Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  She heard a sharp intake of breath from Kate. ‘I can see no other cause,’ Frances replied. ‘Even the sweating sickness would not come on so quickly.’

  The boy’s chest was rising and falling in quick, jerking movements now. She knew he was not strong enough to void again. Besides, it was too late. The poison would already have seeped into his blood by the time she arrived. All of a sudden he gave a deep shudder, then fell still. A long, low rattle sounded in his throat, then all was silence.

  Frances watched his chest for any sign of movement, but he lay as limp as a ragdoll. Willing this to be some terrible dream, she reached forward and placed her fingers lightly at the base of his neck and waited. There was no flicker of a pulse. At last, she raised her eyes to Lord Rutland, who looked up from his son’s lifeless face as if stupefied.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

  A high-pitched wail sounded across the room as Kate sank to the floor.

  CHAPTER 43

  7 March

  The flames of the torches guttered and hissed as the rain fell more heavily. Frances was impervious to the cold night air as she shuffled slowly along in the procession, her hand resting on Thomas’s arm. Ahead, she could see Lord Rutland’s tall frame as he followed the pallbearers towards the abbey. She could not bear to look at the small black coffin that was set atop the carriage rumbling along the cobbles between them.

  She should have saved him. The thought had run over and over in her mind for the past two days and nights, tormenting her waking hours and depriving her of all but the most fitful sleep. If she had attended the boy earlier that morning, taken the stopper off the tincture herself, she might have smelt the sharp tang of foxgloves before the tainted liquid had reached his lips. The scent had still clung to the small glass phial when she had examined it later that day. That girl must have slipped it into the tincture while Lord Rutland delivered the countess’s gift to his son. From the few details that he could remember about her, Frances was sure it was the same girl she had seen begging in the doorway that morning and, later, among the countess’s entourage as they played cards; the same girl who had betrayed her and thwarted Lord Rutland’s escape.

  The slow tolling of the abbey bells sounded along the dark street as they approached. A few people emerged from their houses as the procession passed – more from curiosity than respect, Frances guessed. The death of Lord Rutland’s son and heir had excited a great deal of gossip across the city. Rumours of poison had soon spread throughout the court and the King had ordered an investigation. Frances had told his officials about the corrupted tincture, but they had eyed her with scepticism, despite Lord Rutland’s insistence that the girl be found and questioned.

  Frances knew it would not be long before their suspicions alighted upon her. Already, Buckingham had made a point of having her casket of herbs examined by the King’s apothecaries. It did not matter that they had declared nothing amiss: he would soon find another means to have her blamed for the boy’s death. Even though his royal master had appointed her to nurse Lord Rutland’s son back to health, she knew he would not flinch from having her arrested for witchcraft.

  As soon as he had heard of the boy’s death, Thomas had urged her to leave for Tyringham. But she felt strangely detached from the matter. Perhaps the weight of grief and remorse with which she was burdened had obscured any feelings of fear for herself. Or perhaps she felt that she deserved to be punished for failing to protect him. As she trudged along, the cold rain seeping into her cloak and making little rivulets down her neck and spine, she realised she hardly cared.

  James had ordered that the earl’s son should be honoured with the full ceremony of a burial at Westminster, as if royal blood had flowed through his veins. Was it a penance for appointing a no torious witch to attend his son? Frances had heard it whispered by two ladies as she had entered the gallery the previous afternoon. Their conversation had stopped when they had seen her approaching. The funeral had been arranged with such haste that it had excited more gossip. Frances herself had wondered at it – particularly given that, as master of the horse, Buckingham had taken charge of the proceedings.

  Ahead, the procession was turning left past the ancient church of St Margaret. Frances caught a glimpse of Kate, her head bowed and a heavy black veil obscuring her face. She had been unable to assuage her friend’s grief in the two days since her little brother’s demise. The poor girl had wept for so many hours that Frances wondered she had any tears left. Kate blamed herself for administering the tincture, insisting that she should have known it was corrupted, despite Frances’s assurances that it would have taken a skilled herbalist to notice anything awry. Her wretchedness had been increased by Buckingham’s unwanted attentions. The unseemly haste with which he had renewed his courtship had shocked even Frances. She could see him now, walking directly behind Kate, his countenance as cheerful as if he were attending a masque. His mother was at his side, her arm looped over his.

