by Tracy Borman
Thomas remained silent for so long that she began to think he would not respond. ‘That may be true,’ he said at last. ‘But if our kingdom is damned, then the souls within it can still be saved. Inside the heads of wheat that are buffeted and doused by tempests there is a kernel of goodness protected by a hard shell. Nothing can penetrate this treasure. It remains, safe and uncorrupted, until the time is ripe for it to be revealed to the world.’ He clasped her hands. ‘It is the same with our faith, Frances,’ he continued, his voice filled with ardour, though it was barely more than a whisper. ‘We must continue to nurture and cherish it in our hearts, even as our mouths form words to deny it. Those words will be heeded by the king and his son, and all those who seek to further the cause of heresy. But never by God. He sees what is in our hearts, Frances, and will bring us the joy of His salvation.’
Frances battled a series of conflicting emotions as she held his gaze. Though she wanted to believe as he did, she felt it a betrayal of everything she held dear. Surely God wanted His people to fight for the true faith, even if it cost them their freedom, their lives. His Son had done nothing less, and it had proved mankind’s salvation. Then she thought of her own son growing up steeped in heresy, repeating the blasphemous words that his new patron spouted, and felt again the familiar anger.
It is better to hazard your mortal self than your immortal soul.
Her father’s words came to her, as if he had whispered them in her ear, and she understood that she must continue along the path she had chosen, that she must do whatever she could to keep Longford in Catholic hands. She felt more at peace as she looked back at Thomas, but as his features slowly relaxed, she realised he had mistaken her reaction for compliance. In carrying out her father’s wishes, she would be betraying those of her husband. Their marriage had been forged on the promise that she would keep her faith hidden and that Thomas would ask nothing else from her. He had stayed true to that pledge, but she had broken it. Her betrayal was made worse by the fact that, in all other respects, she was now his entirely, heart and body. But she could no longer deny her soul.
The guards nodded her through and she began to mount the steps that led up to the prisoner’s lodgings. Although it was many months since she had visited, they had seen her enough times in the past to recognise her at once.
‘Ah, Lady Frances!’
Raleigh opened his arms in greeting. Smiling, Frances crossed to where he was standing by the window. The bristles of his beard tickled her cheek as he kissed her.
‘Come, come,’ he said, guiding her towards the chairs next to the fireplace. Though it was a mellow autumn day outside, the thick stone walls of the Tower were impervious to the warmth of the sun’s rays and a fire crackled in the grate.
‘So you have returned to me at last?’ he said, with a dolorous expression, clutching his hand to his heart.
Frances grinned. ‘I am sure you have had visitors enough to keep you entertained. The prince must know these lodgings better than your own wife does.’
Raleigh rolled his eyes. ‘I would rather be driven mad with loneliness than have him for company. Though his visits have their uses, I admit,’ he added. ‘He brought that sour-faced girl with him last time – the one who fawns over him, with her pursed lips and mournful eyes.’
‘Lady Blanche?’
Frances was not looking forward to being back in the young woman’s company that evening, when she was to attend her mistress at the masque.
Raleigh nodded as he sucked on his pipe, then blew out a long trail of smoke. At first the smell had caught in Frances’s throat, but she had grown accustomed to it.
‘He is using her, of course – even a fool could see that. But she would willingly step off a precipice if it pleased him.’ Another long drag on the pipe. ‘I wonder if he has dipped his wick in her.’
Frances let out a bark of laughter. ‘From what I have seen of Prince Henry’s court, there is little room for morality,’ she observed.
Raleigh must have heard the bitterness in her voice. He did not speak, but waited for her to continue.
‘Thomas and I went to St James’s last night,’ she said after a pause. ‘We were in search of my son, who had been taken there by my brother.’
‘Edward?’ Raleigh sat up straight now. ‘I thought he was at Longford, licking his wounds and frittering away your father’s fortune.’
Frances’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Just before we left Belvoir, I heard that he was at court, that he had been made a baron. I assumed he had won favour with the king, but perhaps it was the prince who bestowed the honour upon him.’
Raleigh gave a sardonic smile. ‘I imagine your brother prefers his new title, even though it ranks below that of viscount.’
Frances gave a nod.
‘I agree that this is the prince’s doing,’ Raleigh continued, his expression now serious. ‘Certainly he is swelling his court with a coterie of flatterers and fawners. The more people flock to St James’s, the greater his triumph over his father.’ He paused. ‘But what of Edward? Did ambition drive him to court or is he there for other reasons?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Frances was working at a thread that had come loose from her sleeve. ‘Though I fear it is to serve me ill.’
‘And your son – he is of an age with my Carew, is he not? A little young to be sampling the delights of the prince’s court.’
Frances sighed. ‘But not so young as to be able to resist the heresy that pervades that vipers’ nest.’
‘Ah.’ Raleigh moved his chair closer to hers so that their knees were almost touching. ‘I sensed your agitation as soon as you arrived. Your smile did not quite reach those beautiful eyes.’
‘My husband urges me to keep my faith hidden, to deny it to all but God.’ Her voice was rising now and she lowered it, mindful that the servants were within earshot. ‘But I cannot – I will not – stand by and watch my son be damned. Longford too.’ Tears of frustration pooled in her eyes.
