by Tracy Borman
‘Ah, then you have not heard, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Parliament has been threatened by a great catastrophe.’
Frances caught the look that Tom exchanged with his companions. Cecil eyed them closely before continuing. ‘There have been reports of plague in the city,’ he explained, then glanced down at the queen’s stomach. ‘Of course, Your Highness will not want to take any risks at such a time.’
‘There is always talk of plague, Lord Salisbury,’ Anne replied dismissively. ‘How can you be certain that it is true?’
‘My agent informs me that it has reached as far as Cheapside, and this chill wind blows it westward, towards Whitehall. It is a blessing that Your Majesties are so far out of its reach. I would urge you to remain so.’
‘There was no sign of it yesterday,’ Tom cut in.
‘You were at Whitehall?’ Cecil asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Not in the palace, but close by,’ Tom muttered, not meeting Cecil’s eye.
Frances shot him a questioning look. Gray’s Inn was almost two miles from Whitehall.
‘What of Parliament?’ Tom continued. The urgency in his voice surprised her.
‘The king, in his wisdom, has ordered that it be postponed.’
There was silence. Frances looked at the sullen faces of Tom and his companions, then at Cecil, who was smiling as pleasantly as if he had just announced that a new masque was to be performed at court. A sudden wind whipped up from the river. The queen pulled her cloak tightly around her, and drew the princess to her.
‘You must excuse us, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘My daughter and I have tarried too long outside. We might be safe from the plague, but I have no wish to catch a chill.’
She inclined her head and walked swiftly away, gripping the princess’s hand firmly. Frances cast a final glance at Tom, but he seemed lost in thought, and hardly noticed when she made a brief curtsey, then turned to follow in her young mistress’s wake.
Frances gave a little yelp as she pierced her finger with the needle for the third time in as many minutes. She sucked it for a few moments until the blood had stopped, then continued with the embroidery. It was a small coverlet of intricate design, with roses and pomegranates intertwined with an elaborate vine. She intended it as a gift for the queen, to dress one of the cradles that had already been prepared in her confinement chamber. But she lacked the same leisure for embroidery that she had enjoyed at Longford, and she held out little hope of completing it in time, even though there were still two months before Anne would take her leave of the court.
With a sigh, she set down her work, consoling herself with the thought that the light was rapidly fading in any case. She looked over at Elizabeth, who was still persevering with her own needlework. The girl’s brow was furrowed in concentration as she jabbed inexpertly at the fine cloth that was stretched over the frame.
‘Will it please you to stay here a few more weeks, my lady?’ she asked softly.
‘Of course,’ the princess replied without looking up. A smile played about her lips. ‘There is plenty to keep me busy, and no lack of company.’
‘How did you like your new acquaintances?’ Frances could not resist asking.
The princess put down her needle. Her face was flushed with excitement.
‘Very well! Sir Everard was so charming – and he has such a handsome face, don’t you think?’ Before Frances could reply, she added: ‘But Percy is a bit of a bore. He always looks so serious, and I swear he did not speak three words together. I wonder that Tom could have such a friend.’
Frances fell silent.
‘It is not always the clock that ticks the loudest that works the best,’ she observed quietly.
‘I fancy Percy does not tick at all!’ Elizabeth retorted.
Frances laughed, in spite of herself.
‘Sir Everard said that I am a young lady of great promise,’ the princess continued. ‘He thinks that I could rule a kingdom one day, if I set my mind to it. Oh, do not look so grave, Frances,’ she added impatiently. ‘The English love queens, thanks to your former mistress. I even have the same name!’
‘I do not doubt the truth of what you say, my lady,’ Frances countered. ‘But I would caution against believing the words of flatterers so readily. They usually cloak their own greed and ambition.’
Elizabeth fell silent and bent her head to her work once more. Frances knew better than to press the point. The princess had inherited her father’s stubbornness, and would not be moved when she had fixed upon an opinion. Frances suspected that there was more to this than her belief in female sovereignty. Sir Everard’s flattery had hit its mark.
