by Tracy Borman
‘I hear Prince Henry is thriving, Your Grace,’ Thomas cut in.
Frances had thrilled at the news that her former mistress had been safely delivered of a son at the beginning of the year. She hoped the count would be kind to her, given that she had fulfilled her duty as a royal wife so soon. Perhaps their marriage was happier than Frances had dared hope it would be when she had bade the princess farewell. She still remembered the young woman’s tear-stained face as she had clung to her.
James grunted. ‘So my ambassador tells me. Let’s hope he dunnae choke out his breath like his namesake.’
A shocked hush descended. It was known to all that the King had despised his late son and heir, but he had refrained from speaking ill of him since his demise – in public, at least.
There was a small cough. Glancing along the dais, Frances saw Robert Carr. She wondered that she had not noticed him before. He was never more than a few feet away from his master. Even his marriage to Lady Frances Howard at the end of the previous year had not interrupted the frequency – or, it was rumoured, the intimacy – of his attendance upon the King. His recent promotion to Earl of Somerset was testament to that.
‘Sir Anthony is desirous to know whether you are ready for the banquet to be served, Your Grace,’ he said, in the simpering tone she remembered.
‘Aye, tell him to get on wi’ it,’ James barked, with a dismissive wave.
Frances was grateful to take her place at one of the long tables that lined the walls. Soon, the attendants began to file in from the far end of the hall, laden with platters of sweetmeats, candied fruits and marchpane.
‘Lady Mildmay is famed for her confectionery,’ a gentleman opposite remarked, his eyes roving over the exquisitely crafted dishes that were being laid in front of them.
Frances glanced at the dais. Grace Mildmay was sitting next to her husband, Sir Anthony. She was about the same age as Helena, Frances judged, but her figure was much fuller. Her pale blue eyes were kind and intelligent, and she had a gentleness about her that made Frances warm to her at once. She hoped they might have the opportunity to become friends.
Just then, her attention was drawn to the arrival of another server, who had thrown open the door with such force that it thudded against the fireplace. Frances had never seen the young man before, and judging from the curious stares of her fellow diners, he was a newcomer at court. He was exceptionally tall and slender, with skin as delicate as porcelain. His dark blue eyes flitted about the room, and Frances saw the flicker of a smile on his lips as he looked towards the dais. She followed his gaze but James was too distracted by the array of sweet delicacies before him to notice. Next to him, Somerset was staring in the attendant’s direction with a mixture of surprise and consternation. Clearly, he had been unaware of his appointment. Frances knew that the King lived in daily fear of assassins and that every new arrival in his service had to be carefully scrutinised by his closest advisers before they were permitted to attend him. Perhaps this one had slipped through the net.
She sipped some spiced wine and raised her eyes again to the young man, who was slowly moving down the hall, a gilded flagon in one hand and an embroidered napkin in the other. The position of royal cupbearer was as highly sought as the other roles that involved attendance upon the King. Frances was wondering who his patron was when she recalled her conversation with Sir Anthony earlier that day. Sir John Graham must have some game in play.
‘Have you tried the apricots? I have never tasted sweeter.’ Thomas was offering the platter to her. She smiled her thanks and tried to focus on slicing the delicate flesh of the fruit. ‘Do you suppose that is Sir John’s new protégé?’ she whispered, as the cupbearer passed directly in front of where they were sitting.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed but he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘For a moment I thought I knew him, but I must have been mistaken.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I have not noticed any other newcomers, so I suppose this must be Sir John’s man.’
A loud clatter reverberated around the hall. Everyone turned to see the young man staring aghast at the dark red stain splattered on his white shirt. The flagon lay at his feet, the rest of its contents spreading over the marble tiles. Behind him, Frances noticed one of the other attendants smirking. She recognised him as the man who usually served the King his wine.
‘God’s wounds! You churl!’ the newcomer shouted, his face now even paler and his chest heaving with suppressed rage. The other man’s smile grew broader as he stared back at him.
