by Tracy Borman
If.
Even though they had reached Hampton Court without discovery, the prospect of leaving with the prize they had risked so much to gain seemed somehow more distant than ever. Had Lady Ruthven tricked them? Or Father Goodman? Perhaps he had sold the jewels years ago, as soon as the Queen’s beloved servant had left Hampton Court.
Felton gave an impatient sigh and began to pace up and down. ‘What the devil is taking so long?’
At last, the door to the chapel opened and Lady Ruthven was on the threshold. ‘Come,’ she said quietly, beckoning them back in.
‘Do you have them?’ Felton demanded.
But Lady Ruthven had swept out of sight. Frances and her companion swiftly followed. She led them back to the altar, where the chaplain was waiting. Frances’s eyes darted to a casket that had been placed in the centre of the altar cloth.
‘He wishes to bless us, to ask for God’s protection.’
Felton grunted but knelt by the rail once more. When the chaplain had finished, Frances made the sign of the cross over her breast. ‘Amen.’ She watched as he handed Lady Ruthven the casket.
‘Unlock it,’ Felton barked. ‘It might be filled with stones, for all I know.’
Lady Ruthven looked at him sharply but did so. The jewels glittered in the light from the candles. The casket was full to the brim with precious gems – rubies, emeralds and diamonds, as well as strings of creamy pearls and brooches studded with sapphires. Frances blinked back tears as she recognised several and prayed this was not a dream, that she would not open her eyes to realise she had slipped into an exhausted sleep while riding towards the palace. No. Everything they had risked had been worth it. Buckingham’s schemes would be thwarted at last.
‘May these jewels perform God’s work, as Her Grace willed it,’ Father Goodman said softly.
The journey to Hertfordshire seemed to last an eternity. Guided only by the fragile light of the stars, they were obliged to ride at a slow plod as their horses picked their way through the thickets of woodland and along the edge of fields. For the first few miles, they stayed close to the curving path by the river, passing the old palace of Richmond. Frances swallowed her grief as she thought of the night, almost exactly fifteen years before, when her father had gasped out his breath, imploring her to stay true to their faith. It warmed her heart to think that he would have been proud of what she had done – what she must yet do.
The pale light of dawn was gathering as they reached the edge of the woods that surrounded the vast estate. Following the line of the red-brick wall that marked its outer reaches, they spurred their horses to a canter. Every now and then, Frances glimpsed the turrets of Theobalds Palace through the trees. Built by Queen Elizabeth’s most trusted adviser, Lord Burghley, it had been bequeathed to his son – Frances’s old adversary, Robert Cecil. He had entertained the King there upon James’s arrival in England and numerous times after that. The King had become so fond of the place that Cecil had eventually been obliged to give it to him, in exchange for Hatfield House. It had hardly been a fair bargain, Frances thought, as she looked across the beautifully manicured lawns and neatly kept beds laden with all manner of plants and herbs. The heady scent of marjoram and feverfew carried on the breeze. Frances felt her fingers twitch as she imagined plucking the treasures of the garden, which had been laid out by John Gerard. She still had his Great Herbal in her mother’s library at Longford, its pages worn with age and use.
The gatehouse was as big as a castle, the house beyond it grander than any Frances had seen. Little wonder the King had coveted it. At the far end, a high turret rose up towards the clouds and a soft light glowed from the large windows on the upper floor. Frances guessed that this was the King’s chamber – certainly it must command the finest views of any in the palace. The prince’s apartments would be close to it.
Felton drew on the reins as they reached the gatehouse and nodded at the two yeomen, who were dressed in the King’s bright livery. Dismounting, he muttered something to them, gesturing towards Frances and Lady Ruthven. Frances climbed down from her saddle, wincing at the stiffness in her joints, then helped the older woman. She took care to obscure the guards’ view of Lady Ruthven as she concealed the jewels behind the fur muffler she carried. They summoned a young servant, who scurried into the hall with word of their arrival.
