by Tracy Borman
It was only a short ride to Guînes, but the familiar motion of the horse and the chill air of the early morning left Frances feeling more refreshed. Felton slowed his mount to a trot as a large stone tower came into view ahead. Drawing closer, Frances could hear the slow tolling of the abbey bell. Her heart skipped a beat. Was Lady Ruthven even now making her way to matins? Or had Châteauneuf ’s agent already taken her – the jewels too? She tried to quieten her thoughts as they rode towards the ancient stone gatehouse of the abbey, which lay just in front of the city walls. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to shake off the creeping sensation that they were being watched, even though the only sign of life was the faint glow of a fire through the window of the gatehouse. Felton said something in French to the aged custodian, who gazed quizzically at them before nodding them through.
Once inside the courtyard, while her companion tethered the horses, Frances studied the high stone walls that surrounded them. On the upper floor, there was a series of narrow oblong windows – the dormitories, Frances supposed. She wondered if Queen Anne’s old attendant was watching from one. A loud creak drew her attention to the heavy iron gates at the entrance to the main abbey buildings. A solemn lady swathed in long black robes and a large hood stepped silently into the courtyard. Felton removed his hat and gave a stiff bow, then proceeded to address the woman so quietly that Frances only caught the occasional word – ‘une femme . . . la Royne . . . Angleterre.’ Now and again, the abbess glanced in her direction, but her expression remained inscrutable. Finally, she nodded and slipped back through the gates, pulling them closed behind her. Frances and her companion were left standing in the courtyard for so many minutes that she began to fear it was a trap. She imagined the marquis’s men skulking in the shadows of the cloister, waiting to pounce.
Frances jerked her head towards a small movement in one of the chambers above. She stared as a shutter was closed – so quickly that it made her wonder if she had imagined it. But Felton was looking in the same direction. After several more minutes, the abbess reappeared at the gates. Her gaze rested upon Frances, and she motioned for her to enter. Felton made to follow, but the woman told him to remain in the courtyard. He looked in alarm at Frances, who hesitated, then gave a slight nod.
As she followed the abbess along a dark corridor, she inhaled the smell of damp stone and incense, drawing some small comfort from it, though her nerves were strung as tightly as the ropes of a truckle bed. Every time they passed a doorway or recess, her skin prickled with fear. At the end, the woman led her up a steep flight of spiral stairs. Frances clung tightly to the rope that had been strung along the cold stone wall to her left, her soles slipping now and again on the steps worn smooth by centuries of use.
Another gloomy corridor lay at the top of the stairs. As they walked slowly along it, Frances could see the dark outline of a crucifix on each of the doors. The woman stopped outside the chamber that lay at the furthest end and knocked quietly three times. The door was opened a crack. After a few moments more, the abbess pushed it just wide enough for her to enter. Casting an anxious glance at her, Frances uttered a silent prayer and walked inside.
‘You have travelled a long way to see me, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances stared. In her simple grey habit, the late Queen’s favourite was barely recognisable. Not even a strand of light red hair showed under her tightly bound wimple, and her face was devoid of the white paste that had marked her out as a lady of status.
‘Please.’ Lady Ruthven gestured towards a low wooden stool opposite her own.
‘I come on behalf of His Grace, the Prince of Wales.’ Her voice sounded hoarse.
‘So I understand. How did he know where to find me?’
‘You are in danger, Lady Ruthven. The Marquis de Châteauneuf knows you reside here.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ the older woman replied calmly. ‘It is exactly as I intended.’
This was so unexpected that Frances was at a loss as to how to respond.
‘So long as I am here, His Excellency will believe that my late mistress’s jewels are too – or, at least, that I can lead his spies to them.’
‘And you cannot?’ Frances whispered.
Lady Ruthven gave a low chuckle. ‘Well, I could – but it would involve as long a journey as you have just made.’
Frances looked at her in confusion. ‘But you fled with them after the Queen’s death. You were seen . . .’