The King was gazing at them both, open-mouthed. Somerset stood abruptly and was about to intervene when the young man strutted from the hall, slamming the door behind him.
A deathly hush descended. Somerset seemed unsure whether to go after him or stay and attend his sovereign.
‘Well, clean up the mess, man!’ he shouted at last, then gestured to the minstrels to resume their playing.
After a long pause, the guests resumed feasting, the hum of conversation more muted than before. Frances darted a glance towards the smirking man, who was soaking up the spilled wine with a napkin. He had just finished when the door at the far end of the hall was flung open again and the tall young man was back. He had changed his shirt and appeared as composed as when he had first entered. All eyes turned to him as he walked slowly down the centre of the hall. The man who had caused him to spill the wine was now standing bolt upright, his eyes fixed upon his adversary.
‘Thank you for taking care of the flagon for me, Carlton,’ the young man purred, his voice as smooth as silk, then wrested it from the attendant’s grasp.
Before the other man could reply, he swung back the vessel and brought it crashing against the side of his face. There was a sickening crack and Carlton slumped to the floor, his jaw broken. For a moment, nobody stirred. Then the King’s guards rushed forward to seize the young man, while Somerset ran about the hall barking instructions to whoever would listen. Thomas grasped Frances’s hand as they watched in dismay. Among the press of bodies, she could see a pool of blood where the spilled wine had been and heard the low keening of the man as he clutched the side of his face. At least he was still breathing, she thought.
‘Peace!’
The King’s voice rang out across the hall. His chair scraped loudly across the tiles as he rose to his feet, then limped down from the dais. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as he walked slowly towards the young man.
‘I have not seen you in my service before,’ he remarked. ‘What is your name?’
The man made as if to bow, but the guards on either side of him had his arms pinioned so tightly behind his back that he could not move.
‘George Villiers, Your Majesty,’ he said. He did not lower his eyes as convention dictated, but stared directly at his sovereign.
James held his gaze. Frances recognised the intensity of that look. She had seen it many times before, when the King had been entranced by a new masque or the grisly spectacle of the hunt in which he so delighted. Now, he seemed as likely to kiss the man as strike him.
‘Who brought ye here?’
Someone cleared their throat. A moment later, Sir John Graham stepped forward. Frances had not noticed him among the company – he had probably been keeping a discreet distance. His face was flushed and there was fear in his eyes as he addressed his sovereign. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was given full assurance of the young man’s credentials, or I would never have agreed to his appointment in your service.’
Frances saw his eyes flick to Somerset. So that was why he had accepted Villiers’s suit. Sir John’s rivalry with him had dominated the privy chamber for years. Although Sir John was too advanced in years to enjoy the same favour with James as his beloved ‘Rabbie,’ he evidently hoped to divert their master’s attention with a younger, more beguiling, alternative.
‘You should have consulted me, Sir John,’ Somerset snapped. ‘All those who aspire to serve His Grace must gain my approval first. I would never have allowed su
ch a man as this,’ he cast a disdainful look at Villiers, ‘to come into His Grace’s presence.’
‘Hush, Rabbie’, the King interrupted. Frances caught the scowl that crossed his favourite’s brow before he recovered his usual composure. ‘Well now,’ James continued, taking a step closer to his captive. ‘What shall I do wi’ thee?’
Villiers’s eyes glinted as he stared back at the King.
James nodded to the guards to release their hold, then reached forward and took the young man’s right hand in his. There was an audible intake of breath around the room.
‘Do you know the penalty for striking a man in the King’s presence?’ he murmured, stroking his thumb across the attendant’s delicate fingers. ‘It is to have your hand smitten off.’
Behind the King, Frances saw Somerset give a satisfied smile. Villiers’s expression did not change.
