Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Trust only what you observe, not what you assume or fear, he had counselled her. Frances was glad of the lesson now, the words calming her as she repeated them to herself. She motioned for an attendant to lift the princess’s shift so that she could look for any spots or rashes on her skin. Here and there, she could see the scars left by smallpox. But elsewhere it was as pure and unblemished as a newly ripened peach.

  ‘Well?’

  Frances turned to the lady who had spoken. She was older than the other attendants and had an air of superiority.

  ‘Her Grace does not appear to be in any danger, but I will continue to watch over her. The other ladies may retire now, if they wish.’

  The woman pursed her lips. ‘We are here at His Majesty’s command, Lady Tyringham.’ She signalled for her companions to be seated and went to sit on a chair close to the bed. Frances moved to the fireplace and bent to put another log in the grate. Soon, the flames took hold, filling the room with warmth. She moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, keeping her eyes on Elizabeth. After a while, she stole a glance at the other ladies. As she had hoped, their eyelids were growing heavy – the fire was doing its work. Even the older woman was becoming drowsy. Soon her gentle snores could be heard above the crackle of the flames.

  Frances took Elizabeth’s hand. Her eyes opened at once. Darting a look at the ladies, she turned back to Frances and smiled. Then, slowly, she winked.

  ‘Pray do not worry, Father. I am perfectly recovered.’

  The King bent over and kissed his daughter’s forehead again. ‘I praise God for your safe deliverance,’ he replied, his voice cracking.

  ‘Lady Tyringham had a part in it, too,’ Elizabeth reminded him, shooting Frances a conspiratorial grin.

  The King gave a grunt.

  ‘She is the most faithful servant I have ever had,’ Elizabeth continued, ‘and should be rewarded as such.’

  ‘Well enough, well enough,’ he muttered.

  Frances suppressed a smile. The King had not grown any more gracious since his arrival in England seventeen years before, when he had appeared before his new courtiers grumbling that the rain was wetter than it was in Scotland. She did not look for any reward at his hands. It was enough that Lambe had been taken to the Tower and languished there still. The thought of Buckingham’s fury gave her a stab of triumph, though she knew he would soon be petitioning the King for the old man’s release.

  ‘I hope that sorcerer will receive due punishment for trying to poison me,’ Elizabeth said, lifting her chin.

  ‘Hush now, my pet,’ the King soothed, patting her hand. ‘All is well.’

  ‘You do mean to punish him, Father?’ she persisted, her lips quivering as she spoke. Frances could not but admire her artifice.

  ‘Dunnee concern yourself with that wretch,’ James replied. ‘I will see that he is dealt with.’

  ‘He must not be allowed back in your presence, Father,’ Elizabeth protested, her voice rising in panic. ‘I cannot return to my husband’s kingdom until I am assured that you are out of all peril.’

  The King gestured dismissively. ‘Ye’ have ne’ cause to worry. He presents ne’ threat to me.’

  Frances felt uneasy. It was obvious to her – if not to the princess – that James’s fury towards Lambe had abated, that he no longer thirsted for revenge. The marquess had worked even faster than she had predicted. She shuddered to think how he had persuaded his royal master to a different opinion.

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I understand that the Countess of Buckingham recommended Lambe to attend Lord Rutland’s son.’

  The King nodded. Frances waited.

  ‘Well, that is clearly out of the question now, but I cannot abide the thought of that poor boy suffering when something might be done for his ease.’ She reached out and clasped her father’s hands. ‘If Lady Tyringham will assent to it, there is no one in this court better suited to the task.’

  Frances gazed at her hands as the King swung around to look at her. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck but prayed that it was not visible above the collar of her dress.

  ‘She isne’ a physician, Elizabeth, but a—’

  Witch?

  ‘She has some skill in healing, I admit,’ he continued, ‘but these matters are best left to those who are qualified to deal with them.’

  ‘Such as the physicians and apothecaries who have attended the boy these past six years and more?’ the princess countered archly.

