by Tracy Borman
The boy’s face showed relief and he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Crossing quickly to the windows, Frances flung them open. A gust of cool, damp air blew into the room, making the glass rattle in its casement. Frances closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer, then turned to the bed.
Heavy damask curtains were drawn around each side of it. Slowly, she walked towards it, straining to listen, but there was no sound from within. She felt the cold grasp of fear as she pulled back one of the curtains. Her husband was lying on his side, facing away from her. She padded around the edge of the bed, drawing another curtain as she did so. Her eyes never left his body, which lay perfectly still. When at last she saw his face, a small cry escaped her lips.
A large black bruise covered one side, which was so swollen that it completely obscured his fine features. Above his right eye, there was a deep gash that was crusted with dark blood and seeped yellow pus. There was more blood on the pillow, and as Frances looked closely, she saw that it came from a wound on the side of his skull, which glistened through his matted hair. His lips were parted and cracked. There was a yellow-brown stain on the sheets and the tang of vomit hung on the air. His knees were drawn up, and his right arm was bent at an unnatural angle across his chest. Frances placed her fingers around his wrist. He did not move. She waited, trying to still her own pulse as she felt for his. At last she found it – faint but steady – and let out a long breath.
Swallowing tears, she forced herself to look at her husband with the eyes of a healer, not a wife. His arm was dislocated, she was sure of that. Some, if not all, of his ribs were probably cracked. There were no signs of inward bleeding, but she could only guess at the severity of the wound to his head.
Working quickly, she took out her phials and dried herbs and set them on the table next to the bed, pushing aside the potions that had been left by the countess’s physicians. With a sudden thought, she walked quickly to the door and was relieved to see a key in the lock. She turned it and heard it click into place.
Back at the table, she plucked some dandelion leaves and ground them with brittle elder bark until the mixture became a powder, then added a few drops of juniper oil. Tearing off a piece of clean linen from the bolt she had brought with her, she dipped it slowly into the mortar, then dabbed the yellowy tincture onto the gash above Thomas’s eye. It felt hot to the touch. He made no move as she continued to clean the wound. It would need stitching. Reaching into her bag, she drew out the finest needle she could find, with some silk yarn. Her fingers shook as she tried to thread it and she cursed her clumsiness. When at last she had succeeded, she leaned forward and pinched one end of the wound together, then slowly pierced the skin. Thomas flinched, but after a few moments, his face relaxed and she continued to stitch, pulling the thread as tight as she dared so that the flesh would knit together.
In the distance, she could hear the chiming of a clock. Dinner must almost be over. She prayed nobody would disturb them just yet. Crossing to the ewer, she soaked a fresh linen cloth in the water, which had long since turned cold, and began to clean the deep gash on the side of Thomas’s head. Her fingers gently parted the hair around it, but in the soft glow of the candlelight it was impossible to see the extent of the wound. Feeling inside her pocket, she drew out the scissors she had put into it the last time she had worn the dress so that she might work on her embroidery with the princess. They were not very sharp but would suffice. Coiling his thick brown hair in her fingers, she had a sudden recollection of Tom, his head on her breast as she stroked the curls at the nape of his neck. She began to cut the hair. It was sticky around the wound and she was obliged to keep wiping the blades, which were soon blunted.
When she had trimmed as close to her husband’s scalp as she dared, she held the candle closer. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared in horror. A deep wound ran from behind his right ear to the top of his scalp, the bone showing in places through the swollen red flesh. A thin trail of blood pulsed from the deepest part and Frances could see that it was tinged with yellow. The wound was far too wide for stitching yet. The best she could hope was to stem the bleeding and stop the infection spreading.
She fetched more fresh linen, soaked some in the tincture she had made and applied it carefully to the wound. Folding a larger piece of the fabric into a thick wad, she placed it over the length of the wound, securing it with a long strip of linen, which she tied around Thomas’s head. Then she made up a fresh tincture with anemone and honey, adding a little water so that it would slip easily down his throat. She placed the small glass phial between her husband’s lips and gently tilted it. There was a gurgle as the mixture reached the back of his throat. Frances waited, fearing he might vomit, but after a few moments she saw his neck pulse as he swallowed. She gave him another tiny dose to swallow, then another, until at last the phial was empty.
Suddenly weary, she looked at the table, which was littered with discarded pots and herbs. She would need to gather more tomorrow. Kneeling at her husband’s bedside, Frances closed her eyes in prayer. She had done all she could for now. God must take her husband into His care.
CHAPTER 32
14 June
Frances rubbed her aching neck as she walked slowly down the stairs. She had kept vigil by her husband’s side all night, dozing, then waking suddenly, fearful that he had slipped away while she slept. Each time, she had looked across and seen him lying there, as if suspended between this life and the next. She had been loath to leave him, but she must preserve her own strength for the days – perhaps weeks – to come, and had resolved to eat as hasty a breakfast as politeness would allow.
