by Tracy Borman
Just then, Frances heard a distant yelp followed by footsteps along the corridor outside. Quickly, she folded the document and stuffed it inside the pocket of her gown. Her hands still trembling, she lifted the picture and positioned it over the nail in the panelling. The footsteps grew louder and she heard the princess call to her dog. Frantically, her fingers fumbled for the thin cord that was strung across the back of the painting. At last, she felt it snag over the nail. Releasing the frame, she shifted it over the panelling, careful to leave it slightly askew as before.
As the latch was lifted, Frances bolted to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer, riffling idly through its contents as if trying to find a particular accessory.
‘Are you still here, Lady Frances?’
She turned to see Blanche watching her, eyes narrowed.
‘You have had ample time to prepare our mistress’s apparel. I hope you have not been sleeping. Your cheeks are very flushed.’
‘Oh, leave her be, Blanche!’ Elizabeth snapped, before Frances could answer. ‘It is hours yet before the masque begins.’
Frances turned back to the chest, hiding her smile as she forced herself to concentrate on the gorgeous array of satin gloves and ribbons. ‘The peacock blue this evening, I think, ma’am,’ she said, still looking down into the drawer.
‘I agree,’ the princess called from inside her bedchamber.
Frances thought for a moment, then went to join her mistress. She could feel Blanche’s eyes on her back but did not turn for fear of exciting her suspicion.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, as she stood at the threshold.
Elizabeth turned to her, brow creased with concern. ‘What is it, Fran?’ She pulled her into the room. ‘Are you sure you are well? I have been so worried after what happened the other week …’
‘I am quite well, I promise,’ Frances said, with a smile.
The princess studied her face. ‘You look better. The colour has returned to your cheeks at last.’
Frances’s eyes sparkled with affection for her mistress. ‘Will you forgive me if I miss this evening’s entertainments?’ she ventured.
The princess’s smile faded. ‘You are ill. Oh, Frances, I cannot bear to lose you again,’ she cried, her eyes filling with tears.
Frances felt such a rush of love for her that, for a moment, she could not speak. She pressed her lips to Elizabeth’s hands. ‘I will never leave you again – not of my own free will,’ she added quietly. ‘And I assure you that I am in perfect health. But Blanche was right. I was sleeping earlier and I would rest some more this evening, if you will permit it.’
‘Of course,’ Elizabeth said, brushing away her tears. ‘But what has made you so tired?’
Frances made a decision. ‘It is the best of reasons.’ She gestured at her stomach.
The princess gave a small gasp, then clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘You are …’
Frances nodded.
‘Oh, Fran! This is wonderful news. Thomas must be delighted. And I shall have a new playmate.’ She hugged her tightly.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Frances murmured, when they parted. ‘But I pray you, let it be our secret for now. Thomas knows, of course, but it is early yet and I would not have others thinking I am too fragile to fulfil my duties.’
She imagined Blanche with her ear pressed to the other side of the door. The princess nodded vigorously and pressed her fingers to her lips. Then she said, in a voice loud enough for Blanche to hear, ‘Now go, Frances, and get some rest. It will look ill if my attendant sleeps her way through this evening’s masque. But you must be here all the earlier tomorrow.’
Frances grinned and mouthed her thanks, then walked towards the door, trying hard to appear downcast. Blanche was sitting close by, her needle suspended over a torn sash in her lap. Her eyes narrowed as Frances passed. It took a supreme effort of will not to glance at the painting as she left the room.
CHAPTER 50
27 October
Frances stole along the deserted streets. She had kept close to the river for most of the way, but as soon as she had seen the squat tower of Temple Church to her left, she had turned up the narrow lane that led towards it. Continuing north, she had soon reached the Rolls Chapel on Chancery Lane, its elaborate carved stonework casting shadows beneath her feet. Almost there.
Her breath misted in the chill air, but the blood was pumping so fast around her body that she felt as warm as if she had been sitting with Thomas by the fire. It pained her to think of how his eyes had clouded when she told him that she craved some fresh evening air. He had offered to fetch Mistress Knvyett to watch over George so that he might accompany her, but she had assured him that she would not be gone for long – that he must indulge the sudden whims of his pregnant wife. The lie was still on her lips as she kissed him goodbye. More and more, she hated the deceit. It lay like a cold stone between them. She prayed that he did not feel it too.
At last, Frances saw the bell tower of Gray’s Inn silhouetted against the night sky. Her footsteps came to an abrupt halt, as if a great chasm had suddenly opened in the street ahead. She knew the risks involved, that doing what she had resolved upon might result in her brother’s death. She reached into her pocket and ran her fingers along the smooth paper. It is his death or yours. The thought had run through her mind since she had discovered the document. Pushing it away now, she forged ahead towards the gatehouse, its marble archway ghostly white against the gloom of the buildings beyond.