James gazed down at the man’s wrist, as if imagining the blade slicing through it. ‘But I would not be a merciful king if I punished a novice in this way.’ Frances stared at him. He had shown no such mercy to witches or Catholics – or any other of his subjects who displeased him, she reflected bitterly. ‘Besides,’ he added, lifting the young man’s hand so that his lips almost touched it, ‘I could not destroy something so beautiful.’
Frances saw Villiers’s eyes darken with something like desire – or triumph, perhaps.
‘And so I am minded to pardon you—’
‘Your Grace,’ Somerset interrupted, stepping forward. ‘This man has shown himself to be violent and unruly. Surely you cannot risk—’
The King held up a hand to silence him. ‘You would have me jump at my own shadow, Rabbie,’ he said, without taking his eyes off Villiers. ‘Such passion as this young man has shown must not be suppressed but, rather . . . channelled in another direction.’
Somerset’s face flushed with anger but he pressed his lips together, defeated.
‘Now, George’ – the King said the name slowly, as if savouring its taste – ‘you may kiss my hand and I will release yours.’
The young man lowered his head to James’s outstretched hand and held it there, his lips so close that the King must have felt his breath. Frances noticed James’s fingers tremble as he gazed down at the attendant’s mass of dark hair. Very slowly, Villiers brushed his lips against his master’s skin, letting them linger. At last, he straightened, his heavy-lidded eyes meeting James’s again. Then he swept an elegant bow and walked slowly from the hall, the King staring after him.
CHAPTER 3
16 August
Frances bent to rub the velvety sage leaf between her fingers, releasing its aromatic scent. It was the first time she had allowed herself to visit Sir Anthony’s famed herb garden, even though they had been there for almost two weeks. Her years at court had taught her caution, as well as restraint. She must not appear overhasty to explore such a place, lest she arouse suspicion that she was gathering ingredients for her potions. It was a long time since she had been accused of witchcraft but she knew that the stain would never be erased.
‘You are admiring my plants, I see.’
She turned sharply at the soft voice and curtsied as Lady Mildmay drew level with her.
‘Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you,’ the older woman continued. ‘Please,’ she gestured for Frances to follow, ‘I do not often have the chance to show off my garden so I would be delighted if you would indulge me.’
‘With pleasure, Lady Grace,’ Frances replied. ‘It is one of the finest I have seen.’
Her companion smiled at the compliment. ‘I have been fortunate to have more time than most wives to tend it. Sir Anthony and I wished to fill this house with children, but God has seen fit to bless us with only our dear Mary. She is of an age with you, I think.’
‘I am sorry not to have made her acquaintance,’ Frances remarked. ‘Does she live far from here?’
‘Too far!’ Lady Grace replied, with feeling. ‘Her husband’s estates lie in the north-west, many days’ journey from here. I have seldom seen her since her marriage, though she is a faithful correspondent. She loves to tell me of the herbs and plants she has cultivated in Westmorland, despite the chill winds that blow from the hills thereabouts.’
‘She must be as skilled as her mother,’ Frances observed, as she admired the neatly kept beds, each one bordered by fragrant myrtle hedges.
‘I hear you are skilled in such matters yourself, Lady Frances.’
The remark was lightly made, but Frances experienced the familiar surge of fear.
‘I knew your mother,’ Lady Grace continued, sensing her hesitation. ‘We served in the old Queen’s chamber together for a time. I still remember her arriving at court. As pretty as a peach, and with such modesty that she was bound to win favour with our mistress. You are very much like her, I think.’
‘I wish that were true,’ Frances said, with feeling. ‘I miss her dreadfully – my son George, too. He is under my mother’s guardianship at Longford until he comes of age and inherits the estate. I hope to visit them again soon.’
‘It is a beautiful castle,’ Lady Grace observed. ‘I was raised in Wiltshire, too, and visited Longford when it was newly built. Your mother and father were almost as proud of it as they were of their young brood. Such a large family! How do your brothers and sisters fare?’