‘People will convince themselves that their eyes have seen something that their heart believes. I left England at the same time that the jewels disappeared, so of course it was put about that I had taken them. I am sure that the story grew with the telling . . . that the locked casket I was seen carrying became a chest overflowing with rubies as big as apples and pearls that drooped on their chains. In fact, it contained nothing more than bread and cheese . . . a little malmsey too, God forgive me,’ she added, crossing herself.
‘So where are the jewels?’ Frances’s surprise made her blunt.
‘Her Grace was a lady of great wisdom and foresight. She knew that the King would attempt to take the treasure she had bequeathed to their son and fritter it away on vanities and favourites. She knew, too, that if the prince managed to keep hold of his inheritance, it could prove deadly – there were riches enough to tempt even the most loyal of her son’s attendants to turn traitor. So she determined to safeguard the jewels until such time as the prince had the power to use them for the good of our faith – in short, until he inherits the throne.’
Frances experienced a rush of affection for the late Queen, tinged with renewed grief at her passing. She had been a queen of secrets, outwitting those who sought to disempower her – her own husband above all. ‘And they are safe still?’ she asked quietly.
Lady Ruthven nodded. ‘My late mistress and I resolved upon a plan as she lay dying at Hampton Court. When the time came for her possessions to be moved from the palace after her death, her servants would discover that the jewels were missing and the hue and cry would be raised. I would flee the kingdom – making sure that I was seen boarding a ship bound for Calais – and let people come to the natural conclusion that I had stolen them. The Queen personally arranged my protection in France – she had many friends here,’ she added, her voice laced with pride. ‘I trusted her with my life – just as she trusted you with it many years before, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances nodded her acknowledgement.
‘Her Grace knew that her husband would send men to hunt me down, but that he would eventually relinquish the search. He has none of her steadfastness.’ Her lips pursed with disapproval. ‘I pledged to remain here until her son becomes king. Only then will I return and restore the jewels to him. Neither the Queen nor I had reckoned on his trying to recover them sooner.’
‘It is with good reason,’ Frances said, choosing her words carefully. ‘The King’s life depends upon it, Lady Ruthven.’ She saw the fleeting shock in the older woman’s eyes and pressed home her advantage. ‘There are those about His Majesty who are intent upon forging an alliance with France through a marriage between the prince and King Louis’s sister. They pretend to be acting to restore England to the Catholic faith, but their ambitions do not extend beyond their own aggrandisement, however it is attained.’
‘You mean the Duke of Buckingham, I presume. I am not as ignorant of worldly affairs as my sisters here.’
‘Yes, and he will stop at nothing to get what he desires. It seems the Marquis de Châteauneuf has promised him a share of the Queen’s jewels if he brings about this alliance. Only the King stands in his way – he is reluctant to see his son married to a Roman Catholic. But the duke has proven many times in the past that he will not suffer any impediment to his ambition.’
Lady Ruthven grew pale. ‘If what you say is true, Lady Tyringham, I cannot but think it is as the late Queen would have wished: her heretic husband removed from power and his kingdom restored to the true faith.’
‘But at what
cost? England would be subject to the will of a greater tyrant than King James. Buckingham does the devil’s work, not God’s. It would not be long before he coveted the throne itself. And if the late Queen’s jewels fall into his hands, he will have the power to take it.’
‘There is no reason to suppose they will,’ Lady Ruthven persisted. ‘I have lived here unmolested by the marquis or his spies for five years. I am safe in God’s house.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Frances countered. ‘A trusted friend has received intelligence that the marquis’s agent will soon take you. Even if the jewels are not in your keeping, as you claim, he will wrest their whereabouts from you by whatever means.’
‘I will never tell,’ the older woman insisted, raising her chin in defiance, though her eyes betrayed her fear.
‘A person might confess to anything under torture – I have learned that to my cost,’ Frances said quietly, thinking back to that dark chamber in the Tower. ‘Can you take the risk?’ she added, holding her gaze. When the older woman made no reply, Frances decided to change tack. ‘Lady Ruthven, by restoring the jewels to Prince Charles now, you will still be honouring your promise to the late Queen. Even if the King is saved from Buckingham’s murderous schemes, he cannot draw breath for much longer. He is an old man and riddled with sickness. What difference will a few months make – less, perhaps?’