She gave her name to the elderly porter, who showed no inclination to leave the warmth of the fire that she could see blazing within his small turret and simply gestured towards the chamber she sought. It lay at the north-eastern end of the first quadrant, and as Frances walked briskly towards it she uttered a silent prayer that the gentleman she had come to see would keep late hours. Glancing up at the windows, she saw that most were in darkness. But as she drew closer, she could just make out a faint glimmer between the cracks of some shutters at a ground-floor window, close to where the porter had directed her. Her heart gave a lurch and she quickened her step as she made her way towards it.
She knocked lightly and listened, but could hear nothing. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. She was about to knock again when the door opened. The young man regarded her closely for a few moments.
‘Master Beecham?’
‘Forgive me,’ he replied, ‘I am not used to receiving visitors at this hour, Mistress …?’
‘Lady Frances Tyringham,’ she replied. ‘But you may perhaps know me as Frances Gorges.’
She saw his eyes widen before he gave a tight bow and ushered her inside.
The chamber was smaller than she had imagined, and every wall was lined with books. On the large desk at which he had been working were numerous papers, some stacked precariously at the edge but all neatly ordered. Tom had always said that one could judge the skill of a lawyer by the volume of papers in his chambers.
His former colleague busied himself with clearing a space for her to sit. Jacob was younger than she had expected, though he had entered Gray’s Inn at the same time as Tom. He was small in stature and his hair was even lighter than the princess’s, which added to his youthful appearance. ‘Please.’ He gestured to the now empty chair on the opposite side of his desk.
He looked at her for a moment and seemed to hesitate, his clear blue eyes suddenly grave. ‘Tom said that you might come here, though I expected you long before this. I still miss him, Lady Frances. He was a good friend and an excellent lawyer – a good deal more so than I, I fear.’
‘Tom always spoke very highly of you,’ she said. ‘I know he trusted you, which gives me hope that I may do so too.’
‘Of course,’ Jacob replied earnestly. ‘I would be glad to help in any way I can. Is it the deed? I notice that you have not yet drawn any interest from the land, though you might have done these six years past.’
Frances felt her throat constrict at the memory of what Tom had done for her. The land he
had bequeathed her – in the queen’s name, so that their association would not be discovered – had offered her the prospect of escaping court if his treachery was discovered. It had stood as a testament of the strength of his love for her. In time, she would transfer the land to their son.
Jacob gave a small cough, prompting a response.
‘I am sorry, Master Beecham,’ Frances said quickly. ‘You are right – I must make arrangements for the deed. But that is not the matter I wish to discuss with you now.’
She took a breath, then drew the indenture out of her pocket and placed it on the table between them. Jacob’s eyes lowered to it and she saw them linger upon the Prince of Wales’s seal, but he remained silent and waited for her to continue.
‘Tom may have told you that my family’s estate is Longford Castle in Wiltshire.’
Jacob nodded. ‘He said you were very fond of it.’
‘It means a great deal to me, yes. When my father died two years ago, he bequeathed it not to my eldest brother, Edward, but to my son George. He doted on him,’ she added, by way of explanation.
‘And your brother accepted this?’ Though his tone was light, his eyes were sharp, scrutinising.
‘He had no choice – my father had made sure of the terms.’ She hesitated. ‘But he has determined to wrest back, by other means, what he sees as his rightful inheritance. Please.’ She gestured at the document.
Jacob opened it with the same reverence she had seen Tom employ when working on his deeds and conveyances. She watched his face carefully as he read, but his expression remained inscrutable. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the grate and the soft rustle of paper as he made his way down the script. When he had finished, he folded the paper and kept his hands lightly resting upon it as he spoke. ‘Your brother is determined indeed,’ he observed quietly.
Frances nodded, her jaw clenched. She had no wish to give vent to the bitterness and fury that had lingered inside her since Edward had told her of the document. Lawyers responded only to facts.
‘But in order for this indenture to come into force, you or your son would need to be convicted of some felony – or worse.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘Your son must still be a minor, so the onus rests upon you, Lady Frances.’
She tried to swallow but her mouth had dried.
‘What is the likelihood that you will face such a conviction?’ he persisted.
Frances let out a quiet breath before replying. ‘My brother harbours no evidence – to my knowledge – that I have been involved in any treachery,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘But he means to have me convicted of witchcraft.’
Still he did not flinch, merely leaned forward and pressed his fingers together.
‘That is a crime for which scant evidence is required, as I am sure you are aware,’ he said slowly. ‘In many cases, an accusation alone is enough to bring the alleged perpetrator before the assizes.’
‘Yes,’ Frances replied shortly. ‘I know that, and I also know that my brother already has what passes for evidence against me. He also enjoys great favour with the prince – as you can see.’ She waved her hand towards the indenture.
‘You are fortunate indeed to have it in your possession, Lady Frances,’ Jacob said. ‘I will not ask how you came by it. Presumably your brother does not yet know.’
She shook her head. ‘Neither will he, pray God, until I tell him.’
The young man fell silent again for several minutes. Then: ‘A woman less shrewd would have burned this, as soon as she had it in her keeping. But you know what it purports, besides your own fate, and that of Longford?’
Frances’s eyes blazed. She slowly inclined her head. ‘That is why I am here, Master Beecham. I would like you to make a copy of the indenture for me and retain the original here, in your safe-keeping, until such time as I instruct you to destroy it. You must say nothing of either to another living soul.’ She saw his throat pulse.
