by Tracy Borman
The tables were being cleared, and there was a flurry of activity on the stage as it was made ready for the performance. Frances watched as an enormous painted castle was lifted onto the dais by four red-faced pages. They lowered it into place as Lord Cranfield barked directions at them. James had moved to the left, where he was seated next to Arthur Brett, who had changed into his costume, complete with an oversized crown that glittered with fake jewels. Now and then, his royal master whispered into the young man’s ear.
When at last all of the tables had been moved and the guests had taken their places, the masque began. Frances hardly noticed the succession of different actors and props as the tedious narrative played on. She kept her eyes on the King, who sat forward every time Arthur stepped into a scene. His eyes also lingered on the young man who played Guinevere. Only when there was a loud clap of thunder followed by a huge plume of smoke did she focus on the centre of the dais. As the vapour began to clear, a figure dressed as Merlin came slowly into view. Frances stared.
John Lambe.
She had not seen the conjurer for more than three years. He had left court after the death of Rutland’s son and there had been no word of him since. Frances watched, horror-struck, as he made circles with his arms, the long sleeves that covered them whirling around him. She was only vaguely aware that he was speaking his lines as her mind ran over why he might have returned when his patron was far away. Was it a sign that Buckingham would soon return?
As the scene wore on, Frances stole a glance at Rutland. His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he stared, unblinking, at the old man before them. Did he believe, like Frances, that he was looking at his son’s murderer? At last the masque reached its conclusion, the dancers twirling about, their arms stretched out towards the three central figures of Arthur, Guinevere and Merlin. With a final strike of the drum, the dais was plunged into darkness. Frances heard the rustle of satin as a figure swept past the row of benches where she was sitting, and a moment later she caught the pungent, heavily spiced scent that she remembered from her first encounter with Lambe. When the sconces were relit, she was hardly surprised to see that he was not among the actors who were bowing before the King and his court. He had disappeared into the night, like some phantom.
As soon as the applause had died away, there was a crush of bodies and eager courtiers surged forward to make their obeisance before the King. Frances felt a welcome draught of cool night air as the doors to a nearby balcony were opened.
‘I will fetch us some wine,’ Thomas said, as they rose to their feet and moved towards it.
The rain was still falling on the dark streets below, but the balcony was sheltered by a large stone canopy. Neither Frances nor Lord Rutland spoke as they took deep breaths of the cleansing air.
‘I did not expect to see Dr Lambe here again,’ she began, ‘at least, not without his patron. He has not appeared at court since . . .’
The earl did not answer but stared out over the deserted street, clutching the edge of the carved stone balustrade.
‘Was it him?’ he muttered, still gazing straight ahead. ‘Did he poison my son?’
‘I believe so, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘Or he supplied the means, at least,’ she added, thinking of the large-eyed girl who had served the countess. She, too, had disappeared from court after Lord Ros’s death.
This was the first time they had spoken of it. In the days and weeks that had followed his son’s demise, Rutland had kept to his apartments, too grief-stricken to take part in the usual court routines, while Frances had lived under threat of exposure as a witch. She had come to fear that the earl had given credence to the rumours that Buckingham had put about at the time.
‘That devil had my poor boy murdered so that he could seize my daughter and her fortune. I have long suspected it, but pushed it from my thoughts these past three years, lest it drove me to madness. Cecilia was adamant that our sons had been bewitched to death and would hear nothing to contradict it.’ He turned to Frances at last. ‘I will avenge my son – Katherine too. He has blighted both their lives.’
‘I will help you, my lord.’
Thomas was standing at the doors to the balcony. He walked slowly over and gave them each a glass. ‘That villain has ruined our lives too,’ he said, his voice low, ‘and so many more besides. He will not rest until he has the Crown of England in his hands.’
‘This kingdom can have no peace while he draws breath,’ the earl agreed. ‘It is surely God’s will that we send this devil back to the Hell that spawned him.’
