Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  The King was lying on the heavy oak table that stretched the length of the room. He was wearing only a linen shirt, his doublet and breeches discarded on the floor. His legs dangled over one end of the table, and a man was kneeling between them, his head rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he stroked James’s thighs.

  Frances felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. She stood stock still, struggling to breathe. The King gave another moan and the man raised his head to smile at him, exposing the shock of his arousal, before lowering his mouth once more.

  As if suddenly released from an enchantment, Frances backed hurriedly out of the room, willing her feet to make no sound on the dusty floorboards. Back on the landing, her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she feared it could be heard. But, after a long moment, the King cried out. As she padded quickly down the stairs, the sound of the other man’s silken laughter echoed around the walls.

  George Villiers.

  CHAPTER 4

  21 August

  ‘Ha!’ James exclaimed, as the dice clattered to a halt. ‘I have it again. Surrender your fortune, Somerset.’

  Frances peered over Lady Grace’s shoulder and saw Somerset give a resigned grin, pushing the remainder of his coins towards the King. His mouth dropped as Villiers stepped forward and refilled his master’s glass. The young man paused for just a moment too long after performing this task, the flagon suspended in his slender fingers. Frances saw James’s eyes rest upon them and he inhaled deeply, as if trying to catch his lover’s scent. She knew that her husband had seen it too. He had been shocked, but not surprised, when she had told him what she had witnessed in the hunting lodge a few days before. ‘We must keep our counsel,’ he had urged.

  Frances knew he was right. The secret would be out soon enough anyway. The King was doing little to disguise his growing infatuation.

  ‘That will be all, Villiers.’

  Somerset’s voice, sharp as flint, sliced through the heavy silence. Still his rival did not move. Only when the King gave a reluctant nod did he bow and step back into the shadows.

  ‘Come, Thomas,’ James said. ‘It is just you and I now.’

  Frances took a sip of claret and forced her attention back to her companion. ‘You will be glad to have your house to yourselves again,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband tells me that the King plans to depart for Nottingham before the week is out.’

  Lady Grace smiled. ‘We are greatly honoured by his visits, of course.’ She continued in a low voice: ‘Though they do place a burden on our estate – and those of our neighbours. Sir Anthony has been obliged to offer recompense for the damage wreaked upon their crops by His Grace’s incessant hunting.’

  Frances shot a quick look in the King’s direction, but he was too intent upon his game to heed their conversation. She knew it was the same wherever James stayed – Thomas had often spoken of it. He had tried to persuade his master to lay out his own funds as a means of securing goodwill, but to no avail. This king had ever been careless of his subjects’ welfare, she reflected.

  ‘I would be glad if the Queen would accompany her husband sometimes,’ the older woman went on, ‘but it seems she prefers to remain in London.’

  It was true. For most of the years that Frances had served at court, Anne had lived in a separate household at Greenwich. She had claimed the air was more beneficial to her health than that of Whitehall or St James’s, but her recent move to Denmark House on the Strand exposed this as a lie. It was hardly a secret that she could not bear her husband’s company – or he hers.

  ‘The King was ever best when furthest from the Queen,’ she whispered.

  ‘You have the luck of the devil, Thomas!’

  Both women turned to the King, who was staring in mock-horror at Frances’s husband.

  ‘If you did not keep my hounds in such good order, I would have you whipped,’ he added, with a grin, as he handed Thomas a large pile of coins.

  ‘Another game, Your Grace?’

  ‘And let you further deplete my treasury? No, Tom, we will have no more sport this evening. Besides,’ he added, casting a glance over his shoulder, ‘I am tired after the day’s hunting so will seek my bed.’

  The other men around the table rose as the King prepared to depart. Somerset was at his side, as if fearful that Villiers would forget his position and offer to accompany their master. As he reached the door, James turned and addressed Thomas again. ‘I have a mind to visit my hounds tomorrow morning, before we set out for the hunt. Bring some of the venison from tonight’s supper. Oswyn will enjoy feasting on that.’

  Thomas bowed his assent. The affection that James lavished on his buckhounds – Oswyn in particular – had always surprised Frances. Thomas would often tell her of the latest gift he had bestowed upon them, from bejewelled gold collars to the choicest morsels from the royal kitchens. They were better served than even his closest attendants.

