by Tracy Borman
CHAPTER 54
9 October
Frances stared in disbelief. Pray God he may be real. He took another step towards her, his smile now faltering a little.
‘Mother?’
She was in his arms, her tears soaking into his fine wool coat.
‘You will squeeze the breath out of me!’ he exclaimed, laughing.
Frances drew away from him and reached out to touch his cheek, as if afraid that he would suddenly dissolve before her eyes. She had thought of her eldest son more than ever lately. He had turned eighteen three months ago. It had grieved her not to be with him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked at last, brushing the tears from her cheeks. ‘I thought you would be in Cambridge by now.’
‘And so I intended. But London lies between there and Longford, and I could not resist the chance to see you – Papa too – though I can stay only a few days.’
‘I am so glad you have come, George.’ Frances’s throat tightened. ‘I have missed you so much since we left Longford.’ She did not add that she had missed him for many years before that. ‘How is your grandmother? And your brothers?’
‘They are all well – though Robert and William are still as mad as rabid dogs. I do not know how John will keep order now I am gone.’
Frances grinned. ‘I am sure your grandmother will help. Now, shall we go and find your papa? He should have returned from the hunt by now.’
She had barely finished speaking when her son took her arm and led her out of the garden.
‘Do you think I might be presented to His Majesty while I am here?’ he asked, as they reached the gate.
Frances shivered. The pain she had experienced at being parted from her eldest son all these years had been offset by the knowledge that he was safe from the dangers of court, from the King who had put his father to death. What if James or one of his advisers should see the resemblance between this fine young man and one of the most notorious plotters in the Powder Treason? Although she tried to reason that the King had barely known Tom Wintour, that few of his advisers from that time remained at court, fear still gripped her heart.
‘You have already been presented to him.’ She kept her voice light.
‘But that was years ago, Mother. I was only a boy and hardly remember it. Besides, Papa would surely cause offence if he failed to introduce his eldest son and heir to his royal master. I am eager to see His Grace the prince too. I wonder if he will remember his childhood companion.’
Frances had no answer to this so they walked on in silence. She prayed that James would be exhausted by the hunt and retreat to his privy chamber for several days afterwards, as had become his custom lately. God willing, her son would be on his way to Cambridge by the time he emerged.
‘A letter arrived for you, Mother,’ George said, as she closed the door behind her. She had left him sleeping when she went to chapel, but had hastened back to their apartment as soon as the service was over, anxious in case her son should decide to explore the palace in her absence.
Frances recognised Kate’s careful, looping script. ‘May we delay our ride a few minutes longer? It is from a dear friend and I long to know how she fares.’
George gave an exaggerated sigh. then stooped to kiss his mother’s cheek. ‘I will prepare our things.’
Frances moved to sit on the window seat. Her eyes were not as sharp as they once had been and she needed the light for reading now, as well as needlework. As she broke the seal, she noticed with a pang that the letter was inscribed ‘Tyringham Hall’. Kate had been there for almost a year now but had seldom written – whether for fear of exciting her husband’s anger or out of the guilt she felt at inheriting Frances and Thomas’s former home, she did not know.
My dear Frances,
I trust you are in good health.
I pray that you do not regard me as a faithless friend. I have thought of you often since arriving here. It has been both a pain and a comfort to imagine you in the rooms that I must now call my own. I can see why the house was so beloved of Sir Thomas. The hall reminds me of my father’s at Belvoir, and the views are just as fine. But I have taken the greatest joy in the woodlands surrounding the estate. Little Mal delights in them too, as you predicted.
The works are progressing more slowly than my husband would desire. I find myself unable to make sense of the plans he gave me before I left court, and therefore cannot direct the improvements as he instructed. It is well that he has not yet visited us here, or he would find the place little altered.
Frances smiled. Kate had told her how she had once supervised the building of a new lodge at her father’s estate while he and the late countess were at court. She understood those plans well enough. Frances felt a surge of affection for the young woman – admiration, too, that she was not so easily cowed by the duke as Frances had believed.
The rest of the letter was filled with news of the neighbours whom Frances and her husband had once known, of the imminent harvests, and of how Mal could now recite her Pater Noster. A hurried postscript had been added at the bottom of the page:
I pray you will remember me to my father, when he is next at court.
Frances folded the letter and placed it carefully in the drawer of her husband’s writing desk. She had not seen Lord Rutland since his departure from court after the Christmas celebrations at Greenwich. It was a source of frustration that he had failed to take advantage of the King’s obvious favour towards him after the Spanish voyage. His desire to rid himself of Buckingham’s presence had proved stronger. She wondered if he would ever return.
‘Mother?’
George was looking at her expectantly.
‘Forgive me. I am ready now,’ she said brightly, taking her boots from him. ‘Where shall we ride? Hyde Park or Blackheath?’
The walls of the palace were bathed in a deep golden light when they returned several hours later. Frances had delighted to see her son’s face flushed with exhilaration as they had raced across the open fields that lay close to Greenwich Palace.