At length, the woman’s expression changed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But I will recover the jewels myself, as I pledged.’
‘Are they far from here?’ Frances asked, remembering Lady Ruthven’s earlier remark and fearing that by the time she had them and returned to England it would be too late.
Her companion gave a slow smile. ‘They never left Hampton Court.’
Darkness had fallen by the time Frances stole out of the Abbaye du Saint-Benoit with Lady Ruthven, both shrouded in heavy cloaks. Felton was waiting with the horses close to the gatehouse, but hidden from view, as arranged. Frances had urged that they set out as soon as her conference with Lady Ruthven was at an end, but he had insisted upon waiting until nightfall.
They picked their way across the fields at a slow canter, guided only by the pale light of the moon. Frances held her breath as they passed each dark copse, certain that one of Châteauneuf’s men lurked there. The sudden cawing of a rook made her cling more tightly to Felton’s waist. He spurred the horse to a gallop, Lady Ruthven following close behind. It was less than an hour’s ride to Calais, but every minute passed agonisingly slowly, the vast expanse of grassland that lay before them seeming to lengthen with every mile.
At last, the dark mass of the fortress came into view, its turreted keep gradually taking shape against the night sky. Frances drew heart from the glimmer of braziers that had been lit around the harbour. God willing, they would soon be aboard a boat that would carry them across the waters. She would gladly suffer any manner of seasickness to reach England’s shores again.
As they came within half a league of the city walls, Felton slowed his horse to a trot. ‘We must not draw undue attention,’ he muttered.
Frances knew the wisdom of this, but it wore her patience even more. They had travelled only a short distance further when a distant rumble carried on the breeze. She felt her companion stiffen.
‘Make haste!’ he called to Lady Ruthven, as he dug his heels into the horse’s sides. Frances saw her own panic reflected in the older woman’s eyes before she was distracted by the dark outline of a rider in pursuit. He was gaining on them. They were tantalisingly close to Calais but the thunder of hoofs was now deafening, and a few seconds later the rider drew up alongside them.
‘Arrêtez-vous!’ he called, steering his horse dangerously close to theirs. Her terror intensified as she recognised the marquis’s livery on the rider’s saddle. Felton did not seem to heed him as he spurred their horse on. But, burdened by two riders, its head was beginning to droop. A few seconds more and their assailant would overtake them.
As he drew level with them again, the man reached over and grasped the reins from Felton. What happened next was so fast that Frances only realised once it was over. The rider stared, openmouthed, then clutched his hand to his side. Frances watched in horror as blood seeped between his fingers. With a deft move, Felton took back the reins and slid the blade into its scabbard. The man looked down at his wound, his eyes rolled in their sockets and he slumped forward. As the reins went slack in his hand, his horse reared, jolting its rider off the saddle before bolting away. The man’s foot had become entangled in the stirrup so he was pulled along behind the horse, his lifeless body jerking up and down with each stride. Only when the animal leaped over a low hedge near woodland was the rider thrown free.
They had reached the city walls now, but Frances could not wrest her eyes from those dark woods. Felton drew in the reins as he followed her gaze. ‘He must make his peace with God now.’
CHAPTER 60
1 March
The chimneys of Hampton Court Palace were coming into view, the elaborately twisting brickwork silhouetted against the deep red sky. The sight made Frances spur on her horse once more. Her body was heavy with fatigue and every thud of its hoofs on the frozen turf made her bones ache anew.