The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat wafted up the stairs as she descended, making her stomach growl. She had eaten little since her arrival three nights before, taking her meals in Thomas’s chamber so that she could keep watch on him. Now, as she followed the aroma towards the dining room, she wondered if she might take some food back to his chamber, rather than eat with the assembled company.
A groom was standing by the door as she approached and escorted her into the hall. The day had dawned clear and bright, and sunlight streamed in, sparking off the jewelled candelabra and the ornate chandelier that dominated the ceiling, its crystals delicate as raindrops.
Two servants were busy clearing away dishes and platters from the table, and Frances was relieved to see that the chairs were empty. The king must have left for the hunt. She followed the groom to a seat at the far end of the table and helped herself to some fine manchet loaf, still warm from the oven. She wrapped it in her napkin, with some ham and plump figs. Pouring herself a large goblet of water, she drank it, then stood to leave.
‘Lady Frances?’ A man was standing in the entrance to the hall, his slender frame silhouetted against the light that spilled through the doorway. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you,’ he continued, walking slowly forward to greet her. He was of about her own age, Frances judged, and had a pleasant, kindly aspect. There was something familiar about him.
‘How is Sir Thomas?’
His eyes were filled with genuine concern – and, she thought, some hidden sadness. She realised why she felt she had met him before. The portrait on the stairs.
‘Lord Rutland.’ She curtsied. ‘My husband has not yet awoken. His wounds are very grave. I fear—’ She stopped.
‘I am very sorry for it,’ the earl replied. ‘He was – is – a fine man and serves the king most loyally. He is a skilled horseman too. I did not witness his fall but understand that something startled his horse. There was nothing he could do to control it. I feel responsible, since it happened on my estate. I will do whatever I can to ease his suffering, Lady Frances.’
At that moment, a young serving woman entered the hall bearing a large platter of smoked herring and more fresh bread. As she set it down next to where Frances had been sitting, her large brown eyes flicked up to the earl. A shadow crossed his face as he looked at the gir
l with … fear? Desire? Both, perhaps.
‘Thank you, Philippa,’ he murmured, almost to himself.
She did not acknowledge him, but slipped away, her elfin face obscured by a mass of dark curls. As she reached the doorway, she almost collided with Countess Cecily, who stepped briskly into the room. ‘Have a care!’ the woman chided.
The girl skittered away, but before she disappeared Frances saw her fingers flick out in a gesture so strange that she wondered if she had imagined it. A witch’s curse.
‘Ah, Lady Frances,’ Cecily said airily. ‘It seems you are destined never to dine with us. The king rose early for the hunt, the rest of our household with him.’
‘Did you not wish to join them, my lord?’ Frances asked, hoping to divert Lady Rutland’s attention away from herself.
‘Not today, Lady Frances. My limbs still ache from yesterday’s expedition,’ he replied, with a crooked smile.
His wife made an impatient clicking noise with her tongue, then turned back to Frances. ‘I trust Sir Thomas has everything he needs? It must have been quite a shock to see him in such a state. My husband’s physicians say he is beyond hope.’
Lord Rutland shifted uncomfortably. ‘There is always hope, my dear,’ he said quietly.
‘My husband seems stable enough for now, but I will need fresh linens and … other supplies.’ Frances was careful not to mention her herbs or tinctures. ‘I have already exhausted those that I brought with me.’
Cecily looked at her in dismay. ‘Surely you do not mean to treat him yourself, Lady Frances. He requires the skill of a physician. Besides,’ she added, casting a sideways glance at her husband, ‘I am sure you would not wish people to think you a wise woman.’
Frances opened her mouth to reply, but Lord Rutland gave a small cough, as if in warning. ‘I would be glad to accompany you to Bottesford, Lady Frances,’ he said. ‘We can visit my apothecary. I am sure he will be able to advise upon the best remedies for your husband.’
His wife gave a snort of derision. ‘Why trouble to go yourselves when we can summon him here?’
‘It is only a short ride and I fancy Lady Frances would welcome some fresh air. She looks a little pale.’
Before Cecily could raise any further objection, Frances excused herself so that she could fetch her cloak and riding boots.
When she returned a few minutes later the earl was waiting for her. He seemed distracted, and though he smiled, his eyes were grave.
‘You do not mean still to go, husband?’
They turned at Cecily’s voice. She was standing at the entrance to the hall, hands on hips.
‘I see no reason to delay our excursion, my dear,’ Lord Rutland said.
‘But the king may require your counsel,’ his wife persisted, ‘and that of his other attendants.’
Frances looked from one to the other.
‘He has not told you, then?’ the countess demanded. ‘A messenger arrived a few minutes ago with news from the court. The Lady Arbella has been seized.’
Frances tried to keep the shock from her face.
‘My dear, Lady Frances has troubles enough of her own. She does not need to hear this now.’
‘No, please, go on,’ Frances urged.
‘She was taken on board a ship bound for Calais,’ Cecily continued. ‘It is said that she had arranged to meet Seymour in the Channel, but he was delayed and the king’s officers found her first. She will be in the Tower by now,’ she added, with relish.