  They had reached the west door of the abbey. Frances could hear the haunting voices of the choir echoing through the high stone vaults as she entered the nave. She lowered her gaze to the floor and mouthed a silent prayer.

  The King had decreed that the ceremony would take place in the Lady Chapel, among the tombs of his forebears. His own mother lay buried there, close to her cousin Elizabeth, who had ordered her death. James had ensured that Mary’s tomb was every bit as magnificent as her rival’s. It was a pity he had not shown such respect for her when she had been put to death, Frances thought.

  The chaplain stepped forward. As he began to deliver the opening address, Frances’s gaze wandered to the stalls opposite those in which she and her husband were seated. Lord Rutland’s eyes were fixed upon his son’s coffin, which had been laid on an embroidered cloth of gold at the foot of the altar. Kate sat next to him. Frances saw how her hands trembled as she held her prayer book. Glancing along the row, she froze as she noticed Buckingham staring directly towards her. His eyes glittered in the gloom and she saw the flash of his white teeth as he smiled at her. She forced herself not to look away. Thomas tightened his grip on her hand, but when she turned to him, his eyes were full of fear.

  The rain had stopped by the time they left the abbey and there was a deep chill in the air. One by one, the mourners paid their respects to Lord Rutland and his daughter, before slowly dispersing. Frances was about to address them when Buckingham stepped in front of her.

  ‘My lord,’ he swept an elaborate bow, ‘Lady Katherine.’

  Frances saw Rutland stiffen.

  ‘Permit me to escort you back to the palace,’ Buckingham said, gesturing towards his carriage.

  ‘Thank you, but my daughter and I will walk. It is a fine evening.’ He took Kate’s hand, placed it on his arm, then made to move away.

  ‘Then I will accompany you. My mother can take the carriage alone – unless of course you wish to join her, Lady Tyringham.’

  Frances opened her mouth to reply, but Rutland’s voice cut across her. ‘I do not need you to accompany us. Nor do I wish it.’

  A flicker of a smile. ‘Very well. I will bid you good evening, my lord, Lady Katherine.’ He bent to kiss her hand but she drew it quickly away.

  ‘God curse that devil,’ the earl muttered, under his breath, as they watched Buckingham stroll nonchalantly towards his mother’s carriage. ‘He murdered my poor boy, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Father—’

  ‘Peace, Katherine. I do not fear him, and I will be avenged for this.’

  Thomas took a step forward. ‘My lord, your suspicions may be justified, but you would be wise not to voice them – at least, not until you have found something to base them upon.’

  Rutland stared at him grimly. ‘Then I shall find it.’

  ‘There,’ Frances murmured, patting the horse’s neck. It dipped its head to drink from the trough in the stable-yard. It was the first time she had ridden out this year and, though the ground was still marshy in places, she had spurr
ed the horse on to a breakneck speed, gasping in lungfuls of the chill morning air as her hair whipped about her. She still felt the rush of exhilaration.

  Frances had longed to ride further, beyond the northern reaches of Hyde Park. She would have ridden all the way to Tyringham Hall if she could. The desire to see her sons was so overwhelming that it smote her like a blow. But to return there now would place them in danger. Accusations of witchcraft blighted the lives of families, too.

  The horse had finished drinking, so she began to lead him back to the deserted stables. The King had ordered another hunt and Thomas had left before daybreak. The warmth of his embrace had lingered long after he had left their apartment. She knew that he would be anxious to return to her.

  Frances had almost reached the stables when she heard brisk footsteps approaching.

  ‘You have returned at last – I have been pacing this yard for an hour or more,’ Lord Bacon complained.

  Frances was used to him exaggerating but her smile vanished when she saw his grim expression.