There was a knock on the door, and Lady Mar entered. As usual, she had not waited for a reply. The princess looked up expectantly.
‘Mr Wintour is here, Your Grace,’ she announced with a look of obvious disapproval. ‘I told him you would soon be dressing for dinner, but he begged for a few moments of your time.’
‘Of course, Lady Mar – show him in directly,’ Elizabeth commanded. Her spirits had visibly lifted again.
Tom strode into the room a few moments later. He looked quickly at Frances, before sinking to one knee and kissing the princess’s hand.
‘Your Grace, forgive me. I do not wish to intrude upon your repose, but I have a favour to ask of you.’
‘Whatever it is, I am sure I shall say yes, Tom. You have kept me so well entertained in this place – Frances too,’ she added, looking across at her companion. ‘I have seen how she looks for you, just as I do.’
Frances shot her a disapproving look, but Tom laughed.
‘I am delighted to have served such a purpose,’ he declared. His smile faded. ‘But I fear that what I ask might not be agreeable to you because it involves depriving you of Lady Frances’s presence – only for a day or so,’ he added quickly. ‘I have a cousin who is staying in lodgings close to Whitehall. As children we were as close as brothers, and we have remained so ever since – though I see him all too seldom now. I have just received news that he is gravely ill. None of the ministrations of his doctors has worked any effect. He needs the help of a skilled herbalist,’ he said, looking across at Frances.
‘Are there no other healers in London?’ the princess demanded. ‘Surely you don’t need to rob me of my favourite attendant?’
‘Your Highness must believe that I would not ask such a favour if I had any other means to assist my cousin.’
Frances noticed that Tom’s hands shook as he held them by his sides.
‘What ails your cousin, Mr Wintour?’ she asked quietly.
‘He has a fever, my lady, and such pains in his bones as he can barely stand.’
Elizabeth recoiled. ‘It is not the plague, I hope? Salisbury said that it is spreading.’
‘No, my lady,’ Tom replied quickly. ‘I have seen such cases before, and this is quite different. Besides, my Lord Salisbury is ill-informed about the contagion. It is still contained within the eastern parts of the city.’
The princess fell silent. Frances recognised the sulky expression on her face all too well. She hesitated, then went to sit at Elizabeth’s feet.
‘Mr Wintour, you must understand that I cannot abandon my mistress. She has great need of me, for she is still of tender years. You cannot expect her to release a close attendant with as little thought as if she had been a young woman already.’
Tom caught her eye, and his mouth twitched with a smile.
The princess bristled with indignation. ‘I am perfectly capable of doing without you for a day or so, Frances. I am in my ninth year, after all.’
‘Then you will grant my request, Your Highness?’ Tom asked, his eyes glinting.
Elizabeth paused as she pretended to deliberate.
‘Very well, Mr Wintour,’ she replied. ‘But if you see any sign of the plague, you must both return at once. I would not risk the life of a lady of the bedchamber, even though I might easily find another to replace her,’ she added petulantly.
‘I will be forever indebted to you, Your Highness,’ Tom said as he knelt for the princess’s blessing. ‘God shall reward you for your kindness and wisdom.’
He turned to look at Frances.
‘I will have a barge waiting by the watergate at dawn.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘We must depart so soon?’
Tom nodded briskly. ‘I fear that my cousin might not survive if we tarry longer.’
Frances looked at her mistress, who gave a curt nod of acquiescence.
‘Then I shall see you in the morning, Mr Wintour.’
CHAPTER 30
29 January
As she neared the watergate, Frances could make out Tom’s silhouette against the pale grey sky. He wore a cloak and hat, and she could hear the tap of his leather soles as he paced backwards and forwards along the wooden landing stage. Hearing her own soft tread as she mounted the steps, he swung around and held out his hand to help her up. Even through her gloves she could feel that his fingers were icy cold.
