by Tracy Borman
‘Does His Grace know?’
Her friend shook his head. ‘No – at least, not yet. But I cannot withhold such information from him for long. The marquess has asked for the valuation every day this week.’
Frances fell silent, considering. ‘Can James contest the will?’
‘He will try, once he knows what a treasure his wife bequeathed their son,’ Bacon said, his voice low. ‘But I see no means by which he can prevail, unless it is his intention to wrest the jewels from his son’s grasp.’
‘Let us hope the prince has them in safekeeping.’
A chill breeze whipped through the garden and Frances felt a few icy drops of rain against her face.
‘I must go back to the palace,’ she said, rising from the bench. ‘My husband will soon return.’
‘Then permit me to accompany you,’ Bacon replied, holding out his arm, as the clouds darkened overhead.
CHAPTER 32
14 May
‘It is no good,’ Kate said, turning from the looking glass. ‘I look ridiculous.’
Frances smiled kindly. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She took the ribbon from the young woman’s hands and began to weave it deftly between the curled strands of her hair. ‘I remember feeling the same about the costume I was obliged to wear for my first masque,’ she remarked, tying the vivid green silk into a neat bow at the base of Kate’s neck. ‘There. That is much better,’ she added, standing back to admire her work.
The girl gazed uncertainly at her reflection in the glass. ‘Thank you, Frances,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘You have made me look a little less monstrous.’
‘Your father would be proud to see you so gloriously arrayed.’ Frances patted her shoulder.
Kate’s smile vanished. ‘There has been no more news, since . . .?’
Frances shook her head. ‘I expect he is preoccupied with arranging matters at Belvoir. I understand that the King hopes to hunt there as soon as the weather turns.’
‘I have heard so, too,’ Kate agreed. ‘Though I pity my poor father for having to turn his mind to such matters when there is so much else to occupy him. I cannot but grieve for Mistress Flower and her daughters, though I know I should think only of the welfare of my little brother. Do you believe them guilty of bewitching him? It is sinful of me to doubt the judgement of the law – and of my mother the countess, I know. But . . .’
‘The guilt or innocence of the accused matters little in such cases,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘Countess Cecilia is not alone in believing that to lift a curse those who cast it must be put to death. I am sure she was not acting out of malice, but a desire to protect her son.’
‘Yes of course. I should not have . . .’ Kate looked down at her hands.
Frances clasped them. ‘I do not believe they inflicted any harm upon your brother,’ she said earnestly. ‘Fever and sickness are all too common, particularly in childhood, and often take hold suddenly. It is unusual that your younger brother has still not recovered, I admit, but that is more likely due to a natural frailty – or the attention of his physicians.’ Her mouth curled with distaste. How she wished she might attend him herself.
‘Then I pray God will gather their souls unto him, even though they died without the comfort of absolution.’
Did she mean the last rites of the Catholic faith? Frances wondered. She thought back to the aroma of incense in Kate’s chamber, many months before. They had never spoken of it, but the conviction that Lord Rutland’s daughter shared his faith had taken root in Frances’s mind. A flush was creeping up the young woman’s neck now.
‘You have spoken no sin,’ Frances said softly. Confessing that she, too, was of the old faith was dangerous. Yet she longed for Kate to unburden herself, knowing it would comfort her, strengthen the bonds of their friendship. ‘You cherish the same faith as your father, I think?’
Kate’s head jerked up in alarm.
‘Please, you need have no fear,’ Frances urged, stroking the back of her friend’s hand with her thumb. ‘I believe as you do. It is a secret that I keep hidden in my heart, as all faithful subjects must, but that diminishes neither its strength nor its truth.’
The young woman’s shoulders sagged and her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I have wanted to speak of it to you for so long, but I promised my father . . .’
‘He was right to ask this of you and wants only to protect you while the King still persecutes those of our faith so relentlessly . . . But it is something we might share together, in private.’
Kate’s face brightened. ‘That would bring me such comfort, Frances!’ she exclaimed. ‘Sometimes I feel that God does not heed me when I pray alone. I am always so fearful lest someone discovers me that I often forget the words. With you by my side, I know I would have greater courage.’
Frances smiled. ‘Perhaps we might pray now for the health of your poor brother and the souls of those who were thought to have bewitched him.’
Kate rose at once and scurried off into the adjoining chamber. Frances heard some rustling, then the click of a key in a lock. A moment later, she returned with a richly embroidered cloth and a rosary. There was something else in her other hand but her fingers were too tightly closed over it for Frances to see. She busied herself with spreading out the cloth for them both to kneel on, then placed the rosary on a small table next to it. Frances came to join her friend and they knelt, heads bowed. Kate made the sign of the cross over her breast, then slowly opened her hand.
‘My father gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.’
Frances looked down at the exquisitely carved marble figure. The Virgin’s eyes were downcast, but her mouth was lifted in a beatific smile and her arms were held open, as if for an embrace. Kate raised it to her lips, then set it down on the table and began to pray.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’
A feeling of peace swept over Frances. Here, in this quiet chamber, the troubles of court seemed far distant. The loss of their fortune, Buckingham and his scheming, the heretic King his master, who had shown so little care for his wife’s passing that he was staging a magnificent pageant the evening after her funeral: all were as insubstantial as a dream. She closed her eyes and began to repeat the familiar words.
