by Tracy Borman
The King’s voice made her turn back to the bed. His eyes were still closed but tears were now streaming down his cheeks. Frances waited until his breathing had slowed, then moved to examine him more closely. His skin was burning and his breath had the fusty stench of decay. Now and then, his brow creased and he gave a low groan, as if something pained him. Gently, Frances probed his neck, but there was no trace of swelling. Although his arms were covered with angry red sores, she recognised them as the marks left by the leeches the physicians had applied. Pushing down her scorn, she drew back the thick coverlet and almost gagged at the acrid stench. The King’s linen shift had ridden up so that it only just covered his groin. Beneath it, Frances could see that the sheets were stained a brownish-yellow. She motioned for the groom to bring her a candle, then placed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned closer. There were darker flecks among the stain. Holding the flame as close as she dared, she realised with alarm that it was blood.
Quickly, she set the candle on the table next to the bed. Then, as gently as she could, she slid her hand under the King’s back. He gave a loud moan and rolled onto his side. Frances heard the groom’s intake of breath as she lifted James’s shift above his waist. As she had expected, there was a small swelling on one side of his back.
‘When did His Majesty last pass water?’ she asked the groom.
‘Some two days hence – and then with difficulty,’ he replied. ‘I did not know that he had . . . that the sheets were soiled. I will order new ones.’
He had almost reached the door when Frances stopped him.
‘There is no time for that now. The King needs fresh water. I’ll wager he has hardly taken a drop since falling into a delirium.’ The look on his face told her that she was right. ‘Bring some vinegar too, some garlic and salt. And a small quantity of saxifrage – the kitchens should have it,’ she added quickly, noting his confusion.
‘Make haste!’ the prince urged, as he hesitated. The boy scurried away. Then, more quietly: ‘What ails him?’
‘There is a contagion in one of his kidneys,’ Frances replied. ‘It could have been easily cured, but the ignorance of the physicians has enabled it to take hold. I will do what I can to purge it from his body.’
Charles’s eyes darted to his father in alarm. ‘Will he live?’
He looked so fragile standing there, pale as death. Frances longed to give him comfort. But she must not offer hope yet. It was too soon.
‘I will use what skills I have, Your Grace. God must do the rest.’
The young man took a step forward. ‘Will you pray with me, Lady Frances?’ He held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it and followed him to the end of the bed, where they sank to their knees. The prince closed his eyes and began to whisper a prayer so quietly that Frances could only catch the occasional word. She tried to concentrate on her own offering, but her ears strained to listen.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .’
Frances’s eyes flew open. She looked at the prince, who was slowly signing the cross over his chest. Those were not the words of his father’s prayer book. My little servant. The late Queen’s name for her son suddenly took on new meaning. Was it her faith he followed? She had wondered ever since the remark he had made during their meeting in Hyde Park.
Hurrying footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Charles opened his eyes at once. Before she could look away, he turned to her and his expression changed as he realised she had been staring at him. He gazed at her with something like fear, then gave a small, uncertain smile and rose to his feet.
The groom had brought everything she had asked for. Frances set to work at once, glad of the distraction. A pungent aroma rose from the mortar as she ground the garlic and saxifrage into a paste with the salt, adding a few drops of vinegar every now and then. When it was a smooth consistency, she mixed it with several draughts of fresh water and poured some into a glass.
The King moaned as the groom propped him up on the pillows so that Frances could administer the tincture. His nostrils twitched as she brought it close to his lips. James grimaced and looked as if he might spit out the liquid, but Frances clamped his jaws closed, while he writhed and groaned. At length, she saw his throat pulse as the tincture slid down it. She glanced up at the prince, who was watching from the other side of the bed, fearing his shock that she should handle his father so roughly. But he gave a nod of assent. Frances repeated the procedure again several times, the King’s resistance becoming weaker with each, until at last the glass was empty.
‘That will suffice for now,’ she said, glancing at the clock. Despite the prince’s reassurances, she knew that Buckingham must not find her there. If his royal master were to die, he would make sure that the full weight of blame fell upon her. ‘I will return after the court has retired – if you could send word.’
‘Thank you, Lady Frances,’ the prince said. ‘You have performed a great service. I shall not forget it.’
CHAPTER 34
22 May
‘Bravo, my lord!’
Gondomar’s cry was echoed by others, and soon the entire tiltyard was in jubilant uproar. Frances watched as Buckingham took off his helmet and, with a flourish, held it up to the crowds, prompting another chorus of loud cheers.
The joust had been staged to celebrate the King’s safe deliverance. His recovery had been swifter than Frances had dared to hope. Even by the evening after her first visit to his chamber, the swelling on his back had significantly reduced and the fever had begun to abate. The prince had been true to his word and had ensured the utmost discretion for her visits. Whether the King knew that she had attended him she could not be certain. He had slept a great deal once her tincture had started to do its work, and she doubted he would remember much about the illness. But even though his delirium had soon passed, he had continued to murmur about the lost treasure. Frances had noticed his son’s discomfiture but had said nothing.
‘It is as if he brought the King back to health himself,’ Thomas muttered beside her.
