by Tracy Borman
We arrived at Belvoir late last night. It is a beautiful castle and the Earl of Rutland has already shown us the lavish hospitality for which he is famed. The king is anxious to begin the hunt, which we will do tomorrow. He is greatly distressed by the loss of one of his hounds – Esmé – who bolted as soon as I opened the door to their wagon upon our arrival. I was obliged to spend half the night searching the woods for him, but as yet there is no sign.
I trust you and George are well. Pray tell him that there is a chestnut mare in the stables here that much resembles Duke. I wish he were here to ride it. I wish you were here also.
Your loving husband,
Thomas
She had read it several times since it had been delivered to her the previous day. Thomas had always been a faithful correspondent during his absences on the hunt, which had become increasingly frequent and prolonged this past year. She missed him more each time. Ending her involvement in the Arbella plot had made her feel closer to him somehow. She had hated the deception.
She wished Lady Vaux had been as easy to shrug off. The woman had continued to plague her with messages, urging her to keep furthering the suit of the King of Spain’s nephew. That at least had proved easier of late, Frances reflected. Although she had continued to speak favourably of Prince Victor whenever she had had the opportunity, nothing had persuaded the young woman as much as seeing her prospective suitor. Two weeks earlier the Spanish ambassador had presented Elizabeth with the prince’s miniature upon his arrival for the marriage negotiations. Elizabeth had been captivated by his shining eyes and seductive smile and had spoken of little else ever since. Frances had prayed fervently that the ambassador would enjoy similar success with the king’s ministers – if not with Prince Henry, who had made his disapproval all too obvious. God willing, by the time Thomas returned the alliance would be concluded.
She looked back at the letter.
I wish you were here also.
Closing her eyes, she sank back on the pillows. She wished she could still her mind and sleep a little before George awoke. She was to attend the princess as usual today and hoped her mistress would not wish to stir from the palace.
‘Mama.’ His voice was still heavy with sleep.
She smiled down at him on his pallet and held out her arms. With the sudden energy that children seemed able to muster, he scrambled out from beneath his covers and leaped onto the bed next to her. They lay like that for a few moments, Frances stroking her child’s silken hair as he nuzzled against her chest. She wished she had a lock of Tom’s to compare it with, though she knew it would be identical.
‘I miss Papa,’ George said, his words muffled by her linen shift.
It was a moment before Frances could reply. ‘I miss him too, my love,’ she whispered.
Frances watched as the stout gentleman stooped to receive his honour.
‘On behalf of His Most Sacred Majesty King James, I confer upon you the baronetcy of Willoughby, to be held by yourself and your heirs in assurance of your loyalty to the Crown.’
Cecil’s voice echoed around the silent hall as the newly created baronet made his obeisance.
Robert Bertie was the latest in a succession of Catholics whose loyalty had been bought in this way. That their faith could be so easily exchanged for such an honour was galling. Frances had to admit, though, that it had been a stroke of genius on Cecil’s part, boosting the king’s precarious finances while negating the threat posed by those ‘infested spirits’, as he called them, who still cherished the old religion.
Beside her, she saw the princess stifle a yawn.
‘I hereby pledge my allegiance to the king, his heirs and all those who serve them,’ the gentleman declared, placing his hand on his breast.
There was an answering cheer from the crowd and he bowed before them, his face red with pride. Frances’s composure never wavered, though she silently cursed the man’s weakness. Little wonder that none of the plots against the heretic king had amounted to anything. Cecil caught her eye and smiled. She diverted her gaze to another man looking in her direction. Robert Carr. He bowed as she inclined her head, wondering idly why he had left the hunt to attend this ceremony. Surely there were greater gains to be had at his master’s side.
The princess had stood to leave. ‘Thank God that is over!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, as soon as they had reached the gallery that led to her apartments. ‘We have had to endure twenty such ceremonies this past month alone. It is a wonder there are any baronetcies left to give.’
‘Or to sell,’ Frances muttered, under her breath.