Frances looked from one to the other, her heart thudding. She had not told Thomas about her encounter with Salisbury, reasoning that there was nothing to be gained from it. But the concealment had felt like a betrayal. She took a breath.
‘What if he is not a devil but an angel, sent by God to restore this kingdom to the true faith?’
Both men stared at her. She could not go back now.
‘There are those who believe that Buckingham is doing the Lord’s work, not his own, that he is plotting to secure this Spanish marriage so that King Philip will send an army to oust James from his throne and set Charles and the infanta upon it.’
Rutland gave a snort of derision. ‘Preposterous! The man serves himself alone. God is as nothing to him. Besides, he forced my daughter to relinquish the Catholic faith in order to marry him. It is not possible!’
‘Who told you this?’ Thomas asked.
Frances saw the hurt in his eyes, as well as the shock. She swallowed hard. ‘William Cecil, Earl of Salisbury.’
‘Cecil? When did you see him? He has been absent from court for years.’
‘He came to Greenwich during the Christmas festivities,’ she replied, forcing herself not to flinch from her husband’s gaze. ‘We met by chance, but it seems he meant to seek me out. I told him I would have no part in his schemes.’
The colour had drained from Thomas’s face. ‘Why did you not tell me of this before?’ he demanded.
Frances could no longer bear to look at him. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You carried so many burdens already that I did not wish to add to them.’
‘The word of one man is hardly enough to convince me, when everything else points to his being a self-seeking villain,’ Rutland interjected.
‘But that is not all,’ Frances said. ‘As she lay dying, the late Queen told me she had enlisted the help of someone to ensure that her son married a Catholic princess. She made me promise to do nothing to impede it, hinting that the person she had chosen for the task had been an enemy to me.’
This silenced them.
Eventually, Rutland said, ‘If what you say is true, then we are faced with a choice. Either we satisfy our honour and that of our families, or we allow Buckingham to do God’s work unhindered.’
‘If,’ Thomas emphasised. ‘Time will tell whether he serves God or the devil.’
‘He serves whichever master will fulfil his own ambitions,’ Frances retorted impatiently. ‘It is foolish to presume that everyone who acts for the Catholic cause is motivated by the same faith that we cherish.’
‘My lords.’
They swung around to see a groom of the King’s privy chamber standing by the doors. How long had he been there?
‘His Majesty requires your presence.’
The men exchanged a quick look before following the attendant into the crowded hall. Frances hesitated, then rushed after them.
‘Ah, my lord Rutland!’ the King shouted, as they approached the dais. ‘You are here at last. Why did you stay away for so long?’
‘Your Grace.’ The earl swept a deep bow.
‘And Tom. The sight of you always does me good.’
Frances smiled at the compliment to her husband. Before the rains had come, the King had spent a good deal of time hunting with him and, freed from Buckingham’s overbearing presence, he had come to appreciate Thomas’s quiet, steady nature once more. If only the duke would stay away for longer, James’s ren
ewed affection for his master of the buckhounds might take firmer root. Already he had hinted at a grant of some lands.
The King was turning back to Rutland now. Frances strained to hear above the excited chatter that echoed around the hall.
‘I have summoned you back to Whitehall because I wish you to undertake a great service for me.’
The babble quietened as those standing close to the stage whispered to their neighbours that something of importance was about to be discussed. Before long, the hall had descended into silence.
‘My sweet boys have been absent for many weeks now,’ James went on. ‘Yet I have received word from my ambassador in Madrid that their negotiations with King Philip have foundered. There will be no Spanish marriage.’
This sparked a chorus of gasps and mutters around the room.
‘The duke refuses to comply with my wishes and return home. He insists that Philip will be persuaded. But I know better than my dear Steenie. The Spanish King’s word is not to be trusted. He has already played my daughter and her husband false, robbed them of their kingdom. I no longer wish to be allied to such a false friend.’
Thomas shot Frances a quick, sideways look. They both knew why Buckingham was proving so stubborn.
