by Tracy Borman
He stepped closer, gripping her arm. ‘Your son will never inherit Longford,’ he snarled, his lips almost touching her ear. ‘I would rather see it razed to the ground.’
Frances pulled away from him, as if scalded, shock mingling with hatred. ‘You can do nothing to prevent it,’ she spat back, her voice rising. ‘Our father willed it. His bequest cannot be disputed.’
Edward’s lips curled into a slow smile. ‘That is true, my dear sister,’ he agreed. ‘And I am a dutiful son – I would not dream of going against his wishes.’ He assumed a sorrowful expression. ‘But the will of an ordinary man is as nothing compared to that of a king.’
‘What do you mean?’ Frances demanded.
Edward continued to smile but said nothing. Then he took another step forward so that his face was close to hers and his cloak brushed against her skirts. She forced herself to hold his gaze, though her skin burned and her vision was blurring. He pushed past her, slamming his shoulder against hers so that she was knocked back against the heavy oak frame of the door.
‘Ah, Your Grace,’ she heard him say, as he walked into the princess’s chamber. ‘How well you look today.’
Frances made no move to follow him. The back of her skull throbbed from where it had hit the frame. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thought of Edward’s parting words made her pulse quicken again. Though she had asked their meaning, she had understood it well enough. Her son’s inheritance would be seized by the king if he detected any hint of treason on her part. What her brother could not know was that she was already up to her neck in it.
CHAPTER 41
22 June
Frances turned her face to the sun as she trailed her hand over the side of the barge. The branches of the dogwood trees that lined the river on either side of them weighed heavy with blossoms, soft pink and white, the delicate fragrance carried on the warm breeze.
On days such as this, she could almost forget the troubles that weighed like a stone upon her heart and surrender herself to the pleasures that nature offered. Edward’s sniping seemed far distant, Lady Vaux’s threats as insubstantial as a dream.
She smiled as she thought of how she had lain in Thomas’s arms last night, his fingertips toying with her breast as he kissed her. She had been overjoyed at his return, which was even earlier than he had predicted, thanks to a turn in the weather. It must have vexed the king sorely to see the sun shining as soon as he returned to London. Thomas had been as hungry for her as she was for him. Their lovemaking had been frenzied at first and they had tugged impatiently at each other’s clothes, desperate for release. Only afterwards had they fully undressed and lain on the bed, their breath gradually slowing as the soft breeze drifted through the open window, cooling their skin.
The bark of her uncle’s laughter intruded upon her reverie. She closed her eyes again as she tried to summon the delicious memory of last night, but it had already faded. With a sigh, she raised herself and looked to where the princess was sitting.
‘I was quite the sailor, in my youth,’ he declared, loud enough for Elizabeth’s ladies to hear. ‘The old queen would have put me in command of her fleet, if that fool Raleigh hadn’t so beguiled her. It is a mercy that Your Grace’s father has greater sense, eh?’
Elizabeth recoiled as he leered at her. He seemed blissfully unaware that she had not spoken two words together since they had left the landing stage at Whitehall. No doubt he thought she was in thrall to him, Frances mused disdainfully. She knew she ought to intervene, as she had during their other encounters, distracting the princess from his boorishness with a well-timed observation or deftly changing the subject of conversation during one of his dreary monologues. If she had failed to make him more appealing as a suitor, then she had at least saved her mistress from the worst aspects of his company.
After a few minutes, her uncle’s voice trailed off. Even he was incapable of sustaining a conversation indefinitely, when the other party failed to offer any response. In the silence that followed, Frances was drifting towards sleep, the soft lapping of the waters against the side of the barge soothing her mind.
‘The princess must keep late hours if her attendants are so exhausted.’
Frances’s eyes snapped open. Robert Carr was sitting on the bench next to her, a simpering smile on his face. She had not heard him approach.