They walked on in silence, Blanche making a show of fussing over the princess’s train.
‘I wish the prince would hasten his journey,’ Elizabeth said, as they reached the door of her apartment.
Frances had thought the same. It was more than three weeks since her mistress had received a message from her father’s ambassador in Madrid that the King of Spain’s nephew had embarked for England.
‘I shall be driven mad with boredom,’ the princess continued. ‘The court is very dull since my father left, and there is little chance of my mother leaving her beloved Greenwich to keep me company.’
Frances could not help but smile at her mistress’s youthful impatience. She had a good deal more to occupy her than most ladies of her age.
‘I have other news that may offer some diversion, Your Grace,’ Blanche observed slyly.
‘Oh?’ Elizabeth said, while she searched her sewing casket for thread to continue her embroidery.
‘Apparently the Lady Arbella will finally set out for Durham tomorrow.’
Frances’s heart raced. The king had ordered that she be transferred to the custody of the Bishop of Durham more than four months ago, but Arbella had pleaded illness and he had grudgingly agreed that she might tarry at Lambeth until she had recovered. Frances had braced herself for a secret summons to attend her and had been relieved when none came. Her indisposition must have resulted from a different cause. Raleigh had mentioned the tightening of security around Seymour’s lodgings at the Tower when she had seen him last.
‘Is that all?’ Elizabeth retorted scornfully. ‘What that woman does is hardly of concern to me.’
‘It would be if her plans had succeeded,’ Blanche muttered petulantly. ‘They say she still hankers after your father’s throne.’
Frances looked at her sharply. ‘That is enough, Blanche. Our mistress has told you the matter holds no interest for her, and neither should it. Lady Stuart is no more a threat to the crown than you are.’
The young woman fell into a resentful silence.
All of a sudden, the princess leaped to her feet, eyes sparkling. ‘I know who shall entertain me this afternoon!’ she declared. ‘Come, Frances, we’re going to the Tower.’
Frances was dismayed, but Elizabeth was already pulling on her gloves.
‘Sir Walter always restores my spirits. I cannot think why it did not occur to me before. It has been too long since I last visited him.’
Frances knew it would be pointless to object, so she helped her mistress with her cloak and went to fetch her own. Blanche watched them for a moment, then made ready herself.
The tide was in their favour, so the journey along the river was swift. Although she relished the feeling of the sun on her skin, Frances felt a creeping unease as they drew closer to the fortress. It was a long time since she had visited Raleigh. He had respected her wishes to have nothing more to do with the Arbella plot, and she had not wished to rouse Cecil’s suspicions by being seen at the Tower too often.
As they mounted the steps to his lodgings, the scuffle of footsteps could be heard inside. The guard bowed low as he opened the door for the princess. Sir Walter was in his accustomed seat by the fireplace, but he appeared a little flushed and Frances saw panic in his eyes. He soon recovered, though, and bowed before stepping forward to kiss Elizabeth’s hand.
‘What an unexpected honour and pleasure, Your Highness,’ he exc
laimed.
Elizabeth smiled gracefully and took the seat he indicated. Blanche sat beside her so Frances was obliged to occupy the window seat.
‘Forgive me, Sir Walter, there was no time to send word of my visit. It was something of an impulse. There is so little company to entertain us at present, with my father away on the hunt and my mother at Greenwich.’
‘Their loss is my bounty, Your Grace,’ Raleigh said, with an easy smile. ‘What of the prince? Surely he would not wish to leave his sister so neglected.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘Henry has been charged with planning another reception for the Spanish ambassador in our father’s absence, though he seems not to relish the task as he did when Prince Gustavus was here.’ Her face clouded. ‘I fear the ambassador will think it a slight.’
Raleigh shot Frances a knowing look. ‘I wonder the Spanish prince himself has not arrived long before now. If I were in his place, I would have commandeered the swiftest vessel so that I might be at your side in an instant.’
