by Tracy Borman
‘Ah, Lady Frances,’ he said, his features relaxing. ‘What a pleasant surprise. I had thought you and the princess were already departed for Windsor.’
He made no move to open the door any further.
‘Forgive the intrusion, Sir Everard,’ Frances replied, ‘but the princess was most desirous that you should have this note, before we leave the palace.’
She saw a flash of a smile, and as he reached to take the paper from her hand, the door drifted open a little. Before he could slide his foot across to stop it, Frances darted a furtive look inside the chamber. A large parchment was spread out on the table. It seemed to be a plan of some sort, but the contents were obscured from view. Aside from that, she could see two goblets in the centre of the table, and a candle with smoke rising the wick, as if it had just been snuffed out. Though she strained to hear, there was no sound within the chamber. Whoever was hiding there must be used to concealment, she realised.
‘Her Highness is most kind to think of me at such a time. Please convey my deepest thanks, Lady Frances.’
He showed no inclination to open the note, but swept a low bow, as if to bring their conference to an end. As he did so, Frances caught the scent of something familiar. Ambergris and cloves. Her scalp prickled. She inhaled again, quietly, trying to recall where she had smelt it before.
Sir Everard gave a small cough. Frances eyed him closely for a moment, stole one last glance over his shoulder, then bobbed a curtsey and walked quickly back along the corridor. She could feel him watching her all the way.
‘What did he say?’ Elizabeth demanded, as soon as Frances stepped back into the carriage. ‘He must have been heartened by my words. How did he reply?’
‘He did not open the note in my presence, Your Highness,’ Frances answered quietly.
‘Oh. Indeed?’ The princess looked crestfallen.
‘No doubt he wished to do so in private, so that he might savour its contents,’ Frances soothed.
Elizabeth brightened a little.
‘Perhaps you are right, Frances.’ She leaned forward and lowered the glass pane. An icy breeze whipped through the carriage as the princess peered out towards the palace, no doubt hoping to see Sir Everard hurrying towards her, Frances mused, drawing up her furs so that they covered her shoulders. She saw Elizabeth shudder, but the girl continued to look out of the window until their carriage lurched forward, signalling that their long journey had begun.
Frances felt her eyes grow heavy again as the carriage jolted along the narrow track. They had been travelling for five days now, and though they had taken frequent rests, and had been comfortably housed in the various estates selected in advance by the Lord Chamberlain’s staff, the journey had been wearisome. Elizabeth had soon tired of it, the novelty of the remove worn thin by the cold and discomfort that it entailed. Neither had there been any sign of the crowds that Sir Everard had promised. A cluster of people from the locality had stood shivering by the gatehouse of each estate, cheering feebly as they passed, and then scurrying home to the comfort of their meagre stoves.
The train of wagons bearing the princess’s belongings and those of her attendants was now far ahead of them, having made fewer stops so that the contents could be unpacked at the abbey ready for Elizabeth’s arrival. The thought of her bed being made ready with the coverlet that she had brought from Longford was a great solace to Frances as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Though it afforded less warmth than the furs inside the carriage, she longed for its familiar scent of lavender and rose oil, and to run her fingers along the delicate embroidery of its borders. She must seek what comfort she could during the days and weeks ahead. Since that meeting in Westminster, everything had seemed so fraught with danger and uncertainty. And, though the princess was being conveyed to Coombe for her safety, Frances could not shake off the feeling that they were riding towards the heart of the coming storm.
The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon as the carriage reached the brow of a hill. The coachman drew it to a stop so that the horses could take some water after the long climb. Elizabeth reached down and pulled out a rolled-up parchment that she had tucked under her seat. It was the itinerary for their journey, with a beautifully drawn map to indicate the name of each stopping place, together with the towns that they would pass on the way. She rubbed the windowpane, and squinted out against the dazzling rays of the sun, then consulted her map again.