  Frances watched as the King shuffled out of the room, Somerset half a pace behind. Thomas held out his hand for her to accompany him. She was glad to retire. Though it was still early, she felt unusually tired.

  ‘Goodnight, Sir Anthony, Lady Grace,’ Thomas said, as he and Frances made their obeisance.

  Villiers was still standing by the door. He made the slightest of bows as they passed, his eyes glittering in the gloom.

  The sun was already high by the time Frances awoke the next morning. She twisted towards her husband’s side of the bed but knew he would have risen early for the hunt and to accompany his master on the visit to the hounds that preceded it. It would be many hours yet before they returned. Perhaps she would go for a ride herself today, she mused, as she summoned the will to lift her head from the soft down pillow. She had not yet explored all of the parkland – her excursion to the hunting lodge had deterred her from venturing further than the formal gardens surrounding the house. But she would be returning to Tyringham Hall in two days’ time, as soon as the King and his entourage left for Nottingham, so she should make the most of the opportunity. The thought of being parted from Thomas again made her heart contract. Now, more than ever, she longed to be with him – their son, too.

  Raising herself onto her elbows, she experienced a wave of nausea and hurried to the ewer. When at last the retching had subsided, she sank onto the bed, exhausted. She had been right, then. She had only missed one of her courses, so it was early for the sickness to begin. Perhaps this child would prove even lustier than John, who had wriggled and kicked inside her belly for many weeks before the birth. Gingerly, she edged herself back into bed, fearful in case this small movement sparked a fresh onslaught.

  Frances did not know how long she had been sleeping when she was awoken by the sound of the door latch lifting. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she peered at her husband. Her smile of welcome faded as she saw his agitation.

  ‘Is the hunt over already?’ she ventured.

  He did not answer but came to sit next to her on the bed.

  ‘Oswyn is dead,’ he said, without preamble.

  Frances sat upright. ‘The King’s favourite hound?’

  Thomas nodded miserably, then put his head into his hands.

  ‘We had only ridden out as far as Fotheringhay when I noticed he was lagging behind the rest of the pack, though he always outstrips them with ease. By the time I had dismounted, he had collapsed. It was then that he began to vomit. Soon, he was coughing up blood. I tried to calm him, but he was panting so fast and his eyes were wild with terror.’ Frances reached out to touch his arm, and he raised grief-stricken eyes to hers. ‘The poor beast died in torment, and there was nothing I could do to help.’

  Frances knew he loved the hounds as much as his master did. ‘It was not your fault, Thomas,’ she said gently, taking both of his hands in hers.

  ‘The King turned back as soon as he realised Oswyn was missing,’ he continued. ‘I will never forget the look on his face when he saw him lying dead in my arms. It was as if his own son had b
een taken from him.’

  Frances mused that Prince Henry’s death had caused the King a good deal less grief than the loss of one of his cherished hounds. ‘What do you think was the cause?’ she asked.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘I cannot think. He was in good spirits when the King and I visited the stables this morning. I took him the venison, as requested.’

  ‘Perhaps it was too rich for him to stomach?’ Frances suggested.

  ‘He has had it many times before.’

  She fell silent. They had eaten the same meat last night. Even if it had turned bad so quickly, it would not have caused such violent symptoms: the hound would have had a brief bout of sickness and recovered. As she held her husband’s gaze, she saw that he knew it too.

  Oswyn had been poisoned.

  CHAPTER 5

  23 August

  ‘You are sure that you are well enough for the journey?’

  Frances smiled at her husband’s concern. He had asked her the same question a dozen times since they had awoken that morning. ‘Quite sure,’ she replied firmly. ‘Travelling by carriage has always made me nauseous, so I will hardly notice the difference.’ She kissed him. ‘I have more cause to worry about you,’ she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. He held her hand there for a moment before pressing his lips to the palm. ‘I wish you could come home with me. Are you sure you cannot petition the King for a few weeks’ leave? You could attend him again when he returns to court next month.’

  Thomas gave a heavy sigh and drew her into his arms, holding her tightly. ‘You know that is my dearest wish,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘But I cannot ask it of His Grace so soon after—’ He stopped abruptly.