They had ridden for three long days, pausing only to take their ease and bolt the simple food Felton procured from isolated farmsteads along the way. They had slept in the shelter of woodland – and, once, in the hayloft of a barn. Frances would never have believed how luxurious it would feel to bed down in the warmth of the hay, lulled to sleep by the snuffles and grunts of the animals below. Exhausted, she had slept as soundly as a child. It had only been during waking hours that the terror of what had happened outside Calais’s walls returned to her. The image of the marquis’s man lolling forward in his saddle, the trail of his blood, returned to her time and again. How long had it been before his battered, lifeless body had been discovered? As their tiny vessel had bobbed across the mercifully calm seas, every seagull’s cry had sounded like the call of an official sent to arrest them. She had uttered a prayer of thanks when they had arrived at Dover, but she knew that the danger was far from over.
Felton had directed that they should ride across the South Downs, keeping to small, often treacherous, woodland tracks rather than following the main road that led from Dover to London. It would take longer but Frances knew he was right. She thought of Buckingham and the marquis at Whitehall, waiting for word of the jewels. Pray God they would not discover Lady Ruthven’s flight until Frances and her companions had delivered them into the prince’s hands.
She had reached the wide avenue that led towards the western entrance to the palace. Slowing her horse to a trot, she looked behind for her companions. Lady Ruthven was some distance away. The ride had been harder upon her than anyone. Living in seclusion for more than five years had sapped her strength, and many times Frances had seen her slumped against the horse’s neck, Felton holding the reins of both horses so that they could keep going.
The letter of recommendation that the prince had given his servant was enough to secure their entry to the palace. Frances avoided the gatekeeper’s curious stare as they passed. She saw Lady Ruthven pull her hood further across her face. The clatter of their horses’ hoofs echoed across the huge, deserted courtyard beyond.
They mounted the stairs to the great hall. Stripped of the sumptuous Flemish tapestries that usually lined the walls, the close-packed tables and the dozens of braziers all aflame, the vast chamber seemed even more imposing. The rooms beyond were just as eerie, as if trapped in some enchantment. Lady Ruthven was leading the way now, and Frances quickened her pace to keep up. Veering left, they entered the gallery overlooking the chapel and descended the stairs that lay just beyond the Queen’s privy closet.
The scraping of a latch broke the heavy silence. Frances saw Felton’s hand fly to his scabbard. Pray God he would not have cause to spill blood in this place. A man dressed in priest’s robes walked slowly from a chamber next to the altar.
Following Lady Ruthven’s lead, Frances moved to the altar rail and sank to her knees in prayer. Felton hesitated, then did the same.
The chaplain showed little surprise at their coming, but uttered a quiet prayer of blessing, resting his hand upon each of their bowed heads in turn as he did so.
‘Amen,’ Lady Ruthven whispered, then slowly raised hers to look at him. Frances saw recognition in his eyes. ‘Father Goodman.’
Queen Anne’s private chaplain. Frances wondered that she had not realised before. She had seen him only once, fleetingly, as he had attended his dying mistress. It was no secret that the King despised the ‘papist preacher’, and Frances had assumed that after Anne’s death he had either lived in obscurity or fled to the Continent, along with many other disaffected Catholics.
‘I had thought the tread of footsteps belonged to more travellers. They call here now and again, in search of nourishment – spiritual or otherwise.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘These are your friends, Lady Ruthven?’
Frances looked up at him now. Although he was still smiling, she saw that he was scrutinising her.
‘They are trusted friends, Father.’
He slowly inclined his head. ‘So the time has come. The King is . . .?’
‘No – at least, we pray not yet,’ Lady Ruthven replied. ‘But his life is in grave danger from those who would claim the late Queen’s treasure for their wicked ends. I must deliver it into the hands of the prince before it is too late.’
The chaplain glanced at her companions. ‘May we speak alone, Lady Ruthven?’
The older woman nodded to them both. Frances rose to her feet at once, but Felton made no move. ‘Please.’ Lady Ruthven laid her hand on his arm. ‘A few moments only.’ He stood and followed Frances out of the chapel, staring resentfully over his shoulder at Father Goodman.
Neither of them spoke as they waited in the gathering gloom. Frances shivered as a chill breeze whipped along the passage. It would be another cold night, but she knew they would not be able to rest on their way to Theobalds if the jewels were in their possession.