by Tracy Borman
Frances felt its weight in her hand. Slowly, she lifted it to her nose. Even through the layers of fabric, she could smell the earthy, slightly citric scent of the mandrake root within. It hinted at something wholesome, healing. If taken in small doses, it could cure all manner of ailments. But a few drops more and it was deadly. She put it carefully in the pocket of her gown, next to her rosary. They would make excellent bedfellows. ‘You are fortunate to have such a wide circle of friends, Sir Walter,’ she said.
‘A sailor makes many acquaintances on his travels. Each one has something to give: a fine wine, an old fable, an exotic spice … The old queen used to delight in the treasures I brought her. But none was as valuable as the one I have just given you, Lady Frances,’ he added, suddenly grave.
‘I will use it well,’ she vowed.
‘The prince still plans to dine with his sister this evening?’
Frances nodded. ‘Yes – in Her Grace’s apartments. Count Frederick will be there too.’
‘And you are sure that Henry will not act against you before then?’
‘Quite sure. The king will not return from the hunt until this evening so will take supper in private. His son will desire as great an audience as possible when he levels his accusations against me. Tomorrow is All Hallows when the court will gather for the feast. It is the perfect opportunity.’
‘His Grace was ever one for theatrical gestures,’ Raleigh agreed. ‘They play to his natural vanity. How sad that he will be denied this particular spectacle.’ He smiled. ‘And how apt that he will breathe his last on the eve when we remember the dead.’
Frances’s mouth twisted in distaste. Though she was certain of what she had to do, she could not rejoice in it as Raleigh did. She stood and crossed to the window. The light was gathering quickly now and the sky was tinged pale yellow. Her gaze wandered to a solid, squat tower on the far side of the green, close to the one in which she had been tortured. A light flickered in a narrow window on the upper floor. As Frances watched, she saw a shadow move across it, then grow still. She strained her eyes to see. It appeared to be the outline of a woman, but perhaps the light was playing tricks with her.
‘Lady Arbella is abroad early this morning.’
Raleigh’s voice made her start. She turned to see him gazing at the same spot, over her shoulder.
Frances had not known the lady’s quarters lay so close. ‘How does she fare?’ she asked, her eyes on the shadow.
Raleigh gave a heavy sigh. ‘She has been driven near mad by her captivity, I am told,’ he said, ‘and means to starve herself to death.’
Frances’s heart lurched with pity. Though she had disliked the haughty woman and had never wished to see her crowned, it pained her to think of her wasted body and wretched mind as she waited out the endless hours until death would claim her. ‘Is there any news of Seymour?’
‘Still in Flanders, as far as anyone knows. There is talk of him amassing a huge army with the King of Spain and sailing across the Channel to seize the throne. But it is only idle chatter. Seymour is not the stuff of which kings are made.’
As she watched the shadowy figure, Frances thought she saw a hand lift in greeting – or blessing, perhaps. She raised her own and pressed it to the glass. She might have saluted Arbella as queen, if Fate had twisted otherwise. Increasingly, it seemed that the distance between success and failure, righteousness and sin, was as insubstantial as a thread of gossamer silk.
‘God speed your endeavours, Lady Frances,’ Raleigh whispered behind her.
Frances lit the last of the sconces in the princess’s chamber. The soft light reflected off the gilded frames and the intricate tracery around the windows, making the room appear so breathtakingly beautiful that she almost forgot what must take place there. She went to the large oak table, laden with wine and sweet delicacies, picked up one of the glasses and held it to the light. It would be easy enough to slip the tincture into the prince’s wine. She would take care to do so towards the end of the evening, in case the mandrake should take effect sooner than she predicted. If it seeped into his blood while he slept, it would slow his heart gradually, luring him towards death as gently as a mother might coax her child to sleep with a lullaby.
She allowed her mind to drift ahead, imagining the consternation that news of the prince’s death would cause. Elizabeth would be distraught. She loved her brother deeply, even though his control of her had become ever more suffocating. Frances hoped that, in time, her mistress would draw comfort from her new-found freedom. Her father had never shown the same obsessive interest in her marriage as his son. Neither was he so opposed to the idea of his daughter marrying a Catholic, if the rewards were great enough. Henry’s death would at least hold out the prospect that Elizabeth might take a husband of the true faith. But Frances no longer felt any compulsion to influence her mistress’s choice. Lady Vaux must find another pawn for her game. Tonight would be her final act – and it would be hers alone.
‘I hope you have not tasted our mistress’s wine?’
Frances set down the glass slowly. ‘Good evening, Blanche.’
The young woman’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. She was dressed in a new gown of pale blue satin, very fine. Her fair hair was swept up in an elegant coiffure and a necklace of sapphires sparkled at her throat. All for the prince’s benefit, no doubt. She was beautiful, Frances had to admit. It must have been no chore for her brother to bed her. Had he told her about the indenture? If he had, Blanche was an arch dissembler, for her behaviour towards Frances had not altered. She was as coolly disdainful as ever.
‘The marriage treaty is agreed, they say,’ Blanche remarked. ‘It awaits only the king’s signature. There will be even more cause for celebration at tomorrow’s feast, I am sure.’
