Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  ‘Please,’ Charles begged, placing a hand on his father’s arm in a vain attempt to stop him taking another long draught of claret.

  ‘Silence!’ At the King’s shout, all eyes turned to the dais. James went on, oblivious: ‘Yer head has been turned by our duke there,’ he said, wine spilling over the rim of his glass as he gestured towards Buckingham. ‘God knows how many devils are within him since that journey.’

  The King’s favourite took a sip from his own glass, but his knuckles were white as he grasped it.

  ‘Ye have used such cruel words towards your dear dad and sovereign,’ he continued, addressing Buckingham directly now. Frances had heard that the duke referred to James in that way but had dismissed it as unfounded gossip. ‘I cannae forget nor forgive them.’

  Buckingham was gripping his glass so tightly now that Frances feared it would shatter. ‘A man might utter any number of foolish words when overcome with excitement to see his king and master,’ he replied smoothly.

  Arthur Brett, who was seated next to James, suppressed a titter. The duke flashed him a look of such fury that the young man blanched.

  ‘I saw no such excitement,’ James slurred, ‘only pride and insolence.’

  The silence in the crowded hall was absolute, the tension almost palpable, as all eyes were trained on the disgraced favourite. The yeomen standing behind the throne grasped their halberds. For several moments, Buckingham stared back at James, his expression unreadable. Frances found herself willing him to strike out, raise his sword against the King. Such an act could never be pardoned. Instead he set down his glass, rose to his feet and, bowing low before his royal master, walked slowly from the dais.

  ‘Frances.’

  The voice was so quiet that for a moment she thought she had imagined it. She stopped and looked around the deserted garden. The sun had not yet risen and she had not expected to see anyone else there. A cold hand gripped her wrist and she swung around. Before she could speak, Kate pulled her towards the entrance to the maze where she had been hiding.

  ‘I could not leave without seeing you,’ her friend whispered. There were dark circles under her eyes. ‘It grieves me to think what opinion you must have of me – your husband, too. He is an honourable man and does not deserve such treatment.’

  ‘You have done nothing against either of us,’ Frances said, clasping her hands.

  ‘Oh, but I have!’ Kate whispered, tears in her eyes. ‘I am to be mistress of Tyringham Hall, to look on as your husband’s beloved home is dismantled, brick by brick, and a new mansion built in its place. And all in my name!’ She bent her head and began to sob.

  Frances stepped forward to embrace her. ‘This is not your doing, Kate – Thomas knows that as well as I. You are as powerless to oppose your husband as we are – more so, perhaps,’ she added, looking down at the darkening bruise on the young woman’s wrist. ‘You must not grieve on our part. God will avenge his sins.’

  Kate raised a tear-stained face. ‘I wish I could believe that, Frances. I have prayed for it – yes, though I am his wife and should look for nothing but blessings for him. But God seems not to heed my prayers.’

  ‘He will. Such sins as he has committed cannot go unpunished, in this world or the next.’ She kissed her friend’s cheek. ‘Now, go to Tyringham with our blessing – little Mary too. Make sure to take her to the woods that lie just beyond the privy garden. The pansies will be in full bloom by now.’

  Kate’s face lifted into a smile of such warmth that Frances’s heart swelled. ‘God go with you, Frances,’ she whispered, and hurried back towards the palace.

  It was a long time before Frances followed. The day had dawned fine and clear, and the sun’s rays carried the promise of warmth. Thomas would have left for the hunt by now, so she was in no hurry to return. She resolved to pay a visit to Lord Bacon at his lodgings near to Temple Church. He always welcomed her warmly, though his circumstances had been pitifully reduced.

  She had almost reached the gate in the high brick wall that surrounded the garden when she heard the latch click open.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she said, dropping into a deep curtsy.

  The prince did not seem surprised to see her. Evidently, Kate was not the only one who knew it was her habit to walk about the gardens early each morning.

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Lady Tyringham. Would you walk with me?’

  They made their way in silence along the path that led towards the sequence of small knot gardens. As Frances waited for Charles to speak, she pretended to look at the neatly arranged plants on either side of them, wondering why he had sought her out.

