by Tracy Borman
Lady Vaux’s eyes showed triumph as she held her gaze. ‘I might have been inclined to agree with you, were it not for the offer of assistance from a quite unexpected quarter,’ she said. ‘Robert Carr will turn his master’s mind to the match. By the time he has applied his efforts on our behalf, the king will think that there can be no greater union for his daughter. I hear that the young man can be most … persuasive,’ she added.
Frances stared. Robert Carr? Why on earth would that sly young man apply himself on anyone’s behalf except his own?
‘The earl holds a prize that Carr is eager to win,’ the woman continued. ‘He is greatly enamoured of your uncle’s young ward. Though she is already his mistress, he means to make her his wife.’
This fresh revelation was so unexpected that Frances struggled to make sense of it. Surely Carr’s passions would not be stirred by a woman, even one as beguiling as the earl’s ward, Frances Howard. She had seen the girl many times since arriving at court, but had never paid her much attention. The same could not be said of the handsome courtiers who swarmed about her.
‘But Lady Howard is married already, is she not?’
Lady Vaux inclined her head. ‘It is a marriage in name only. The Earl of Essex has proved incapable of consummating it, though he blames his young wife for that. He must be the only man in England who does not wish to bed her.’
‘Then what can my uncle do to help Carr?’ Frances demanded, with rising impatience. ‘An impotent husband is still a husband.’
‘Your uncle has powerful connections at court and can petition for an annulment on behalf of his ward,’ Lady Vaux replied, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘Without him, their cause is hopeless and Carr knows it. That is why he has agreed to further our schemes.’
Frances fell silent. The prospect of her uncle marrying the princess seemed just as preposterous as when Lady Vaux had first mentioned it. Even if Carr did succeed in persuading the king, she knew that she had neither the power nor the will to convince her young mistress that a conceited, objectionable old man would make a good husband. ‘I wish you well in your endeavours, Lady Vaux,’ she said at last. ‘But I will have no part in them.’
‘You speak as if you have the freedom of choice, Lady Frances.’ Her voice was cold. ‘But you know as well as I that it is not so. The king may have lost interest in finding those who were involved in the Powder Treason, but Cecil has not. If you refuse to play your part in this, I will make sure that he discovers you were once involved in something far more deadly.’
The threat of being exposed if she did not do Lady Vaux’s bidding had always been implied, never spoken. This had enabled Frances to push it from her thoughts. But it had lurked on the edge of her consciousness. It was all too clear that she could hide from it no longer. Seymour had used it to embroil her in his schemes – for a while. Now Lady Vaux had resolved to do the same. Frances felt as trapped as the beasts that skulked in the cages behind her.
CHAPTER 30
7 June
A hush descended and the crowds parted as Cecil walked slowly across the centre of the hall. Frances watched him from the dais, where she stood behind her mistress’s chair. They had been summoned there only an hour before, the messenger interrupting the customary ceremony of dressing the princess for the evening’s entertainments. The dais had already been decorated for the masque and there had been no time to take down the brightly coloured swags that were strung between the marble pillars. They formed a stark contrast to the sombre atmosphere that pervaded the hall.
Cecil’s messenger had given no hint as to why the entire court had been ordered to assemble so suddenly. When Frances had accompanied her mistress there, she had heard several courtiers grumbling that their dinner would be cold by the time the gathering was over and the tables had been laid. She herself had little appetite. Whatever the cause of this peremptory summons, it must be serious to interrupt the usual routine of the palace.
Frances had spent the past two days in an agony of suspense. While the princess had veered from tearful outbursts to sullen silences, her own mind had been filled with thoughts of Arbella. She wished she had asked Lady Vaux about her, but she had been so shocked by the scheme involving her uncle that she had been unable to think of anything else for the rest of their meeting.
When no word of Arbella had been forthcoming from anyone, she had resorted to asking Blanche – as casually as she could – whether the lady had set out for Durham yet. Blanche had delighted in chastising her for thinking of such trivial matters when their mistress was stricken with grief over the prince. Frances had not yet raised the subject of her uncle. It would hardly ease the princess’s anguish about her lost suitor to know that a gouty old man stood ready to take his place.
‘I hope he is quick about it,’ she heard Prince Henry mutter now. ‘I am entertaining the French ambassador this evening.’ He was sitting between his two siblings, clearly bored. He seldom visited Whitehall these days, preferring the livelier company over which he presided at St James’s. Although she lamented the failure of the Spanish match, Frances could not help but feel relieved that Henry would have even less reason to spend time with his sister now – at least, not until he found another foreign suitor for her.
Cecil was mounting the steps to the dais. Frances thought him even more stooped than the last time she had seen him a few weeks before. She had not attended him since his recovery from the tumour the previous autumn, so the wound must now have healed. From the way he held himself as he bowed before the two princes and their sister, it seemed no longer to pain him. As he straightened, his eyes darted to Frances. She regarded him steadily as he walked to the front of the dais to address the crowds.
