by Tracy Borman
Frances was only vaguely aware that the man had spoken again. Her eyes were drawn back to the proclamation.
Thomas Wintour
So Cecil had secured Fawkes’s confession. She shuddered as she imagined the ropes of the rack tightening, the crack as the prisoner’s joints were wrested from their sockets. But Tom was not yet captured. The notice only said that he and the rest had fled. Perhaps they had somehow overcome the sheriff’s men and escaped to safety. Then her eyes alighted on the date at the foot of the page.
7 NOVEMBER 1605
‘News travels slowly in these parts,’ the man said, following her gaze. ‘News they want us to hear, at any rate. But we know what passes well enough. We have eyes and ears as sharp as those in London.’
‘They are apprehended, then?’ Frances asked quietly.
‘More than that,’ the man replied, a note of pride in his voice. ‘The sheriff’s men had them surrounded at Holbeach. There was a fierce battle yesterday – they say the gunshots could be heard as far as Bridgnorth. The papists were few enough, but they fought like wild dogs. They must have known it was their last stand. Better to die there than at the gallows.’
Frances gripped the fencing that stood between her and the noticeboard. Her skin prickled with a sudden heat, though she was soaked through to the skin, and a chill wind had whipped up from the east. She ran her tongue around her lips and swallowed hard.
‘So they are dead? All?’ The vision that she had seen now blurred with the painting in the church, so that Tom’s lifeless body was being dragged down to hell by a smiling demon.
‘Yes, miss.’
Her grip tightened as she felt her legs begin to buckle.
‘At least, the leader of them is, and several of his men,’ he continued. ‘The rest are captured and already on their way to the Tower.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘They’ll soon wish their hearts had been stopped by one of the sheriff’s bullets too.’
Frances tried to control the pounding in her chest as the man busied himself with packing away his tools. She did not know which was the greater torment to imagine: Tom being shot dead, or being bundled into a cart and taken, bound and gagged, to face an even worse fate in London. Either way, he was surely lost to her for ever.
The man straightened up and gave a groan as he rubbed the base of his spine.
‘I fancy this rain has seeped into my very bones,’ he complained. Frances did not reply, but continued staring straight ahead. He gave a shrug, then trudged off down the street.
The rain began falling more heavily. Frances’s hair had come loose from its coif and lay in drenched tendrils around her shoulders. Large droplets of water ran down her face and stung her eyes as the wind whipped across the courtyard, but she remained as still and lifeless as the carvings above the entrance to the ancient hall.
The cathedral bell chiming the quarter seemed to rouse her, as if from a trance. She looked again at Tom’s name on the proclamation, then with a sudden resolve ran back along the street.
She heard Lord Harington conversing with the princess behind the closed door of the parlour, and made towards the stairs, intent upon gaining some time alone in her room. But something about the girl’s voice made her pause. It sounded clipped, almost shrill, and Lord Harington’s soothing replies were rapidly interrupted each time.
Crossing to the parlour door, Frances knocked lightly and entered the room. The princess was seated on a chair in the far corner of the room. Her face was pale and agitated, and she barely glanced at Frances as she made her curtsey. Lord Harington looked askance at Frances’s dishevelled appearance, but said nothing.
‘Is something amiss?’ Frances addressed the question to him, seeing that her mistress was too distracted to give a reasoned answer.
‘I have just relayed news of the conspirators to the princess. They have been named in a proclamation. Her Highness is greatly troubled,’ he replied shortly, glancing across at the girl, who was now staring down at her trembling hands.
‘Robin,’ Elizabeth muttered, as if to herself. ‘And Tom, Kit, and Jack. Traitors all.’ She stood up abruptly and crossed to where Frances was standing.
‘It must have been a great shock to hear the names of those involved, Your Highness,’ Frances replied quietly.
‘They proclaimed their friendship, their loyalty, but it was all lies,’ the girl spat back, her eyes flashing. ‘I wish that I had never met such false wretches.’