At length, the page returned and nodded to the yeomen, who lifted their halberds so that Felton and the two ladies could progress through the gatehouse. The crunch of the gravel underfoot seemed deafening in the silence of the long courtyard that led up to the main house. As they approached the heavy oak door, it was opened by a groom Frances recognised from Whitehall.
‘Will you take some refreshment? The prince has not yet risen.’
‘No,’ Felton replied gruffly. ‘My orders were to attend him as soon as we arrived.’
The man sniffed, then motioned for the page to escort them. Frances hardly noticed the exquisitely woven tapestries or gilded carvings that adorned the walls as they walked briskly through a series of vast rooms, each more richly decorated than the last. They must be near the turret now, Frances calculated, as she glanced out across the gardens.
Sure enough, the page slowed his steps and paused outside a door towards the end of the corridor. He knocked softly on it, then slipped inside. Frances stole a glance at Lady Ruthven as they heard the boy whisper something inaudible. He reappeared and nodded for them to enter, then ran off back down the corridor.
The chamber was so dimly lit that at first Frances could not see anyone within. Then a figure rose slowly from a chair in the corner. Frances heard a bolt slide shut behind them as he turned, a smile of welcome on his face.
Buckingham.
CHAPTER 61
2 March
‘Ladies.’ Frances watched, horror-struck, as the duke swept an elaborate bow. ‘Lucky you brought this . . . gentleman with you or your reputations would have been quite ruined by visiting my chambers at this hour. Why, I am barely dressed,’ he added, brushing at the folds of his richly embroidered nightgown. He strolled to the dresser and poured a large glass of wine. ‘Forgive me – would you care for some? I do so hate to drink alone, especially when there is such cause for celebration.’
Frances bit the inside of her cheeks as she glared at him.
‘No? As you wish.’ He swallowed a long draught. ‘You are looking at me in amazement, Lady Tyringham! Anyone would think you did not expect to find me here, yet where else would I be but by my master’s side?’
‘The King left you to manage his affairs at Whitehall.’ Her voice was as hard as flint.
‘You are quite right, as always, my lady, but I knew that His Majesty could never bear to be parted from his angel for long, so I saved him the trouble of summoning me. It is as well I came – he has sickened for want of me.’
Frances felt a shudder of apprehension. Had he poisoned the King already?
‘Oh, there is no need to fear – he is much improved now. My presence helped, of course, and I had my wife bring our physician from Tyringham, just in case. Dr Lambe was full of the wonders of your old herb garden, Lady Tyringham.’ He smiled. ‘He has been able to prepare all manner of potions and salves.’
Frances felt as if she might vomit. The idea that the plants she had so carefully cultivated should be put to such evil use was too much to bear. ‘You are sure His Grace is out of danger?’ she demanded.
‘Yes – for now, at least,’ the duke purred. ‘But stubbornness can stir such foul humours, so my physician is on hand to administer his cures if it persists.’
It was just as she and Bacon had predicted. Buckingham meant to poison the King if he did not agree to the French alliance.
‘Well now, God has clearly smiled upon my endeavours in coming here, for He has made sure that I was able to greet you when you arrived. Tell me, how was the journey from Calais, Lady Ruthven?’
‘The devil take you!’ Felton growled, stepping forward. He made to draw his
sword but the duke was there before him. Quick as a snake, he pulled a dagger from the pocket of his gown and held it to the man’s throat. ‘Be still, dog,’ he sneered. A droplet of blood trickled down Felton’s throat as Buckingham pressed the blade into his skin. ‘Now, should we dispense with these niceties?’
As Felton struggled to free himself, Frances saw his eyes alight upon something at the back of the room. She turned to see the Marquis de Châteauneuf flanked by two thickset men. They must have been hiding in the shadows. The envoy’s smile flashed white in the gloom. Following her gaze, Lady Ruthven’s hands tightened on the casket.
‘I must say, it is very good of you to save me the journey, Lady Ruthven. When His Excellency told me that his man had been foully murdered, I had a mind to come and find you myself. How surprised the King will be to learn of your presence. He will scarce believe that the woman who flouted his banishment years ago, then fled with his wife’s jewels has now been found . . . but without the treasure. He can only conclude that you sated your greed by selling it all.’ Lady Ruthven flinched as one of the marquis’s men took a step closer. ‘I wonder which punishment he will choose? The gallows will be far too good for you.’