‘I am sure most people here believe him capable of performing miracles,’ she responded acidly.
Her husband knew of the service she had performed and had tried to persuade her against it, fearful lest she was discovered and accused of witchcraft once more. But her desire to heal had been greater than her fear.
Another roar rose from the crowd and the Spanish ambassador was making his way down to the arena, flanked by an entourage of attendants all clad in the same black satin, white plumes on their caps. Buckingham dismounted his horse and swept an elaborate bow, then kissed the ring on Gondomar’s gloved hand.
‘They have dined together twice this week,’ Thomas murmured, his gaze fixed upon the two men.
Frances felt a familiar disquiet. She looked down at the marquess, his face wreathed in smiles. He was not courting the ambassador for his royal master’s sake alone – of that she was certain. Despite showing Gondomar every courtesy, the King seemed no more inclined to ally with Spain than he had before. Thomas had heard him mutter about King Philip’s dupli city shortly before he had fallen sick. But, then, James showed little enthusiasm for anything other than hunting, these days – that, and his favourite, of course.
Unable to bear the sight of Buckingham’s preening any longer, she glanced around the stands, which were crowded with spectators, all in their finery. She could see many faces flushed from the heat of the sun, which was now high in the sky. There was not a breath of wind to provide relief from the choking ruffs and heavy gowns. Her back felt damp and she longed to escape to the cool shade of the palace gardens. But she knew the tournament would be followed by a lavish feast and a series of masques lasting long into the night.
With a sinking heart, she looked across at the royal gallery on the opposite side of the arena. Prince Charles was seated under the canopy, his face in shadow. Frances could not imagine he took any more pleasure in the spectacle than she. He had none of his late brother’s martial pro
wess, and was so slight that lifting a sword, let alone wielding it in combat, might be too much for him.
Sitting close by, the Countess of Buckingham was gazing down at her beloved son with an expression of rapture. Frances thought back to the scene she had witnessed at Windsor almost three years before and felt the same revulsion she had experienced then. Any hope that the countess might return to Brooksby Hall had long since been extinguished. The King had even appointed her a suite of lodgings close to those of her son. The only saving grace was that she had never sought out Frances’s company, clearly believing her of too little significance to trouble with. If only the same were true of poor Kate. Frances looked across at her friend now and could tell from her fixed smile that she wished herself far away from Buckingham’s domineering mother.
At last, Buckingham led Gondomar from the tournament arena and the spectators began to file out from the stands. Frances and her husband remained seated, neither eager to take their places at the feast.
‘I wish we could be free of this place,’ Thomas said.
‘Perhaps the King will grant you leave, once he is fully recovered.’ Her longing to return to Tyringham grew stronger with each passing day.
‘There is little hope of that, my love. Already His Majesty talks of riding out to Hertfordshire next week, even though he will surely be too weak to sit in the saddle . . . I am anxious to see how our affairs prosper, though. There has been no news from my steward for more than three months now.’
It had pained him to mortgage such a large part of his estate, and for such little return. A succession of poor harvests had caused the price of land to fall sharply. Frances prayed that this year would be better, or Thomas would need to diminish the estate still further.
‘We should make haste,’ he said at length, breaking the silence that had fallen, like a cold stone, between them.
Frances nodded, and followed him towards the growing cacophony that emanated from the banqueting house beyond.
* * *
A deliciously cool breeze wafted through the privy garden, carrying the heady scent of lavender and rosemary. Frances breathed deeply and closed her eyes, feeling it soothe away the ache at her temples. The evening’s revels had seemed endless, the heat in the crowded hall suffocating. Thomas had been obliged to take his place with the other members of the King’s household, and she had been seated among tedious company. The saving grace had been the unexpected appearance of Lord Bacon, newly returned from his travels. She had missed him keenly these past few weeks, though his letters had provided some consolation. His descriptions of France – its people, customs and food – had been so vivid that it was as if she, too, had experienced them. She had laughed out loud at his acerbic comments and shrewd observations, imagining him regaling her with them in person.
Although he smiled a warm greeting, he had been too preoccupied by entertaining Gondomar’s entourage to spend any time with her. She could hardly feel aggrieved for she knew he had taken little pleasure in the duty, judging from the scowling faces of the Spaniards as they picked at the delicacies laid before them.
Buckingham had held court, like a king, throughout the proceedings, clearly delighting in being the sole focus of attention. Even Gondomar had seemed in thrall to him, though he far exceeded him in status. Such adoration had not made Buckingham more inclined to be gracious towards those who served him, though. Frances had struggled to hide her dismay when, as she and Thomas were leaving the hall, the marquess had ordered her husband to the stables on some needless errand.
She let out a long breath, determined to clear her mind of such irritations, and opened her eyes. Her heart swelled at the beauty of the garden, which was wreathed in the pale light of the moon. She should go back to their apartment soon. Thomas would worry if she wasn’t there when he returned.
The snap of a twig made her start. She swung around and saw a figure moving slowly towards her, then relaxed as she recognised Bacon’s halting step. The gout must still plague him, she thought.
