by Tracy Borman
Only when she had reached the westernmost edge, close to the lake, did she look back towards the palace. She could just make out the turrets of the gatehouse above the treetops. The rain was falling heavily now and she turned her face up to it, as if to cleanse herself of the sin she had almost committed.
‘God forgive me,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER 57
5 November
Frances shivered as a chill breeze whipped along the corridor. Her sodden gown weighed heavily upon her, and she longed for the comforting warmth of her bed, to feel Thomas’s arms wrapped tightly around her. She wished that she might stay there for ever, safe from the horror that she knew must soon follow.
She knocked softly on the door, praying that Mistress Knyvett would not wake the others as she came to unlock it. As she heard the scraping of the bolt, she rehearsed the excuse she would give for the lateness of the hour, her dishevelled appearance. But as the door was drawn slowly open, it was her husband’s eyes that met hers.
‘Frances!’ He drew her into the apartment at once, his face creased with anxiety as he regarded her soaking clothes, the hair clinging to her face. Quickly, he drew off her cloak and helped her out of her dress. It fell with a slap onto the stone floor as he pulled the last of the lacing free from its stays, his hands shaking. She stood close to the fire as he went to fetch a thick blanket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. He brought two chairs in front of the hearth and helped her onto one, as if she was as fragile as Venetian glass.
Frances felt so overwhelmed with love for him that she could not speak. She reached for his hand and held it tightly in hers. It felt cold, despite the warmth of the fire. She knew that he was waiting for her to speak and felt suddenly afraid. There could be no more lies, she knew, but she could not bear to see the love in his eyes turn to pain. Revulsion, even. She deserved nothing less.
Her throat constricted as she opened her mouth to speak, and her voice came out as barely a whisper.
‘I have betrayed you, Thomas.’
She saw fear in his eyes, but he held her hand tightly as he waited for her to continue.
‘You made me promise, when I married you, not to embroil myself in any more plots, but to keep my faith hidden, as you do.’ She took a breath. ‘I saw the wisdom in what you asked of me and thought I could stay true to it – indeed I did so, for three years and more. But then I received a letter … from Dorothy Wintour – Tom’s sister.’
She felt his hand go limp in hers and her eyes clouded with tears.
‘I went to meet her in secret. She urged me to return to court so that I might prevent the princess from marrying a heretic. She said that many of our faith stood ready to take arms – the King of Spain, too, if a match was arranged between the princess and his nephew. I thought that if I helped to bring this to pass, Elizabeth might yet win the throne, as the Powder Treason had intended.’
She looked up at her husband. ‘I was so blinded by my desire to honour Tom’s memory that I could not see I would be dishonouring you.’
‘Or perhaps you chose to ignore it,’ Thomas remarked quietly, withdrawing his hand.
His voice sounded flat, lifeless, and he was staring at her as if she were a stranger. Frances’s heart lurched as she saw the pain in his eyes. She longed to touch his cheek but could not bear to see him recoil from her.
‘That is why you asked me to bring you here. Not for your son’s advantage, but for your own,’ he said.
It was pointless to object, to argue that she had acted only to further the Catholic cause, that it had been against her own wishes. Now that she had begun, she must tell him everything.
‘Dorothy told me that Lady Vaux would arrange matters, that she would ensure the queen granted me my former position in the princess’s household.’
‘You put your faith in that woman?’ Thomas asked, incredulous. ‘Even Tom did not trust her. Though she pretends to be zealous for the cause, she has only ever acted for herself.’
Frances nodded miserably. ‘I soon came to realise that, but it was too late. She threatened to expose my part in the Powder Treason, to reveal George’s true father. I had little choice but to do her bidding – or, at least, appear to.’
Her husband’s jaw twitched but he said nothing. ‘But that was not the only scheme into which I was drawn, Thomas,’ she went on quietly. ‘I had not been at court for many weeks when I was told of a plot to further Arbella Stuart’s claim to the throne by marrying her to William Seymour.’
Thomas was staring at her in open dismay now.
‘I had little choice but to fall in with their schemes,’ she continued, before he could speak. ‘They threatened George – you, too – if I refused. So I stood as witness to their secret union. And I attended the lady when she miscarried his child.’
All the colour had drained from her husband’s face. ‘How could you?’ he demanded. ‘Even the Catholics would prefer to see this king on the throne than his treacherous cousin.’
‘I share the same opinion, Thomas. But they had made sure of my compliance.’ A pause. ‘Lady Drummond had made sure of it.’
‘Lady … What has she to do with this?’
The look on his face eradicated any doubt she might have harboured that he had been an unwitting part in all this.
‘She is a Catholic, Thomas, and more dangerous than Lady Vaux or any of the other plotters in this court. She will not rest until she sees Arbella crowned queen.’
His face was now deathly pale. ‘And what passed between her and me …’
‘It was part of her scheme, Thomas,’ Frances answered. ‘Even though you knew nothing of it, your liaison with her would have been enough to see you condemned as a traitor.’