  ‘I have not forgotten the service you performed for my father some years ago, though I have never spoken of it,’ he began.

  ‘Neither have I changed my allegiance,’ he went on, ‘though you would be forgiven for thinking so . . . I promised my late mother I would marry a princess of the faith, so when Buckingham began to promote the Spanish match so vigorously, I decided to fall in with his plans.’ His face darkened. ‘But I might as well have made a pact with the devil.’

  Frances held her breath.

  ‘The duke claims to be of our faith, Lady Tyringham, but I have seen enough to convince me that he uses it to justify a plot that is driven only by greed and ambition. As soon as we reached the Escorial, it was clear that he had struck a private bargain with the King of Spain, whereby my marriage to the infanta would be bought at a terrible price – wresting the throne from my father and placing me on it to rule jointly with my new wife as Catholic sovereigns.’

  Still Frances said nothing. It was all as Salisbury had told her.

  ‘Buckingham had been promised coffers filled with Spanish gold if he brought all this to pass,’ the prince continued. ‘But he overreached himself, demanding more power than Philip was prepared to cede to him. He insisted, too, that his daughter Mary be married to the King’s brother, Don Carlos. He means to make himself king one day, I am sure of it.’

  He turned to face Frances.

  ‘He must be stopped, before he destroys not just my father but the entire kingdom. Our failure in Spain has left him undaunted. He will find another means to seize power.’

  Frances’s eyes blazed with intensity. ‘You are right to fear this, Your Grace. I have heard and seen enough of his plans – his character – to believe him capable of the evil you describe. If he is truly a Catholic, he will do more harm to our cause than those who seek our persecution.’

  Charles nodded grimly. ‘My father’s present anger towards him will soon dissolve – as it always does. Although Lord Cranfield and others have taken advantage of his absence, he will find means to crush them.’

  ‘He is always at his most dangerous when under attack,’ Frances agreed. ‘I will support Your Grace in whatever way I can – my husband too. You have many allies in this court, if you would use them.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Frances,’ he replied quietly. ‘I hope that God will be my ally too.’

  1624

  CHAPTER 53

  2 October

  The rhythmic splash of the oars was almost lulling Frances to sleep as the barge made its way slowly along the Thames. They were passing the Bishop’s Palace now, its elegant red-brick façade just visible through the trees.

  ‘I have a mind to begin another history. One of the few advantages of my reduced circumstances is having more time to write.’

  Frances smiled. Bacon’s account of Henry VII’s reign had been published to great acclaim two years earlier – even the King had declared himself delighted with it.

  ‘Perhaps you should dedicate it to Lord Somerset, now that he has been restored to favour,’ she suggested slyly.

  Although news of the King’s pardon to his former favourite had been announced several days before, Frances still marvelled at it. Even after their release from the Tower more than a year ago, Somerset and his wife had been living in virtual exile, denied the King’s presence as well as his forgiveness. That
James had finally shown them his favour had been taken as another sign of Buckingham’s diminishing influence. Frances had been as pleased as she was surprised that the duke had failed to worm his way back into his master’s good graces as quickly as he had expected. Although she had had no further conferences with the prince, she suspected that he had played a part in this.

  ‘I was thinking Master Brett might be a better choice,’ Bacon replied, raising an eyebrow.

  And it was true that the King had grown ever fonder of the young man. With his quiet devotion, Arthur formed a welcome contrast to the overbearing duke, whose temper had been ever more volatile since his return from Spain the previous year. Thomas had borne the brunt of it on many occasions. Frances was glad her husband knew what a powerful adversary his master had in the prince, or he might have been provoked to retaliate, as Buckingham clearly intended.

  ‘Thomas heard the King means to secure him a seat in the next parliament,’ she observed.

  ‘Then he will be fortunate enough to enjoy the debate about His Majesty’s proposed war with Spain,’ Bacon retorted. ‘I do hope he will argue against it, as all good men must. It will be so diverting to see the duke in a fury again.’

