by Tracy Borman
Frances forced a smile. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I slept badly last night, that’s all. I promise that I will be quite well by dinner time, and will seek amends by allowing you to vanquish me at the card table all evening.’
Elizabeth grinned. ‘You know that I always win fairly. You have taught me well.’ Her smile faded. ‘But I think you should take some rest this afternoon. Lord Sackville promised to take me for a ride on the river if the weather is fine, and Lady Mar can accompany me.’
Frances hesitated. Much as she loved being in this charming girl’s company, her bones ached with tiredness and she longed for the oblivion of sleep. Images of the wretched woman’s face as the life was choked from her had plagued her all night.
‘If Your Highness is sure that you can spare me, then I would be grateful for a little rest,’ she said at last. ‘But I promise to attend you as soon as you are returned. We can practise the steps for tonight’s dances.’
‘Then it is decided,’ the princess declared with satisfaction, giving Frances’s hand a little squeeze. ‘Now go before Lady Mar comes back. You know she will not approve.’
Frances bobbed a curtsey and hastened from the room, casting one last, grateful smile over her shoulder at the child who sometimes seemed so wise for her age.
The sun cast long shadows across her chamber as Frances blinked the sleep from her eyes. She glanced across at the clock on the fireplace. Half past six. With alarm, she realised that she had slept through dinner. The princess must have given orders that she was not to be disturbed. Frances raised herself onto her elbows and looked towards the window, shielding her eyes against the sunlight. The evening’s entertainments would be under way by now. She pictured Elizabeth being whirled about by Lord Sackville, or one of the other young courtiers eager to curry favour with the king by delighting his daughter. With luck, her absence would hardly be noticed, except by her uncle – and Cecil. She closed her eyes at the thought, suddenly desperate to escape their scrutiny, for one evening at least.
With an impulse, she flung back the covers and padded quickly over to the window. The river glinted gold and grey as it snaked its way through the muddle of buildings that clung to the riverside, as if trying to submerge themselves in its cool depths. Frances shifted her gaze to the waterside gate. Two palace guards were leaning at either side of it, staring nonchalantly out across the river. They would surely not deny her a brief stroll along its banks, given that she had evidently been released from her duties for the evening.
Pausing briefly to pin back the strands of hair that had worked loose while she slept, she let herself out of the room and walked briskly down the corridor, brushing out the creases from her skirts as she did so. She could just hear the distant thrum of music and the muffled shouts of the revellers. Her mouth twisted in distaste at the thought of another evening frittered away in wine and sin. What hopes there had been for this king, whose licentious habits made a mockery of his apparently staunch belief in the austere religion of the reformists. If he was a perfect model of a Protestant king, then she sympathised with those who sought refuge in the old religion, with its comforting rituals and devotions.
The shouts grew louder as she neared the Great Hall, but she veered off down a staircase that led to the kitchens. As she walked quickly along the gloomy corridors, which were still filled with the aroma of roasted meats, she was jostled by numerous servants, red-faced and sweating, who were so intent upon their business that they barely noticed her. Fearing that she may get lost, Frances tried to picture the layout of the rooms above. She must be directly underneath the Great Hall now, judging from the thunder of a thousand footsteps and the screams of drunken laughter. With a shudder, she forged ahead, the intense heat from the kitchens making her skin prickle as she rushed by. At last, the air grew cooler, and the gloom of the passageway began to lift. She must be close now, she judged, picking up her pace so that she was almost running by the time that she emerged into the courtyard.
Usually bustling with officials and servants, it was now deserted. Frances paused for a moment, shielding her eyes from the low sun as she glanced around. She breathed out slowly, her body sagging with relief at being alone. Yet as she stood looking out towards the river that glinted between the arched gateway, she had a creeping sensation of being watched. Her breathing quickened as she darted a quick glance over her shoulder. Nobody was there, and every window that looked out over the courtyard was black.
Pushing away the thought that Cecil was lurking behind one of them, she walked determinedly towards the guards. At the sound of her footsteps, they turned and stared.
‘The princess has released me from my duties this evening, so I intend to take a short walk along the river.’
Frances addressed the older of the two men. He continued to stare, his eyes roaming over her body and a slow smile crossing his face. She swallowed back her distaste.
Glancing across at his companion, he gave a brief nod. Frances did not wait for any further assent, but walked briskly forward. As she drew level with the guards, the one she had addressed took a step forward so that she almost brushed against him. She caught the smell of stale sweat and tobacco as she passed.
A soft breeze blew from the river, inviting her to step closer. It was at a low ebb now, she noticed, as it flowed steadily eastwards towards the sea, exposing a wide stretch of sand and gravel along its banks. Frances stepped off the edge of the wooden platform and slipped off her shoes. She wriggled her toes and pressed the soles of her feet against the shingle, revelling in the touch of the cool stones. She took a step forward, wincing slightly as a tiny shard of gravel pricked the soft skin under her feet. As the sun sank lower, casting its rays across the river, the waters appeared as liquid gold. They lapped gently against the shore, enticing her to come closer. How she longed to submerge herself in their cooling depths, to wash away the stench of court, cleanse her mind of the terrible images that had filled it since the ride to Tyburn.