‘Will we have missed dinner?’ he called over his shoulder, as they passed under the archway into the stable-yard.
‘I will have Mrs Knyvett bring us something,’ Frances replied. It had been easy to persuade George to ride out further than they had planned. She could not hope to shield him from the court entirely, but she could at least reduce the chances of attracting unwanted attention.
‘Papa!’
Thomas was sitting on the mounting block, one of the King’s hounds at his feet. At the sound of their horses’ hoofs, the animal reared and its baying echoed around the deserted yard.
‘Peace, Ezekiel,’ Thomas soothed, patting the hound’s flank. He stood and helped Frances down from her horse, then kissed her.
‘I hope you have not tired your mother out, George,’ he called to the young man. ‘She does not ride as fast as in her youth.’
Frances gave her husband a playful kick.
‘It is I who is tired – hungry too,’ George replied, as he dismounted and walked over to embrace his papa.
Thomas led their horses into the stables, the hound trotting at his heels. Frances’s heart swelled at George’s expression as he watched his retreating form. He had always adored her husband, and would never have any reason to suspect that Thomas was not his real father. Of the many blessings her marriage had given her, this was the greatest.
‘Come, let us find something to satisfy that appetite of yours, George,’ Thomas said, as he returned. ‘It is well that you will soon be leaving for Cambridge, or there would be no meat left for the King’s table.’
Frances felt his fingers stiffen. She followed his gaze to a cluster of figures in the distance, close to the entrance to the King’s apartments. She froze as she recognised the duke’s tall frame. Next to him, the King was leaning heavily on his arm. The prince was supporting his father’s other side. Frances’s first thought was to lead her son quickly away, but it was too late. Buckingha
m was looking at them now. She saw him bend to say something in his royal master’s ear, then the party began walking slowly in their direction.
‘Is that . . .’ George’s eyes were wide.
‘Your Majesty,’ Thomas said, as the three men drew close.
Frances tugged her son’s arm, prompting him to make his obeisance as she and her husband were doing.
‘I hope you are well rested now? Our last hunt left me greatly fatigued too,’ Thomas said.
‘Aye, well enough,’ James replied, a little breathlessly. His gaze moved to George. ‘Who is this?’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace. This is my eldest son, George. He is here for a brief visit before beginning his studies at Cambridge.’
‘Indeed?’ James’s eyes were alight with an interest that Frances recognised all too well.
‘Your Majesty.’ George bowed low again.
‘Please, please . . .’ James gestured for him to stand. ‘Master Tyringham, eh? Ye’re a handsome young buck.’
‘And very unlike your father – in appearance at least,’ Buckingham put in smoothly. ‘I can see nothing of you in him, Tyringham.’
Frances’s fingers itched to slap his smiling face.
‘Then he is blessed indeed,’ Thomas replied, with an easy grin.
‘What will you study at Cambridge?’ the prince asked.
‘Law, Your Grace.’
‘Pah!’ the King exclaimed. ‘This place is swarming with lawyers already. We have little need of another.’
Frances saw her son smile uncertainly.
‘Let us hope you prove a diligent student,’ the duke observed, ‘so that you might support your father in his dotage.’
‘I intend to be, my lord . . .’
‘The Duke of Buckingham,’ Thomas said shortly, before his master could reply.
Frances was glad that George showed no reaction. Neither she nor Thomas had spoken to him about the duke, judging that it would be to little purpose as they were resolved to steer the young man from a career at court. That decision seemed even more justified now, she thought, as she watched Buckingham appraise her son thoughtfully.
‘It is late, Father. We should retire.’ Charles’s voice broke the silence.
‘Dunnae fuss, lad. I am well enough,’ the King retorted, his eyes still on George. ‘I hope I will see you again before you leave, Master Tyringham.’
Frances saw her son’s eyes flash with excitement. ‘I would be honoured, Your Grace,’ he replied quickly, stepping forward to kiss the hand that James proffered.
Buckingham looked from one to the other, as if measuring his next move. ‘Then permit me to arrange it, Your Grace.’
That night Frances could not sleep. Thoughts of the encounter in the courtyard ran endlessly through her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes, Buckingham’s smirking face appeared before her. Why had he been so obliging towards a young man who might one day be a rival? He had seen the King’s interest in George, as had she. It would surely better serve his ambitions if his royal master did not see her son again before he left for Cambridge, so he might be forgotten all the sooner. As the dark hours wore on, the idea that Buckingham meant to embroil George in his own twisted schemes became a creeping certainty.
When at last the fragile wisps of grey appeared between the narrow slats of their shutters, Frances slipped out of bed. Thomas’s slow, steady breathing assured her that he was still asleep as she moved silently towards the door, careful to avoid the floorboards that she knew would creak under her tread. In the gloom, she could just see the slender outline of her son stretched out on the pallet bed by the fireplace. How different his reaction to the chance meeting had been. She and Thomas had been hard-pressed to turn his conversation to other subjects. As well as anticipating his next audience with the King, he had begun to talk of how he might serve him after completing his studies. But what chilled her most had been his unstinting praise of the duke. She must hasten his departure for Cambridge before Buckingham could take advantage of it.