  ‘A few months ago, he was all for Spain.’ Frances did not trouble to disguise her scorn. ‘Yet now he would see all Spaniards at the bottom of the ocean. He still smarts from that business with the infanta.’

  ‘King Philip’s envoys have made much of his current weakness,’ Bacon concurred. ‘I hear they are putting about rumours that Buckingham encourages the King to hunt in order to seize the reins of government himself.’

  Frances did not remark that there was truth to the rumours. What the duke had failed to grasp was that the more hunts he arranged for his master, the stronger James’s attachment to her husband became. Thomas was careful not to boast of it: there was nothing to be gained by antagonising Buckingham further. She only hoped that he would hold on to the King’s favour long enough for them to make use of it.

  ‘Tell me, how is the duke’s delightful mother?’ Bacon asked. ‘I no longer enjoy the good fortune of seeing her at court, and I can hardly hope that her delicate footsteps will ever be heard in Temple Church.’

  Frances had had to endure several interminable evenings in the countess’s apartments at Whitehall. Clearly, the older woman deemed her worthy of interest – or suspicion – even though Kate was far away at Tyringham Hall. ‘Still as friendly as a viper. You should have a care, my lord. If she thought you could serve her or her precious son, she would insist you join her for supper too.’

  ‘Then I shall continue to be as insignificant as possible,’ he replied cheerfully. Though he was in jest, she knew he still smarted from his loss of favour. He was little suited for a life of quiet retirement, despite the hours it gave him for writing and study.

  ‘How is Lady Alice?’ she asked.

  ‘Well enough, I understand,’ he replied. ‘She has promised to visit, before winter is upon us.’

  Frances felt a surge of pity for him. Bacon’s wife had been a virtual stranger to her husband since his fall from grace.

  ‘Now, tell me, my dear,’ he said, with forced jollity, ‘when are you going to give your husband another son? Five is not enough for any man.’

  Frances grinned. ‘It is impertinent to ask a lady of my years such a question.’ She folded her hands over her flat stomach. The truth was that she longed for another child. Much as she loved her boys, a daughter would be such a blessing – one who would grow as close to her as she was to her mother. Now that she was in her forty-fourth year, though, it pained her to admit that she was unlikely to bear another child.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Bacon cried. ‘You are in your prime, my dear. I see how men look at you, even if you don’t. You are your mother’s daughter. The marchioness was such a beauty that even my head was turned,’ he added, with a playful wink.

  They were approaching the landing stage at Whitehall now.

  ‘I hope you are ready to be bested, my lord,’ Frances said, as she gathered up her skirts. ‘I have yet to be beaten at bowls, though my husband has attempted it many times.’

  ‘Lady Tyringham!’

  She had only just alighted from the barge when she saw a groom in the King’s livery rushing towards her.

  ‘His Majesty requires your presence at once. Please.’ He gestured for her to follow him.

  With an anxious glance at her friend, she hastened after him.

  ‘Is it my husband?’ she asked, fearing that some accident had befallen him.

  ‘No, my lady, but you must make haste.’

  Frances did not question the boy further as they raced through the outer courtyards of the palace but her mind was agitated. Was it the prince? Had he betrayed her – made a pact with Buckingham and exposed her as a Catholic? Or had the duke at last made good his threat to have her exposed as a witch? By the time they reached the King’s privy chamber, she was struggling to suppress her rising panic.

  The groom rushed ahead and announced her arrival. A moment later, the King appeared. Frances hid her shock at his appearance. Tears were streaming down his face and his hair was dishevelled. He was clad only in a shirt and hose, as if he had just been roused from his bed.

  ‘Lady Tyringham, you are come!’ he cried, as he limped over and clasped her hands. His own felt cold and clammy, and the bitter aroma of sweat and stale wine filled Frances’s nostrils. Was he sick? She could think of no other reason why his attendants would have so neglected their master’s appearance. ‘It is poor Steenie – he is dying.’

