by Tracy Borman
The prince laughed.
‘I assure you I am not in jest, Your Grace,’ Raleigh said. ‘Our ranks are swelled by fresh Catholics every day, and still there are those lingering here from the days of the Powder Treason.’
He shot a look at Frances. Did he know she had been involved? She shook the thought from her mind. The visit to Sir William’s chambers had unnerved her. That was all.
‘I must think you insincere, Sir Walter,’ chided the princess, with an arch smile. ‘You said we should speak of other matters, yet still you bring the conversation back to papists and plots.’
Raleigh put his hand to his heart and bowed low. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. Being cooped up here has evidently dulled my senses. I would have you and your ladies visit me often, so I will divert you with livelier conversation. My wife tells me that Mr Jonson’s new masque was lately performed at Whitehall.’
Elizabeth brightened at once and proceeded to describe every detail of the lavish spectacle. Sir Walter pulled up a chair next to her and appeared just as rapt as he had when the late queen had regaled him with tales of the court upon his return from his adventures. Frances judged from the princess’s animated expression that he had not lost the ability to make a woman feel as if she was the sole object of his devotion.
As her mistress rattled on, Frances gazed distractedly out of the window. To the right rose the imposing edifice of the White Tower. The sun had sunk behind it now, casting a long shadow across the royal apartments below. Now abandoned as a residence for the king and more often used to house high-ranking prisoners, they were in a sorry state of repair.
‘I fear the time has come for us to return to the palace, Sir Walter,’ Prince Henry said regretfully, when his sister had at last finished her description of the masque.
The prisoner stood and held out his hand for the princess. She placed hers delicately upon it and blushed again as he bent to kiss it. ‘I pray that you will soon honour me with another visit,’ he murmured. ‘The hours will pass very slowly until you do.’
‘I will think on it, Sir Walter,’ Elizabeth replied, with a coy smile.
‘Perhaps I can entice you with the prospect of a little surprise,’ Raleigh replied. ‘I would detain your attendant here for a moment, so that she can assist me in bringing it to pass.’ He gestured towards Frances, who was bewildered. The princess narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, as if considering whether he was in earnest. ‘I beg you to indulge me, Your Grace,’ Sir Walter added. ‘I know that you will soon be spirited away by some foreign prince, so I am eager to ensure that you will return to see me as soon as possible.’
Frances saw that his flattery had hit its mark. ‘Very well, Sir Walter,’ Elizabeth replied, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ‘But you must not keep Frances long or we will miss the tide.’
Before Frances could protest, her mistress had swept from the room, closely followed by her brother and their attendants. Sir Walter crossed to where Frances was standing and waited until the footsteps had echoed into silence.
‘How easily the young can be won with flattery,’ he said, with a sardonic smile. ‘The prince even more so than his sister.’
‘You and he are not so friendly as it seems, then?’
Sir Walter’s eyes glittered. ‘If you were to ask him the same question, he would have you whipped. But for myself, I will tell you that the admiration is on his side only. I think him a preening fool – more so even than his father, who placed me here.’ His expression darkened as he held her gaze. ‘But we have little time, Lady Frances, so I will not waste it on trivialities,’ he said, in a low voice, pulling her closer. ‘I am told that you are a friend to our cause and have agreed to use your influence with the princess to further the Spanish match.’
Frances dared not speak, but inclined her head slightly.
‘I will assist you in any way I can,’ he continued earnestly. ‘Her pretty young head is easily turned, and between us we might fill it with the right thoughts.’
‘The princess knows her own mind well enough, Sir Walter,’ Frances said, bristling. ‘It will not be as simple as you imagine.’
‘You may be right, Lady Frances, but we must not fail in our endeavours. There are many in this place who stand ready to act, when the time is ripe.’
‘I will do my utmost to bring the marriage to pass,’ Frances whispered.
‘First, you must dissuade her from a suitor whom I have heard is making his way to England. The King of Sweden is an even stauncher Protestant than the heretic who sits on our throne and has sent his son to court the princess.’
Sweden. Frances had been raised to love her mother’s native land. Was she now to betray it?
‘Prince Gustavus is close in age to Elizabeth, but has already proved his worth on the battlefield. You must make sure that she is not won over by such bravado. They say that in appearance he is ill-favoured.’
Frances nodded. ‘That is to our advantage, at least. But it will be no easy task to dissuade the princess from the match, if her brother approves of it – as he surely must, given the Swedish prince’s faith.’
Raleigh gave a wolfish grin. ‘A woman can always be persuaded to follow her heart, Lady Frances.’
She stared back at him, unsmiling. Clearly he had chosen to forget that the old queen had steadfastly resisted his charms, sacrificing her personal happiness in the interests of her kingdom. But it would not serve to remind him of that now. ‘For the love of our faith, I will do as you ask,’ she said quietly.
Sir Walter smiled and clasped her hands in his. ‘You are a true subject, Lady Frances – even if the king would brand you a whore of Satan.’ He paused. ‘But the princess’s marriage is not the only one that concerns you. There are plans for a much greater one besides.’