‘It is well that we are unobserved, Lady Tyringham,’ he said, with mock-formality, ‘or people might suspect that this is our clandestine meeting place.’
Frances grinned. ‘Welcome back, my lord. I thought you had altogether forsaken me this time, you have been absent for so long.’
He lowered himself onto the bench next to her and leaned forward to rub his shin. ‘My bones are getting too old for such ventures. I have travelled many miles since I saw you last – all in vain.’
‘Oh?’
He glanced around them before continuing, his voice lowered. ‘The late Queen’s jewels have been stolen.’
Frances stared at him, speechless.
‘Shortly after the King had had them valued,’ he went on. ‘His Grace fell into such distress upon being told that I fear it caused his late illness.’
Who has taken my treasure? The King’s plaintive cry sounded in Frances’s ears as clearly as if he had been sitting next to her, but she said nothing to Bacon. ‘He sent you to try to recover them?’ she asked instead.
He nodded. ‘A few discreet enquiries led me to the port at Dover, where an agent of mine had learned that one of the Queen’s former attendants had boarded a ship bound for France. Her fine clothes had excited the curiosity of the boatman, who was affronted by her abrupt manner and therefore unburdened himself without troubling his conscience.’
‘Who was she?’ Frances asked, already guessing the answer.
‘Lady Beatrice Ruthven. The longest-serving of all the Queen’s attendants – though, of course, the King did not know it.’
Lady Ruthven had been utterly devoted to her late mistress. Frances could not believe that such a faithful attendant would steal the jewels for personal gain. ‘How can you be sure it was her?’ she asked. ‘Did you find her?’
‘Sadly not. But her face is not easily forgotten,’ Bacon replied, with a rueful smile. ‘She was quite a beauty in her youth.’
‘How do you know she had the jewels?’ Frances persisted.
Bacon shrugged. ‘I cannot be certain, of course, but she fled the kingdom at the precise moment they went missing, and I set little store by coincidence.’ He rubbed his fingers over his brow. ‘I followed in her wake as far as Saint-Omer, but could find no more trace of her – even with the lure of reward. I stayed on in the town for a few more days, making enquiries here and there, but it was as if she had vanished as suddenly as a dream upon waking.’
Frances’s mind was racing. If he was right and Lady Ruthven had taken the jewels, it must have been for some greater purpose than profit. They were worth enough to tempt a ruler as rich as Croesus to do her bidding – enough to raise an army, even. More and more, Frances was convinced that the late Queen had known the true worth of the jewels she had bequeathed her son. She thought back to Anne’s words as she had lain dying at Hampton Court. There are those who have agreed to do my bidding. Was the prince embroiled in all of this? Frances knew that his physical frailties had led most courtiers to dismiss him as a hapless bystander, entirely subject to his father’s will. But his visits to the Queen had grown ever more frequent towards the end of her life, and the prayers he had uttered in his father’s chamber made her suspect that he kept much hidden from the world.
‘Does the King know?’ she asked.
Bacon nodded grimly. ‘I thought of concealing it from him until I had better news to report, but I could not risk his hearing it from other lips than mine. His suspicion is so easily ignited, these days.’
Frances knew that well enough. It was one of the many things of which Buckingham had taken advantage. ‘What will happen now?’
‘The King has dispatched a number of trusted attendants to take up residence in Saint-Omer. He means to smoke the lady out, as he would a fox from its lair. But I fear she has long since fled from that place – the jewels with her.’
Frances found herself hoping he was right.
1620
CHAPTER 35
26 January
Frances rubbed the windowpane, which was misted with her breath. The heavy grey clouds overhead threatened more snow. So much had fallen over the last two days that the roads were barely passable, and the gardens too thickly covered for walking.
‘Ouch!’
She turned back to her companion, whose head was bent over her embroidery.
‘It is no use,’ Kate said, setting it down. ‘There are more holes in my fingers than in this cloth.’
Frances smiled. ‘The light is very poor in here. Perhaps I should fetch some more candles.’
‘Please, do not do so on my behalf. It will make no difference. My thoughts are too distracted today.’ She glanced at the clock again. ‘They should have been here long before now.’
Frances came to sit next to her. ‘Try not to worry. This weather is bound to have slowed their progress. They will be here soon enough, I am sure.’ She pushed down her own anxiety. The journey from Belvoir was hazardous at the best of times, with some of the roads little more than narrow, muddy tracks. That Lord Rutland should attempt it at such a time was testament to his desperation. Frances prayed that his young son would survive the ordeal so that she might attend to him, as she had promised.
‘If only my father had heeded your counsel and remained at Belvoir until the spring. I cannot but think my poor brother would have fared better there.’
Frances was inclined to agree. ‘Shall we read for a while?’
‘I fear the words would not come easily today and you would think me a poor student after the care you have lavished on my education.’
‘You are a good deal more accomplished than most ladies here at court,’ Frances replied firmly. Kate had flourished under her tutelage and Frances had taken great pleasure in seeing her sense of wonder at the worlds that had been opened to her through the numerous books that now lined her shelves. It was one of the many things that had brought them closer since her return to court.