The princess blushed prettily. ‘His Excellency assures me that Prince Victor is preparing to embark,’ she said, eyes shining.
‘Well, I would not wish to hasten his voyage,’ Raleigh replied, with a rueful smile, ‘for you will have little time for an old man like me once he is at your side. I have heard it said that many ladies’ hearts have broken at the news that he is to be your husband. I could not have surrendered you to any man who was less alluring than he.’
His honeyed words had worked their effect and Frances was grateful for it. She had had to be more subtle in promoting the match, for fear of exciting the princess’s curiosity as to why she was so in favour of it.
Frances listened to her mistress’s animated chatter as she regaled Sir Walter with the descriptions she had heard of the King of Spain’s nephew, the letters she had received from him, and how well she might like being Duchess of Savoy once they were married. She started when she saw a man crouched in the far corner, just out of view of the others. He was sitting on a low stool; his features were obscured by a large black hat, and at his side he carried a rapier.
Raleigh was watching her. He gave the slightest shake of his head before focusing back on the princess, who was still prattling, blissfully unaware. Frances was grateful to see that Blanche was fiddling idly with the lace of her sleeve and had not noticed either.
‘It is growing late, Your Grace,’ Frances said, standing abruptly.
Elizabeth was about to protest, but Raleigh had risen to his feet too.
‘I fear Lady Frances is right, Your Grace. Sir William does not like his … guests to entertain visitors after dusk,’ he said, with a rakish grin.
The princess’s shoulders sagged in defeat and she turned so that Blanche could put on her cloak. As she made to follow them, Frances glanced at the figure in the shadows, who turned to her at the same moment.
Staring back at her from the gloom was Arbella.
CHAPTER 29
5 June
The bells were already chiming eight when Frances hastened to the princess’s apartments. She had not slept the night before. The image of Arbella’s face had flitted before her every time she had closed her eyes. She had tried to convince herself that she had been mistaken, that the figure had been a manservant or some agent of Raleigh’s. But she had recognised those small blue eyes as they peered out of the shadows, the smirk …
She wondered how the woman had managed to escape captivity unnoticed, let alone gain access to Raleigh’s lodgings in the Tower. Had Raleigh been helping her to visit her husband, or had she been in his lodgings for another reason?
As she reached the door to her mistress’s chamber, she heard sobbing. Her heart gave a lurch and she rushed inside.
Blanche was kneeling in front of the princess, whose face was buried in her hands.
‘What has happened?’ Frances asked, fearing the answer.
‘He is not coming!’
Frances was astonished. She had been certain that whatever had caused Elizabeth’s grief related to Arbella. The princess threw a crumpled note to the floor and began to pace the room. ‘Am I destined never to marry?’ she demanded between sobs. ‘To remain a barren virgin, like the old queen?’
‘Please – calm yourself, Your Grace.’ Frances grasped her hand and guided her to the window seat, away from the other ladies, who were gawping helplessly at their mistress. Even Blanche seemed at a loss as to how to comfort her.
‘Who do you mean?’ she asked, though she already knew the answer.
‘Prince Victor!’ Elizabeth cried, then fell into a fresh bout of sobbing. ‘Cecil writes that my father has reached a private accord with the King of Spain and no longer needs the assurance of marriage to forge their alliance. No doubt a consignment of Spanish gold was enough.’
Frances had spent the past few days willing the Spanish prince to arrive. It would give heart to the Catholics, whose hopes were vested in the match, and would make them less inclined to support Seymour and Arbella, should they make their move – which seemed more likely now those hopes had been dashed. ‘But we had received news that the prince had already embarked for England,’ she reasoned.
‘His uncle recalled the fleet just a few hours after it had left the port at Cádiz – so Cecil says,’ the princess mumbled, her chest still heaving.