  The King gave an impatient sigh. ‘Very well, my dear. Ye’ know I can deny you nothing,’ he added, with a rueful grin. ‘Lady Tyringham, ye’ may attend him, with my blessing.’

  Frances felt a searing rush of joy and relief. Not only had she been given the chance to nurse her friend’s son back to health, but in sanctioning her to attend him, the King had signalled that any lingering suspicions he harboured against her had lifted. She shot her former mistress a grateful look. Thanks to her, the boy’s life might be saved.

  ‘What is the King like?’

  Frances stopped grinding the juniper berries and looked at the boy, who was watching her from the bed, eyes wide. ‘You will meet him soon enough, I’m sure,’ she replied.

  ‘Is he tall?’ Lord Ros persisted.

  ‘Not particularly – shorter than your father, certainly. His hair is reddish-brown and he has very dark eyes.’

  ‘Is he a good king?’

  Frances added a little oil and a few more pinches of rue to the mortar while she considered how to respond. ‘He has shown great kindness in allowing me to nurse you. Tell me, has the pain in your head lessened now?’

  The boy nodded and pushed away the hand she placed on his forehead. ‘But is he good to everyone?’

  ‘That is quite enough questions for now, young man. You will distract Lady Tyringham from her duties.’

  Rutland was standing in the doorway. ‘How is my boy today?’

  ‘Better still, my lord.’ Frances smiled. ‘His appetite grows every day, as does his strength. Apart from a little pain in his head, he seems much more comfortable.’

  ‘I am not comfortable!’ the boy protested, wriggling against his pillows. ‘This bed is as hard as wood and the covers are too heavy. I long to be out of it.’

  Rutland grinned at her. ‘My son’s impatience is a clearer sign of his recovery than any I have yet seen.’

  The boy was watching them with a petulant expression. His skin was no longer pallid and a little more flesh clung to his frail limbs. ‘God willing, he will soon be able to return to Belvoir,’ Frances remarked quietly. They both knew the boy’s health was not the main barrier to that. ‘Has there been any more word from the King?’

  Rutland glanced towards his son. ‘I petitioned him again yesterday, but he was not minded to decide upon the matter. Buckingham was there, of course.’ They exchanged a knowing look. ‘He made sure to turn His Majesty’s mind to other things.’

  Frances saw that the boy’s eyelids were drooping. He had slept a great deal these past two weeks, but she was glad of it. Sleep would restore his strength even more surely than her remedies.

  ‘What of Lambe?’ she whispered.

  ‘Still in the Tower, God be praised, though I hear Buckingham petitions the King daily for his release. Only his daughter’s presence prevents it, I fear.’

  Frances knew he was right. It was one of the many reasons why she wished her former mistress could stay for longer. But she had been in England for almost three weeks now and her father had already agreed to lend his support to Frederick’s war against Spain, so there was no reason to prolong her visit.

  ‘Then I pray the King will assent to your return to Belvoir before Her Grace takes her leave.’

  Lord Rutland nodded grimly. ‘If need be, I will take my son to the King so that he might see for himself that he is well enough to travel.’ He gazed at the boy, who was now sleeping peacefully. ‘You have worked a miracle, Lady Frances. I never thought to see his eyes open again, or to hear his voic
e. It has been so long.’ His eyes glistened as he smiled down at her. ‘You have brought my boy back to me.’

  CHAPTER 42

  1 March

  The day had dawned bright and clear, and as Frances turned her face to the sun she could feel the faint warmth of its rays for the first time in months. She had grown so used to the cold gloom of winter that she had almost given up hope of spring ever arriving.

  A distant chiming of bells was carried on the breeze. Eight o’clock. The princess would soon be here. Frances had arrived in Greenwich two hours before, anxious to avoid the crowds that would soon be swarming along the riverside. Thomas had been obliged to stay at Whitehall so that he could join the King’s entourage as it made its stately progress along the Thames. She wondered if Lord Rutland would be among it. The King had still not acceded to his request that he might take his son back to Belvoir.