The light was dwindling by the time Frances made her way back to Thomas’s apartment. She slowed her steps, savouring the unusual quiet that shrouded the palace. Her hand was on the latch when the door was wrenched open and she almost collided with her husband.
Frances’s heart lurched in panic. ‘What has happened?’
‘It’s the King.’ Thomas’s face was ashen. ‘He is dying.’
Frances stared at him, stupefied.
‘He has summoned all his councillors to attend him – myself too. I must make haste.’
‘But he showed no sign of illness at the pageant,’ Frances countered, thinking back to the smirking glances that he and his favourite had exchanged during the ceremony at Westminster.
‘He fell into a sudden faint – that is all I know. Please – wait for me here. I will return as soon as I can.’
Frances watched as he walked briskly away and stood there long after he had disappeared from view, her mind racing. How could this be? Even the most sudden of fevers usually betrayed some warning signs a day or so before – a pale complexion, a little shortness of breath – but James had appeared in robust health, more so than he had for a long time. Even the gout that had plagued him these past few years seemed to have abated a little. What could have occasioned such a swift change? A thought struck her. Poison? Raleigh’s execution had reignited the fervour of discontented Catholics and every day seemed to bring a fresh rumour of some plot.
A cold wind blew along the cloister. She had hardly noticed it grow so dark since she had been standing there, lost in her thoughts. Quickly, she went inside and bolted the door. To distract herself from her rising agitation, she made a fire and tried to coax the meagre flames to life. The wood must have grown damp these past
few weeks, she thought. When at last she was sure that the blaze would not die, she fetched a flagon of wine and poured herself a glass.
The minutes seemed to pass like hours as she waited, her ears straining for the sound of her husband’s footsteps. As the wine warmed her, her breathing slowed a little. Wasn’t this what she and Thomas – their fellow Catholics too – had wanted ever since James came to the throne? He had been a scourge on this kingdom, blighting his subjects’ lives with misery and fear while he lay steeped in sin. She thought of Buckingham, his face as he watched his master’s life slip away – his fortunes with it. He should have thought to cultivate the King’s successor earlier. She had seen him fawn over the prince at the various entertainments staged for the Count de Gondomar, but Charles had always seemed unmoved. She admired the young man even more for that. God willing, he would make a far more discerning king than his father.
Rapid footsteps jolted her from her thoughts. Frances leaped to her feet and ran to the door, sliding back the bolt with trembling fingers. Thomas stepped quickly inside. She said nothing but led him to the chairs by the fire and poured him some wine. He downed several gulps, then raised his eyes to hers.
‘Is he . . .?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I fear it cannot be long. He keeps lapsing into insensibility, and his skin has the pallor of a corpse.’
‘Has he a fever?’ Frances asked, forcing herself to consider the matter objectively.
‘I think not. He seemed rather cold than otherwise and was shivering violently, though every fire in the privy chamber had been lit. He was greatly troubled in mind, too, and kept ranting about the late Queen and the loss he had suffered.’
Frances was scornful. ‘How can he mourn one towards whom he showed such little regard in life?’
‘Her death did not seem to be the loss he was referring to,’ Thomas replied, ‘but his words were rambling and his mind so disordered that it was hard to make any sense of them.’
‘The marquess must be distraught.’
Thomas lifted the glass to his lips again and swallowed deeply before setting it down on the table. ‘He stands to profit by our master’s death, even more than by his reign. The King summoned us to witness his decree that upon his death Buckingham will assume the position of lord protector.’
Frances looked at him in confusion. ‘But the prince is old enough to rule alone.’ As she waited for Thomas to respond, she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.
‘That is of little consequence, it seems. The King has ensured that his son will be in even greater thrall to the marquess than he has been himself. Charles will be king in name only. All of his power will be vested in the lord protector.’
Frances sank back in her chair. ‘How can this be?’ she whispered. ‘Surely the privy council will not allow His Grace to ride roughshod over the laws of this kingdom – to say nothing of the prince himself.’
Her husband shook his head again, as if defeated. ‘Buckingham dominates the council, as he does the King. It seems he has been scheming for this since he first entered our royal master’s service. The terms of the decree have been set down and all of those present put their names to it.’
‘Even Lord Bacon?’ Frances asked, incredulous. Arch politician he might be, but she knew that his respect for the law exceeded his ambition.
‘He was not there. The King dispatched him on some business in France a few days ago.’
That would explain why she had not seen her friend at Queen Anne’s funeral. His absence had perturbed her but she had been too distracted by the events of that day to give it any further thought. The feasting and revelry that had followed the ceremony had made it seem more a cause for celebration than for grief.
‘We must prepare to leave this place, Frances,’ Thomas said quietly. ‘I will send word to my steward at Tyringham. Buckingham will be ruthless towards those he has marked as rivals. He knows that you enjoy some favour with the prince and will not suffer any impediment to the hold he means to exert over him.’