‘Master Holbein himself could not have imagined such a composition.’
Frances turned so sharply at the sound of his voice that she almost stumbled. Tom Wintour stepped quickly forward and steadied her, his hand cupping her elbow. She felt the warmth of his touch through the sleeve of her dress as he held it there a little too long.
Flushed, Frances stepped quickly away. For a few moments, Wintour did not move, but stood there, his hand suspended where it had touched her. Her heart still hammered in her chest, though the shock of the sudden interruption had subsided. He returned her gaze with a mixture of admiration and amusement.
‘Forgive me, Lady Frances. I should not have disturbed you. You looked so serene, silhouetted against the river. I had to be sure that you were not one of the phantoms that are said to stalk this shore.’
Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought lawyers were too rational to believe in such things.’
‘On the contrary. We spend so much time poring over insufferably long and dull texts that our minds eagerly latch onto anything that might offer entertainment.’
His brow was creased, but his eyes glinted as he looked at her.
Frances laughed. It was the first time in weeks, she realised, relishing the feeling of lightness and momentarily forgetting the cares that had weighed so heavily upon her since coming to court. She stole a glance at her companion. He was, she thought, a few years older than herself. Unlike most other men at court, he was clean-shaven. The determined set of his jaw contrasted with his full, smiling lips and large brown eyes that always seemed to shine with good humour. He was dressed in the same dark brown doublet and black hose that he had worn for Sir Thomas’s dinner. The white linen shirt underneath was finely made, judging from the embroidered collar and cuffs that Frances could see protruding from it. His skills as a lawyer had clearly brought him some wealth, though, like his patron, he displayed it modestly.
‘I looked for you at this evening’s entertainments,’ he said, after they had walked in silence for a few moment
s. His expression was suddenly serious. ‘I was concerned that you might be unwell, or that Cecil’s business had taken you away from court.’
An image of the woman’s face flitted before her again. All trace of merriment left her, and she stared bleakly ahead, trying to focus upon a small barge as it was rowed eastwards. It was fading from sight when Frances finally spoke.
‘The princess allowed me some rest as I had little sleep last night. I only intended to close my eyes for an hour, but when I woke I had missed dinner. I hope she will forgive me.’
‘I am sure Her Highness would forgive you anything, Lady Frances,’ Tom replied quietly. ‘It is obvious to all how greatly she esteems you. And you have already influenced her studies. She speaks like a lady twice her age.’
Frances smiled briefly. ‘I cannot take credit for that. Her language was already far advanced by the time I arrived at court.’
She fell silent again, and could feel his eyes upon her, though she continued to look out across the water. He moved closer, so that their arms almost touched. ‘What did Cecil want with you?’ he whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder.
Frances hesitated. Though she was drawn to this man, she knew precious little about him. For all she knew, he could be another of Cecil’s spies. Yet there was something in his manner, in the intensity of his gaze, that made her trust him.
‘He took me to Tyburn, to witness the hanging of a witch.’
The words sounded flat, but she swallowed hard to suppress the tears that threatened to betray her.
Wintour stopped and reached for her hand. She resisted at first, desperate to keep walking away from the palace, from Cecil, from the nightmare that she knew would always torment her. But his grip was tight, his hand warm and comforting. With a sigh she relented, and turned to face him. He did not let go of her hand as he spoke.
‘The king will not stop until he has fulfilled God’s will – as he sees it. And Cecil will do whatever is necessary to win favour, even though he can little believe that these poor wretches are guilty of the crimes that send them to the gallows.’
His eyes blazed as he spoke, and his grip on her hand had tightened. The surprise must have registered on her face, for his tone was softer when he continued.
‘I am deeply sorry that you were witness to such a scene, my lady. I saw a burning once, in Flanders. The image haunts me still.’
Though he still gazed at her, she knew that his eyes saw something other than her own. At length, he blinked as if awakening from a trance. His eyes were now filled with concern, and he gently stroked her hand with his thumb as he looked at her. The movement was small, but Frances felt as if every nerve in her body had been awakened. She was only vaguely aware of holding her breath.
‘Why should Cecil wish to show you such horrors?’ he asked quietly. ‘It is well known at court that he has no love for your family, but that seems little reason to torment you. He would do better to focus his efforts upon removing your uncle from the council.’
‘Perhaps it was a warning.’ Her words were barely a whisper. ‘The old queen showed me preferment for my knowledge of plants and remedies. But such skills are no longer smiled upon. The woman whose death I witnessed yesterday was accused of using potions to seduce her master.’ Her voice was bitter with disdain.
She bit her lip and fell silent, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground, but she knew that his eyes were on her. When he did not answer, she looked up and saw that he was staring at her intently. For a moment she feared that she had said too much. Her mother was always chiding her for her impetuous nature, and since coming to court she had understood why. Indiscretion could spell death.
Just then, the sun glinted off something in the distance, over Tom’s shoulder. Frances turned to look, and recognised one of the gilded finials of the Tower of London. They had walked further than she realised. The sight of the imposing fortress filled her with a sudden foreboding. Catching the look on her face, Tom turned to see what had caused it. They both stood for a moment, looking at the huge keep, a potent symbol of royal authority. It dominated the landscape for miles around, dwarfing the spires of churches, and the patchwork of ramshackle houses that clung to the streets nearby.