‘The warmth of the sun lulls me to sleep,’ she replied, sitting up. Her temples pulsed with the movement and she felt suddenly nauseous. The barge was nearing London Bridge now and the rapid waters were making it sway and lurch.
Carr glanced at the princess, the sun catching his reddish hair as he turned. ‘Your uncle seems to be making some progress there.’
It was more a question than a statement. His piercing eyes studied her closely as he waited for her to answer. Frances knew that his hopes of marrying Lady Howard rested on her uncle’s ability to secure her an annulment from her current husband. She had heard little of the matter since Lady Vaux first mentioned it, and the lady in question had been seen only seldom at court. But then, as the king’s closest favourite, Carr was obliged to keep his liaison discreet.
‘My mistress is pleasant towards all of her guests, my lord,’ Frances replied evenly. ‘Tell me, how do your own affairs prosper?’
She caught the flash of irritation in his eyes before he recovered himself.
‘The king has been most generous since the Earl of Salisbury’s death.’ He smiled. ‘He means to govern more closely from now on, rather than trusting his affairs to another chief minister, and has appointed me to undertake many of the earl’s former duties.’
Frances hoped the scorn did not show in her face. Carr might be the chief favourite, but he had neither the ability nor the dedication to fulfil the duties of the late chief minister. Besides, she doubted that James’s resolve to take control would last for very long. His obsessions burned brightly but were soon extinguished – excepting his obsession with witches, she acknowledged. ‘Then I congratulate you, my lord,’ she said pleasantly. She paused. ‘I trust that your personal affairs also prosper?’
A slight flush crept up the white skin of his neck.
‘We both know of what you speak, Lady Frances,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘But I can discern no progress in that quarter. Your uncle assured me that he would secure his ward’s annulment by Shrovetide, but that has long since passed. If he does not soon arrange matters to my satisfaction, I will have little choice but to abandon his. God knows it is a thankless task, trying to persuade the king that your uncle would make an excellent son-in-law. He is more than twenty years His Majesty’s senior, let alone his daughter. The only reason my master has not rejected the idea out of hand is that he knows it vexes the prince.’
Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘So the king does not intend to support any of the suitors his son favours?’
‘The prince might secure the most powerful man in Christendom for his sister and their father would still find fault with his choice. He would even agree to a Catholic son-in-law if he thought it would frustrate his son.’
‘But the princess is greatly in thrall to her brother and would do anything to please him,’ Frances pointed out, glancing at her mistress to assure herself they were not overheard.
Carr’s gaze intensified. ‘Prince Henry might think that he holds all before him, but his power does not reach beyond the confines of St James’s. Even now, in the absence of a chief minister, the king has no intention of bestowing any authority upon his heir. He despises him so much that I would not wonder if he found a way to disinherit him.’
Although she was well aware of the antipathy that had long existed between James and his son, Frances had not known how deep it ran.
‘He could not do so, of course,’ Carr continued. ‘The laws of this kingdom are such that the rightful order of succession cannot be overthrown. Besides, even James knows that his second-born son is little more than a simpleton, much though he dotes upon him, and could never wear a cr
own.’
What of his daughter? Frances wanted to say, but knew she must keep her counsel. ‘So the king contents himself with frustrating Prince Henry’s ambitions?’ she asked instead.
Carr gave a dismissive wave. ‘And all those who pay court to him. Though they share in his bounty now, if their young master were to fall, they would collapse around him like a house of cards.’
An image of Edward’s smirking face flitted before Frances and she was elated at the thought of his being ejected from court, disgraced, along with the prince’s other minions. If only Henry might test the military prowess that he so often boasted of and go to fight in some foreign land. She pictured him lying on a battlefield, bloodied and defeated, his lifeless eyes fixed upon the sky.
The shouts of a small crowd that had gathered to watch the princess’s barge as it passed the Tower jolted her from her thoughts. She was suddenly aware that Carr was watching her closely.
‘He is hardly like to fall, though, is he?’ Frances said carefully.