‘Thank you, Frances,’ he said earnestly, pressing her hand to his lips.
They climbed into the waiting barge, and the boatman swiftly untethered it and pushed the vessel away from the landing stage with one of the oars.
‘Have you had any further word from your cousin?’ Frances asked, as the boatman found his course and settled into more rhythmic rowing.
Tom glanced quickly at the man, then shook his head and drew his cloak more tightly around himself. He did not meet her eye. His agitation made Frances uneasy, but she decided not to break the silence any more. She watched as he rocked slowly back and forth, his eyes fixed upon the horizon.
At her feet lay a small leather bag containing enough linens for two days, together with a wooden casket with the herbs and tinctures that she had selected for her task. Yarrow and elderflower for the fever, meadow saffron and valerian for the aching limbs. She also had a small vial of ginger and briar leaves mixed with white wine, in case Tom was wrong about the plague. Though if he was, she knew that her herbs could offer little protection.
Her thoughts turned back to the night before. After dinner, she had sought an audience with the queen so that she might secure her permission for the leave of absence. As a servant of the princess, she did not require it, but she desired it all the same. Though Frances had spent the dinner rehearsing her reasons, the queen needed no persuasion. As soon as Frances had mentioned Tom’s name, Anne had given her assent, telling her that she must remain with his cousin until she was certain that he was out of danger. She had not realised that Tom was so highly regarded by their queen. Or perhaps Anne was doing this for her. Frances knew that she was still thankful to her for saving her daughter’s life, as she saw it, and that she had deeply regretted not being able to prevent her terrible ordeal in the Tower. And if the princess had caught the looks that passed between Frances and Tom, then the queen was sure to have done so too. Anne might not have been blessed with marital harmony, but she was by no means embittered against those who sought it for themselves.
Though the tide was in their favour, it seemed to take an agonisingly long time to reach the city. As they slowly rounded each bend in the snaking river, Frances expected to see the houses grow more dense along its banks, or the distant towers of Westminster and St Paul’s come slowly into view. But for mile upon mile there were only fields stretching out on either side of them, interspersed with the dark silhouette of woodland.
Her mind raced ahead. She did not know what to expect when they arrived. Tom had spoken only vaguely of the whereabouts of his cousin’s lodgings, and she knew nothing of the man himself – not even his name, she realised. As she looked at Tom now, still staring resolutely ahead, she felt a surge of unease. Although his haste the night before might have prevented his revealing any more details of his cousin’s situation, she could not account for his reticence now. He certainly did not lack the time to tell her about him – how old he was, for instance, or why he had chosen to visit London when the court was not in residence. Or why two men who were as close as brothers had seen each other so seldom.
By the time they finally reached the city, Frances’s disquiet had turned to dread. She had a strong instinct to remain in the boat and command the oarsman to return her at once to Hampton Court. But she knew that was ridiculous. Lack of sleep the night before had left her unsettled and fearful, that was all. She glanced at Tom, and felt the familiar surge of joy to be in his presence, even if he was so distant and distracted. But her smile faded as he turned to her and she saw that his eyes, too, were filled with fear.
The oarsman drew level with the landing stage that lay close to the Palace of Westminster. Tom pressed some coins into his hand, then climbed from the boat and turned to help Frances. She followed him up the narrow stone steps, through the doorway at the top, and out into a small courtyard. It was surrounded on all sides by gabled houses, which she assumed were used by the officials of Parliament. Above the rooftops, Frances glimpsed the spires of St Stephen’s Chapel.
They crossed the courtyard towards an archway in the corner. This led into a dark passageway that smelt strongly of woodsmoke. There were neither doors nor windows, and the cobbles underfoot were uneven, so that from time to time Frances had to reach out and steady herself against the damp walls. At length, they emerged into another courtyard, much grander than the last, with a long gallery on its west side, and large timber-framed lodgings on the east. Directly in front of them loomed the old palace, with its huge arched windows and high pointed roof. Frances knew that they were only looking at a fraction of it, and that it spanned several other courtyards besides.