‘Your brother has committed treason by putting his signature to this indenture, and if I am found to have concealed it then I, too, would suffer the consequences. I would be condemned for misprision, Lady Frances – as will you, if the copy is found in your possession.’
She did not allow her gaze to waver. ‘I know what I ask of you, Master Beecham,’ she said steadily. ‘And I do not ask it lightly, but for the love you bore Tom. By protecting Longford for my son, you will be honouring his memory.’
Though she had not spoken the words, she could see the light of understanding in Jacob’s eyes as they searched hers. She was only vaguely aware of holding her breath as she waited.
At length, he gave the slightest of nods, then reached into the drawer of his desk and drew out a blank sheet of paper.
Thomas was already asleep by the time she crept back into their apartment. She undressed quietly, taking care to fold her gown around the pocket. The paper gave a soft crackle as she placed the garment in the chest, as if reassuring her of its presence. Having stripped down to her shift, she padded over to George’s bed and kissed his forehead. He did not stir, and she could hear his breath, steady and shallow. She climbed into her own bed.
‘Where have you been?’
She jumped at her husband’s voice. Either she had woken him or he had feigned sleep when she had peered into their chamber. She moved over to nuzzle against him but felt him stiffen.
‘Forgive me, my love. It was such a beautiful, clear evening and I wandered further than I intended,’ she whispered, drawing away from him so that he would not register the hammering of her heart.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Just along the river,’ she replied calmly.
She heard him sigh softly.
‘When will you trust me with the truth, Frances?’
His question hung in the air. Frances opened her mouth to make a denial, but could not speak it. She hated the deceit more with each day that passed, but she could not confide even little of the schemes in which she was embroiled. It would only spark more questions, more lies. She could no more bear to destroy their love than she could to entangle her husband in this web of treachery.
‘I do trust you, Thomas,’ she whispered at last.
That, at least, was true.
CHAPTER 51
28 October
Frances waited for the groom to return. The sound of hammering carried to her from the range of buildings above her, to the right. She had heard it reported that Prince Henry had ordered a lavish new suite of apartments. Only a man of his pretensions could look at the cavernous palace of St James’s and judge it too small, she thought, her lip curling.
‘Sister!’
At Edward’s voice she spun round. She had not expected him to come and greet her in person. Perhaps he did not wish to be seen with her in the palace, given what he planned.
Her smile was sickly sweet as she held out her hand for his kiss. ‘Is there somewhere we may talk?’ she asked lightly.
Edward glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of liveried servants who were standing idly by the entrance to the state apartments. One looked in their direction. ‘Shall we walk in the park, dear sister?’ he replied smoothly, maintaining the pretence that her arrival was a pleasant interruption.
Frances dipped her head and placed her hand on his arm as they went towards the gatehouse. She remained silent during the short walk across the promenade and through the large gilded gates at the southern end of the park. Her hand still rested on Edward’s arm and she was gratified to feel him grow tense but, of course, he was too stubborn to ask the reason for her visit.
Only when they had reached the edge of the lake that lay at the centre of the park did she turn to address him. ‘Tell me, Edward, how is Lady Blanche?’
He quickly turned his surprise into scorn. ‘Why, sister, you are surely better placed than I to know.’
Frances gazed out over the calm waters and smiled. ‘I see her often, certainly, but the hours that you spend with her are more … int
imate.’
She let the word hang briefly, then continued. ‘I should congratulate you, brother, on finding a lady whom you can trust so implicitly. Or perhaps she did not know what she agreed to conceal for you.’
She turned in time to see fleeting panic in his eyes.
‘You have always spoken in riddles, Frances. Riddles – and spells, of course.’
He ran his tongue over his lips and pretended to watch a swan as it glided silently towards the edge of the water.
‘Then let me make it clear, Edward,’ she said sharply.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the indenture. She saw her brother’s jaw drop as he stared down at it. He made as if to grab it, but she was too quick for him. ‘It is a copy, of course,’ she said, with a smile. ‘You accused me of being careless with the original once. I will not be so again – not when lives depend upon it.’
A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, despite the autumn chill. ‘What are you waiting for, sister?’ he snarled. ‘If you mean to have me beheaded as a traitor then why did you not take it straight to the king’s officials?’
Frances tutted. ‘Not beheaded, Edward,’ she said, as if she spoke to a careless pupil. ‘You surely know the punishment for treason. After all, you would have me face the same. Or perhaps you hoped to afford me the kinder death and see me hanged as a witch.’
He glared at her, mute with rage – and, she sensed, fear.
‘What a pity you will be denied both pleasures now.’ She sighed.
‘What would you have me do, Frances?’ he hissed, teeth gritted.
‘You will abandon your scheme to have me condemned for witchcraft,’ she said slowly. ‘Whatever evidence you believe you have gathered, you will destroy it. If you involved any accomplices, you must tell them you were mistaken, that your suspicions were sparked by malice, not truth. And you must persuade them to take no action. Your favour with the prince will be enough to ensure their compliance.’