No doubt Cecil had worked hard to bring this private accord to pass, Frances thought, tempting his royal master with the lure of riches. He could have no wish to see the king’s daughter espoused to a Catholic prince – not when there were Protestant suitors with whom an alliance might be forged. Prince Henry would be crowing when they saw him next. She wanted to weep: the plans for which she had laboured so hard now lay in tatters. Tom had died in vain. Catholics would never thrive again in this kingdom. They would do well to cast away their relics and rosaries and find what solace they could in heresy.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the princess stood abruptly and marched to the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer with such force that Frances feared it would fall to the floor, she took out the miniature of the prince. She looked down at it briefly, then strode back to the window by which Frances was still sitting. She wrenched it open and flung out the portrait. Frances heard the faint splash as it fell into the river below.
‘You may leave me now,’ the princess announced imperiously, drying her tears.
Frances stood uncertainly. The other ladies hesitated too.
‘Go!’ Elizabeth shouted, then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
The sudden cawing of a bird made Frances start. It sparked a medley of screeches and twitters, which became deafening as she approached the aviary. After a time the birds’ excitement died away and only the occasional flutter of feathers could be heard amid the silence that now prevailed. The royal beasts must be sleeping too, she thought, as she looked across at the tall cages silhouetted against the night sky.
Continuing past the menagerie, she soon reached the lake that had been dug in the centre of St James’s Park. It was a clear night and the moon’s rays reflected off the still, dark water. Frances peered into the gloom and thought she saw a shadow moving between the trees. She held her breath and watched as the shape drew closer.
‘Lady Frances,’ Lady Vaux said, in a low voice, drawing back her hood. ‘Your letter was most insistent.’
‘Our plans are in ruins,’ Frances said, without preamble. ‘The King of Spain has recalled his nephew. There will be no betrothal.’
A slow smile crept across the older woman’s face. ‘I have received the news already. It seems it travelled more slowly to court.’
‘If you knew of it, why did you not send word? All of my endeavours have been spent in encouraging the princess to look favourably on the match – and I had succeeded. I did not know it was all in vain.’
‘I knew you would find out soon enough,’ Lady Vaux replied nonchalantly. ‘Besides, you made it plain the last time we met that I should not wr
ite to you again, lest your involvement be discovered.’
Frances pushed back her rising irritation. ‘Well, you will have no further cause to send me letters now that our scheme has failed. There are no other Catholic princes abroad with whom the king will consider an alliance for his daughter.’
‘You should have more faith, Lady Frances,’ Lady Vaux replied. ‘God has shown us that we were in error, that there is another suitor – one who will prove a far greater match for the princess than some foreign prince.’
An Englishman? It was impossible. The king would never agree to his daughter marrying a Catholic, unless it was to forge a lucrative foreign alliance.
‘And you are well placed to further his interests, since he is your kin.’
‘My kin?’ Who on earth could she be referring to? Her brother Edward might be ambitious, but even he would not venture so far.
‘The Earl of Northampton. Your uncle.’
Frances let out a bark of laughter. The idea was so ridiculous that it could not be true – but then she noticed Lady Vaux’s expression.
‘He is a true Catholic, at heart,’ Lady Vaux continued, ‘though he has outwardly conformed since this king’s accession – as so many others have been obliged to. And he is of sufficient rank to be a suitor to the princess. I hardly need tell you that he was cousin to a queen of England.’
Frances had suffered her uncle’s boasts about his kinship to Henry VIII’s last wife, Katherine Parr, many times, but she had never had such cause to regret it as she did now. ‘But he is more than forty years her senior!’ Frances exclaimed, setting aside the many other reasons why her uncle was such a terrible choice.
‘That is no bar to the match,’ Lady Vaux said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Many men have taken brides far younger than themselves. Besides, the earl is still vigorous and no doubt capable of siring many heirs yet.’
Frances shuddered. If she was repulsed by the idea of her ageing uncle bedding the princess, with how much greater horror would Elizabeth view it? ‘The king will never allow it. He seeks a foreign alliance through his daughter’s marriage and will not give that up for a home-grown suitor unless he is of impeccable credentials – which my uncle certainly is not.’