‘Their loyalty to you was true enough,’ Frances replied firmly. Lord Harington shot her a fierce look, but she continued. ‘They wanted to set you on the throne.’
‘Not before they had murdered my father and brother.’ She gripped her attendant’s hands in her own, which were ice cold. ‘I would rather have perished in the Parliament house than wear the crown on such condition.’
Frances gently pulled her hands away and looked steadily at the princess.
‘Well, now they have died for it,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Not all,’ Lord Harington interrupted. ‘Four were killed by the sheriff’s men, others were arrested, but a small number escaped.’
Frances felt her heart quicken.
‘Do you know who?’
‘Digby, Percy, and Bates.’ He watched her closely. ‘And Wintour.’
All of the colour drained from Frances’s face, and she sank down into a chair. She had to remind herself to breathe as her vision began to grow blurred.
‘Robert Wintour,’ Lord Harington added, after a long pause, during which his eyes never left her. ‘His brother Thomas was shot in the siege, and run through with a sword.’
Frances gripped her stomach. The room grew suddenly dark, and she swayed in her chair. The princess quickly poured her a glass of water and gently brought it to her mouth.
‘See how you have startled her, as you did me!’ she cried, rounding on Lord Harington. ‘I’ll wager that you wish to frighten us both to death.’
The old man spread his hands in a gesture of apology, but did not look entirely abashed.
‘Have the dead been laid to rest?’ Frances’s voice was barely a whisper, and her eyes remained lowered.
‘For now,’ Lord Harington replied. ‘Though there is talk of having them exhumed and displayed as a warning to all Catholics.’
Frances pressed her fingers to her mouth.
‘What of those who have fled?’ Elizabeth asked, her voice edged with fear. ‘Are they likely to try to find me?’
Lord Harington shook his head. ‘Do not trouble yourself unduly, ma’am. My Lord Salisbury has dispatched hundreds of officers to search every inch of land surrounding Holbeach. And he will be interrogating Wintour in person, so he can apply pressure to find out where his brother is hiding.’
Frances’s head shot up.
‘Wintour? Thomas Wintour? But you said that he was dead.’
‘Not dead, Lady Frances: injured. Gravely, at that. But he is young and fit enough to survive for a time at least, assuming the wounds are well tended in the Tower,’ he added with a smirk.
Frances’s hand shook as she reached for the glass that the princess had brought her. She forced herself to take a few sips, and tried to order her thoughts as she did so. That Tom was alive seemed even more miraculous after she had believed him to be dead just a few moments before. Although she knew that his life was in the gravest possible danger, she could not help feeling giddy with relief and joy that he still drew breath. If he recovered from his wounds and proved sufficiently penitent, then perhaps the king would be merciful yet. She must cling on to that hope, for therein lay the breath of life.
‘Ah, I almost forgot,’ Lord Harington said after a long pause. He crossed to the table and picked up a sealed note. ‘The messenger brought this for you, when he arrived with the news from Holbeach,’ he said, handing it to Frances. She looked up at him in confusion, but his expression remained impassive. Her first thought was that it was from Tom. But she knew that was impossible. Even if he had been able to wr
ite at such a time, he would never risk implicating her. Turning the letter over, she drew a quiet breath as she recognised the royal seal. For a moment, she considered taking it to her room so that she might read it in private, but she knew that this would only court further suspicion from Lord Harington, so she broke it open and began to read.
Lady Frances,
The late events have occasioned great unease for His Majesty and myself. We had judged that the princess Elizabeth would be safest at a distance from court, but now that the conspirators are so close at hand, we think it best that she should return to London, where we may be more assured of her protection. To that end, we require you to make haste to Greenwich Palace so that I can instruct you about the princess’s new lodgings. You may then prepare for her arrival, which will be arranged a short while later. I have written to advise Lord Harington of the same.
Given under our signet at the Palace of Greenwich, this eighth day of November.