A slow smile crept across Carr’s face. ‘Perhaps not,’ he murmured, leaning forward. ‘But, then, life is sometimes short, is it not, Lady Frances?’
Upon their return to the palace that afternoon, Frances was unable to settle to her duties. She had given up on her embroidery, having pricked her finger more times than the silk that was stretched over the frame on her lap. Neither had she been able to muster even a feigned interest in the jewels her mistress should wear for the masque that evening.
‘What ails you, Fran?’ the princess asked gently.
Frances smiled. Even though Elizabeth had called her by the diminutive since the earliest days of her service, she still felt a swell of gratitude for the affection that had grown between them. Her smile faltered as she glanced at Blanche, who was sitting in the window seat, pretending not to listen.
‘I have not been sleeping well these past weeks,’ Frances answered truthfully. ‘Perhaps it is the change of seasons – the daylight lingers far more now.’
The princess did not reply but continued to look at her. ‘You have grown thin, too, and so pale,’ she persisted, her brow creasing with concern. ‘You are not ill? I could ask one of my father’s physicians to attend you.’
Frances gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile and reached forward to kiss the young woman’s hand. ‘I am touched by your care, ma’am, but promise that I am quite well. I am sure that my appetite will return as soon as I am more rested.’ Then Frances diverted the conversation to other matters. She had to force herself to concentrate as her mistress chattered on about the latest court gossip – how Lady Dorset had slighted the Earl of Oxford for speaking ill of her husband, the scandal that had been caused by the Countess of Pembroke’s gown being trimmed with ermine, the lord chamberlain’s disapproval of the masque that had been chosen …
‘Of course, the topic that excites most gossip is who will be Your Grace’s next suitor.’ Blanche’s silken voice floated across the chamber when the princess paused for breath.
Frances saw her mistress’s animated face cloud. ‘I am sure the princess does not wish to join the speculation, Lady Blanche,’ she cut in sharply.
Elizabeth sighed. ‘It’s all right, Fran,’ she said, with resignation. ‘Blanche is right. The matter of my marriage has dragged on for so long now that everyone must wonder when a suitable husband will be found for me.’ She stood abruptly and crossed to the small casket she kept locked on the dresser. Fumbling for the key that hung from a cord at her waist, she opened it, drew out a letter and unfolded it. ‘My brother writes that another suitor has been found, that he exceeds all others as the sun outshines the moon.’
Frances hid a sneer. It was just the sort of overblown language that the prince would use. His speech was as gaudy as his attire.
‘He is Frederick the Fifth, Count Palatine of the Rhine. A Protestant, of course, and very close in age to me – in fact, I am but a week older.’
‘Better than forty or more years your senior,’ Blanche muttered, her eyes flashing with triumph as she looked across at Frances.
‘My brother has already sent an emissary to treat with him on my behalf.’
Frances was surprised. ‘Without your father’s sanction? Surely he holds sway in such matters.’
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Henry can be impetuous sometimes, but he is so anxious to secure my happiness.’
Frances bit back a retort.
‘The count is a fine young man, by all accounts,’ her mistress continued, ‘very learned and devout.’
‘When will he come to meet Your Grace?’ Blanche asked archly. She seemed a good deal less surprised by the news than she herself had been, Frances noticed.
‘Henry does not say,’ Elizabeth replied, sinking back into her chair. ‘Perhaps it is too soon to judge.’
Frances studied her closely. Though the princess had been careful to appear grateful for her brother’s efforts, her flat tone had betrayed her fear that this prince, too, would soon prove a disappointment.
There was a long pause, during which Frances tried to convey her sympathy and reassurance with a smile.
‘Well, this is wonderful news!’ Blanche broke the silence. Both women turned to her. ‘The count sounds like an excellent young man, and deserving of your hand. I offer you my hearty congratulations, ma’am.’
‘You are too hasty, Blanche!’ the princess almost shouted, pushing back her chair.
Frances saw the woman’s eyes widen briefly before she composed herself again.