‘And what of you, Lady Tyringham? You have been unusually silent on the matter. Did you hope to win a share of the jewels and restore your husband’s pathetic fortune? One of the small trinkets would have been more than enough for that. Tyringham Hall could fit inside the stables here,’ he scoffed. ‘Though it is quaint enough, I suppose, and Kate has developed a fondness for the place. Well, she can return there for as long as she wishes now.’
‘You should not judge others by your morals, Your Grace.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The only reward I sought was to rid this kingdom of evil . . . to rid it of you.’
Buckingham affected a wounded expression. ‘Come now, my lady. Your passions were as stirred as mine by our little encounter in Hyde Park. I have thought of it often since. No wonder your husband looks as sullen as the King’s dogs whenever he is apart from you.’
Frances’s hand itched to slap him but his blade was still pressed to Felton’s neck.
‘Neither have I forgotten the matter we spoke of,’ he went on. ‘That should be enough to buy your silence about the jewels, once the marquis and I have reclaimed them.’
Frances imagined seizing the dagger and plunging it deep into his heart. The desire to see the blood spurt from his chest was overwhelming, visceral.
The marquis gave a small cough, prompting.
‘Forgive these petty squabbles, Monseigneur,’ the duke said. ‘Now, Lady Ruthven, it is time to relinquish the burden you have carried all these years.’ He nodded to one of the marquis’s men, who seized the woman’s shoulders. As she tried to struggle from his grasp, the casket fell to the floor, its contents spilling out. A shard of light glimmered through the shutters, illuminating the glittering haul.
The corners of the duke’s mouth curled into a lazy smile. He gazed down at the treasure for a long moment, then motioned for the other man to gather it back into the casket.
A movement over Buckingham’s shoulder drew Frances’s gaze. The marquis had seen it too. His face paled as he stared.
‘How dare you lay hands upon my jewels?’
The prince was standing on the threshold of Kate’s chamber, which adjoined the duke’s. Buckingham’s eyes narrowed as he saw his wife step from behind Charles, her gaze lowered. She had gone to warn the prince, Frances realised, her heart surging with admiration for her friend.
Seizing his chance, Felton whipped the knife from Buckingham’s grasp and held it to his neck. Frances heard Kate make a small cry when she saw this swift reversal. The prince gave her a brief smile of reassurance and they stepped into the room, followed by four yeomen.
‘Give them to me,’ he commanded.
The marquis’s man looked towards his master, who gave the smallest of nods. Charles took the casket from him and looked down at it for a moment, then closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks.
‘My mother bequeathed these to me so that I could use them to do God’s will,’ he began, looking from Buckingham to the marquis. ‘You would have used them to do the devil’s work. I thank God that He put an end to your wicked schemes.’
‘No, Your Grace,’ Buckingham urged. ‘It was in God’s name that I acted. Through this alliance, England will be saved from heresy. When you are king and married to the French King’s sister – a princess of the true faith – you will restore us to the Catholic fold. This treasure will give you the means to crush all resistance.’
The prince faced him. ‘You speak treason, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘My father is king, yet you anticipate his death. What makes you so certain it is imminent?’ He let the question hang in the air. ‘You speak heresy, too. His Majesty established the reformed faith as the one true religion. Anyone who veers from that, or seeks to make this kingdom a vassal of Rome, is a traitor to the state.’
‘But I thought . . .’ the duke began, staring at the prince in consternation. ‘Your enthusiasm for this match – and that with the infanta – led me to believe—’
‘That I was a papist too?’ The prince glanced at Frances, who smiled her acquiescence. Charles was right not to trust Buckingham with the knowledge of his private faith.
‘I was doing God’s will,’ the duke repeated, in rising agitation.
‘No, my lord duke. You descended to Hell years ago. You were damned from the moment you began to seek power, riches,’ he said, holding up his mother’s casket.