Anne R
Frances carefully folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket.
‘Well, my lord,’ she said at last. ‘You already know its contents. Have you informed the princess?’
‘He has,’ Elizabeth cut in. ‘And I am sorry for it. I would sooner keep you with me here, so that I might be assured of your safety – and mine. I cannot think why Mama would wish you to leave me here alone.’ Her tone was indignant, but Frances caught the apprehension in it.
‘It is only for a short while, ma’am, then you will follow,’ she assured her. Turning to Lord Harington, she told him that she would be ready to leave within the hour, and asked him to arrange a carriage. The old man nodded his assent. Frances gave a brief curtsey to her mistress, then hastened to her room.
As soon as the door was closed behind her, she sank back against it and closed her eyes. In the few short hours since she had left this room, it seemed that her entire world had shifted. She had known few enough certainties before, but now even these had vanished. Though she feared what lay before her in London, she strained to return there with every fibre of her being. It was foolish to think that she would be permitted to visit Tom, but she longed to be close to him, for however long – or short – the time left to them both might be. She felt deeply grateful to the queen for summoning her back, though she little believed the reason. But she had no time to think on that now, as she opened her eyes and tried to focus on the task in hand.
Less than an hour later, she was sitting in the carriage that Lord Harington had arranged. Her sodden clothes she had left draped over a chair close to the dying embers of the fire. She was glad of the fresh, dry linen that now lay against her skin, and the warmth of the gown that covered it. Glancing back down the alley, she saw neither flicker of life nor light within the house. Lord Harington would be hard-pressed to keep the princess calm during her absence, even if he was minded to do so, which she somehow doubted. It was as if he wished to punish the girl for her acquaintance with the plotters, overlooking the fact that his own had been far more damning.
With a jolt, the carriage started forward. Progress through the streets was rapid, for barely a soul stirred out of doors, even though it was almost eleven o’clock. By the time that Frances caught the striking of the hour, the tall spire of Holy Trinity had faded into the distance. She turned back to face the road ahead, and muttered a quiet prayer for what might await her there.
CHAPTER 44
12 November
Frances stood for a moment on the threshold of the queen’s presence chamber so that her eyes could become accustomed to the gloom. The curtains had been drawn across every window, keeping out the meagre light from the leaden sky beyond.
‘Lady Frances, you are welcome indeed.’
The voice came from beneath the canopy at the far end of the room. Frances swept a deep curtsey, then walked slowly forward. As she neared the raised dais, she could see Anne’s form gradually begin to emerge from the shadows. She was dressed in her favourite slate grey, with a fine black lace shawl around her shoulders. On either side of her was a lady-in-waiting, dressed even more sombrely. Frances wondered fleetingly if the court was in mourning.
‘Your Grace,’ she said as she reached the steps of the dais, and dropped another curtsey.
‘How fares my daughter?’ the queen asked in her familiar, clipped tones.
‘The discovery of the Powder Treason, as they are calling it, has greatly unsettled her, ma’am, though she is in safe keeping.’
‘It has unsettled us all – the king most of all,’ Anne replied. Frances thought she detected a note of disdain in her voice. ‘He has been in a perfect terror ever since, and keeps mostly to his rooms, with only his Scottish servants in attendance. He swears that every Englishman countenances his death.’
One of the ladies made a small cough.
‘Well, well, I must not speak of such matters,’ the queen said quickly. ‘We are all unharmed, God be praised, and I am indebted to you for keeping our daughter safe too.’
Frances inclined her head, but remained silent. She flicked her gaze towards the two attendants, who stared impassively ahead. After a few moments, Anne gestured for them to leave. They bobbed a swift curtsey, then stepped down from the dais, their skirts rustling as they passed. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, the queen gave a deep sigh.
‘They came so close to success, Frances,’ she said quietly. ‘They lacked but a few hours.’
Frances paused so that she might choose her words carefully.
‘It was a hazardous enterprise, ma’am.’
