by Tracy Borman
Frances watched Henry’s pale cheeks redden. He was staring at the back of his father’s head, mute with rage. Then her gaze rested upon Elizabeth, who looked utterly wretched.
‘Sweet Liz, do not take on so.’ The king tried to soothe her. ‘It is a daughter’s duty to lessen her father’s disappointment in her sex by bringing him a profitable marriage.’
The princess looked down at her hands. Frances could not tell whether it was to conceal the anger that she herself felt, or her apprehension at meeting this new suitor. She was glad that their first meeting would be rather more private than the lavish reception that had been staged for Prince Gustavus. Only a few favoured courtiers and attendants were gathered in the king’s presence chamber.
Everyone turned at the sound of advancing footsteps. A moment later, a liveried servant appeared. ‘Count Frederick has arrived, Your Majesty,’ the young man announced.
James gave a grunt and took a long gulp of wine, then swiped the remnants from his lips. ‘Then ye’d best show him in,’ he said brusquely.
The princess’s eyes flew towards the door and she stood awkwardly, her fingers worrying at the lace on her sleeve.
‘Come and stand by me, Elizabeth,’ Anne said gently.
Her daughter obeyed, moving so close to her mother that her skirts brushed against the queen’s arm. Anne clasped her hand. She did not release her grip as a fanfare of trumpets rang out across the corridor beyond, closely followed by the clipping of heels on the polished oak floorboards.
All the company below the dais made obeisance, heads bowed, as the count walked slowly into the room. Frances caught the scent of orange blossom and saw the flash of gold and green silk as he stepped lightly past.
‘Count Frederick, ye’re welcome.’ James’s voice, slightly slurred, echoed around the chamber.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
For a moment, Frances thought the princess had spoken. The voice was as delicate as the perfume she had inhaled as he entered the room. There was a rustle of skirts as the company rose from their obeisance. All eyes were trained upon the small figure kneeling at the king’s feet. Frances stared. From this angle, the count looked barely older than George. His frame was as slender as a colt’s and his skin appeared all the whiter against the dark brown hair that curled at his collar.
Frances turned to watch the princess, who was staring down at her suitor with near-amusement. As her father gestured for him to stand, he stepped lightly over to kiss Elizabeth’s hand. She was a good deal taller than him, Frances noticed, even though the heels of his satin shoes were higher than was the fashion.
‘Your Highness.’ Prince Henry saluted him with an elaborate bow.
As Frederick turned to make his own obeisance, Frances studied his face. His deep brown eyes were so large that they gave him a look of surprise. He had dark, bushy eyebrows, a long nose and soft pink lips. His starched lace collar was so high that it touched his chin, just as it did in the miniature her mistress had been sent, and around his neck he wore a medal suspended from a green silk ribbon. He reminded Frances of the portraits she had seen of the old queen’s younger brother Edward, the boy king, whose slender limbs had been disguised by thickly padded doublets to emulate his father’s imposing silhouette.
At that moment, Frederick gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward carrying a box covered with red velvet. He handed it to his master, who addressed the princess. ‘I would like to give you this as a token of my esteem,’ he trilled, in perfect English, with only a hint of a Germanic accent.
Elizabeth accepted the box with a polite smile. But as she made to draw back the cover, a yelp came from within and she almost dropped it. Gingerly, she lifted a corner of the fabric and peered underneath, then exclaimed with delight. ‘A puppy!’
The velvet dropped to the floor as she held the box close to her face and gazed at the tiny quivering creature, her eyes alight with joy. Frederick smiled at her excitement. Frances could not help but feel glad. This latest suitor might not be any more to her mistress’s taste than the last, but at least he had already shown greater judgement.