‘Your Highnesses, my lords. I have summoned you here to convey news of the gravest sort,’ he began. ‘It is almost a year now since the king’s officials discovered a foul treason at the heart of this court. The Lady Arbella had contracted a secret marriage with William Seymour, intending to use their combined royal blood to usurp the throne. God in His wisdom guided us, His Majesty’s servants, to uncover this unlawful union so that the perpetrators might be apprehended.’
There was a low murmur around the hall as people recounted to each other their memories of the event. Cecil held up a hand to silence them before continuing. ‘But the devil has found means to make mischief once more. By his hand, the Lady Stuart and her unlawful husband have escaped His Majesty’s custody.’
Frances was only vaguely aware of the collective intake of breath among the crowd as she clutched the back of her mistress’s chair. It was the news she had dreaded ever since her visit to the Tower three days before. Many times since then, she had wondered whether to tell Cecil what she had seen. But some impulse had always prevented it. Though she was not willing to support the lady in her reckless quest for the throne, neither could she bring herself to betray her – or Raleigh.
‘God damn the man,’ she heard Prince Henry say, under his breath. ‘He should have come to me with this, before announcing it to the court.’
Her mistress’s hands were trembling in her lap.
‘The king has instructed me to make a thorough search of the city, as well as of the ports,’ Cecil continued.
Frances directed her gaze towards him as he faced the princess.
‘And of the palaces too, Your Graces.’
‘They are hardly likely to be hiding here, my lord,’ Henry exclaimed scornfully.
Cecil spread his hands. ‘You are right, Your Grace,’ he replied softly. ‘But they were able to escape your father’s custody, which suggests that they may have had accomplices here at court.’
Even though she was innocent of any involvement, Frances knew that Cecil would not hesitate to use her earlier assistance of the lady to implicate her, if it proved to his advantage. The king would be convinced that this was part of a wider conspiracy and would be impatient for news of arrests.
‘His Majesty requires all of his subjects to be vigilant,’ C
ecil declared, ‘so I ask that you send word to me of anything you have seen or heard that might occasion suspicion – even among your closest acquaintances. Not since the Powder Treason has there been cause for such alarm.’
He bowed towards the princes and their sister, then slowly left the dais. In the time it took him to reach the back of the hall, the hum of chatter had risen to a deafening roar.
When Frances retired to her husband’s apartments that evening, her head was aching. Sleep would be the only cure, but she was certain it would evade her. Even if she allowed her racing thoughts to still, the fear that Cecil would send men to arrest her had set her nerves jangling. The best she could hope for was to lie quietly in her chamber, waiting for the night to pass.
She paused at the threshold, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. She was glad that George was spending the night in Prince Charles’s lodgings, ready to depart early to hunt the next day, but longed to wrap her arms around his warm little body, to nuzzle the softness of his hair. She closed her eyes and uttered a prayer that God might keep him safe tonight, even if He could not perform the same service for her.
With a sigh, she undressed to her linen shift, then padded over to the ewer and splashed water on her face and neck. The cold drops made her shiver as they ran down her back and chest, but offered some respite from the pain that seared her head.
When at last she climbed into bed, she slipped into sweet oblivion.
A loud hammering shocked her awake. Her eyes flew open. Had she dreamed it? She had no idea if she had been asleep for minutes or hours.
Another volley rang out across the chamber. Frances threw back the covers and ran towards the outer door. A faint light glimmered from under it.
He had come for her.
She pulled on her cloak and wrapped it tightly around her, then reached for the bolt. She pulled it back and lifted the latch.
Instead of the king’s guards, there stood a young man clad in a livery she did not recognise. Sweat dripped from his brow and his clothes were caked in dust. Hastily, he removed his cap and gave a short bow.
‘Lady Tyringham?’
Frances nodded.
‘The Earl of Rutland has sent me here with ill tidings. Your husband fell from his horse during the hunt and was trampled underfoot. He lies mortally hurt at Belvoir. Please!’ he urged, as she struggled to comprehend his words – so different from those she had expected. ‘You must make haste. A carriage is ready. Pray God it is not too late.’
CHAPTER 31
11 June
The rain whipped against the carriage window as Frances peered out. In the gathering gloom, she could just make out a dark mass covering the hill ahead: the Earl of Rutland’s famed woodland, which surrounded his castle, whose turrets she could now see rising above the trees.
Their progress had slowed since Grantham, thanks to the arrival of the rains that had threatened all day, turning the dusty track into a river of mud. She could hear the horses whinnying as their hoofs slipped on the now treacherous path that led steadily uphill. Frances cursed her failure to persuade the coachman to press on to the castle, rather than rest his horses at the town, which lay just seven miles before it. They could have been there by now, sheltered from the elements, the horses dry and warm in the stables. The man had spent a frustratingly long time at the inn, taking his meat with a rowdy group, while Frances, having eaten a hasty meal, paced up and down outside. She had been at the point of leaving him there and walking the rest of the way when he had emerged, ruddy-faced, oblivious to her scowls.
Now the carriage listed to one side, precariously close to the edge of the path, which fell steeply away into the valley below.
‘Whoa!’ The coachman’s shout was followed by a string of curses that were carried away on the wind.
