friend pressed his fingers lightly along his brow, as if to knead away the creases. ‘H
e would not have troubled himself with so trifling a matter, had it not been for Buckingham’s suggestion that he should have the jewels valued. I think he did it to vex the prince, who has made his distaste for his father’s favourite all too obvious.’

  Frances said nothing, though fury surged in her breast. That the marquess should stoop to such pettiness to punish a grieving son was despicable.

  ‘It seems the jewels are worth a great deal more than the King was aware. The prince might build a new palace with them and still have funds left over to furnish it with treasures.’

  Frances stared. Had the Queen known this? Surely she would not have claimed poverty on her deathbed in order to deceive her. The trust and affection that had grown between them was too great. Frances thought back to the words Anne had uttered. She had told her only that the jewels were all she owned, not that she intended to bequeath them to Charles. Did she hope that the jewels would help to secure the Catholic bride she so desired for him?

  ‘Four hundred thousand pounds.’

  It took Frances a moment to heed Bacon’s words. ‘That is impossible,’ she whispered.

  ‘I thought the same,’ he replied, with a shrug. ‘But the jeweller I consulted was in no doubt. He told me he has seen many treasures in his long life, but never any as rare as this. The pearls alone are worth a king’s ransom.’