Elizabeth set the box on the floor and crouched to open it. Reaching in, she scooped up the puppy and cradled it in her arms, stroking its head until it calmed. It really was the most exquisite creature – more like a baby badger than a dog, Frances thought, with black patches over its eyes and creamy white fur covering the rest of its body. Elizabeth’s smile faltered when she looked at the prince, whose smug satisfaction was evident. He should not be so quick to triumph, Frances mused. It would take more than a well-judged gift to convince his sister – and their father – that the young count was an ideal suitor.
The king stood, signalling that the meeting was at a close. Count Frederick bowed as he stepped down from the dais, then waited until the rest of the royal party had departed before following in their wake.
Although the entertainments staged for Count Frederick had continued long into the night, Frances was awake early the next day. Thomas had already left, the king having decided to take his prospective son-in-law on a hunting expedition. She could not imagine the delicate young man relishing the prospect of joining that bloody spectacle, but the marriage negotiations were at too early a stage to risk causing offence.
Crossing to the ewer, Frances splashed water on her face, hoping to cleanse away the creeping unease she had felt since last night’s reception. Although she had successfully avoided Countess Cecily, who had been seated with her husband at the opposite side of the hall, she had been aghast to see her in conference with Edward during a pause between the two masques. Their conversation had lasted for several minutes, and she had tried to judge from Cecily’s expression whether its subject was more serious than the usual pleasantries of a first introduction. That they had not turned in her direction gave her cause to hope that it was not. But she did not doubt that her brother would soon devise another meeting with his new acquaintance.
‘Are you really a witch?’
Frances swung around. Her son was watching her from his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. She tried to soften her gaze as she saw his eyes widen in fear. Feeling as if the breath was being squeezed from her body, she said, ‘Who would tell you such a thing, George?’
‘Are you?’
Frances took a step towards him but was dismayed to see him cringe.
‘Darling, you must have been dreaming,’ she said as she went to him, disguising her anguish at the terror in his eyes. She reached out to stroke his hair, but he jerked away from her. ‘George,’ she said, more firmly this time. ‘You must tell me who has been filling your head with such wickedness.’
‘They put you in the Tower but you cast a spell on the king so that he would set you free.’
Frances felt the blood drain from her face as she looked down at her son. This explained his sullenness of late, the way she would catch him staring at her with something between curiosity and revulsion. She experienced a wave of guilt as she thought of how she had assumed he had been attending his lessons as usual. She had been too preoccupied with her own worries to enquire more closely into his activities in Prince Charles’s household. Edward must have spent a few moments alone with his nephew.
‘George, you must listen to me,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘I am not a witch. I was wrongfully accused, many years ago. When he realised that, the king ordered my release.’
Her son gazed up at her doubtfully.
‘I speak the truth, George,’ she continued. ‘Whoever told you this did so out of mischief and malice. I am the same mother whom you loved and who has loved you since the day you drew breath.’
Her voice faltered as her throat grew tighter and she inhaled deeply to stop the tears.
‘Besides, witches exist only in fables,’ she continued, her tone lighter.
‘That is not true!’ George exclaimed, with such force that she was taken aback. ‘The prince says that witches are everywhere and that we mus
t hunt them down and burn them before they cast their evil spells.’
Frances had to remind herself to breathe. ‘The prince? He has spoken to you of this – of me?’
Her son clamped his mouth shut again and stared at her, defiant.
‘Tell me, George!’ she cried, grasping his shoulders.
She felt him stiffen and saw his lips quiver. ‘Or I will go and ask the prince myself.’
‘No!’ the boy cried, ashen-faced. ‘You must not. He told me it was a secret, that I must not tell—’ He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders heaved as he began to sob. A mixture of rage and pity made her fingers tremble as she stroked her son’s arms, then pulled away his hands so that she could wipe his tears. Slowly, she lay down next to him, drawing his small frame to her so that his back was cradled against her stomach. After a while, his breathing grew calmer, the sobs less frequent. She had just begun to wonder if he had fallen asleep when he whispered, ‘I am sorry, Mama.’
‘Hush now, my love.’ She kissed the back of his neck. ‘All is well, all is well.’