‘She is the sinner, not me,’ Buckingham cried, pointing a trembling finger at Frances. ‘Her allegiance to the old faith was once so strong that she involved herself in the plot to blow your father and Parliament to the heavens.’
His words echoed into silence. Frances saw the prince grow pale as he stared at Buckingham before turning his eyes to her. Next to him, Kate looked as if she might faint.
‘Does he speak truth, Lady Frances?’
She thought of protesting a denial, of railing against the duke for voicing such slander. But instead, she remained silent.
‘If she will not confess, then I will do it for her.’ Buckingham’s voice rose in triumph. ‘She even birthed the bastard of Tom Wintour. George Tyringham is not Sir Thomas’s boy, but the son of a traitor.’
Frances closed her eyes. She could not bear to see the shock in the prince’s eyes, Kate’s too, the revulsion that would soon follow. Neither could she stomach the triumph in Buckingham’s. An image of George came before her, his eyes filled with love as he bade her and Thomas farewell. Then he was a boy again, in the saddle as his beloved papa led his horse around the stable-yard. And now he was a baby cradled in her arms as she rocked him to sleep in her bed at Tyringham Hall. Now that the duke had betrayed her secret, George’s life would be blighted for ever.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she faced the prince at last. He returned her gaze, not with disgust but pity. ‘Leave this place,’ he said. Frances lowered her eyes to the floor, then made to walk away but Charles rested his hand upon her arm. ‘My lord duke,’ he said, more firmly this time. ‘Leave this place at once. Go far from here, before I change my mind.’
‘Your Grace!’ Felton objected, but his master raised a hand to silence him.
‘My father’s health is too fragile to suffer the shock of your arrest – for now, at least. I will tell him your mother has taken ill and begs your presence. You will not return here – and neither will you, Monseigneur,’ he said, turning to Châteauneuf. ‘The King is already tired of your presence and shows no greater inclination towards this alliance than he did when you first arrived. Tell your master he may send a different emissary, in time.’
‘This is all? You have accused me of all manner of crimes. Surely you would see me damned to Hell.’ Buckingham sneered. ‘And what of her? She is the real traitor in our midst. Are you going to set her free too?’
Frances forced herself to hold t
he prince’s steady gaze as he turned to her. ‘I have heard nothing but calumny and lies from you, Buckingham,’ he said, still looking at Frances. ‘Lady Tyringham has been more greatly wronged by you than I or anyone else – your poor wife excepted, perhaps.’ Kate flushed and lowered her eyes to the floor again. ‘They may choose to forgive you, but God never will. You have spoken with the tongue of the devil. George Tyringham was my childhood companion, appointed to serve me by the late Queen. If you slander him as the son of a traitor, you slander my mother’s memory – and call my father’s judgement into question too. That is not something he will easily overlook – even from you.’
Frances heard the bolt slide back as the marquis and his men slipped away. Felton pressed the blade against Buckingham’s flesh as his master took a step closer. ‘Now, go,’ the prince whispered. His servant reluctantly lowered the knife.
‘May I at least dress first?’ the duke drawled, with a lazy smile.
‘Your mother will have clothes enough for you,’ Charles retorted. ‘Do not wear my patience too thin. My guards will escort you from the estate. I do not wish to look upon you a moment longer.’
Buckingham’s smile broadened as he swept a deep bow, then strutted from the room, the four yeomen following close behind.
‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but was that wise? That villain would have murdered the King, stolen the late Queen’s jewels. He is as deadly as a serpent – more so, now that he is out of your grasp.’
Charles smiled and patted Felton’s arm. ‘You have ever been a loyal servant, John. I will make sure you are rewarded richly for your pains – yes, even though you protest,’ he added. ‘But you must trust me in this. I am not so foolish – or so forgiving – as you suppose. I spoke truth when I said that I do not wish to see my father vexed at such a time. He is dying.’ The prince turned anguished eyes to Frances. ‘The very thing that we tried to prevent by staying an earthly hand has been inflicted by a heavenly one. My father will not leave this place alive.’ He struggled to master himself.