Frances wrenched her hands away and stared at him, aghast. ‘I pledged no more than this and would not place those I love in any greater danger than I have already.’
Sir Walter lowered his face so that it was almost touching hers. She could feel his breath hot against her mouth. ‘You have no choice,’ he whispered, eyes glinting. ‘If you make a pact with Satan, then he marks you for ever as his own. You are the devil’s slave, Lady Frances.’
CHAPTER 12
1 March
Frances tried to focus upon the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling as she waited for the privy councillors to appear. The criss-cross pattern had seemed random at first, but as she looked more closely, she realised that it comprised a series of interconnecting stars – a reference to the purpose for which this room was used. She had never been to Star Chamber before, but she knew that it lay directly beneath Westminster Hall, which still held terrible memories of Tom’s trial. Looking down at the flagstones now, she wondered if the gunpowder had been hidden underneath this very spot.
The door to the left of the ornate fireplace at the far end of the room opened. Frances rose to her feet and waited, head bowed, as the lords filed in and took their places along the low bench, which was covered with a cloth of azure blue embroidered with tiny gold stars.
‘Lady Frances – please.’
She raised her head to see Cecil pointing towards a spot just in front of the assembled councillors. She walked slowly over and bobbed a curtsy. Her eyes flicked across the group. She recognised the aged Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham and Lord High Admiral, who had served the old queen so loyally. On his left was the king’s chamberlain, the Earl of Suffolk, and next to him the dashing Edward Somerset, Earl of Worcester and Master of the Horse.
A loud cough drew Frances’s attention to the opposite side of the bench where, staring back at her with eyes as cold as ice, her uncle, the Earl of Northampton, sat. It had been almost four years since their last, bitter exchange. He had berated her for giving up the position in the princess’s household that he had gone to so much trouble to arrange. How much greater his fury would have been if he had known the true reason for her departure from court. Looking at him now, she saw that his
face was ruddier than before, his hair more white than brown, and there were several folds of flesh beneath his chin. Clearly, he had been enjoying the fruits of his various offices. As well as being a member of His Majesty’s Privy Council, he was also keeper of the Privy Seal and warden of the Cinque Ports. Frances wondered how much time he spent on the latter. Lucrative though it no doubt was, she could not imagine that the Kent coast held the same appeal as Whitehall.
‘For the sake of those present, please state your name.’
She turned to Sir Thomas Fleming, the Lord Chief Justice, who was dressed in the scarlet robes of his office.
‘Lady Frances Tyringham, my lord.’
‘You are brought before us to swear the oath of allegiance to our dread sovereign lord, King James,’ he continued, ‘as all true and faithful subjects are required to do, in the sight of His Majesty’s council and before God.’
Frances tried to swallow but her mouth felt suddenly dry. She stared straight ahead, her lips pressed tightly together as if they might prevent her from uttering the words that she knew would deny everything she held dear.
‘Do you solemnly swear that the pope has no power to depose the king, or to authorise any foreign prince to invade him, or to give licence to any to bear arms or raise tumults …’
Frances clasped her hand more tightly over the small amber bead that she had carefully prised from the rosary early that morning, before George was awake.
‘Do you further swear from your heart that you abhor and detest as impious and heretical this damnable belief that princes which be excommunicated by the pope may be deposed or murdered by their subjects, and that the pope has no power to absolve you from this oath?’
His words echoed into silence. Frances continued to stare at the carved marble overmantel above the fireplace.
‘Lady Frances?’
Cecil’s voice this time. His eyes glinted as he looked back at her, clearly relishing her discomfort.
Who would have thought that we would meet in such a place?
The words he had spoken to her in the Tower came back to her suddenly. Though she willed herself not to think of what had followed, images of Cecil’s grim smile as the witch-pricker did his work flitted before her. Even when her shift had been ripped from her body, his gaze had never faltered, or when the knife had begun to probe her flesh.
Frances felt herself begin to sway and forced her focus onto a small indentation on one of the flagstones below. When at last her breathing grew steadier, she saw that several of the council members had begun to fidget in their seats. At the far end, her uncle was glaring at her, his face now puce with suppressed fury. She had no idea how long they had been waiting for her to respond.
She tried to swallow again. An image of Tom filled her mind now as she opened her mouth to speak. He was holding out his hand to her and smiling. She took another breath.
‘I swear.’
The words came out as a whisper.
‘Speak up, my lady!’ bellowed the Lord Chief Justice.
Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.
The words of the proverb came to her suddenly, like a balm to her tormented soul. These men might direct her words, but her heart was her own to command.
‘I swear,’ she repeated, so loudly that the words echoed around the chamber. Her uncle’s shoulders sagged with relief, and the smile faded from Cecil’s lips.
Sir Thomas Fleming rose to his feet and rapped his staff upon the floor three times. ‘Then I declare before His Majesty’s Privy Council that you are a true and faithful subject, and that you shall be bound by this oath until you depart this earthly life.’
