by Tracy Borman
Elizabeth smiled broadly, immediately placated.
‘But you are right, Your Highness,’ he continued. ‘It is altogether too gloomy in here. Please – join me in the hall. A mutual acquaintance is waiting to pay his respects to you.’
Frances’s heart began to pound. She had only sent the note two days before, so he could not have acted upon it already. But if chance had brought him here, she might seize the opportunity to talk to him, to warn him.
The princess sprang up, delighted at the prospect of a surprise. Catesby led them back into the entrance hall and across to a large doorway. Frances heard a chair being pulled back, and she held her breath as they entered the hall.
Sir Everard’s face was swathed in smiles as he stood there waiting to greet them. Frances felt her heart lurch with disappointment and alarm. She tried desperately to gather her thoughts. Could she trust Catesby with her secret instead? No. For all she knew, he was in league with Cecil too. But she also knew that her instinctive dislike of him might have more to do with the part that he had played in deceiving her.
Her mind still racing, she lowered her gaze as Sir Everard walked towards them, and hardly heard the greeting that he exchanged with the princess.
‘Fortune smiles upon us, does it not Catesby?’ he said, when they were all seated. ‘We had planned to seek Lord Harington’s permission to visit you at Coombe, yet here you are now.’
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble of thunder.
‘What a tempest you have travelled through, Your Highness,’ Catesby remarked, his face a mask of concern. ‘You cannot think of returning today?’
‘The storm will pass soon enough,’ Frances cut in. ‘And it is but a short ride back to the abbey.’
Elizabeth’s face fell.
‘Well, we shall at least stay to dine with you,’ she said, shooting a peevish look at Frances. ‘Now, tell me, what news do you have of court?’
‘The king your father is in excellent health and spirits, thanks to the many opportunities he has taken to hunt of late,’ Sir Everard reported. ‘I believe that even now he is engaged in the chase at Oatlands.’
‘Is the court not in London? We had heard that Parliament would soon be convened,’ Frances interrupted briskly.
‘Alas no, Lady Frances. Every day seems to bring a fresh reason for postponement. Though the plague has abated, the king does not seem minded to return to London quite yet.’
‘And my mother?’ the princess asked. ‘I trust she is well?’
Frances noticed the anxiety on the girl’s face. The queen would be in her confinement now, and her daughter still had nightmares about the baby that had bled away.
‘Very well, Your Highness. She spends most of her time at Greenwich, and seems to take great delight in it – though of course she misses you greatly. The princes offer some consolation for your absence, but she must soon bid them farewell too as she enters her confinement,’ Sir Everard replied with a sad smile.
Elizabeth bit her lip and looked down at her hands.
‘But how much sweeter the reunion will be for these long weeks of separation,’ Catesby observed. ‘When the queen next sees you, she will be so proud of what you have become.’
Frances caught the look that the two men exchanged.
‘Does my Lord Salisbury also reside at Oatlands?’ She directed the question at Sir Everard, and watched closely as he considered his reply.
‘I am not privy to the Earl of Salisbury’s movements, Lady Frances,’ he said airily. ‘Though I do not believe he is with the king at present.’
‘Perhaps he is at Whitehall, making plans for Parliament – and all that will follow?’ Frances persisted.
Catesby shifted in his seat.
‘I did not realise you took such a close interest in the earl’s business, Lady Frances,’ Sir Everard replied smoothly. ‘He would be most flattered, I’m sure.’
She looked at him coldly.
‘No more than you do, Sir Everard.’
The silence was broken by a clap of thunder, much louder this time. Catesby placed a reassuring hand on the princess’s shoulder.
‘The storm is drawing closer, Your Grace,’ he said quietly. ‘But we will keep you safe.’
CHAPTER 35
12 April
Frances turned her face up to the sun and felt the first warm breath of spring. The rain had finally cleared, and it was a glorious day. As she and the princess strolled by the river that ran along the edge of Lord Harington’s estate, she felt the familiar contentment at being surrounded by nature. The monks had chosen the site well all those centuries ago. As well as the practical advantages of its position at the top of a valley, with fresh water in plentiful supply and woodlands on either side, there was a tranquillity about it that cannot have failed to inspire their devotions. She breathed deeply and pushed away the fears that played constantly on her mind so that she could enjoy a fleeting moment of peace.
Elizabeth occasionally stooped down and plucked a blade of grass, idly braiding them together as they walked. She seemed to be thriving in this rural idyll, Frances thought, as she looked fondly down at her. She had grown tall these past weeks, her irrepressible energy tempered by elegance. Even now, when she was at leisure away from the prying eyes of the court, she walked with an unmistakably regal bearing. Catesby was right. Elizabeth would make a fine queen.
Once it had taken hold, the notion had filled Frances with a growing anticipation – even impatience – to see this promising young girl crowned in place of her father. Her initial horror upon discovering the plot had had more to do with Tom’s betrayal, she realised, than the scheme itself. The shock of her father’s revelations had also abated, and she had spent many hours reflecting upon the clues to his faith that had existed at Longford, if only she had looked for them.