‘And so, Rutland, I wish you to journey to Madrid and bring back your errant son-in-law – the prince too.’
Frances saw the shock on Rutland’s face, but he swept another bow to disguise it.
‘I would willingly perform whatever you command, Your Grace,’ he vowed, ‘but I fear you have greater faith in my abilities than I. The duke is not a man to be easily persuaded.’
‘Then drag him back by force, God damn ye!’ James cried, with sudden passion, banging his fist so hard on the table that a goblet clattered to the floor. His young favourite, Arthur Brett, cowered in his chair. ‘I will not suffer such disobedience, even from one I have raised so high,’ the King continued. ‘You will remind him where his true loyalties lie.’
They may not lie where you think, Frances mused.
‘And you, Tom, will accompany Lord Rutland as far as Plymouth. You will both set out at first light.’
CHAPTER 52
9 October
The whole of London seemed ablaze. As soon as word had arrived that the prince and his entourage had landed safely at Plymouth, bonfires had been lit in celebration. The King had received the news while hunting at Theobalds Palace and had immediately ordered Thomas to make the long ride back to escort them.
A distant cheer could be heard along the Strand. Frances craned her neck to see above the crowds that thronged the streets, waiting to greet the King’s son and favourite. Anyone would think they were conquering heroes, she thought scornfully. As it was, their expedition had ended in ignominious failure and relations between England and Spain were worse than they had been before. Frances was eager to see her husband and hoped that Lord Rutland had endured the arduous journey without weakening his already fragile health.
‘There they are!’
The shout was soon echoed by a chorus of others. Frances saw a flash of scarlet and gold as Buckingham held his plumed hat aloft in acknowledgement of the cheers. He was riding ahead of the prince, she saw, with dismay. The failure of his expedition had done nothing to curb his overweening pride.
‘God save Your Grace!’
Charles, who was dressed more soberly, nodded his thanks. His pale skin was burnished by the Spanish sun, but his eyes were sunken and his shoulders hunched. As he drew closer, he looked to where Frances was standing. She thought she saw the faintest smile of recognition before a shout from the other side of the street drew his attention.
Rutland rode directly behind the prince. He seemed oblivious to the cheers of the crowds but kept his eyes fixed upon the horizon. Frances was shocked by how emaciated he had become. Her heart swelled as she saw her husband at the back of the cavalcade. It was almost a month since he had left for Theobalds and she had received only hurried messages from him since. He did not see her, but she kept her eyes on his retreating form as he gradually disappeared from view.
The people around her surged after the procession, hoping to catch another glimpse of the prince and the duke before they rode into the palace. Frances followed in their wake. She had no desire to see the King greet his favourite, showering him with the gifts he had bought to mark his return. When she reached the end of the wide street that led to Whitehall, a huge crowd was still gathered around Holbein Gate, even though the prince and his entourage had already passed under it and into the first courtyard. She turned instead towards the stables, hoping to see Thomas as he led the horses there while Buckingham basked in the attentions of his adoring royal master.
‘God’s teeth! What are you about, man?’
The cry rang out from the stable-yard as Frances approached. She stopped as she rounded the corner and saw the duke glowering at her husband, who was helping him untangle his boot from the stirrup. All of the smiles and graciousness with which he had received his hero’s welcome were gone. She wondered what could have put him in such a foul temper already.
‘Leave it!’ he commanded, kicking out at Thomas’s fingers. Frances saw her husband’s flicker of a smile as he turned to unsaddle the horse. She watched as Buckingham struggled to free his boot then, muttering another curse, took it off altogether and stamped his stockinged foot on the gravel. ‘Do not think I am blind to what you have done, Tyringham,’ he spat, grabbing Thomas roughly by the shoulders.
Her husband looked calmly at him. ‘Your Grace?’
The duke took a step towards him. Frances moved closer, taking care to remain hidden from view. Her eyes flitted to the sword at Buckingham’s belt.