Frances bowed her head, as if in humble submission. She kept her eyes lowered as she listened to the scraping of chairs, followed by the shuffling of footsteps as the lords left the chamber. When at last the door had closed behind them, she raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘God forgive me,’ she whispered, then sank down onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. The distant chiming of a bell sounded across the empty chamber. Frances counted. Eleven o’clock. She must return to the princess.
Slowly, she raised herself. Her limbs felt heavy and there was a dull throb at her temples that would grow worse as the day went on. Only sleep would clear her head and restore her strength, but there was little prospect of that until after her mistress had retired. Turning, she walked towards the door through which she had entered and began to make her way through the long network of corridors and courtyards that led back to the privy apartments.
As she passed her own lodgings, she had to fight the urge to enter and take her rest. Instead, she walked on towards the stairs that led up to her mistress’s chambers. Just as she drew level with the last door, it was flung open and a man rushed out, colliding with her. She almost fell, but he grabbed her waist and pulled her to her feet.
‘Forgive me, I—’ He faltered as they stared at each other.
‘Thomas!’
Frances stared in disbelief at her husband. She had thought he was still at Oatlands and would be for many weeks yet.
‘Frances,’ he said, with a swift, awkward bow, not quite meeting her gaze.
As the shock subsided, she studied him more closely. His hair was somewhat dishevelled and his shirt was untied at the neck. The surprise of seeing her still showed on his face, along with … guilt?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rustle from the doorway behind her. She turned towards it at once and saw the flash of a woman’s sleeve and the glint of a sapphire ring before both disappeared from view. Frances looked back at her husband, her expression hardening. ‘I did not expect you to return so soon. You did not write to tell me of your coming.’ Her words were sharp.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, then looked her in the eye at last. ‘Forgive me. There was little time. The rains came suddenly and with such force that His Majesty decided to abandon the hunt and return to London. It was all done with such haste.’
‘And yet you found time to visit an … acquaintance, before seeking out your wife?’
Frances’s gaze was unrelenting and she felt a stab of triumph when she saw her husband cower beneath it.
‘Come, Frances,’ he said, agitated. ‘We cannot talk here.’
He took her arm and began to steer her towards their apartment, but she wrenched herself free and stood stock still, eyes blazing. ‘I have no time for such matters,’ she said. ‘I must attend the princess.’
She turned to go, but he stepped forward and grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. ‘You must hear me, Frances. God knows we talk about such matters little enough, though we are man and wife. I have honoured my pledge to be a husband in name only, but I cannot live without affection.’ His gaze intensified. ‘Please.’
To her dismay, Frances felt tears prick her eyes. She did not understand why she felt so bereft, so alone. It was as if he was a stranger to her. Yet that was what they had always been in a way. What did it matter if he had taken a mistress? His marriage bed was cold, so it was natural that he should seek warmth in another. But still his betrayal stung, more than she could ever have expected.
A tear ran slowly down her cheek. He reached out and stroked it gently away with his thumb. His palm felt warm against her cheek as he held it there, his eyes full of sorrow as he looked down at her. ‘Forgive me, Frances. I—’
She pulled away from him again and was gratified to see the hurt in his eyes. His arm fell limply to his side but he continued to gaze at her, his mouth working as if he was trying to find the words to explain. Impatiently, Frances smoothed her skirts. ‘As I said, I must go. My mistress will be asking for me.’
She walked briskly to the end of the corridor and through the doorway that led to the staircase. Mounting them two at a time, she broke into a run when she reached the gallery at the top that led to the princess’s apartments. Though she did not pause to look back, she knew that her husband would be standing there still,
gazing in her wake.
CHAPTER 13
3 March
‘You are very quiet again today, Frances,’ the princess said, with a mixture of concern and impatience. ‘I have hardly heard you speak two words together since you returned from the Star Chamber.’
‘Your Grace must forgive me,’ Frances replied. ‘My son has been a little fretful these past two nights, so I have slept badly.’
It was not a complete lie. George had been troubled with night terrors of late. Though the queen had written to her younger son’s tutors, there had been little improvement in Charles’s behaviour and George had often returned from the schoolroom with his eyes swollen from crying. Frances had planned to talk to Thomas about it, but they had barely spoken since their meeting in the corridor. He had taken to sleeping on the settle in the parlour. She supposed that its stiff oak boards must offer more comfort than the bed they had shared.
‘When will you bring the boy to me?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘You know that I am desirous to meet him.’
‘Yes, Lady Frances,’ chimed in Blanche. ‘You cannot hope to keep him locked in your apartments for ever.’
Frances pushed down her irritation. The woman seemed to have a gift for knowing when her rival was trying to hide something. Though Frances knew she must soon accede to her mistress’s request, she feared that Elizabeth would see the resemblance straight away. Tom Wintour had been one of her closest companions, after all.
‘I promise I will arrange it as soon as George has a little freedom from his studies, Your Grace,’ she said evenly. ‘He is obliged to apply himself for many hours a day until the tutors judge that he has come within sight of your brother’s learning.’
The princess gave a derisive laugh. ‘I am sure that he has long since surpassed Charles!’ she exclaimed. ‘My little brother is such a dolt. Thank God Henry is the heir and not he, or the kingdom would be ruined.’