Though she had six siblings still living, it was Edward whom Frances thought of first. She had heard little of him since her departure from court the previous year. After Prince Henry’s death, it had soon become clear that Edward could not hope for the same favour from the new heir, Charles, so he had given up the court without troubling to take his leave of her. Theo had written some weeks later that he had loaned their brother some money for a voyage to Italy. Frances had often thought of him since, jostling for favour among the rapacious courts of Florence or Rome. She hoped he would find enough to keep him there.
‘Very well, I think,’ Frances replied, ‘though I rarely see them now.’ She decided to change the subject. ‘I fear that I will soon need to loosen my stays. It is little wonder that your confectionery is celebrated throughout the kingdom.’
The older woman chuckled. ‘I have long since despaired of my figure,’ she said, patting her generous hips. ‘But I use sugar in my remedies, too. It can be most effective.’
‘Oh?’ Frances knew that they should not speak of such things but she was intrigued.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Grace replied, warming to her theme, ‘and many other things besides – seeds, roots, nuts, spices . . . as well as the herbs here, of course. One of my balms contains over a hundred ingredients,’ she added proudly. ‘I write down all of my recipes, with notes for their application. I should be glad to show them to you. It is rare that anyone takes such an interest. My husband calls me his wise woman.’
Frances stopped walking and stared at her companion. ‘Are you not afraid? Such practices have been deemed witchcraft since King James took the throne.’
Lady Grace smiled. ‘His Majesty enjoys our hospitality too much to cut it off at its source,’ she remarked wryly. ‘He is so fond of my confectionery that I am obliged to send him regular supplies whenever he is away from Apethorpe.’
Frances bit back a scornful remark at the King’s hypocrisy. After a pause, they resumed their stroll through the garden.
‘I hope the King has had good hunting today,’ Lady Grace said. ‘It will put him in a favourable humour for this evening’s feast.’
‘They will soon return,’ Frances replied. She had noticed the lengthening shadows. ‘I have a mind to walk in the parkland before this evening – to sharpen my appetite,’ she added, with a grin.
‘Of course, my dear,’ her hostess replied. ‘You will forgive me if I do not accompany you, but I must attend to the kitchens.’
Frances walked towards the gate on the north side of the herb garden, shielding her eyes against the sun as she decided which path to take. On the rise of the hill that lay to the east of the
hall, she could see the outline of a hunting lodge. It was too small to be the one she had heard Sir Anthony speak of having commissioned the previous year, so she hoped it was no longer in use. Solitude was a rare luxury at court gatherings. There would be fine views of the estate from there, too, and she could rest in its shade before returning to her chamber to make shift for the feast.
Frances quickened her pace as she went up the hillside. By the time she reached the small circular clearing that lay in front of the lodge, she was obliged to rest for a few moments. The views were as spectacular as she had envisaged. The hall seemed to shimmer in the late-afternoon light, and she was struck by the symmetry of the gardens that surrounded it. The air was cooler there, and Frances closed her eyes as a breeze blew across the exposed skin of her face and neck.
Turning towards the lodge, she noticed that the door was ajar. She pushed it open and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the small entrance hall, which had no windows. It was deliciously cool inside and she breathed in the comforting smell of damp stone. A noise from the floor above made her start. She waited, straining her ears to listen, but all was quiet.
She made her way up the spiral stairs, gripping the iron rail that ran along the cold stone wall. With every step she took, she feared a rat would scurry out from the shadows, but her soft leather soles disturbed only the years of dust that had formed on the steps.
As she reached the top, she heard another sound – like a faint moan. Her heart began to thrum in her chest. It was easy to imagine an ancient tower such as this being haunted by some restless ghost. Then she chided herself. It was probably nothing more than the breeze rushing down the chimney into the fireplace.
Once her breathing had slowed, she edged towards the light that showed around the door on the left of the landing. She opened it and stood on the threshold, blinking against the brightness that streamed in through the window. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared, at first unable to comprehend the scene that was being played out in front of her.