Slowly, she lifted the latch and pulled the door closed behind her. As soon as she was out in the corridor, she quickened her pace, desperate to breathe the cool, fragrant air of the gardens, which always calmed her, helping her to order her thoughts. She hastened through the first courtyard, with a glance over her shoulder, though it was still so gloomy that anyone might have been hiding in the shadows.
When she reached the archway on the far side, she hesitated. The corridor to her left would lead her past the kitchens and service quarters; to the right was the succession of courtiers’ lodgings that preceded the King’s apartments. The latter offered the most direct route to the gardens but Frances usually avoided it for fear of encountering Buckingham or one of his followers. She took it now, reasoning that it was unlikely anyone would be wandering those corridors at such an hour.
She was nearing Buckingham’s apartment when the low murmur of voices made her stop. Stepping into an alcove on the opposite side of the cloister, she waited. She heard a latch scrape, then soft footsteps. She strained her ears but caught only the distant trill of birdsong. After a few more breaths, she peered around the wall and thought she saw a flash of grey silk at the end of the corridor before it disappeared from view.
As she continued on her way, she thought of the other encounter she had witnessed upon returning to court several years before. Buckingham must have taken many lovers since then. No doubt the skirts she had seen belonged to the latest. Poor Kate. But perhaps it was better that the duke sated his perverted lust on other women – and men – than his wife. Better still that he was dead. The thought struck her so forcefully that it took her breath away. She knew it was a sin to wish harm upon any man, even one’s enemy, but she could not help it. If only he had been as sick as he had claimed when he had lain in his master’s chamber that day. She allowed her mind to wander . . . his lifeless eyes raised to the heavens while his soul was dragged down to Hell. ‘God forgive me,’ she whispered, as she opened the gate into the gardens.
Frances slowed as she breathed in the heady scent of the myrtle hedges, made more pungent by the dew that clung to the tiny leaves. Already she could feel the tension ease from her shoulders, her racing mind begin to still. The fears that had robbed her of sleep seemed to subside, too. George would leave for Cambridge in two days’ time. Although she would miss him keenly, she would be comforted by the knowledge that he was far from this place, from the duke’s scheming and the King’s lustful gaze. God willing, he would soon forget about them both – as they would him.
As she stooped to pluck a few stems of sage, a movement on the path ahead drew her eye. A woman was hastening towards the gate that led out onto the street, her grey silk skirts billowing around her. Frances watched, transfixed, as she lifted the latch and ducked under the archway, then turned to close the gate. She glimpsed the woman’s face through the ornate iron bars.
Anne Vaux.
CHAPTER 55
11 October
‘His Excellency, the Marquis de Châteauneuf.’
There was a rustle of silks as James’s courtiers greeted the King’s new guest. Frances stole a glance at the exquisitely dressed man who was mounting the steps onto the dais. He wore robes of crimson satin edged with silver thread that glittered in the sunlight streaming through the windows of the great hall. On his head was a small cap of the same material, around which curled blond tresses. His flamboyant moustache and long pointed beard only partially hid a mouth that seemed set in a permanent grimace, and his thickly arched eyebrows added to his air of disdain.
‘Your Majesty.’ His accent was pronounced. He kissed the King’s bejewelled hand, then bowed to the prince.
The proposed alliance with King Louis had been announced just a few hours before the arrival of his envoy. Frances had given little credence to the rumours that had been circulating for a few weeks that Prince Charles would soon be betrothed to the French King’s sister. She knew that speculation about his marriage was bound t
o grow more intense as his father’s health continued to falter but saw no reason to believe this latest rumour any more than she had the one that preceded it. Even Thomas had been surprised. It troubled Frances to think that the King had chosen not to confide in him, despite the many hours they had spent hunting together.
Judging by the self-satisfied smile on Buckingham’s face, the news had not been unexpected to him. Not so long ago he had declared his allegiance to the Spanish King; now it seemed his heart was set on France. He was greeting the envoy now, kissing him warmly on both cheeks. Few people would have believed it was the first time they had met. Beside her, George was craning his neck for a better view. The cold hand of fear clutched her heart as she thought of Lady Vaux. Frances had not seen the woman since, but the thought of what confidences she might have betrayed to Buckingham made her sick with anxiety. She stole another glance at her son. Had Lady Vaux revealed her secret that George’s father was a notorious traitor? It would surely be their undoing.
Frances watched as Buckingham led the French envoy to a table laid with delicacies. They were soon joined by the King and his son, though Frances noticed that Charles said little during the ensuing conversation.
‘I have seen more cheerful faces at a funeral,’ Frances heard the man next to her mutter.
‘Monsieur le marquis must be confident of success, or he would never have bothered to make the journey,’ replied his companion. ‘Do you know anything of the lady?’