They walked under the wooden portico that had been built along the side of the palace and led out into the street. Frances was relieved to pause for a moment and take in the expanse of the garden that separated the old palace from its neighbour, Whitehall. It was intersected by a series of neatly kept gravel paths, lined with small trees in round wooden tubs that were still painted in the Tudor colours of green and white.
‘Frances—’
Tom had that hunted look again as he motioned for her to keep pace with him. Regretfully, she followed as he left the gardens and led her into the street that ran parallel with the north side of the old palace. The bell of St Stephen’s chimed eleven o’clock, but the streets were almost deserted. Fear of the plague, combined with the postponement Parliament was not sitting, had no doubt caused many to keep to their homes, or flee the city altogether.
Tom’s pace slowed as he neared a house on the north side of the street. Glancing quickly from side to side, he pulled Frances gently behind him as he ducked into a passageway that ran alongside it. After a few paces, he turned left, and descended a long flight of stone steps that seemed to lead underneath the house. Frances wondered what sort of lodging his cousin occupied. If the air was as chill and dank inside as it was in the stairwell, little wonder his condition had deteriorated so quickly.
Tom knocked quietly on the door at the bottom of the stairs. Frances could hear footsteps advancing, but then stop abruptly.
‘Who goes there?’ a voice from within called.
‘Tom Wintour – and a friend,’ he replied, shooting a sideways glance at Frances. He squeezed her hand as they heard a bolt slide back. A moment later, the door was opened a crack. Frances could not see who was on the other side, but he was evidently satisfied, because he swung it quickly open and ushered them both inside.
Frances had visited chambers inhabited by the sick many times during her life. Though the symptoms varied, there was always a faintly stale, dank aroma She inhaled deeply now, but could catch only woodsmoke and something deeper, richer: tobacco. Perhaps this masked any odours of sickness, she reasoned.
She was suddenly conscious that the man who had let them in was staring intently at her with his small dark eyes. He was frowning so deeply that his brows seemed knotted together, and his lips were pr
essed into a thin line. Frances looked across at Tom, who was leaning against the fireplace and staring down at the dying embers. To the left of him was a door that led through into another chamber. Frances could hear no sound within it. Were they too late?
‘You are sure she can be trusted?’ the man asked, not taking his eyes off her.
‘Quite sure. You know what she has suffered,’ Tom answered in a low voice.
‘Please, Lady Frances—’ The man gestured to a chair next to the fire.
Frances hesitated, then sat down, clasping her hands in her lap.
‘Where is your cousin?’
The words came out as barely a whisper.
‘Here.’
She swung around as the other man spoke, her heart pounding in her chest.
‘But—’ she began, then paused as she tried to calm her thoughts. She felt as she had when, as a child, her father and elder brother had spun a complex riddle and refused to give her the answer.
‘You are recovered, then?’ she asked doubtfully, knowing that he could not have been so ill one day, and show no signs of it the next.
The man’s eyes flicked towards Tom, who gave a slight shrug.
‘I had to give her a reason – and the princess too. She would not have come otherwise.’
Frances felt panic rise in her chest. She thought suddenly of Balfour circling her, blade in hand, as she stood trembling in that other dark chamber. Catching the fear in her eyes, Tom placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Why am I here?’ she whispered.
Tom looked across at his companion, who gave a curt nod. He sank down into the chair opposite Frances and clasped both of her hands in his.
‘Our king is a tyrant,’ he began. ‘He promised freedom of worship for Catholics, but now persecutes us more ruthlessly than ever the late queen did. He has banished Catholic priests from the realm, and will not rest until he sees all those of the true faith perish on the scaffold – or worse.’
His eyes blazed as he looked at Frances. She tried to still her breathing. Us?