Raleigh reached forward and patted her knee. He said nothing and she sensed he was waiting for more.
‘The plots in which I have become embroiled have achieved nothing so far,’ Frances said, her voice low. ‘Arbella and Seymour were married, yet the King of Spain did not stir himself. Instead, Cecil discovered their schemes and the lady resides here, with you and God knows how many other failed Catholics. Forgive me,’ she said hastily, seeing his wounded expression. He waved away her apology.
‘And now the only means to stop the princess marrying a heretic is to persuade her to take my uncle as a husband.’ She rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘Even if Elizabeth does marry a Catholic, what will that achieve? I have seen little evidence of the multitudes who are said to be ready to take up arms and seize the throne for her.’
Raleigh remained silent for a long time but his eyes never left her. ‘What you say of the late plots is true,’ he said at last, his words slow and measured. ‘They have not delivered what was promised. It may be that Lady Vaux and her like play a longer game than we are aware of – that Arbella and your uncle are just two pieces on a board that is covered with hundreds more. But Copernicus has taught us to believe only that which our eyes can see.’
Frances recognised the truth of that. Though she was still engaged in Lady Vaux’s schemes, she no longer believed that they would come to fruition, any more than those of Lady Drummond. She must find a way to escape her clutches and strike out on her own.
‘I see the light of our faith burning even more brightly in your eyes,’ Raleigh continued, bringing her back to the present. ‘That same faith will light the path ahead, leading to everything you desire.’
PART 4
1612
CHAPTER 38
25 May
‘Dead?’
Frances stared at her husband. Thomas nodded.
‘Yesterday, at Marlborough. He had been to Bath, but the waters offered no cure this time.’
She sank onto a chair, her legs trembling
. The idea that Cecil was gone seemed impossible. He had been a constant, menacing presence ever since her first arrival at court eight years before. Even the years she had spent at Tyringham had been blighted by the knowledge that he had set someone to watch her. He had superintended her torture as a suspected witch and had hounded Tom to his death. She had every reason to rejoice. Yet she felt only a creeping numbness.
Thomas came to kneel at her feet and took her icy hands in his. ‘I know it is an even greater shock to you than it was to me, given what you suffered at his hands.’ His expression darkened briefly. ‘Though it was obvious how ill he was, I thought he would outlive us all.’
‘Do you know the cause?’ she asked.
‘They say it was a tumour.’
Frances knew that such growths could return, even if they were cut out. Yet she could not quite push away the feeling of failure. ‘Then he must have died in torment,’ she said, remembering the hiss of his breath as she had examined that first growth with the gentlest of fingers.
Then she thought of Tom, his frail, bloodied body jerking over the cobbles as he was pulled on a hurdle to his execution. It is mine to revenge. I will repay. Frances felt shame that she had not placed greater faith in God’s words. She had read them often enough since Tom’s death, desperate to derive some comfort from them. But they had seemed like the empty promises with which a father pacifies a troublesome child. Now that she knew the truth of them, she should feel triumphant, at peace. But she experienced neither. Just a gnawing pity.
‘They say he died in as much pain of mind as of body,’ Thomas said, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
Frances had supposed Cecil to be incapable of remorse. Certainly he had never shown any throughout the years she had known him. She had seen him dispatch opponents with unblinking efficiency. ‘Surely he was not troubled by his conscience at last.’
Her husband shrugged. ‘A man might set aside all of his former opinions when death is close at hand. Few can meet it with the same sanguinity that—’ He stopped.
‘Thomas?’
Frances could no longer see her husband’s face but something in the way he was holding himself worried her. When he remained silent, she placed her hand on his shoulder. He started at her touch. ‘What is it?’ she asked quietly, keeping her hand quite still.
Thomas’s shoulders sagged. When he turned to her, his eyes were filled with such pain that her heart contracted. He bent to kiss her fingers. ‘I have seen many men die, Frances, most on the field of battle, their life ripped from them by arquebus or sword. Though such a death is quick, the terror still showed in their eyes. How much greater the terror must be if a man knows the hour of his death many days or even weeks before. And if …’ he faltered ‘… and if it is brought upon him slowly, to draw out the terror, the agony.’
Frances’s hands fell slack in his. She knew with a sickening certainty of whom he had spoken.
‘I was there, Frances,’ he said suddenly. ‘I saw Tom die.’
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared down at him. She opened her mouth to speak but could form no words. For almost seven years she had closed her mind to what Tom must have suffered. Many times an image had shocked her – a rope being pulled tight, a knife slicing through flesh – but she had always pushed it away, busying herself with some task, fingers trembling. Only in her dreams had the full horror come rushing in and she had awoken screaming.
‘You were at Westminster?’ The words rasped in her throat.
Thomas inclined his head. ‘I promised that I would not forsake him, that he would turn his face to me, keep his eyes upon mine so that all those filled with hatred or anger or vengeance might fade away and he would see only the truth and comfort of our faith reflected back at him.’
His words were coming as rapidly as his breath now. Frances wanted to shut her ears but could not.