She watched Frances closely. Even more? So she was right. The prince planned to accuse her there. ‘What else shall we be celebrating, Blanche?’ she asked lightly.
‘Why, All Hallows Day, of course,’ Blanche replied, with a sly smile.
At that moment, the princess emerged from her bedchamber. ‘I hope you have not been arguing, ladies,’ she said, with a frown. ‘You remind me of two cats with their backs arched, ready to pounce.’
‘Of course not, Your Grace,’ Blanche said, with a trill of laughter.
Frances merely bobbed a curtsy and smiled.
‘My brother and Frederick will be here at any moment. Is everything made ready?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Frances replied. ‘There is food enough for half the court, and a plentiful supply of wine. I ordered the Rhenish.’
Elizabeth nodded her approval. Frances noticed her hand shake slightly as she smoothed her skirts. She must be dreading the evening. Although she had got on well enough with Frederick during their private encounters, her brother would be pressuring for more than the polite, stilted exchanges they had shared. He wanted evidence that his sister would comply with his wishes.
All three women started at the sharp rap on the door. Blanche was first to it. Frances saw her curtsy. The prince. She waited for sight of the man whose breath she would stop before the night was over.
But it was Count Frederick who walked in first, head bowed and eyes darting nervously about the room. His childlike awkwardness was thrown into even sharper relief by the princess’s easy grace. ‘Good evening, Count Frederick,’ she said. ‘You are most welcome. May I offer you some wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said quickly, a blush creeping over his cheeks.
‘Well!’ Elizabeth declared, after a prolonged silence. ‘I cannot think what is keeping Henry. He is not usually so behind his time. Perhaps we should be seated.’
Frederick nodded and went to the table. The princess chose a seat at the opposite end. If etiquette had not prevented it, Frances would have come to her mistress’s rescue by making conversation. As it was, Elizabeth attempted a few remarks, but they elicited only a smile or a nod from her companion. Frances sensed her rising exasperation.
> Two chimes rang out from the clock above the fireplace. Frances glanced at it. The prince was now half an hour late. What if he had decided to act sooner than she had predicted and was even now waiting in the king’s privy chamber? No, she reasoned, his father might not return for another two hours yet and Henry would not keep the count waiting for that long.
Several more minutes passed. Then, at last, the sound of rapid footsteps could be heard. Instinctively, Frances’s hand closed over the tiny glass phial in her pocket. It was almost time. She listened to the low murmur of voices on the other side of the door. Then it was flung open and Henry’s chamberlain strode in.
He gave a swift bow before addressing the princess. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your brother the prince can no longer attend. He is gravely ill.’
Frances’s mind raced. Was this a trick? Was he even now making the final preparations for her destruction?
‘Henry!’ the princess exclaimed, her face ashen. ‘I saw him only yesterday and he seemed well. A little tired, perhaps. What has happened?’
The man’s face darkened. ‘It was very quick, Your Grace. His Highness was fencing with one of his attendants this afternoon when he suddenly threw down his sword and collapsed, clutching his stomach. By the time he had been carried to his chamber, he was in a high fever.’
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth.
Frances forced herself to focus. ‘Were there any other symptoms?’ she asked.
The chamberlain looked at her with reproof, then turned back to address the princess, as if she had asked the question. ‘There was a slight rash on his stomach.’
‘My poor brother,’ Elizabeth murmured, almost to herself. ‘I should go to him.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Frances said. ‘Until we know what ails him, you must not put yourself at risk of contagion. I am sure his physicians are taking good care of him.’
She imagined them now, with their leeches and potions. They were more likely to be inflicting harm than good.
‘Well, give him this token of my love and esteem,’ the princess said, taking off her ring and handing it to the attendant. ‘And God speed his recovery.’
The man gave a curt bow and strode out. Seizing his opportunity to escape, the count stood abruptly, made obeisance and followed in his wake.
Frances glanced at Blanche, whose face was marked more with disappointment than concern. She would have to flaunt her finery on another occasion. Clearly having no patience to comfort their mistress, she too left the room.
As soon as the door had closed, Frances rushed to the princess’s side.
‘Oh, Frances! This is my fault!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘I have been dreading this evening so much that I prayed to God He might spare me. But not like this!’ Her face sank into her hands.
Frances put an arm around her shoulders. The princess’s anxiety and grief contrasted sharply with her own feelings. Although she was frustrated to have been denied the chance to put her plan into action, she could hope now that God might do her work for her.
CHAPTER 54
1 November
‘Is there any more news of the prince?’
Frances took another sip of wine and pretended not to listen to the conversation on the opposite side of the table. She had spent the day trying to comfort the princess, assure her that all was well, while she had prayed that it was not. Eventually, Elizabeth had retired to bed, exhausted with worry, and had sent her apologies to her father for this evening’s feast.
‘None that I know of. They say he was delirious last night and ranted about sorcery and bewitchments.’
Frances’s blood ran cold.
‘Was this witches’ work, do you think?’ another asked.