‘But a noble one!’ the queen exclaimed suddenly. ‘If they had not been betrayed, then they would surely have accomplished everything they had planned. But now – now all is in ruins.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘Cecil is like a cat who has cornered a mouse. He relishes the game of tormenting it before he pounces. Fawkes has already confessed; Wintour will soon follow. Though they say that he will not need to be racked: he is wounded and helpless enough as it is.’
A tear wound its way slowly down Frances’s cheek. She had not shed a single one since hearing the news of his capture, for fear that if she gave way to her grief, it would have no end. But now that the queen had spoken of his pain, his helplessness, she could no longer contain it.
‘I am sorry for it, my dear,’ Anne said, her voice softer now. ‘I know how deeply you loved him – and he you. He was a fine man, and brave.’
‘He is still,’ Frances replied defiantly, then cast her gaze to the ground. ‘Might he yet be spared?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘If he gives Cecil the information that he seeks? Surely the king will wish to be hailed as merciful? His enemies have shed enough blood already.’
‘If Wintour gives Cecil what he seeks, then we are all destroyed. All.’ Frances caught the fear in her voice, as well as the anger. ‘Cecil knows that they have a powerful patron at court, and has long suspected that it is me. But I have been careful to give him no proof, and even he flinches at the idea that a woman would collude in the murder of her own husband and son.’ She stared at Frances, her eyes filled with bitterness. ‘But suffering and violence and humiliation will drive us to take extreme measures. I acted as my conscience dictated.’
Frances paused for a moment, considering. Her mind went back to that morning at Hampton Court when she had visited Sir Everard’s chambers.
‘Did all the plotters know of your involvement, Your Grace?’
The queen shook her head. ‘Just Catesby and Wintour. The knowledge was too dangerous to be shared more broadly. Catesby has taken it to his grave, or rather—’ She broke off and shuddered, then took a breath before continuing. ‘So my fate rests with Tom. His confession is expected every day.’
‘He is a man of honour, ma’am,’ Frances assured her quietly. ‘He will not betray you – or anyone.’
‘Who knows what a man will do when faced with the terrors of torture?’ Anne countered impatiently. ‘The king showed me Fawkes’s confession, signed after t
orture. His signature is barely decipherable. He will have to be carried to the scaffold and held aloft while they tighten the noose around his neck.’
Frances looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together. They felt clammy and cold, despite the heat from the fire. She cared little for herself, but if Tom did name the queen, or worse still her father … She swallowed hard.
‘Forgive me,’ the queen said with a sigh. ‘I should not speak so frankly. It is a failing in me – at least, with those I trust. With the king and his minions, I am a perfect queen of ice.’ She paused. ‘I just need to prepare myself – and you – for what might happen.’
‘Is there nothing we can do to help him?’ Frances asked, her eyes pleading. ‘The king knows that he lacks the love of his people. If you could persuade him to show clemency—’
Anne reached forward and squeezed her hands.
‘If I thought I had that power, I would not hesitate to use it,’ she replied with a sad smile. ‘But I am the last person of whom my husband will take heed. He wishes I would be carried away by a fever, or else in childbed, so that he could be left to enjoy his favourites in peace. My word is nothing to him.’
‘Then we must only wait and hope?’ Frances asked. Her eyes pricked with tears of frustration, and she brushed them angrily away.
‘And pray,’ the queen added softly. ‘Pray that Tom will be taken by the Lord before he meets the crueller death.’
Frances bowed her head and closed her eyes, though not in prayer. She could no longer bear to look at the queen, nor hear the cold comfort that she offered. They sat in silence for a long time, then at last Frances roused herself and dropped a brief curtsey.
‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am tired from my journey, and will seek whatever chamber has been reserved for me.’
The queen nodded, but did not reply. Frances had almost reached the door when Anne spoke her name. She stopped, her hand suspended above the door handle.
‘I will do everything I can to save him,’ she said quietly.