‘I would willingly have given my life for his, Frances,’ he continued, with sincerity. ‘I knew what you were to him – and he to you. All night as I waited by the scaffold, I prayed to God that He might put me in his place.’
Frances thought of how she, too, had spent that night in prayer as she paced the floorboards of that attic room, her words disappearing into the darkness.
‘Though He did not answer my prayers, He did at least give me courage to do as I had promised. But it was as nothing to the courage that Tom showed, Frances. He seemed impervious to the tortures they visited upon him. His gaze never faltered and his eyes were filled with such acceptance, such peace that it silenced the crowds who had bayed for blood just moments before.’
He stopped, as if the words were choking him, his chest heaving with silent grief.
‘Why did you not tell me before now?’ she murmured.
He raised his eyes to hers again. ‘I wanted to – many times. But whenever I mentioned him, it was as if I had scalded you. I feared that if I spoke to you of his death it would be more than you could bear.’ He bent to kiss her fingers. They were wet with his tears when he raised his head again. ‘I feared, too, that you would never forgive me for failing him.’
‘How did you fail him?’
Thomas could not meet her eyes. ‘I stood by the scaffold, so close that I could almost have reached out and touched him. Yet I did nothing to stop the horrors that were visited upon him.’ He was unable to continue.
Frances felt strangely peaceful as she looked down at him, as if something inside her had been set free at last. She touched his cheek, keeping her hand there as she spoke. ‘You did not fail him, Thomas,’ she said softly. ‘You honoured your promise to be with him at the end, though God knows it cost you dearly. Thanks to you, he did not die friendless and alone. You gave him the courage he lacked,’ she whispered, then knelt to hold him close.
The hall was crowded with courtiers and officials when Frances and her husband arrived. The king sat under the canopy of state, Robert Carr at his side. They were in whispered conversation, their heads close together, and every now and then James let out a bark of laughter. She should have known better than to expect a sombre atmosphere, Frances reflected, even though the court had been summoned to be told the news that was already on everyone’s lips: the king’s chief minister was dead.
‘His blood ran black when the surgeons tried to cut out the tumour,’ Frances heard one woman mutter as they passed.
‘What do you expect from such a black-hearted villain?’ her companion retorted scornfully.
Their laughter still echoed in her ears as Frances moved through the throng, gripping Thomas’s hand ever more tightly. Ahead, she saw the unmistakable figure of her uncle. He was whispering something to a young woman, his mouth close to her ear. She giggled as his hand trailed over the plump flesh above her bodice. Frances swallowed her distaste. Clearly the earl saw no reason to desist from his usual habits, now that he was courting the princess. She changed direction but at that moment he turned and saw her.
‘Good day, niece,’ he called, as she curtsied. ‘Sir Thomas.’
‘I trust you are well, my lord?’
Frances detected frost in her husband’s tone, though she knew her uncle would not.
‘Exceedingly so, now that churl is dead at last,’ he replied, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘The pickings will be all the richer for the rest of us.’
‘His Majesty has chosen a successor, then?’ Frances asked. She had grown used to the speed with which the spoils from one official were divided among the others, like carrion among crows.
Her uncle gave a scornful grunt. ‘There will be more than one, niece! The man was as rich as Croesus and had amassed enough titles and offices to sustain an entire court. I look forward to hearing which of them His Majesty has chosen to bestow upon me. After all,’ he added, a slow smile creeping across his face, ‘he will wish to enhance the status of his future son-in-law.’
Frances stifled a grimace. Even though she had done her best to further the match between her uncle and the princes
s for months now, she was no more reconciled to the idea than Elizabeth was. It felt like a betrayal of the affection and trust that had grown between them. She saw how the young woman recoiled every time another gift arrived from the earl, how she discarded each as soon as it had been opened.
‘Silence for the king!’ The lord chamberlain’s voice rang out across the hall, bringing the excited chatter to an abrupt end. James got to his feet and surveyed the expectant faces before him. ‘My lords,’ he began, his voice echoing around the vaulted hall, ‘it seems I have been nurturing a serpent in my breast these nine years.’
A frisson of excitement ran through the gathering. This was unexpected. Frances’s pulse quickened as she waited for James to continue.
‘You will have heard the tidings that the Earl of Salisbury is dead,’ he continued, clearly enjoying the suspense that he had created. ‘Ever since I inherited the Crown of this kingdom I have raised him up above all others. It has pleased me to shower him with titles, lands and offices. Never has so much power been vested in one man.’
Frances heard her uncle’s grunt of assent, but kept her eyes fixed on the dais.
‘And how did he repay me?’ he continued, leaving the question to echo into silence. ‘With lies and betrayal and heresy!’
The company descended into a din of animated chatter as everyone began to speculate what Cecil could have done to deserve such censure.
‘During the earl’s late absence from court, I received intelligence that he had fallen into the same heresy that he pretended to persecute on my behalf,’ James continued, the colour rising to his cheeks as he spoke. ‘I therefore ordered a search of his houses, wherein my officials found ample proof to confirm my suspicions. His private chapel at Hatfield was stuffed with relics, statuary and other tokens of popery.’