Frances felt cold. Though she longed to escape this place and return to their sons, she knew that for as long as he held power Buckingham would continue to plague them. And what would become of Kate if she abandoned her to his clutches? She could not forsake the promise she had made to Lord Rutland.
‘The King may yet recover,’ she suggested. ‘We should not act precipitately.’
‘After what I saw this evening, I cannot believe it likely,’ her husband replied grimly. ‘We must make ready.’
CHAPTER 33
16 May
Frances held her breath and lay perfectly still. It was not yet light, though Thomas had already left for the stables. Buckingham had become an even more exacting master in the brief time since the King’s illness had been announced, as if he already held the title of lord protector. His royal master still clung to life, but the physicians had warned that it could not be long now.
There it was again: a faint knocking. Frances sat bolt upright, her pulse racing. Quickly, she rose and drew on a cloak over her nightgown, then crept to the door. She pressed her ear to it but could hear no sound. Taking a breath, she pulled it open.
A young man stood before her, wearing the prince’s livery. ‘Lady Frances Tyringham?’
‘My husband is not here,’ she replied steadily.
‘It is you whom I seek, my lady. His Grace requests your presence.’
Frances stared at him in surprise. ‘Now? The court has not yet risen.’
The attendant inclined his head. She wanted to ask more, but something in his manner silenced her. With a curt nod, she hastened back into the apartment to dress, then followed the man in the direction of the prince’s lodgings.
The presence chamber was dimly lit. Frances glanced around as she waited, distracting her racing thoughts by focusing upon the collection of paintings that hung on the walls. Although the colours were dulled by the gloom, she could make out enough details to tell that they were very fine. She remembered the late Queen proudly telling her that her son had discerning taste in art.
‘Thank you for coming, Lady Frances.’
She turned at the prince’s soft voice. She had not heard him approach. He stood on the threshold of the chamber, then walked quickly towards her. She swept a deep curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Forgive my summoning you here at this time, but I dare not tarry any longer.’ His dark blue eyes appraised her closely. ‘You know that my father the King lies dangerously ill? Though his councillors have tried to keep it from the court, there are no secrets here. If he dies, this kingdom will be in thrall to that devil Buckingham.’
Frances said nothing.
‘My mother told me of your skills in healing, that you could be trusted to assist me if ever the need arose.’
She dared not answer, but inclined her head slightly.
‘I beseech you to do so now, Lady Frances. My father’s physicians have exhausted every means to cure him of this malady. But I set little store by their potions and tinctures. God knows I suffered by them enough as a child,’ he added, with distaste. ‘The late Queen had such faith in you, as did my sister, and I always trusted her judgement. Please, will you attend him?’
Frances struggled to hide her consternation. The prince was asking her to save the life of an accursed heretic – one who had almost had her put to death for witchcraft. An image of Robert Cecil flitted before her. It was the late lord privy seal who had brought the case against her, eager to win favour with the new King. Yet she had later tended him as he had lain mortally sick with a tumour, cutting away the growth so that his life might be preserved for a time at least. If she used her skills to treat the King now, and he survived, he might have her arrested as a witch once more. But if she refused and he perished, Buckingham would reign supreme.
‘You will suffer no consequences, whether you cure him or not,’ Charles continued, anticipating her objection. ‘My father has barely woken for two days now, and his thoughts
are so dis ordered that he does not know who attends him. He spoke to one of his grooms as if he were the King of Spain the other night.’
‘That may be so, Your Grace, but I will be seen by other eyes than the King’s,’ Frances reasoned.
‘Not if we make haste,’ Charles countered. ‘The marquess will not rise for two hours at least – his devotion to my father does not run so deep that he will leave his bed earlier than is his custom,’ he added, with a sneer. ‘I have grown familiar with his habits this past week. There will be few others in attendance at this hour, and those who are can be trusted. They love me more than their master’s favourite.’ His eyes were imploring. ‘I beg you, my lady. You will be rewarded for your pains – in this life or the next.’
Frances thought of Buckingham, his lips curled into a smile as he watched her fall to the ground clutching her stomach, her child bleeding away. ‘I will do as you ask, Your Grace.’
The heat in the chamber was so stifling that Frances could hardly breathe. Little wonder the King was so faint. She instructed one of the grooms who stood by his bed to open the windows. The boy’s eyes flitted to the prince, who nodded his assent.
Frances breathed in a lungful of the cool dawn air. ‘Now douse the fires.’
The groom did as she said – straight away this time. There was a sharp hiss as he poured the contents of a large ewer over the flames, and Frances blinked away the smoke that stung her eyes. James gave a low moan as she approached the bed. Thomas had been right. Even in the dim light of the chamber, she could see that he was as pale as death. She placed her fingers lightly on his neck and waited. After a few moments, she felt a faint, fluttering pulse.
‘They are gone – all gone,’ he cried out, grasping her wrist.
Frances stepped back in alarm and cast a quick glance at Charles, who gave a slight shake of his head as if warning her not to speak.
‘Who has taken my treasure?’