‘Do not toy with me, churl. You have dripped poison into the King’s ear while I have been away, making him doubt my loyalty and question my motives for going to Spain. Why else would he give me such a greeting just now?’
Frances willed her husband to say nothing that might provoke him.
‘What other motives could you have had, my lord duke, than to secure a great alliance for this kingdom?’ he asked, in mock-innocence.
Buckingham moved so close to Thomas that their foreheads almost touched. Slowly, he reached around to caress the hair at the back of his neck. Nausea rose in her, as Frances watched her husband struggle to stop himself lashing out, knowing that this was exactly what the duke wanted. Suddenly, Buckingham grasped a handful of hair and yanked Thomas’s head backwards. ‘You may think you enjoy His Majesty’s favour now, but it is an illusion. I will see you ruined – you and that pretty wife of yours. I would have rid myself of you both years ago, if it was not so diverting to see you suffer. Losing your family seat must have been enough to unman you,’ he purred.
Frances saw her husband’s hand move to his sword.
‘But do not grieve, Thomas, for you and your wife must visit us there, as soon as we have ordered the place to our satisfaction. I wonder that you can have put up with somewhere that lacked so many modern comforts – not to mention fashions. Why, it is quite the relic!’
‘You purchased it? But . . .’
Buckingham inclined his head. ‘Through a second party, of course – I know how touchy men can be about selling to their superiors. Now I have returned, I will have much more leisure to set it to rights. Katherine will manage it for me. It will do her good to spend some time away from court. Goodness knows what company she has been keeping during my absence.’
Frances stared at him. He had released his grip on her husband and was smiling at him.
‘Now, please – fetch my boot. I must go and dress for dinner.’
Frances gazed at the long tables lined on each side with courtiers, all looking in her direction. It was strange to see the hall from this vantage point, and although it was a great honour to have been invited to join the King’s table, she could not help feeling rather exposed. She was glad that Thomas had been seated next to her, the Earl of Rutland on her other side. She was glad, too,
that Buckingham was at the opposite end of the table, several seats away from James and the prince.
‘My lords.’ The King had risen to his feet. ‘We have ordered this feast to celebrate the return of our son and heir, the Prince of Wales.’ A cheer rose up around the room. ‘And of His Grace the Duke of Buckingham.’ Frances was gratified that the cheers petered out. She saw that the duke’s smile had become fixed. ‘But it is also our pleasure to reward the great service performed by two other gentlemen here this evening. My lord Rutland, Sir Thomas – Tom,’ he added, with a grin, ‘please accept these small tokens of our gratitude and esteem.’
Frances exulted to see the earl and her husband kneel to receive their gifts. She could not resist flashing Buckingham a smile. Her triumph faded as she saw Kate next to him, staring miserably at her plate. As she reached for her glass, Frances saw an angry red welt at her wrist.
‘Congratulations, my love,’ she said, as Thomas sat down and showed her the gold medallion studded with rubies with which the King had presented him. She found herself wondering how much it was worth – though she knew they could not risk His Majesty’s offence by selling it.
During the feast that followed, Frances drank more than was her custom – partly to celebrate her husband’s safe return and his obvious favour with the King, but also to blur the memory of what had happened in the stable-yard. Thomas had refused to speak of it when she had told him she had seen and heard everything. Losing Tyringham Hall had grieved him enough, but the knowledge that it was to Buckingham was too much to bear. Even after several glasses of wine, Frances was aware that the King had drunk much more than she had. His face was flushed and his voice had become progressively louder so that now most of the hall could hear whenever he made a remark.
‘Father,’ the prince said quietly, as James gulped the contents of his glass, dribbling most of it down his chin.
‘Peace, boy!’ he retorted. ‘I dunnae know what has got into that pretty head of yours. Ye were always so biddable – better disposed than any son in Christendom. But since returning from Spain, ye have been carried away with rash and foolish counsels.’