‘Who’s to say? But when he recovers, I’m sure he will come looking for whoever cast the spell.’
Thomas looked anxiously at his wife. ‘Ignore their idle prattle, my love. They have little enough news to feast upon so seek to invent their own.’
She gave him a weak smile and toyed with the stew, which was rapidly congealing on her plate.
‘I have made my own enquiries, on behalf of the king,’ he added quietly.
She swung around to look at him. ‘Oh?’
‘His Majesty did not wish it to be known that he was enquiring after his son’s health, so asked me to find out for him. I have it on good authority that Henry is much recovered. His fever has broken and he is already calling for ale.’
Frances tried to hide her disappointment. ‘The princess will be relieved to hear it. I must call on her before we retire.’
She said little for the remainder of the meal. Her mind was too preoccupied with the prince. She knew with a sickening certainty that the gossips were right. Henry would use his illness as proof that he had been bewitched. And there was only one possible perpetrator. Together with the stories that Edward had supplied, the prince’s sudden sickness would eradicate any doubts as to her guilt.
Her thoughts ran on. If the prince recovered, she could not wait for another opportunity like the private dinner to administer the poison. By the time that such an event took place – if it ever did – Henry would have had her accused and imprisoned.
‘Frances?’
Her husband was waiting for an answer.
‘Forgive me, my love. My mind was elsewhere,’ she said, giving his hand a pat. ‘What did you say?’
‘It was no matter.’ His smile did not reach his eyes.
All of a sudden, there was a loud clatter at the end of the hall. All eyes turned towards the dais, where the king had staggered to his feet, his gilded chair lying on its side behind him. ‘To the prince!’ he cried, swaying precariously.
He thrust his glass to the ceiling, causing most of its contents to spill onto the floor. There was a brief silence before others repeated the toast. Frances stole a glance at her husband as he took a sip of wine. She raised her own glass to her lips but the wine that had warmed her belly earlier now tasted bitter. She swallowed it, fearing it might choke her.
Frances had attended the princess early the following morning, as much out of hope that she might glean some information about the prince as for concern about her mistress. The young woman had emerged from her chamber looking as if she had not slept at all. The same dark shadows marked her own eyes. The night had passed agonisingly slowly.
None of the diversions that Frances had suggested had won favour with Elizabeth, and they now sat in silence. The long hours of waiting reminded Frances of that other time, several years before, when she had been desperate for news of Tom, seizing upon reports that the gunpowder had been lit, the king and his parliament destroyed. It had all proved false. She shook away the memory of what had happened next. It was still too painful, and always would be.
Even Falstaff seemed to have picked up on the atmosphere and had sat on the footstool all day, his head resting on his paws and a mournful expression in his eyes. Little wonder that Blanche had found an excuse to absent herself, Frances thought. Not that she was sorry for it. Her impatient sighs and petulant remarks had grated on Frances’s nerves.
The light was already fading by the time the messenger arrived from St James’s. The princess leaped to her feet and waited, ashen-faced, for him to speak.
‘Well?’ she demanded, reaching out to clasp Frances’s hand.
‘His Highness’s condition is a little improved, Your Grace,’ the man announced. ‘The physicians say that his fever has broken but he is still very weak so they have bled him.’
Frances felt the princess’s hand relax.
‘That is good news!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, the colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘Pray give him my dearest love and tell him I will visit him tomorrow.’
‘Is that wise, Your Grace?’ Frances asked. ‘We do not yet know if the contagion has passed.’
‘I cannot spend another day here, eking out the hours with worry and waiting.’
Frances could not deny that she felt the same.
‘
If my brother is not well enough to receive me tomorrow, we shall stay at St James’s until the following day. I would like to be close at hand. You will come with me, Frances? I am sure that Henry will not mind if I am with you alone, just this once. We are hardly likely to discuss my marriage at such a time.’
Frances knew it was not a question. The thought of accompanying the princess to St James’s was akin to entering a lion’s den. But she smiled and agreed.
‘Then it is decided,’ Elizabeth declared. She turned back to the messenger. ‘Pray ensure that chambers are made up for Lady Tyringham and myself. We will ride over to the palace as soon as it is light.’
‘St James’s?’
Thomas was aghast. She gave a small nod.
‘But what if the contagion has spread? I cannot let you risk your life – and that of our child – by going there.’
Frances took his hand in hers and kissed it. She smiled up at him. ‘We will be quite safe, I assure you,’ she said. ‘There is no report of any member of the prince’s household falling sick, and they would surely have done so by now if it was the sweat or smallpox. The likelihood is that he has had a cold in his head or some other trifling complaint.’
Thomas did not return her smile. ‘I do not want you to go.’
Frances knew he suspected she was concealing something from him. Several times since his return from Hertfordshire, she had caught him staring at her. He had been quieter than usual, too, and she had filled the silences with idle chatter, fearful lest he ask the questions that she sensed were swirling in his mind. He could not know, she kept reminding herself. She was seeing meaning where none existed.
She wrapped her arms around him now, pressing her face into his chest so that he could not see the fear in her eyes. ‘I will be gone for a day – two at most,’ she assured him.