‘That must be Stow – see there, to the west,’ she said, pointing her finger at a large steeple on the horizon. ‘Chastleton must be very close by now, thank goodness. How my bones ache!’
Frances rubbed her neck and smiled.
‘I will also be glad of a rest, ma’am. I hope this host is as welcoming as the others.’
The princess studied the itinerary again.
‘Do you know Robert Catesby?’
Frances started, her heart suddenly racing. She forced herself to take a breath before replying.
‘Only by name, Your Highness,’ she replied at last. She studied the princess’s face for any sign of suspicion, but the girl seemed entirely at ease. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because he is our host, of course,’ Elizabeth retorted with a laugh. ‘Really, Frances, I think we have been on the road for too long. It has quite dulled your wits.’
Frances reeled. She had not supposed Catesby to be a man of such means that he could host a royal visit. These occasions were enough to bankrupt all but the richest of landlords. She looked down at his estate. The parkland seemed well kept, though not extensive, and the house itself was more of a manor than the grand residences that they had been used to. It was an odd choice for their stay, especially when there must be other, larger houses nearby. She fell silent, considering who might have directed that it be included. Catesby had hinted that some ‘great protector’ was involved in their schemes. That he had secured a visit from the princess made Frances think this was more than just a boast.
CHAPTER 33
10 February
They passed the remainder of the journey to Chastleton in silence, Frances lost in thought, and the princess busily pinching her cheeks and smoothing down stray hairs as she glanced in the small looking glass that she had brought along for the purpose. As soon as the carriage had drawn to a stop, a smartly dressed groom opened the door and made a deep bow, then held out his hand so that the princess might climb down. Frances followed close behind.
They walked towards the house, their path lit by braziers on either side. The warmth was so welcome that Frances was tempted to tarry for a while, but the princess walked briskly on, eager to meet their new host. A torch blazed on either side of the doorway, illuminating the soft yellow brickwork. The few windows were small, and the walls were thick and solidly built, dating back to a time when even manor houses were fashioned more for defence than for comfort.
The figure of a man was silhouetted in the doorway. Any hope that it might have been another of the same name was dashed. Frances recognised his small, slender frame and proud bearing at once.
‘Your Grace,’ he said, his voice as smooth as silk. ‘It is a great honour to receive you in my humble home.’
He knelt to kiss the princess’s ring. Frances caught her pleasure at his exaggerated deference.
‘We are delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Catesby,’ she trilled. ‘And thankful to break our long journey in your home.’
Catesby bowed again, then motioned for the princess to proceed into the house. Frances made to follow, but he stepped briskly in front of her so that she was obliged to fall in behind. She kept her gaze fixed on his boots as she followed in his wake, anger mingling with apprehension.
In the dining chamber, a rich feast had been laid out on the long table, and a fire roared in the grate. The smell of roasted meats filled the air, and, despite herself, Frances felt a pang of hunger. The princess took her seat at the head of the table, and Frances sat on the chair to her right. Catesby remained standing, and gave a
small cough.
‘Your Highness, with your permission, I would very much like to introduce you to some acquaintances. Some of them will be known to you already, but others are most desirous to meet you.’
Elizabeth’s face glowed at the compliment.
‘Please, Mr Catesby, show them in,’ she said in her most imperious tone.
Catesby nodded to one of the attendants, who left to fetch the guests. Frances held her breath as they heard footsteps approaching. They stopped on the other side of the doorway so that their host could introduce them one by one. Catesby was determined to display as great a ceremony as might be found at court, it seemed. But then she wondered if there were other motives behind these careful introductions. He might wish to ensure that Elizabeth remembered their names so that she would not be alarmed when they met again.
‘Francis Tresham, Your Highness,’ Catesby announced as a small, stout man entered the room. He was in his mid-thirties, Frances judged, and his hair was flecked with grey at the temples. As he stepped forward to kiss the princess’s hand, she noticed that his own trembled slightly.
