by Tracy Borman
‘I am sorry, Your Grace,’ she replied, with genuine feeling. Despite everything she had suffered at the King’s hands, she could not but share his son’s sorrow.
‘You must rest assured – all of you – that when I am king, I will suck the lifeblood from Buckingham, just as he meant to suck my father’s from him. Not by violent means,’ he insisted, catching Felton’s expression, ‘but by gradually depriving him of his power. That is what drives him, even more than riches. I will see him suffer the torment of knowing he will never claw back what he has lost.’
Frances knew the prince was right and admired his perception. Being stripped of his influence would be a greater torture than anything that the Tower gaolers could inflict upon the duke. Yet still she felt that gnawing, almost primeval desire for revenge. She would pray that God might forgive her – that, in time, He might lead her down a more righteous path.
‘I must go to my father now,’ Charles said, interrupting her thoughts.
Frances and Kate dropped a deep curtsy as he walked from the room. Left alone with her old friend, Frances felt suddenly afraid. Had she believed her husband’s words? She had imagined the horror in Kate’s eyes as he had spoken them. If so, she could surely never forgive her.
Frances was startled by the warmth of Kate’s hand in hers. She looked up and saw that her friend was smiling. ‘I have missed you, Frances,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER 62
27 March
‘Is your wife here, Tom?’
‘She is, Your Grace,’ Thomas replied. He led Frances to his master’s bedside and she lowered herself onto the chair. Her husband had been shocked at hearing of her voyage to France, of everything that had passed since then. But his anger at the risk she had taken had soon been replaced by admiration for her courage – then joy and gratitude for the outcome. Any hurt he had felt at her concealing it from him had dissipated when the prince had told him how he had ordered her to say nothing of it, even to him.
At first, the King had bemoaned his favourite’s absence, but the constant steady presence of his son had soothed him, as had that of his master of the buckhounds. Frances had thrilled to see how, freed from the duke’s corrupting influence, James’s esteem for her husband had flourished once more. He had asked for him constantly these past three weeks.
He had asked for Frances, too. When she had first been summoned to attend the dying King, she had refused, fearing it was a trick. But the prince had convinced her that his father’s request was genuine – that he knew of no one else who might ease his suffering. The irony was not lost on her that a king who had spent so much of his life hunting down witches had summoned one to attend him in his final days.
‘I have brought more of the tincture, Your Grace,’ she said now, pouring a little of the mixture into a glass and diluting it with water. ‘The gardens here have kept me supplied with all manner of precious herbs.’
‘Thankee, Lady Tyringham,’ James said, as he swallowed a little of the medicine. His chest jerked as he gave a short, sputtering cough that left him gasping for breath. ‘But I fear I am beyond your skills now.’
Frances did not reply as she busied herself with preparing a salve to rub onto the King’s chest. It had eased his ragged breathing during the past few nights and enabled him to sleep, albeit fitfully. Stealing a glance at his face – the pallid, yellowish skin that clung to his cheekbones – she knew it could not be long.
‘I think I will take a little sleep now,’ he rasped. ‘But first I must ask something of thee.’ He clutched her hand so suddenly that it startled her. ‘Forgive me, Lady Tyringham.’
She gazed down at him in disbelief.
‘Forgive me,’ he repeated.
She looked up at Thomas, whose expression was unreadable. He wants it to be my choice. After another moment’s hesitation, she pressed her lips to the King’s cold fingers.
‘Thankee,’ he whispered, then closed his eyes.
Frances took Thomas’s hand and rose from the chair. They both made their obeisance to the prince, who had barely left his father’s side since the confrontation with Buckingham. When they reached the door, she looked back at the sleeping King, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘How my bones ache,’ Frances remarked, as she climbed down from the carriage.
‘I will have Mrs Knyvett draw a bath for you,’ Thomas said, with a smile.
Frances savoured the warmth of his kiss, then looped her arm through his as they made their way across the courtyard. Looking at the windows of the great hall, she saw they had already been swathed in black cloth. Theobalds lay only half a day’s ride from Whitehall – less for an accomplished rider – so news of the King’s death would have been quick to arrive.
He had breathed his last barely an hour after she and Thomas had left his chamber that day. The prince – King Charles, as she must get used to calling him – had told them that his father had not spoken again after begging Frances’s forgiveness. She felt genuinely grieved at his death – at peace, too, now that the hatred and anger that had gnawed away at her for so many years had crumbled into dust. Perhaps she might soon find it in her heart to forgive Buckingham, too. No, she was not ready for that yet.
‘We will stay here only until the funeral, won’t we?’ Frances asked.
‘I would not have expected you to be so eager to sit in a carriage again so soon,’ her husband teased. ‘But, yes, His Grace has granted us leave to enjoy our newly restored estate.’
The new King had been quick to honour his word. At his insistence, Buckingham had been obliged to sell Tyringham Hall back to its original owner at a vastly reduced price. Thomas and Frances could have afforded a dozen such estates with the money Charles had granted them. Kate had already started to make arrangements for the removal of her furnishings. Frances smiled to think that their sons would soon be making their way there from Longford, her mother with them. She had written to George, asking that he might relinquish his studies for a week or so to join them.