They lay like that for a long time, until Frances heard his breath become shallower, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic movements. She longed for the same sweet oblivion of sleep, but her whole body seemed to pulse with fury as she thought of how the prince had tried to poison her son’s mind against her.
What if he were to choke upon his own poison?
Raleigh’s words came to her suddenly. Though she tried to push them away, it was as if he was there now, murmuring them into her ear over and over again. She allowed her mind to wander. Root of mandrake would stop his breath, choking him within but leaving no trace outside his body. A few drops would suffice. She imagined herself leaning over his sleeping form, the phial poised over his lips.
No.
She would not stoop to such wickedness. If she did, God would be her judge: she would live out her days sure in the knowledge that when her own breath stopped she would descend to the eternal fires of Hell. She must find another way to avenge herself.
Again, she thought of the indenture. Had she come close to finding it the other day? If she had had more time, had been more thorough … But there were many other places where Edward might have hidden the document. It was like searching the ocean for a single pearl. She must not give up, though. It was the only way to stop him carrying out his threat. She did not allow herself to dwell upon the possibility that, even if she succeeded, the prince might carry out her brother’s work for him.
CHAPTER 49
27 October
‘There, my sweeting,’ the princess said, as she gave the dog another comfit. Its tongue lapped at her outstretched palm long after it had swallowed the treat.
‘You should not indulge him so,’ Frances chided, with a smile, ‘or he will grow too stout for those tiny legs.’
Elizabeth nuzzled the pup’s nose, causing its little tail to wag furiously. ‘Do not listen to her, Falstaff,’ she said, casting a rueful smile at her attendant. She giggled delightedly as the dog licked her face, then set it on her lap. Within a few minutes, it was dozing contentedly. Elizabeth gave a heavy sigh.
‘How do you like the count, Your Grace?’ Frances asked lightly.
Blanche shot her a look of reproof. ‘I wonder that you have forgotten Prince Henry’s orders so soon, Lady Frances,’ she remarked, with scorn.
‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ Frances said, ignoring Blanche. ‘I did not mean to pry.’
She was gratified to see her mistress give the other woman a withering look.
‘Frederick is a dear boy. So kind and attentive. But …’ her smile wavered ‘… I cannot think he is only a week younger than me. It seems a year at least – more, even.’
‘He will gain in height yet, ma’am,’ Blanche opined. ‘By the time you are married he will far exceed you in that respect.’
‘If we are married, Blanche,’ Elizabeth retorted petulantly. ‘Nothing is decided yet.’
Frances smothered a smile. She must be careful to show no interest in the matter. God knew she had troubles enough to contend with. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her rival watching her, but she directed her own gaze towards the window.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. The little dog jumped up at once and began yapping frantically.
‘Hush, little one,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It is only a visitor and you must get used to those.’
A moment later, the door was opened by one of the yeomen.
‘Her Grace the Countess of Rutland, Your Highness,’ he announced.
Frances rose to curtsy as Cecily walked in, straight-backed, her head held high.
‘What a pleasure it is to meet you again, Lady Cecily,’ the princess said, when they were all seated. ‘I hope you enjoyed the entertainments the other evening.’
‘Very much, Your Grace.’ The countess simpered. ‘My husband has often told me of the splendours of your father’s court, and I can see now that he was in earnest.’
Falstaff gave a loud yawn as he traced a circle on his mistress’s lap. Cecily’s nose wrinkled in distaste.
‘Pets are such a blessing, are they not, Lady Cecily?’ the princess remarked, gazing down at the dog, who obliged her by licking her finger.
‘Indeed,’ the older woman replied curtly.
They lapsed into silence. Elizabeth seemed oblivious to the absence of conversation as she petted the little creature.
‘I was very glad to meet your brother at last, Lady Frances,’ the countess said at length.
Frances saw interest in Blanche’s eyes. She smiled politely.