She saw understanding dawn in his eyes. He looked utterly stricken. ‘And she used that to ensure you would fall in with her plans?’ he muttered.
Frances nodded.
‘What have I done?’ he whispered, lowering his head into his hands.
‘You were not to know, Thomas,’ she urged, desperate to ease his remorse. ‘Though it still pains me to think of what passed between you, I have long since forgiven you.’
He raised his eyes to her. ‘But I shall never forgive myself.’ His voice cracked.
Frances could not bear to see his wretchedness when her own guilt was far greater.
‘As the months wore on and there was little sign that any of her schemes would bear fruit, I resolved to take matters into my own hands.’ She was mustering her strength for what she must tell him now. ‘Increasingly, I came to see that it was my mistress’s brother, not her father, who presented the greatest threat to our faith – to me also.’
Thomas was gazing at her intently now.
‘He plans to expose me as a witch,’ she said.
Her husband’s eyes widened with horror, but she went on before he could speak. ‘Edward has provided him with more than enough fodder for his schemes – Countess Cecily, too. But still my brother wanted more. He threatened to have me accused of treason.’
Thomas’s expression darkened.
‘I do not know if he has proof,’ Frances went on, ‘but Henry encouraged Edward to find it by promising him Longford if I am convicted. I have the indenture they both signed. That is treasonous in itself, I know,’ she added, before her husband could say it. ‘I have the document in safe-keeping.’
Her husband’s fury showed in his eyes but he made no move to speak. Frances tried to summon her courage for what she knew she must tell him now.
‘I could not bear the thought of losing Longford,’ she whispered, ‘or you and George, and the child that grows within me.’ A single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto her hand, which was resting lightly on her stomach. ‘So I resolved to use the same skills that the prince would accuse me of to take his life.’
Thomas’s eyes misted as he stared at her.
‘I did not act entirely alone,’ Frances continued. ‘Raleigh has been my confidant since I came
to court. He supplied the mandrake for my tincture.’
Her husband’s expression seemed to harden slightly, but still he said nothing.
‘I planned to slip it into the prince’s wine, when he came to have dinner with the princess and Count Frederick, but a messenger arrived with the news that he had fallen sick. I hoped that God might do my work for me, but when we heard that the prince was out of danger I knew I must try again. So I took the poison with me to St James’s.’
Her throat tightened, as if to stop the words before they reached her lips.
‘The prince summoned me to his chamber soon after we arrived and repeated his threat to tell the king of my “crimes”. He said he would do so when his father came to visit him. I knew I had to stop his breath before he made his accusations, so I entered his chamber last night, with the help of Lord Cranborne.’
‘Cecil’s son?’
Thomas was wide-eyed with astonishment. She nodded quickly, not wishing to be distracted.
‘The prince was sleeping so I went to his side. But then—’ Her chest heaved with a great sob as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the phial. The liquid glistened gold in the firelight as she held it up to her husband. ‘I could not do it, Thomas. It was only as I held the poison to his lips that I fully understood the truth of your words. That we must cherish our faith in our hearts. To do otherwise can only bring suffering and turmoil. Though I must now face the judgement of an earthly king, I need no longer fear that of our Heavenly Father.’
The tears flowed freely as she lowered her head. Amid the wretchedness she felt for the pain she had caused him there was lightness that she had at last freed herself from the lies and deceit.
Thomas sat perfectly still while she surrendered herself to her grief. She longed to touch him, to feel the familiar warmth of his embrace but, with deep sadness, she realised it might be lost to her for ever.
After several long minutes, he reached for her hand. She felt a surge of hope, but it was extinguished when he merely wrested the tincture from her grasp. She watched as he took out the stopper, then stepped towards the fire and tipped the phial over it. The flames hissed and spat as the liquid fell onto them and an acrid smell filled the chamber, making Frances’s eyes sting. But Thomas stood quite still, impervious to the searing heat as he held the phial over the flames until the last drop had fallen from it. He then wrapped it in his kerchief and put it carefully inside the pocket of his doublet.
‘The river will carry this far from here,’ he said, then sank back into his chair. He leaned forward and put his head into his hands. Frances could not tell if he was weeping. She longed to comfort him, but she clasped her hands tightly together.
When at last he raised himself to look at her, his eyes were filled with misery. ‘Why didn’t you trust me, Frances?’ He sounded more tired than angry.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured.
‘Was I not a good husband to you? Did I give you cause to be afraid of me?’ he persisted.
‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘You have always been the best and gentlest of men, Thomas. More than I ever deserved.’
All too well, she understood the agony her betrayal had caused. The memory was still raw of that day in Westminster, when Tom had told her of the plot in which he had entangled her.
‘I thought you loved me, as I loved you.’
‘I did,’ she protested. ‘I do still. Although I have deceived you in so much else, my love for you is true.’
Loved, he had said. She could not have expected anything else. What she had told him was enough to destroy tenderness.
‘I could have helped you, Frances,’ he said, ‘made you see how reckless was the course you had chosen. But now … now everything lies in ruins.’