‘Frederick and I have not even exchanged letters yet. We are very far from being betrothed.’ With that she strode towards the door. Reaching for the handle, she swung around. ‘Come, Frances,’ she said briskly. ‘There is light enough yet for a ride.’
Frances could not help but feel a rush of satisfaction at her rival’s disgrace. How often she had suffered the young woman’s jibes, always delivered with a smile so that the princess was not alerted. Now she allowed herself a brief, triumphant glance at Blanche, before following her mistress out towards the stables.
CHAPTER 42
29 July
It was already dusk when Frances returned to her apartment. The princess had excused herself from that evening’s entertainments on account of a headache, but had asked Frances to keep her company in her privy chamber. She had said little at first and Frances had maintained a tactful silence, knowing her mistress’s temperament well enough to judge that it was better to wait for her to unburden herself unprompted.
At length, Elizabeth had confided that she had received a miniature of Count Frederick. It had not pleased her. Frances had understood why when she had shown it to her. With his large round eyes and plump cheeks, he looked much younger than his fifteen years – little more than a child, really, Frances reflected, as she studied the likeness. His lace collar was so high around his neck that it appeared to be choking him, and his narrow shoulders hinted at fragility.
But Frances knew she could not be complacent. For as long as Prince Henry championed the match, his sister would offer no objection. Indeed, she would make herself as pleasing as possible to her new suitor to show her gratitude to her beloved brother. Even so, Frederick’s physical shortcomings, with Lord Carr’s remarks about the king’s stance, gave Frances cause to hope that she might yet steer her mistress towards a Catholic suitor.
Lord Carr’s other remarks had played on her mind, too. Life is sometimes short, Lady Frances. Those words had come back to her time and again, sparking a torrent of dark thoughts. It was treason even to speak of the king’s death, let alone do anything to hasten it. The same was not true of his son and heir. She tried to dispel the notion. Even if Henry’s murder would rid the kingdom of a wicked heretic, it was sinful in the eyes of God, she reminded herself. He had commanded: Thou shalt not kill. Anyone who disobeyed would suffer the fires of Hell. Yet still the idea had gnawed at her, invading her dreams when she finally surrendered to sleep.
The sconces had not ye
t been lit and in the gloom of the corridor she was obliged to fumble for the latch. She startled when it was suddenly lifted but relaxed when Thomas opened the door. Her smile faded when she saw his expression. Did he know?
‘Forgive my tardiness,’ she said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘The princess was a little fretful this evening and it took me a long time to calm her.’ She drew off her cloak and draped it over a chair. Seeing that a jug of wine had been set on the table, she made towards it but Thomas stepped in front of her. His eyes were clouded with something she could not quite fathom. Then she realised it was fear.
Without warning, he clasped her to him so tightly that he almost squeezed the breath from her. She could feel the rapid pulse of his heart against her cheek.
‘Tell me what has happened.’
He did not answer at first, but held her even closer, as if he feared she might suddenly fade away.
‘Come – sit with me by the fire,’ he said, releasing her at last. ‘There is a chill to the air tonight, is there not?’ He was speaking quickly now, his movements awkward as he pulled out a chair for her.
‘You are making me fearful, Thomas,’ she said, a little too brightly, as she waited for him to speak.
He was immediately chastened. ‘Forgive me,’ he replied, running his hand through his hair. ‘That was not my intention.’ He gulped some wine.
Frances noticed his hand tremble as he set down the glass.
‘I accompanied the king on a hunt today, as you know,’ he began. ‘He did not plan to return until sunset, but our party was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger carrying grave tidings.’
Frances tried to stop her mind racing on, but she knew from her husband’s behaviour that whatever those tidings were they must concern her.
‘A conspiracy has been uncovered in Lancashire,’ he went on.
Frances relaxed slightly. She had no connection in that part of the country. Neither, to her knowledge, did Lady Vaux’s or Lady Drummond’s networks stretch that far north.