Tresham was followed by two brothers, Jack and Christopher Wright, and a tall, thickset man named John Grant. Frances took a sip of wine and breathed deeply. She looked up as the next man entered, and her heart began to race again. He was of medium build, and had an open, honest face – not quite handsome, but pleasant nonetheless. He had blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard, and his large brown eyes were grave. Even though they had never met, Frances knew him before Catesby had made the introduction.
‘Robert Wintour, Your Highness.’
The princess regarded him closely as he knelt for her blessing. ‘Are you Tom’s cousin? I cannot think you are brothers, though you look alike, for he would surely have mentioned you.’
‘I did not wish to try your patience with such inconsequential matters.’
Frances turned at his voice. He was standing in the doorway, hat in hand. He swept a bow to the princess, a playful smile on his lips. As he straightened, Frances noticed him wince slightly. He looked tired, and, though smartly dressed, there was something dishevelled about his appearance. She wondered how many days’ riding it had taken to reach Chastleton from wherever he had been hiding.
‘Tom!’ the princess exclaimed with obvious delight. ‘How we have missed you. Have we not, Frances?’
Frances nodded mutely and forced a smile. Though she avoided looking at him, she could feel his eyes on her.
‘Come, Kit,’ he said to the younger Wright, ‘you would not deprive me of a seat close to the princess?’
To Frances’s dismay, the young man, who seemed somewhat in awe of Tom, hastened to his feet and moved to a place at the far end of the table. Tom grinned at him, and took his seat next to Frances. She was so distracted that she had not noticed there was another guest waiting to be presented.
‘Your Highness, our merry company is completed by this gentleman,’ Catesby announced. All eyes turned to the man standing awkwardly at the doorway, fumbling with his hat. Of a similar age to the rest, he had jet-black hair that touched his shoulders, and a long pointed beard. He appeared lithe and strong, and, for all his uncertainty, he held himself erect, like a soldier. Frances wondered if he had seen service with Tom in the Netherlands.
‘Please—’ the princess said, gesturing for him to make his obeisance.
His eyes darted this way and that as he walked briskly forward.
‘Guido Fawkes, Your Highness,’ he said as he knelt before her. His voice was gruffer than Frances had expected, and he spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent. After he had taken the last vacant seat, Catesby gave a cough, and the company fell silent.
‘Your Highness, I cannot let a morsel of this humble feast pass my lips until I have thanked God for your presence here in my home and amongst my friends, whom you will soon realise are your most devoted subjects.’
Elizabeth inclined her head.
‘Lord God, we humbly offer our heartfelt thanks for delivering Her most gracious Highness the Princess Elizabeth to us this night,’ Catesby began. ‘I pray that we may serve her for the rest of our lives, and that she – and You – will look kindly upon our endeavours.’
Frances felt her palms grow damp as she pressed them together.
‘Amen,’ the company proclaimed in unison. To Frances, it sounded like a battle cry.
Elizabeth was beaming as they began their feast. She talked animatedly throughout, turning from Catesby to Tom, revelling in their attentions and those of their companions, who were clearly astonished by her conversational abilities. As Frances watched them, she felt as if she was looking at a once beautiful painting that had been stripped of its dazzling oils to reveal a roughly drawn tableau of flattery and deceit. Every word they spoke carried another meaning for her from the one that the princess heard. Glancing at Tom, who seemed rapt by a story that Elizabeth was telling, she chided herself for having been as easily taken in as an eight-year-old child.
Frances remained silent during the meal that followed. She kept her eyes on her plate, though she ate little of the succession of dishes that were set down before them. She was glad that the conversation centred around the princess, who was growing increasingly animated, laughing uproariously at every new jest. As Frances picked at a piece of prune tart, she was suddenly aware that Tom was watching her. She took a sip of wine, then turned to say something to the princess, but the girl was now deep in discussion with Catesby.
‘You must not think that it was all artifice.’