With every fibre of her being, she wished she had thrown Dorothy’s letter into the fire and remained at Tyringham Hall, far from Lady Vaux, Lady Drummond and their twisted schemes. Far from the prince who was now poised to destroy her.
‘Forgive me.’ She mouthed the words silently.
They sat like that for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. Frances was only vaguely aware of the frail grey light that had begun to lift the gloom of the parlour. Though her bones ached with weariness, she knew she would not sleep if she retired to her bed.
At length, Thomas stood up and walked over to the table. She heard him pour two glasses of wine. He held one out to her when he returned and she took it gratefully. He drank, then sat down.
‘I will go to the king as soon as he has risen,’ he said, with resolve. ‘I will tell him that the prince has wronged you, that his accusations are groundless and that he seeks only to stir up trouble.’
This was more than she deserved, she thought, and her eyes welled with tears at his kindness. But she knew it was no good.
‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she said softly, placing her hand tentatively over his. ‘But I would not have you hazard your reputation – your life, even – by speaking to the king on my behalf. Besides, it would be to no avail. He might despise his son, but he despises witches more. He will prove only too willing to give credence to Henry’s tales.’
She made to withdraw her hand, but Thomas seized it, gripping it with such force that her fingers pulsed. ‘I cannot let you die, Frances,’ he said, his voice faltering.
They gazed at each other, unspeaking, for several moments. Slowly, he softened his grip and bent to kiss her hand before standing and striding from the room. Frances watched the door close behind him. Her fingers still tingled with the warmth of his lips.
CHAPTER 58
5 November
Frances stared up at the canopy above the bed. The damask had long since faded and the stitching around the edges was frayed in places. She had tried counting the leaves on the vine that twisted around the edges but it was no use. Sleep was as far from her as it had been when she had first lain down.
She turned to look at George’s bed. It must be almost an hour now since he had left for his lessons. He had done so without protest this morning, knowing that most of the day would be spent in the tiltyard. She suspected that Prince Charles would be less enthusiastic. Though it was only two weeks until his twelfth birthday, he showed no signs of enjoying the boisterous sports so beloved of his elder brother.
The light was streaming through the gaps in the shutters now. Frances knew she should rise, send word to the princess that she had had to return to Whitehall, but her body felt as if it were weighed down with rocks. The slightest movement exhausted her.
Would this be her last day of freedom? She thought of Thomas pleading with his master to spare her, insisting that she was innocent of all the calumny of which the prince was about to accuse her. But she knew that James was too blinded by his obsession to show mercy. It hardly seemed to matter, somehow. The person whose forgiveness she sought was not the king, but her husband. She remembered the look in his eyes when she had told him of her betrayal. In trying to protect everything she cherished, she had destroyed it.
The click of the latch startled her from her thoughts. Frances threw back the covers and got out of bed so quickly that the blood rushed to her head. Gripping one of the pillars to steady herself, she brushed away her tears and walked slowly towards the door.
Her husband was sitting by the fire when she entered, his head in his hands.
‘Thomas?’ Her voice came out as little more than a whisper.
She saw his shoulders heave and, for a moment, he did not reply.
‘I was too late.’ He lifted his head from his hands as he spoke. His expression was so anguished that Frances had to fight back the urge to run over and clasp him in her arms.
‘The prince has made his accusations?’
Thomas ran his hand across his forehead and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps – I don’t know. I arrived at the privy chamber to find its entry barred. The yeomen told me that the king was not to be disturbed. So I waited, expecting him to emerge at any moment, but still there was no soun
d of his approach. The guards would only repeat the message they had given me before. I had no choice but to remain, watching as others came to seek entry and were also refused.’
Frances came to sit by his feet and waited for him to continue.
‘At last, one of the grooms came out of the chamber and announced that the king had left for St James’s at daybreak.’
Frances’s heart began to pound. The king was already there. Henry would have wasted no time in telling him of her witchcraft, but had he been told of more besides? With every hour that had passed since she had fled the prince’s chamber, she had become more and more convinced that William Cecil had betrayed her. Why else would he have left the anteroom before she had returned?
‘Why was his absence concealed for so long?’ she asked.
Thomas gave a shrug. ‘I could find out nothing further – not even when he might return.’
Frances forced herself to focus upon the few details that they knew. It was almost eleven o’clock now, so the king must have left about four hours before. It was only a short journey by carriage to St James’s. If Henry had made his accusations as soon as his father arrived, the king could have issued orders for her arrest long before now.
‘I wish I could take you far from here,’ her husband continued. ‘I should never have agreed to your leaving Tyringham Hall.’
Frances laid a hand on his. ‘You are not to blame for any of this, Thomas,’ she said softly. ‘It is my recklessness that has brought us here. I should have heeded your advice before we were married. I will never forgive myself for what I have brought you to – George as well.’
‘You were acting according to your conscience, Frances,’ he said. ‘I cannot but admire you for that. You have shown great courage – far greater than I.’