  ‘What is it?’ Her eyes flicked to the leather pouch that was tucked under his arm.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we cannot talk here.’

  He took the reins from her. Sensing his discomfiture, the horse whinnied as he led it to the stables.

  Frances’s agitation grew as they walked in silence to Bacon’s apartment. As soon as they were inside, her friend poured them both a glass of wine, then sank heavily into a chair opposite Frances. Still saying nothing, he drew a neatly bound set of papers from the pouch and handed them to her. The pages were covered with a small, neat script, and upon one was written a title in larger letters.

  The Wonderful Discovery of the Witchcrafts of Margaret and Philippa Flower . . .

  Frances froze, her hand suspended over it. ‘What is this?’

  ‘My lord Buckingham commissioned it. I wanted to tell you – to warn you – but he ordered me to take it to the printer without delay.’ He did not meet her eye.

  Frances had seen such pamphlets before. They routinely appeared after a notable witchcraft trial, giving salacious details of the case, the heinous crimes of the accused. Always, there was a pact with the devil, the casting of spells, lives blighted by sorcery and wickedness. The narrative was so similar in each case that Frances had often wondered how her fellow courtiers could seize upon them with such eager anticipation, devouring their contents as if they had never read the like before. She had taken to avoiding the dining hall at such times, knowing it would be filled with animated chatter about the horrors that had been revealed.

  ‘Most of it had been written some time ago, but the rest was left unfinished,’ Bacon continued. ‘He told me he had set the scribe to work as soon as the young lord breathed his last.’

  Frances tasted bile. ‘And he has had me named as an accomplice to the women’s murderous schemes?’

  Her friend placed his hand over her trembling fingers. ‘No – you are not mentioned. All of the guilt is placed upon the shoulders of Joan Flower and her daughters – for the murder of both boys.’

  ‘But only one was dead at the time of the trial,’ Frances pointed out. ‘Surely even Buckingham cannot claim that the poor girls wreaked their vengeance on the surviving son from beyond the grave.’

  Bacon shrugged. ‘People will believe anything when it comes to witchcraft.’

  ‘Even though the common belief is that to cure the bewitched one must put the perpetrators to death?’ Frances persisted. ‘That is why the Countess of Rutland ordered the Flower women’s arrest, after all.’

  ‘There is no place for reason in such cases,’ he replied. ‘With this pamphlet, Buckingham has ensured that in the eyes of the world the Flower women are guilty of both murders.’

  Frances stared. What was Buckingham’s game? She had been so certain that he would have her accused of the younger boy’s death. God knew he had seemed intent upon her destruction and that of her husband since his arrival at court. Why would he surrender the opportunity? Perhaps he had further torment in mind for them.

  ‘I hope I have done right in showing it to you, my dear.’ Bacon interrupted her thoughts. ‘I did not do so to cause alarm, but I know how closely you are connected with Lord Rutland and his family.’

  Frances nodded absently. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘We must wait for the marquess’s next move.’

  CHAPTER 44

  20 March

  Kate set down the book and rose to look out of the window. Frances had hoped to distract her troubled thoughts with the poetry, but it was as if she had forgotten her letters entirely.

  ‘It pains me to see my father like this,’ she said, peering down into the courtyard. ‘Even the smallest matter vexes him since my brother’s death.’

  The matter was hardly small, Frances thought. Seeing that his flattery and persuasions worked no effect upon Lord Rutland, Buckingham had successfully petitioned the King to intervene in the matter of his proposed marriage. James had summoned the earl to answer for his reluctance to allow his daughter to marry one of the foremost noblemen in the kingdom. But the earl had refused to be bowed, declaring that he would rather see Kate follow her brother to the grave than be wed to such a man. Frances could not help but admire his courage, though she feared for him, too. Buckingham was not a man to be thwarted.

  ‘He wants only to protect you, Kate,’ she reminded her. ‘There can be few fathers in the kingdom who would sacrifice their favour with the King for their daughter’s happiness.’ She did not say that Lord Rutland might sacrifice a great deal more besides.