‘He was every bit as charming as I had been led to believe,’ Cecily continued, ‘and clearly a doting brother. He wanted to know all about your stay at Belvoir. He must have found your prolonged absence hard to bear.’
‘No harder than I did,’ Frances replied, her smile sweet as marchpane as she swallowed bile. She glanced at the princess, hoping she might change the conversation, but the girl was still too distracted by her dog.
‘Baron Longford is indeed a fine young man,’ Blanche observed smoothly. ‘It is no wonder that the prince shows him such favour.’
The countess beamed at her. ‘I said so to the earl, after our meeting,’ she agreed. ‘We have been invited to dine with them both tomorrow evening.’
At that moment, Falstaff leaped from his mistress’s lap and scurried to the door, pawing at it frantically. The princess rose at once to follow him.
‘Forgive me, Lady Rutland,’ she said, ‘but my dog needs to run about in the gardens for a while. Perhaps we might meet again another time.’
‘Of course,’ Cecily said tightly.
Frances allowed herself to enjoy a brief moment of glee that the countess had been superseded by a puppy. She knew it was a small victory, but it helped relieve some of the tension she felt.
She bobbed the briefest of curtsies as Cecily swept past her. Elizabeth stooped to gather the writhing animal into her arms, then hastened into the corridor.
‘I will accompany you, Your Grace,’ Blanche said quickly, glaring at Frances, then slammed the door behind her.
Frances was glad to be on her own at last. She was exhausted from the strain under which she had laboured these past few days. Thoughts of her conversation with George had churned in her mind, stoking her fury against the prince. She had said nothing of it to Thomas, afraid lest he chastise her son and destroy the fragile trust that the boy had come to place in her once more. But it had been a heavy burden to carry alone.
To stave off the feeling that she was powerless to do anything other than wait for Edward and the prince to destroy her, she had tried to focus upon the task of finding the indenture, considering all of the places where her brother might have lodged it, increasingly convinced that he had it in safe-keeping at St James’s. That was where he spent most of his time, after all, and the prince would be only too happy to supply a discreet place for it. It might even be with
one of his officials – someone he could trust not to read its contents.
Frances sank back into her chair and closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples. She imagined herself in the woods at Longford, gazing up at the branches that swayed overhead as she breathed in the sharp tang of wild garlic and pine. Her breathing steadied, bringing a delicious calm, which lulled her to sleep.
She awoke with a start and rubbed her neck as she glanced quickly around the room. The princess and Blanche must still be in the gardens. She had no idea how long she had slept, but she must make haste and prepare her mistress’s attire for the evening.
She stood abruptly, causing the blood to roar in her ears and her vision to cloud. As she moved towards the dressing room, her eye was arrested by one of the paintings on the wall opposite. It showed a hunting scene, which she had always thought at odds with her mistress’s taste. Noticing that it was slightly askew, she reached to straighten it, but her sleeve snagged on the frame and it crashed to the floor. Cursing, she stooped to pick it up, and froze. Tucked into the back of the frame was a neatly folded document. Heart thrumming, she prised it free and turned it over. She gasped as she recognised the prince’s seal. She cast an anxious glance towards the door. Her mistress would return at any moment, Blanche with her. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the document.
Indenture, made this third day of August …
Frances stared, as if fearing the words would disappear before her eyes. Quickly, she scanned the rest of the script, desperate to be sure.
Longford.
Her heart soared. She had found it. The signatures at the foot of the page confirmed that it was the same indenture that Edward had flourished before her at Hampton Court, the memory of which had plagued her ever since. So he had given it to Blanche for safe-keeping. How like him to make her hide it under his sister’s nose. She thought of her mother’s old painting, which she had been so convinced was where he had concealed the indenture. That had always hung in the room belonging to the most important person in the house. The same was true of this hunting scene, which was displayed in the heart of the princess’s chamber. It was so simple, now she thought about it. Yet her brother would have outwitted her, just as he had when they were children, if it had not been for that blessed piece of lace, which now hung ragged from her sleeve.