  It took Frances a moment to understand what he had said. Buckingham? Her heart soared. God had heeded her prayers at last. Already the King was leading her into the chamber beyond, sobbing as he did so. The windows had been shuttered and the only light came from the dying embers in the grate. At first, Frances could just make out a faint shadow on the bed, but as she edged closer she saw the duke, his naked chest exposed as he thrashed about.

  ‘Fetch me a candle,’ she ordered a fearful page standing at the back of the room. He jumped as if she had struck him and hurried off towards the fireplace. Buckingham gave a loud groan as she held the flame close to his face. His hair was damp, but his skin felt cool and dry to the touch and there was no other sign of fever. She set the candle on the table and forced herself to examine him calmly and methodically, as she would anyone else who had fallen sick. His heartbeat was strong and steady as she placed her ear to his chest, and his skin was clear of any rashes or sores.

  ‘Has he vomited?’ she asked, peeling back the covers to continue her examinations.

  ‘No, my lady,’ one of the attendants replied.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘Some three hours or more.’ The King spoke this time. ‘He had not been here for long when we fell into a quarrel over— It was nothing,’ he babbled. ‘He turned to leave but fainted away before he had crossed the threshold. He has been senseless ever since, often crying out – from pain or delirium, I cannot tell.’

  James was weeping again, his face in his hands. Stripped of his kingly finery, he had the appearance of a frail old man, his sunken chest rising and falling in jerks, his rickety legs ready to give way at any moment. Despite everything she and those she loved had suffered at his hands since he had come to the throne, she could not but feel pity.

  A movement from the bed focused her attention back on the duke. She could have sworn that one of his eyes had been open a fraction, but both were clamped shut now. Nothing ailed him that a return to his master’s favour would not cure – and he had cleverly secured that. How she wished she could stop his breath with a draught of mandrake root or foxglove. She had both in the small casket she kept locked under the floorboards beneath her bed. It would be a fitting punishment for his deception. But even if the King did not accuse her of bewitching his beloved angel to death, God would never forgive her for such a sin. She must leave any retribution to Him alone.


  ‘You need have no fear, Your Grace,’ she said, rising from the bed. ‘The duke is in no danger. He fainted, that is all – perhaps it is the unseasonable heat. A little rest will set him to rights.’

  The King’s face brightened, like that of a hungry child presented with a sweetmeat. ‘Thank you, Lady Tyringham,’ he croaked, swiping at his eyes. ‘I am more indebted to you than I can express.’

  Frances bobbed a curtsy. ‘Make sure to give him some water when he wakes,’ she instructed one of the grooms. ‘Oh, and a large draught of woodbine – as much as you can find.’ She smiled to herself, though she knew she should be above such petty revenge. It was a small comfort to think that the duke would spend the rest of the day on the close stool.

  ‘How does the duke fare?’ Frances asked, as she handed her husband a glass of wine. It was with some satisfaction that she had learned he had been obliged to keep to his bed for the past two days.

  ‘Better for the King’s attentions.’ Thomas took a long draught. ‘But I fancy His Grace’s trust is not so blind as it was before Buckingham’s expedition to Spain. It seems his prolonged absence worked the opposite effect to the one he intended. The King learned that he could live without his favourite.’

  Frances clasped her husband’s hands. ‘We must take advantage of this, Thomas. His Majesty’s esteem for you grows daily. Your modest, steady nature forms a welcome contrast to that of the duke. Little wonder the King seems ever more inclined to hunt.’

  Her husband looked grave. ‘That may be true, my love, but I have earned His Grace’s trust by not involving myself in the intrigues of his court. I would be a fool to forfeit it by changing my stance now.’

  Frances pushed down her irritation. She loved Thomas for his constancy, but it made him vulnerable to those with fewer scruples – Buckingham in particular. The duke would not hesitate to act against him as soon as the opportunity arose. But it was futile to try to persuade her husband to take a different course. If he will not act against the duke, then I must. For too long, she had watched Buckingham’s hold on the King – on the entire court – grow stronger, his lust for power ever more insatiable. He would not rest until he had destroyed everything and everyone in his path, plunging the kingdom into wickedness and sin. Surely the danger of opposing him could not be more deadly than what would follow if he was left unchecked.