‘I should go,’ Frances said briskly. She made to turn back towards the palace, but Tom tightened his grip on her hand again.
‘Frances—’ he said urgently, then shook his head in frustration at his transgression. ‘Lady Frances – forgive me – please, do not go yet. What you told me … you can trust me, I will not—’
‘I have already said too much,’ she said, pulling her hand free and walking purposefully back in the direction of Whitehall, dipping her head to avoid the dazzle of the sinking sun. Wintour stood for a moment, watching her retreating figure, then ran to catch up. He was careful to keep a step behind her until at last she slackened her pace.
‘Lady Frances,’ he said, when he had caught his breath. She turned sharply at his words, but seeing his eyes glinting with their former good humour, she felt herself begin to relax.
‘I came to find you this evening because I had something I wanted to give you,’ he continued, reaching into the pocket of his doublet. Frances watched as he drew out a leather-bound book, its spine and cover exquisitely decorated with vine leaves picked out in gold leaf. They reflected the light of the fading sun as he handed it to her. She turned it over in her hands, transfixed by the beauty of the binding, and saw that the pages were so thin as to be almost transparent. There must be many hundreds of them, she guessed, as she carefully ran her fingers along their edges.
‘It is a fine enough cover, I grant you,’ Tom said, ‘but the real joy of books lies within.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, though she kept her eyes fixed on the beautiful volume. At length, she slowly opened the cover and carefully turned back the first few pages until she came to the frontispiece.
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE’S ARCADIA
WRITTEN BY
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT
Her heart leaped as she read the words. Many times, her father had spoken of the celebrated soldier-poet of Elizabeth’s court. His bravery in battle had been superseded only by his genius as a writer. During his short life he had penned numerous works in honour of the queen, his friends, and family. This one, dedicated to his beloved sister Mary, was said to be his greatest. When he was cut down in battle just before his thirty-second birthday, the kingdom had been plunged into mourning and the queen had ordered a funeral befitting a prince.
‘Thank you,’ Frances breathed, still gazing at the book. She longed to begin reading it straight away – she would do so as soon as she was back in her apartments.
‘I am glad to see that it already brings you pleasure,’ Tom replied softly. ‘But there is something in particular that I think you will enjoy.’
Frances looked up at him. He was smiling even more broadly now, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. She had a sudden urge to reach out and touch his face, trace the outline of his sensuous lips, and feel the hair that curled at his nape.
‘Oh?’ she whispered at last, hoping that her eyes had not betrayed her.
He took a step closer and reached for the book, his hand brushing hers. As he began to leaf through its pages, she could feel his warm breath on her neck. She closed her eyes, willing the moment to last a little longer.
‘Here,’ he said, too soon. She opened her eyes to see his finger pointing to a finely drawn sketch of a castle. With its round towers and barley twist chimneys, it was like something from a fairy tale, but as she looked closer she noticed that it was built in a triangular formation, and that its brickwork resembled a chessboard. She gave a small gasp.
‘Longford!’
Tom grinned. ‘Amphialeus, to be precise. But yes, Sir Philip was said to have modelled it upon your father’s castle. They were great friends, I understand, and Sir Philip visited Longford many times when your parents were newly married. I have heard your father speak of it.’
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‘You know my father?’ Frances looked at him in surprise.
‘I had the honour of meeting him once or twice, when the queen’s business took me to Richmond.’ Though his smile had not faded, there was a new intensity in his eyes. ‘Well, we must make haste,’ he continued, before Frances could reply. ‘But I shall sleep easier in my bed knowing that now you can gaze upon Longford as often as you wish.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wintour,’ Frances said earnestly.
‘Tom – please,’ he replied with a smile. ‘If you and I are to be friends, then we must rid ourselves of unnecessary titles.’
He paused. They had reached the palace gates now. The same guards were there, still slumped against the archway. Tom flicked a glance at them, then looked back at Frances and held both of her hands in his.
‘And please be assured, Frances, I am your friend.’
Frances looked up at him again, and saw the sincerity in his eyes.
‘And I yours,’ she replied quietly.
CHAPTER 15
25 July
Frances gazed up at the imposing edifice of the White Tower, shading her eyes as the hot July sun reflected off its façade. Up close, it was even more impressive than the glimpse that she and Tom had had of it as they strolled along the foreshore two weeks before. She tried to remember what her father had told her about its history, but her thoughts were drawn back again to that evening. Tom’s smiling eyes as he gave her the book, the touch of his hand, the intensity of his gaze as they parted. Having neither seen nor heard from him since, her memory had tried to fill the void that his absence had brought, making her restless during the day, and depriving her of sleep at night. The precious book had been her only solace during the time she spent away from the princess. Already, she was on her second reading, having devoured it the first time, and was now savouring every beautifully composed sentence, the evocative descriptions taking her to lands that she could only dream of. And of course, that sketch of Longford. The book now fell open at the page, she had looked at it so often.