  Frances turned at the sound of a light tread on the gravel path behind her. Even though she was dressed in her travelling robes, Elizabeth was still utterly beautiful. Her hair was now almost black, but the sunlight picked out the coppery tresses that had once covered her head, reminding Frances of the eight-year-old girl she had first met at Whitehall fifteen years before.

  ‘Your Grace.’

  Elizabeth clasped her hand and they began to stroll slowly along the riverbank.

  ‘Is everything made ready for your journey?’

  ‘Yes, yes – the ladies have been fussing over all the coffers for days,’ she replied, with a touch of impatience. ‘I’m sure there are more now than when I arrived. But, then, my father has been so generous. Do you like this new gown?’

  ‘It becomes you very well, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, with an indulgent smile. Her former mistress had always been easily won by such finery. She was open-handed too, though, and had given Frances and her other attendants many rich gifts as reward for their service. She would not hesitate to come to her and Thomas’s aid now, if she knew of their debts. But Frances had always despised those who cultivated royal favour in hope of reward, and in her mind – if not the princess’s – it would tarnish their friendship if she asked for help.

  ‘Fran?’

  Suddenly aware that Elizabeth was watching her closely, she brightened her expression at once. ‘How long will the journey take, Your Grace?’

  ‘Weeks, I expect. It seemed endless on the way here – but, then, I was eager to arrive.’

  Frances looked at the young woman, but her eyes were fixed firmly ahead. ‘You must be anxious to see your children – and your husband,’ she observed carefully.

  ‘Of course,’ Elizabeth replied, a little too quickly. ‘I have missed my boys dreadfully – Elisa, too. I hope they will not have forgotten me.’

  And King Frederick? Frances kept her counsel. She did not wish to vex the princess at such a time.

  ‘But I shall miss you, Fran.’ Elizabeth faced her. ‘You have been dearer to me than my own mother – God rest her. I came back here as much for your sake as for my husband’s. I do not know how I shall bear to be parted from you again.’ She blinked away tears as she pressed her lips together.

  ‘Nor I you, Your Grace,’ Frances said, when at last she was able to reply. Elizabeth’s return had been like a burst of sunlight in a stormy sky, and the clouds would seem all the darker once she had left. Looking at her now, she felt wretched at the thought that they might never meet again. ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me – for Lord Rutland’s son, too.’

  The princess smiled. ‘I was glad to repay your many kindnesses to me, Fran. I just hope it will be enough.’ Her face clouded. ‘My father will tire of that villain soon, I am sure. His passions burn brightly but are quickly snuffed out. Poor Lord Somerset knows that all too well.’

  That much was true, Frances reflected, as she thought of the former favourite and his wife, who still languished in the Tower.

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder towards the palace. ‘I should go back now. My father will soon be here.’

  Frances nodded but could not speak. She raised the princess’s hand to her lips and held it there for a moment, then swept a deep curtsy and walked slowly away.

  Frances closed her eyes as she breathed in the heady scent of lavender. The kitchen gardens at Whitehall were enclosed by a high wall, which trapped the fragile warmth of the early-spring sunshine. The weather had continued fine for the three days since Elizabeth’s departure and she was grateful for it. She had arranged with Lady Katherine that if the rain stayed away tomorrow, too, they would bring the young lord for a short stroll in the palace gardens. He still tired easily, but the air and exercise would do him good.

  Her husband had left for the hunt that morning. The King’s mood had darkened after bidding his daughter farewell at Greenwich, so Thomas had suggested they ride out to Esher while the weather held. For once, Buckingham had proved reluctant to join his royal master. His petulance over the Lambe affair still lingered, even though he had at last persuaded the King to release him from the Tower. Frances was glad that the old man had shown enough discretion not to return to court. But she doubted he would stay away for long.