Frances did not look at him, but he spoke so quietly that she was obliged to incline her head towards him.
‘Please, Frances,’ he said, when she did not answer. He reached for her hand under the table, and she felt the familiar warmth of his palm as it closed over her fingers. She lowered her eyes for a moment, then snatched her hand away. The movement caught Catesby’s attention. He darted a look at Tom, and his smile became fixed as the princess continued to regale him with her story.
‘We cannot talk here,’ Tom whispered. ‘Meet me in the knot garden when the princess has retired.’
Frances glanced across at Catesby. He was talking animatedly again, and Elizabeth was listening and laughing, her eyes sparkling. For a moment, Frances imagined her seated on a throne, her small frame dwarfed by its high back and ornate canopy, a crown being slowly lowered onto her head. She felt an unexpected surge of excitement.
‘I will make no promises,’ she replied quietly.
She passed the rest of the meal in silence. When at last the spiced wine had been served and the wafers had been eaten, Catesby stood to make a final toast to the princess. Her cheeks were flushed, Frances noticed, and she giggled as the company raised their glasses in sombre reverence. She would take little coaxing to sleep tonight.
At the conclusion of the toast, Elizabeth got to her feet a little unsteadily. Frances moved swiftly to her side, and discreetly placed the girl’s hand on her arm so that she could guide her from the room with as much dignity as possible. Each man bowed low as they passed, and the princess beamed with delight.
An attendant showed them to the princess’s room, which was beautifully furnished, with a large tester bed and fine tapestries. Two bay windows looked out over the formal gardens at the front of the house. Elizabeth’s coffers had already been unpacked, Frances noticed, and when the attendant had left, she fetched her nightclothes from the wardrobe. The princess sank down onto the bed.
‘What a fine host Mr Catesby is,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.
‘He is very attentive, my lady,’ Frances agreed, as she unlaced her mistress’s gown with deft fingers. Elizabeth was like a ragdoll now, and her arms flopped back to her sides after Frances had pulled her shift over her head. She worked quickly and silently so that the girl was soon tucked up under the soft covers of the bed. She was already asleep by the time Frances had finished folding her clothes into the empty coffers. Frances padded silently over to the bed and l
ooked at her for a moment. The princess’s expression was so peaceful as she lay there, her tiny frame swathed in the rich coverlet. She was a child once more. Frances bent to kiss her smooth forehead. It seemed almost impossible that such murderous schemes were taking shape around this innocent girl.
‘God keep you safe,’ Frances whispered, then stole silently out of the room.
As she closed the door carefully behind her, she hesitated. Her own room was just along the corridor. She could go straight to it now and enjoy the solitude and rest that she had been craving ever since their arrival. She crossed to the small window that looked out over the privy gardens at the back of the house. They were swathed in light from the moon, its silvery rays picking out the dark hedgerows and neat gravel paths.
Suddenly, she saw him. He was standing underneath an archway, and was so still that he could have been mistaken for one of the statues that were situated around the grounds. She held her breath and stepped back into the shadows. Every nerve in her body seemed to prickle as she stood there, paralysed by indecision. Her instinct was to go to him, but fear prevented her – fear not of his actions but of her own, she realised. A few more moments passed. The ticking of the large clock at the end of the hallway seemed to taunt her. With a sudden impulse, she drew on her cloak and ran silently along the corridor and down the stairs.
The click of the latch as she let herself out seemed to echo around the garden. She stood still, listening, and gathered her cloak against the biting chill of the night air. After a pause, she thought she heard a sound like the scraping of a boot on gravel, but then the garden fell silent once more. She walked across the grass towards the marble archway, which seemed to glimmer with an ethereal light. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears as she drew close to it. But he was no longer there. She took a small step forward. Beyond the archway was a series of hedges, which she supposed was a maze. The hedges were so tall and close together that the moonlight illuminated only their uppermost branches; the path that threaded between them was shrouded in darkness.