Though she flinched from the idea of the bloodshed that she knew the plot would lead to, it was surely a lesser evil than allowing this devil of a king to torture and murder hundreds more in the name of God. And if Tom and his companions succeeded, then she might serve Elizabeth as queen in a court free from the debauchery and repression into which it had fallen.
‘What do you think of Sir Everard?’ Elizabeth asked as she studied her braiding, a slow flush creeping across her cheeks.
The mention of his name jolted Frances from her reverie. The plotters did not yet know there was an informant in their midst. Sir Everard was no doubt keeping Cecil abreast of their every move, yet she had apparently been unable to get word to Tom – her note had gone unanswered. The reminder of her powerlessness smote her like a blow, and for a moment she was unable to answer the princess.
‘He seems a charming young gentleman – though I hardly know him, Your Grace,’ she replied at length. The princess did not catch the coldness in her voice.
‘Lord Harington tells me that he has a wife, and that they have been married for ten years, though he is but twenty-four years old. I wonder why he never brings her to court?’
‘Many wives are content to live in the peace of their estates, away from the vanity and backbiting of court,’ Frances remarked, with more bitterness than she intended.
Elizabeth jerked her head up in surprise.
‘You cannot mean that, Frances? You, who have lived so many of your days at court? All of life is there. The revels, the feasting, the dancing … I could not wish myself anywhere else.’
Frances bit her lip. She had already said too much, and could not expect a girl of eight to share her cynicism. She had been about the same age when her mother had first introduced her to the old queen’s court. It was as if she had been transported into a magical world, with tapestries that glittered like jewels, and dazzling gowns that dripped with diamonds and pearls.
‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’ she said at last. ‘I was raised in the countryside, far from court, and still feel most at home there.’
Elizabeth smiled, and they lapsed back into silence. Wh
en they reached the bridge at the top of the driveway, they both paused at the sound of horses’ hooves. Frances shielded her eyes as she peered into the distance. She could just make out the figure of a horseman riding along the driveway, a small cloud of dust following in his wake. Instinctively, she put her arm around the princess’s shoulders, but the girl sprang free and began to stride along the drive, eager to find out the identity of this unexpected visitor.
As he drew close, Frances saw that he was wearing the queen’s livery. She felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. His breeches and cloak were splattered with mud, and the hair that showed under his cap was damp with sweat. Quickly, he dismounted and knelt before the princess.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, removing his cap.
Frances noticed that Elizabeth’s hands trembled as she bade him stand.
‘I bring joyous news,’ he continued breathlessly. ‘The queen your mother is delivered of a fair daughter. Both are well.’
The princess’s face lit up at once.
‘A sister!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands together and turning gleeful eyes to Frances. ‘God has answered my prayers.’
Frances’s heart swelled to see the girl so happy, and she uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the queen’s safe delivery.
‘You are to return to London for the christening, Your Highness. I am to accompany you – and Lady Frances, of course,’ he added, with a brief bow to her attendant.
Elizabeth looked set to burst with joy as she reached out and clasped her hands. Frances forced a smile.
‘It is wonderful news indeed, Your Highness,’ she said quietly. Then, turning to the messenger: ‘Are we to remain in London for long after the christening?’
‘I do not know, my lady. My orders were only to convey you there without delay.’
‘Of course we shall stay!’ the princess exclaimed. ‘You heard Sir Everard say how much Mama has missed me, and I have had the same from her own hand. I wager that once we are back at court, she will not want to part with me again.’
Frances did not reply, but thanked the messenger, and invited him to take some refreshment in the house. The princess was already walking briskly back along the drive by the time he had untethered his horse. With a sigh, Frances gathered up her skirts and followed in her wake.
The Thames snaked into the distance, its waters reflecting the slate grey sky. People had gathered along the banks at the sight of the royal barge as it made its way from Westminster, and every now and then there was a cry of ‘God save Your Highness!’ The princess beamed with delight and gave a graceful wave each time. But something about their manner made Frances feel uneasy. Their faces seemed watchful, almost suspicious, as they called their greeting, and few smiled. She pushed away the thought as she turned to Elizabeth, who was craning her neck for a glimpse of Greenwich Palace.
Frances was looking over to the opposite bank as they passed the great mansions that lined the Strand. Just north of them was Gray’s Inn. Was Tom there now, forging his plans, or meeting his fellow conspirators in its cloistered chambers? She supposed he had done so many times before. She still felt a stab of bitterness at the thought of how easily he had deceived her, how she had willingly believed that his legal affairs necessitated such frequent absences.
‘Shall we be there before dinner, do you suppose, Frances?’ the princess asked eagerly, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I do so long for some sweetmeats, or perhaps a little marchpane.’
Frances tore her gaze from the north shore and forced a smile.
‘I am sure we will not go hungry to our beds, Your Highness,’ she soothed. ‘Look – there to the right, you can just glimpse the flags on top of the gatehouse.’
As the barge drew level with the landing stage, Frances glanced across to the palace. It was the first time she had visited Greenwich in springtime. The old queen had rarely stayed there, except to mark the traditional Christmas celebrations. Though it matched the splendour of Whitehall or Hampton Court, it had a more pleasant, tranquil aspect. The fact that it was separated from London by fields and pastureland added to its appeal, in Frances’s opinion.