  Her breathing slowed as she leaned back against the stone wall behind the bench, taking care to wrap her skirts around the herbs she had gathered, lest they blow away while she slept. She could not help but smile at the thought that the King had not only permitted a woman he had once arrested for witchcraft to treat Lord Rutland’s son but that he had placed his own plants at her disposal. How much had changed in a few short years.

  The scent of rosemary carried on the breeze. It reminded Frances of her mother’s garden at Longford. She allowed her mind to wander as she imagined herself there, stretched out on the grass between the flowerbeds, the tiny blades tickling her arms as she dozed. Then the image faded and the familiar sadness returned. It was almost two years since she had last visited, and although her mother had been as faithful a correspondent as ever, her letters had provided only a fleeting consolation for the pain of separation. How George must have grown since she had last seen him. He would be fourteen this July – a man already.

  ‘Frances!’

  Her eyes flew open and she looked around her, not certain if she had been dreaming. But then she saw Kate hastening along the path that led from the privy gardens. As her friend drew closer, Frances saw that her eyes were wide with panic.

  ‘You must come quickly – please,’ she gasped. ‘It’s my brother – he has sickened.’

  Frances leaped to her feet, the herbs scattering around her. There was no time to gather them up now – Kate was already running back down the path. She hastened after her.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked, breathless, when she had caught up with her. The boy had seemed well when she had left him last night and had settled easily, delighted at the promise of a walk the following day.

  ‘I do not know,’ her friend panted, as they passed under the archway of the courtyard. ‘He slept well and was cheerful upon waking but complained of a stomach ache soon after he had taken the tincture you prepared last night. The pain grew quickly worse and he started to vomit.’

  Frances’s blood ran cold. She did not ask more but picked up her pace and sped through the seemingly endless succession of corridors until they reached Lord Rutland’s apartment. An acrid smell wafted from it as soon as Kate flung open the door. Frances followed her into the bedchamber, heart pounding.

  ‘My boy. My poor boy.’

  Lord Rutland turned stricken eyes to her. His son was cradled in his arms. As Frances stepped forward she saw that the boy’s lips were already tinged with blue. His quick, rasping breaths echoed around the chamber. She stared for a moment longer, then, quickly, she ran to the dresser and pulled out her casket of herbs. With trembling fingers, she poured a large handful of mustard seeds into her mortar and began to grind them to a powder, then splashed water into the mixture so that it made a thin paste. She brought the bowl to the child’s mouth and t
ipped the entire contents into it. As she had hoped, he began to retch at once, his small frame racked with convulsions. Then he lurched forward and voided. Frances watched in horror as the dark bile soaked into his already stained linen shift. Exhausted, he sank back into his father’s arms, gasping for breath.

  ‘Did he eat or drink anything, other than the tincture?’ she asked, as she placed her hand gently on his forehead. He was not feverish and there was no sign of any contagion.

  ‘Nothing,’ Kate replied between sobs.

  Frances tried to order her thoughts. She had prepared the tincture two days before, in her own apartment, and had brought it last night. It was the same one that she had administered to Lord Rutland’s son every day since the King had agreed she might attend him. It could not have caused this reaction unless something else had been added to it.

  ‘Has anyone visited your son or had access to your apartment?’ she asked Lord Rutland.

  ‘Only one of the countess’s ladies.’ He kept his eyes fixed on his son as he spoke. ‘She brought some sweetmeats for my son last night, but I didn’t give him any in case they would prove too rich for his stomach.’

  Frances felt suddenly cold. ‘How long did she stay?’

  ‘A few minutes only. She waited in the parlour while I brought the gift in here. But he was sleeping so I did not trouble him for a message of thanks.’

  ‘And my tincture was there also?’

  Lord Rutland thought for a moment. ‘Yes – yes, I think so. There was still enough in here for his nightly draught, so I saved the new tincture for the morning.’ He smoothed his son’s hair back from his forehead. ‘Is it poison?’ he whispered.