For an agonising few minutes, they remained still, the carriage swaying in the gusts that blew across the valley. A fresh wave of fear assailed Frances. It had been four days since the messenger had arrived at Whitehall. If her husband was as gravely hurt as he was reported to be, she might already be too late. It was all too horribly familiar, she acknowledged, as she thought back to the cold March night when she had hastened to her dying father at Richmond. Surely God would not be so cruel as to take her husband from her so soon afterwards. No: they would have been intercepted by a messenger if Thomas had already died, she reasoned.
Frances looked down at the large leather bag that lay at her feet. Within her clothes, she had hidden her collection of dried herbs and tinctures. There had been no time to select those that would be of most use to her husband, so she had brought them all. It was probably wise not to leave any in Greenwich anyway. How she would treat her husband with them when the king lodged under the same roof, she did not know. She could only hope that they would be afforded some privacy as man and wife – the same privacy she had spent most of their marriage trying to avoid.
The carriage moved forward, throwing Frances back against the cushions. She could hear the slap and squelch of the horses’ hoofs as they plodded up the track. Darkness was falling quickly now and Frances could see the faint glimmer of lights in the castle. She wondered which room her husband lay in.
At last, they reached the drive that snaked through the parkland to the entrance. Frances heard the sharp crack of the whip followed by the rapid crunch of hoofs on gravel as the horses finally cantered towards the gatehouse. Lowering the window, she felt heat as they passed the torches that blazed on either side of it. A few moments later, they were inside the courtyard. Not waiting for the groom, who was scurrying towards her from the castle, Frances stepped down from the carriage and hastened towards the large doorway from which he had emerged.
A sombre-faced footman stepped forward as she approached. He bowed.
‘Have you been invited for dinner, mistress?’
‘Lady Frances Tyringham.’
She saw his eyes widen briefly in alarm.
‘Then please allow me to escort you to the hall, my lady.’
Frances tried to suppress her rising impatience. ‘Thank you, but I will go straight to my husband, if you could show me to his chamber?’
‘Of course, my lady. I will fetch someone to accompany you.’
Before she could protest, he had turned on his heel and stepped smartly away. She could hear the rapid clip of his heels on the marble floor as he disappeared.
The entrance hall was vast. At the far end a huge stone fireplace was surmounted by the head of a bull, its glassy eyes staring straight ahead. Above, on the first floor, three large archways had been cut into the stonework, through which Frances could see a white marble staircase with ornate black iron balustrades. The walls to either side of her were covered with halberds, swords and other weapons, all artfully arranged into geometrical shapes.
‘Lady Frances.’
She spun round. A small woman was standing in the doorway that led through to the stairs. She was wearing a pale gold dress slashed with scarlet and edged with lacework at the sleeves and neckline. A large square ruff covered her neck, and her dark blonde curls were surmounted by a headdress of the same white fabric. Her features were pinched and her large grey-brown eyes were watching Frances intently.
‘Forgive me, Lady …’
‘Manners,’ she answered. ‘Cecily, Countess of Rutland. You are most welcome to Belvoir Castle,’ she added, in a tone that suggested Frances was anything but.
Frances curtsied.
‘Peake tells me you will not join us for dinner,’ she continued. ‘I assure you, it is no inconvenience – we have only just begun.’
‘Thank you, Lady Rutland, but I am anxious to see my husband,’ Frances replied. ‘How does he fare?’
The countess’s eyes were flitting over her, and Frances was suddenly aware of the shabbiness of her attire. She had dressed hastily before departing her chambers at Greenwich and had changed only her linens since. Glancing down, she saw that her simple grey gown was heavily creased, its hem caked with m
ud. But if the lady of the house objected to her appearing in such a state, having travelled for four long days to see her husband, who might even now be breathing his last, she must be cold-hearted indeed.
‘I have had my physicians attend him,’ she said. ‘Their reputation is unsurpassed in the county.’
‘You are most kind,’ Frances replied. ‘Now please, forgive me, I must see him.’
‘Of course,’ Lady Rutland said. ‘Follow me.’
She led the way up the staircase, which was flanked on either side by numerous family portraits. As they mounted the second flight, one of the pictures caught her eye. It was of a young man with dark brown hair and a fashionably pointed beard. He was pleasant-looking rather than handsome, but what struck Frances was the sadness in his eyes. Tearing her gaze away, she hastened after the countess, who stepped nimbly along a gallery at the top of the stairs.
Frances hardly noticed the sumptuously decorated series of rooms through which they passed, her heart keeping time with her quickening pace. At length, they reached a dimly lit corridor. The countess stopped outside a door about halfway along it. For a moment, Frances feared that the woman would insist on entering with her, but instead she gave a nod and started back along the corridor.
Frances watched until she was out of sight, then lifted the latch.
The first thing she noticed was the heat, which hit her in a suffocating wave as she stepped into the chamber. An enormous fire blazed in the grate, and both of the small windows were tightly shuttered. Frances breathed in the sickly stench of decay. A young attendant dozed by the fire but stood as she entered. He looked at her in alarm, as if waiting for admonishment. Frances was sure the Belvoir servants received plenty from their mistress. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You may leave my husband now.’