As they passed under the archway that led through to the next courtyard, Frances felt her husband’s arm stiffen. Following his gaze, she saw the duke strolling nonchalantly in their direction.
‘Welcome back to court, Sir Thomas – Lady Tyringham,’ he said, then waited for them to make their obeisance. Neither did. After a short, stony silence, Thomas swept past him, Frances following close behind. She knew that he was watching them as they hastened towards their apartment.
‘I did not think to see him back here so soon,’ Frances muttered, once they were out of earshot.
‘Nor I,’ Thomas agreed, his words clipped. ‘He can hope for little at the King’s hands.’
Frances nodded. Charles’s dealings with Buckingham over the Tyringham estate had made clear that he would not enjoy the same favour he had in his father’s time. She hoped that the new King would soon make good his threat to strip the duke of his offices and titles.
She tried to shake away thoughts of him as they neared the door to their apartment, anticipating the familiar peace and repose that the cosy chambers offered.
‘Mother.’
She stared, astonished, at the sight of her eldest son sitting by the fireplace.
‘George!’ Her smile faltered as she saw his grim expression. He rose to his feet as Thomas went to greet him.
‘Sir Thomas.’ George waited for them to feel the impact of his words. ‘I cannot call you Papa – in truth, I never should have, should I?’
‘George, I—’ Thomas began, but the young man raised a hand to silence him.
‘I will hear no more of your lies – or yours, madam,’ he snapped. ‘I wish that I no longer had to call you Mother either.’
‘You will not speak to your mother like that,’ Thomas reprimanded him. ‘Whatever has caused this ill humour, we will overlook it as being out of character – the result, perhaps, of too much waywardness in Cambridge.’
‘On the contrary, Sir Thomas,’ George said, ‘I have been a most di
ligent student and my thoughts have never been so ordered . . . thanks to the duke.’
Buckingham. Frances had known it as soon as she had laid eyes upon her son.
‘I received his letter yesterday,’ her son continued. ‘He was most insistent that I visit him here. My master objected, of course, but I could hardly refuse the duke after his many kindnesses to me. Besides, I was eager to renew our acquaintance. How glad I am that I did, else I would have lived the rest of my life in ignorance.’
‘George, listen—’
‘No, Mother, you listen!’ Frances was taken aback by the hatred that flashed in his eyes. ‘My father is not this fine gentleman here, but a notorious traitor. Were you ever going to tell me that my name should be Wintour, not Tyringham?’
Frances opened her mouth to speak, but her throat tightened over the words.
‘You pretend to such virtue, yet you are no better than a whore of Satan.’
Thomas stepped forward then and slapped him across the face before Frances could stop him. Her son put his hand to his reddening cheek, his eyes blazing with fury.
‘You have ruined my life,’ George spat, his voice rising. ‘How will I ever thrive, knowing what I am? If you had not succumbed to your wicked, selfish lust, I would never have come into existence – I pray God that I had not!’
He turned from them then, and Frances could see his shoulders heave. She reached out a tentative hand to comfort him, but he shook her off.
‘Goodbye, Mother – Sir Thomas,’ he said, still staring at the door. ‘You will not lay eyes upon me again.’
Frances stood frozen in horror and watched as her son swept from the apartment. As his rapid footsteps echoed into silence, her legs buckled underneath her and she fell to the floor.
EPILOGUE
23 August 1628
Frances pressed her forehead to the glass, relishing the momentary coolness. The sultry heat from the late-afternoon sun hung over Whitehall like a shroud, sapping her of energy. In the courtyard below, she could see one of the palace dogs slumped in the shade of a wall. It seemed many hours since she and Kate had been obliged to retreat to Buckingham’s apartment, abandoning their walk in the privy garden.
‘Perhaps we might play a round of Primero,’ Kate suggested, her voice flat and listless.
Frances looked at her. Her face was flushed and a fan lay discarded on her lap. With a smile, Frances set down the book she had been holding. A History of Life and Death had been Bacon’s last gift to her. It was not his finest work, but she treasured it nonetheless. More than two years had passed since his death, but she still missed him sorely.
‘I wonder if the fleet is assembled yet,’ Kate murmured, as she pretended to focus on the cards she had been dealt.
Frances kept her expression neutral. The duke had travelled to Portsmouth three weeks earlier on the premise of planning another expedition against the French – as if the voyage to Île de Ré had not been disastrous enough. His vainglorious enterprise had brought him and his wife to the brink of bankruptcy and left England at war with the Queen’s native land. Charles had banished him from court, and had petitioned his brother-in-law for forgiveness. But King Louis had not been minded to accede, despite his sister’s pleading.
‘I do not imagine many men will rally to his cause,’ she replied.
Kate nodded. Although she rarely spoke of her husband, Frances knew that she was not in ignorance of how deeply he was despised throughout the kingdom for his overweening arrogance and lust for power, which had become ever more frenzied as he had felt it slipping from his grasp. Rumours that he had had the old King poisoned by Dr Lambe had been fanned by Charles’s refusal to comment upon the matter. Soon the physician had become as reviled as his patron.