A page was waiting to escort them to the palace, and as they walked along the drive, Elizabeth’s eyes darted this way and that, eager to see – and be seen by – some of the dignitaries of court. But the palace was strangely quiet, and though the windows to either side of them showed no sign of life within, Frances had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched.
The same quietness pervaded the interior of the palace as they progressed through the sequence of rooms that led to the queen’s privy chamber. Two yeomen stood guard at the door to the presence chamber, their halberds crossed in front of it. They made no motion to lift them as she and the princess approached, but instead stared grimly ahead. Only when they were within a few feet of the door did they give a curt bow and step aside to allow them admittance.
The presence chamber was empty, save for a servingwoman, who sat quietly by the window with her embroidery. She hastened to her feet as they entered, and swept a deep curtsey to the princess, then went to summon an attendant in the adjoining room to escort them. As the door was opened into the queen’s bedchamber, Frances and Elizabeth paused for a moment on the threshold so that their eyes might become accustomed to the gloom. The windows had been covered with heavy tapestries, and Frances noticed that even the keyholes had been stuffed with pieces of material to prevent any light from piercing the chamber. A fire blazed in the grate, though the weather was mild, so that the room felt uncomfortably warm and oppressive.
‘Come, my daughter.’
The disembodied voice of the queen carried softly across the room. Peering into the gloom, Frances saw the outline of a familiar figure seated on a large chair in a far corner. Gingerly, Elizabeth picked her way across to her mother, then knelt for her blessing.
‘I am glad to see you, Elizabeth,’ she said tenderly. ‘And you too, Lady Frances. I trust the journey was not too tiresome?’
‘Not at all, lady Mother,’ the princess said earnestly. ‘I have been so impatient to see you – and to meet my sister.’
‘I am sure she is just as eager to meet you, Elizabeth.’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘Though she is sleeping at present – which is a mercy.’
The princess looked quickly around the room.
‘Why is it so dark in here, Mother? I cannot see the cradle.’
‘You must understand that this is the first royal birth in England for many years, Elizabeth. I have to be seen to observe all of the traditions associated with a queen’s confinement.’ She sighed. ‘Though quite why Lady Beaufort should have decreed that daylight is harmful to the child, I cannot understand. I have almost forgotten what the world outside looks like. And the heat …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Well,’ she continued after a pause, ‘I have been delivered of a healthy child, so perhaps after all there is wisdom in these traditions.’
‘And a girl, too!’ the princess exclaimed delightedly. ‘How I have longed for a sister, Mama.’
‘I am glad of it, for your sake,’ the queen replied. ‘Would that everyone shared your joy. The king and his people looked for a prince, born on English soil.’
The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. Elizabeth fell silent.
‘Well, now,’ Anne said at last, her tone brighter. ‘You must tell me how you like Coombe Abbey. I have never visited, but Lord Harington has boasted of its beauty many times.’
‘It is pretty enough, and there is excellent parkland for riding,’ the princess replied without enthusiasm. ‘But I do not like to live so far from court – or from you, Mama.’
Anne smiled.
‘The court is not so gay as it once was, Elizabeth,’ she remarked. ‘The king rarely frequents it, and London has hardly been free of the plague for two weeks together, so that most of the nobles choose to live at their country estates.’
Frances wondered if that was the only reason why the city seemed so quiet.
‘They will return for the christening, though, Your Highness?’ she asked.
The queen shook her head.
‘Not in great numbers, Lady Frances. The king prefers to be surrounded only by his family and his favourites these days. He grows impatient of crowds – and fearful,’ she added quietly.
They looked at each other steadily. The princess moved to a seat close to her mother.
‘Well, I am pleased to be here nonetheless,’ she said, in a subdued voice.
The queen reached out and patted her hand. They fell into silence, but it was soon broken by a thin, high wail coming from the adjoining room. The princess sprang to her feet at once.
‘She is awake!’ she proclaimed joyfully.
Anne smiled indulgently.
‘Tell the wet nurse to bring the child in here,’ she said to the attendant. The woman bobbed a quick curtsey and left the room. A moment later, she reappeared with a small, plump lady of about Frances’s age. She was wearing a simple grey gown, which was drawn tight around her large belly. In her arms, the tiny princess writhed and snuffled. The queen held out her arms, and the nurse carefully handed her the baby.
The fire that blazed in the grate illuminated the tiny princess. ‘Oh, she is beautiful,’ Elizabeth said wonderingly, as she gently drew back the richly embroidered shawl in which the child was swathed. ‘What shall she be called?’
‘The king wishes to wait until the christening before deciding,’ her mother replied.
Frances caught the note of irritation in her voice, but Elizabeth was too enraptured by her new sister to notice. Forcing a smile, Anne motioned for her elder daughter to sit down so that she might hold her little sister. Taking the tiny, snuffling bundle, she cradled her with the same exaggerated care that she reserved for her favourite dolls, rocking her gently, and stroking the few wisps of downy red hair that had escaped from under the shawl. Frances looked down on the two sisters and smiled.
‘She looks very like you, I think, Your Grace,’ she said to the princess.