  Kate sank onto the window seat. Her shoulders heaved with silent grief. ‘Perhaps I should marry him without my father’s blessing.’ Her fingers worked at the seam of her black silk skirt. ‘He would still get my fortune and I would no longer live in fear of what might happen if my father continues to deny him.’

  Frances moved to sit by her. ‘No, Kate. You would ruin both your lives. Your father would know nothing but grief if you were tied to such a devil, and you, well, I cannot even bear to think of it – and neither must you.’

  Her friend nodded miserably. Frances hoped she had convinced her but knew that Kate’s love for her father was so strong that she would endure any suffering for his sake.

  The silence that followed was broken by a sharp rapping on the door. Kate leaped to her feet. Frances tried to keep her disdain from showing when she opened the door to the Countess of Buckingham.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’ the older woman said, fussing over Kate as if she were a lapdog. ‘Why, you have become such a recluse that I had begun to wonder if your father had spirited you back to Belvoir! Oh, Lady Tyringham.’

  Frances rose to her feet.

  ‘Forgive me, madam,’ Kate replied. ‘I am still in mourning for my poor brother.’

  ‘Dear little boy. Such a shock, of course. But you must give thanks to God that He has ended his suffering at last – and that He has already wreaked His vengeance upon those who sent him to the grave.’

  If only God would punish those responsible, the countess might not be standing here now.

  ‘And how are you, Lady Tyringham? I have hardly seen you either, since the young lord’s funeral.’

  ‘I have been keeping Lady Katherine company, madam.’

  The countess sat down without being invited to do so. ‘Well, it is not good for you to be cooped up here, my dear,’ she went on, to Kate. ‘You look so pale and wan, and that sombre colour becomes you very ill. Nobody can expect you to stay in mourning for ever.’

  ‘It has been two weeks. I do not dress to flatter myself, but out of respect for my late brother.’

  At Kate’s unusually abrupt tone, Frances was gratified to see the momentary shock on the older woman’s face.

  ‘Be that as it may, you must soon enter society once more. The King himself demands it.’

  ‘The King?’ Kate echoed in dismay.

  ‘Why, yes. My son heard him remark upon the matter y
esterday. George assured him that you do not intend any offence, but you would be advised to prove it by making an appearance.’ Kate opened her mouth to respond, but the countess pressed on: ‘He does not expect you to attend the feasts and revels, of course – such a thing would be vulgar. But he will take it amiss if you do not soon emerge from your chambers.’

  Kate glanced at Frances in alarm.

  ‘His Grace is most kind to trouble himself with such a matter when there must be so many weightier ones to occupy his thoughts,’ Frances observed solemnly. ‘A ride might do us both good, Kate? We can go tomorrow, if the weather improves.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the Countess interjected. ‘All of the parkland will be a mire after this late rain. Besides, I have an altogether better plan. You must dine with me at my house in Chelsea this evening – please, I will brook no objection. It is quite settled. I will arrange for my barge to be at the water gate for six.’

  ‘But, madam—’

  The countess was already on her feet. ‘The King has sent one of his cooks to help prepare our feast, as well as some grooms to attend us. He would look askance at a refusal after he has been so generous.’

  Frances sensed Kate’s mounting panic. ‘Then permit me to accompany Lady Katherine, madam,’ she said firmly. ‘She cannot travel alone and I promised Lord Rutland that I would be her constant companion.’

  Lady Buckingham gave a sniff. ‘As you wish.’

  Neither Frances nor Kate spoke as the oarsmen steered the brightly painted barge towards a landing stage that was lit by two large braziers. A groom dressed in the countess’s livery was waiting to escort them to the imposing mansion that lay at the top of the rigidly ordered gardens. As they neared the portico, Frances clasped Kate’s hand. The fingers were icy cold.

  They were ushered into a richly furnished hall. Although she wished herself far from there, Frances was glad of the warmth from the large fire that roared in the grate.