Lambe had courted further scandal the previous year when there had been reports that he had raped a young girl in the Countess of Buckingham’s household. Furious that he had yet again escaped justice, an angry mob had set upon him when he next appeared in London, stoning him to death. The King had pardoned all those who had taken part.
‘I am glad Sir Thomas was not obliged to accompany him,’ Kate remarked.
‘As am I,’ Frances replied. Daily, she rejoiced that her husband had risen so high in the King’s favour. Charles was not as fond of hunting as his late father had been, so instead he had appointed Thomas to serve in his bedchamber, alongside others who had proven their faith. Among them was Lord Rutland, and it gladdened Frances to see how close he had grown to his daughter once more – though he took care to avoid her husband.
Frances, too, had thrived in the new reign. Her invitation to serve the Queen had been quick to arrive. She had been glad to accept, particularly as Kate had been offered a position too. Henrietta Maria was a pleasant, rather shy young woman, who had soon won favour with her new courtiers – Frances included. She had none of Queen Anne’s political guile or shrewdness, but perhaps that was as well, Frances thought. She had shown enough discernment to resist the Countess of Buckingham’s persistent flattery and deny her a position in her household. The countess had left for her Brooksby estate in high dudgeon.
Frances and Kate had enjoyed many hours sewing and conversing with their young mistress. When none of the other ladies were present, they would even hear mass in the Queen’s privy closet. Frances smiled to think of how this would have warmed Anne’s heart if she had known. Her dying wish had been fulfilled beyond anything she could have expected.
Thomas’s new duties were hardly onerous – certainly not enough to justify the salary, which was one of the most lucrative in the entire household. He had talked of buying a new estate, but his joy at reclaiming Tyringham Hall was still as fresh as it had been three years before, and there was nowhere else that he and Frances wished to spend their time when they were granted leave from court. Such occasions were frequent now. Secure in the King and Queen’s esteem, she and her husband spent more than half the year in Buckinghamshire. She delighted in seeing their sons grow. John was fifteen now, Robert only two years behind. Both had matured into fine young men, full of promise. At ten, William had lost his wilder tendencies, but his younger brother Samuel more than compensated for him in mischief.
A snuffling sound drew the women’s attention to the ornate cradle at the far end of the room. Frances watched as Kate padded across the room to gaze at her infant son with a rapt expression.
‘Hush, Georgie.’ She stroked his downy hair.
The boy was almost seven months old now. He had been conceived in violence, but slipped from his mother’s womb as mildly as a lamb. Frances had witnessed the profound change that his arrival had wrought in her friend. Kate now bore herself with greater confidence and seemed more resilient to her husband’s taunts and cruelty, which had hardly abated since she had given him a son and heir. Although she still doted upon her daughter, the pride she took in her firstborn son was obvious for all to see.
Frances’s smile faded as she thought of her own son George. He had returned to Cambridge straight after that terrible encounter in their apartment at Whitehall. It still made her heart contract with pain, though the wounds had begun to heal. She had not seen him for many months afterwards, and her letters had gone unanswered. She had resolved to visit him in Cambridge, but Thomas had advised against it, saying that he would go there first.
It had been the first step on the long road to reconciliation. George’s relationship with her husband had healed more quickly than with her. Still he could not bring himself to call Thomas ‘Papa’, but she hoped that would soon come. When at last she had seen him, there had been no recriminations, only pain, deep and visceral. He had hugged her fiercely when they had parted, but the next time they met he had been cold and distant. She prayed constantly that God would turn his pain into love, his anger into forgiveness.
‘I thank God poor Mal will no longer be burdened with our estates,’ Kate said, still gazing at the baby. ‘Such a thing is a curse for a woman – as I found. Sons are such a blessing,
are they not?’
Frances began to reply but her throat closed over the words. Kate flushed a deeper red. ‘Forgive me, Fran. I . . .’ She moved to embrace her. ‘He will soon be restored to you,’ she whispered.
The King had promised to appoint George to his service as soon as his studies were at an end. She was more grateful for this than the many other bounties they had received at his hands. It signalled his complete disregard for what Buckingham had told him of her son’s father. Several times, she had heard Charles speak favourably of his former childhood companion. She knew this was for the benefit of the courtiers who might otherwise be inclined to listen to the duke’s slanders.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Kate went to answer it.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied as the King entered the room, closely followed by Thomas.
Frances exchanged a glance with her husband before she made her obeisance. He was grim-faced but his eyes seemed to exude something like triumph.
‘Please.’ The King gestured for the two women to be seated.
‘My lady duchess, I bring grave news,’ he began quietly. ‘A messenger has just arrived from Portsmouth. You must prepare yourself,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘The duke your husband has been murdered.’
Frances held herself perfectly still. She was vaguely aware that Thomas had come to stand behind her and felt the warmth of his hands on her shoulders. Kate was looking steadily up at the King, her fingers resting lightly on his outstretched hand.
‘Murdered?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
Slowly, Charles released her hand and drew up a chair close to hers. ‘Forgive me . . . Katherine. This is a terrible shock for you. Perhaps Lady Frances could bring something for your ease.’