Frances did not know if she felt relieved or afraid. ‘What of Seymour?’ she asked.
The countess pursed her lips. ‘He escaped, though pray God the seas will take him.’
Frances hoped he had fled to Flanders. Tom and his associates would have lived out their days there, if only they had chosen to flee England, rather than stay to rally support among the Catholic community. She thought of how she could have joined him to revel in the intimacy they had enjoyed only fleetingly in England. But then an image came to her of Thomas lying unconscious in the chamber upstairs and the usual longing for Tom was replaced by remorse.
‘You should have told him yourself.’ Cecily was chiding her husband again. ‘The king honours those who bring him welcome tidings.’
The earl shrugged. ‘We have already received a great many bounties at His Majesty’s hands, my dear. Besides, the messenger will have ridden with greater speed than I could ever have mustered.’
Cecily’s scowl deepened but she pressed her lips together and turned on her heel.
‘Well, now, Lady Frances. That is quite enough talk of treason for one day,’ the earl said, with a touch of humour. ‘Shall we depart?’
CHAPTER 33
14 June
A towering spire rose into view as they descended into the valley. To Frances, it seemed almost as high as that of Salisbury Cathedral, yet the church was a good deal smaller. For all her worries, it had been a pleasant ride. She had longed to gallop through the open fields that surrounded the estate, but even at a more sedate pace the fresh air had cleared her mind, helping her to absorb the news about Arbella and Seymour. This was surely the end to their plotting. Seymour could not hope to challenge the throne without Arbella at his side, and Frances knew that Cecil would take no more risks with her safe-keeping. Sir William Wade would be only too happy to provide the most secure lodgings at his disposal in the Tower.
‘St Mary’s houses the tombs of my ancestors,’ the earl remarked, following her gaze. ‘They were generous benefactors – as you can see. The locals boast that it is the tallest church spire in England. They call it the Lady of the Vale.’
‘They are right to be proud,’ Frances replied. ‘It is magnificent – as is your home, my lord.’
‘That is a mixed blessing, I find. The richer the home, the more likely the king is to visit.’
Frances looked at him sharply, but he was smiling.
‘I am honoured, of course, but such visits leave my coffers severely depleted,’ he continued. ‘King James favours Belvoir for the hunting grounds. They are fine enough, but the woodlands give me greatest pleasure. I spend many hours there, hunting down plants and herbs, rather than foxes.’
Frances was surprised. ‘You have some knowledge of such things?’
‘A little, yes – though I wish it were greater. I think you share my interest.’
Though she judged the earl a gentle, kindly man, she hardly knew him and dared not place her trust in one so favoured of the king. ‘I, too, was fortunate to grow up among woodlands rich with such treasures,’ she said lightly. ‘It inspired me with a love of nature that I cherish. Sadly, I have little opportunity to indulge it now. His Majesty’s palaces boast many splendours, but the natural world is almost entirely absent.’
They lapsed into silence but Frances could feel his eyes upon her as they rode into the village. It was much larger than Britford and there were perhaps fifty houses lining the wide streets, all built from the honey-coloured stone that was quarried nearby. A stream ran along the periphery and there was a handsome bridge across its widest point. Frances was aware of curious stares as they passed through the market square, with its large stone cross at the centre, though everyone they saw was careful to show their deference to the earl.
There was a cluster of shops at the far end of the square, and outside one Frances could see a wooden sign painted with a pestle and mortar. She slowed her horse, but the earl continued straight past. Her confusion turned to unease as they reached the edge of the village, the handsome houses giving way to smaller, shabbier dwellings. As they drew level with the last, which lay close to the woods, her companion pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a standstill. Dismounting, he tethered it to the ramshackle gate. The unthinking way with which he did so suggested he was a frequent visitor – though, looking again at the cottage, with its crumbling stonework and frayed thatch, Frances could hardly believe it was true. After a pause, she took the hand he offered and climbed down from her horse.
A moment later, the door was opened a crack and Frances could see a pair of eyes peering out at them.
‘Mistress Flower, forgive the intrusion,’ the earl said smoothly. ‘My friend here is in need of your assistance.’
The woman grunted, then turned on her heel and retreated into the house, leaving the door open for them to follow. As she stepped inside, Frances had to pause until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There was only one small window, which looked out onto the woods and afforded little light. The room in which they were standing seemed to serve as kitchen, bedroom and parlour. There was a large bed in the corner, and a meagre fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Frances breathed in the sharp tang of rosemary and lavender, along with a scent she did not recognise. Bunches of dried herbs were suspended from beams across the ceiling. Underneath the window there was a table, its surface gnarled with age, upon which was set an array of clay pots and dishes, with a large pestle and mortar.
‘What ails you?’
The woman was thin and stooped, and her face bore the lines of age – or hardship, perhaps. Her hair was streaked with grey, but her eyes were striking and Frances thought she must have been a great beauty in her youth.
‘The lady has come on behalf of her husband, Joan,’ the earl replied, before Frances could do so. ‘He fell from his horse and is badly hurt.’