  Frances felt a jolt of anxiety for him. The King had been in a dark mood since Oswyn’s death and the atmosphere at Apethorpe was strained. Even the Mildmays’ lavish hospitality had failed to raise his spirits, and he had eschewed the feasting and entertainments, retreating to his private apartments with just a few favoured attendants. Thomas had not been among them.

  George Villiers had, though. Frances did not know why she was so disturbed by it. He was merely the latest in a long line of young men to bask in the King’s fleeting favour. Somerset had far more cause to feel uneasy than she did. But she had seen how Villiers eyed those he regarded as rivals – her husband among them. She had her suspicions, too, that it was he who had poisoned the King’s favourite buckhound. What better way to sever James’s trust in the man who cared for them? She had not yet voiced her fears to Thomas – her years at court had taught her that matters were not always as they first appeared. She wished that she might go with her husband now so that she could continue to observe the new favourite at close range. At the same time, she could not but feel relieved to be escaping James and his entourage.

  ‘Promise you will write as soon as you reach Tyringham,’ Thomas urged. ‘And give our boy his father’s blessing – and this kiss.’

  Frances nodded, unable to speak. The pain of their parting did not lessen; if anything, it grew worse each time.

  ‘Sir Thomas!’

  Somerset’s voice rang out across the courtyard. He had already mounted his horse and was waiting, his face set in a now familiar scowl, for the master of the buckhounds to take his place in the procession.

  Thomas pressed his lips to hers once more, then walked briskly away. He climbed onto his horse, his mouth set in a grim line. A few moments later, Somerset gave the signal and the King’s carriage rumbled over the cobbles and out onto the gravelled path, the long cavalcade following close behind. She remained standing until her husband had disappeared from view, then went slowly towards her own carriage.

  ‘God keep him safe,’ she whispered, as the coachman cracked his whip and she lurched forward.

  1615

  CHAPTER 6

  2 September

  Frances breathed the scent of Michaelmas daisies that was carried on the warm breeze. Looking into the small copse, she could see their delicate purple petals nestled among the tangled stems and ferns. She remembered her father telling her that the tiny flower symbolised a farewell. As if sensing her sadness, her infant son began to snuffle and writhe in her arms. She bent to kiss the downy hair on his head, inhaling deeply. She wished to commit the sweet, milky smell of him to her memory, as much as his light blue eyes and wispy red hair.

  Robert was five months old now. He had been born on Easter Day. ‘That child shall never know want, or care, or harm,’ the elderly midwife had pronounced, as she had placed the mewling baby at her breast. Frances knew the old saying about Easter babies was mere superstition – such as those who claimed that a baby born when the moon was rising would be a girl, or that a firstborn child would be protected from witchcraft. But gazing down at him now, she hoped it would prove true.

  Thomas had arrived two days after the birth, exhausting several horses in his eagerness to meet his new son. It would have cost him dear to leave the court during the Easter festivities. He had struggled to regain the King’s favour since their return from last year’s summer progress. Though it was hardly Thomas’s fault, the death of James’s favourite hound lay like a canker between them.

  Villiers had been quick to take advantage, as he had any other opportunity to discredit those close to the King. The precious few days that Thomas had spent at Tyringham with his wife and newborn son had been marred by the news that James had appointed Villiers a gentleman of the bedchamber, as well as bestowing on him a knighthood and an annual pension of a thousand pounds. Frances had no doubt that more promotions would follow. James was always generous to his favourites.

  Somerset had had even more reason than her husband to feel aggrieved. His own title must have lost much of its lustre when he heard of Villiers’s rise. Thomas had written many times of how the rising antipathy between the two men now dominated the court. Somerset had succeeded in blocking his rival’s appointment to the bedchamber for several months, but there was nothing he could do to stem the tide of the King’s infatuation. Frances thought back to that day in the hunting lodge. James would want his new favourite close at hand, day and night.

  Thomas had returned once more since Robert’s birth. Frances had been dismayed to see how haggard and careworn he had looked. At first, he had not wanted to speak of court matters, assuring her that his only desire was to spend time with her and their sons. But she had seen how the worries with which he was oppressed had followed him from Whitehall. He had been as loving towards her as he always was, and his delight in Robert and John had been undiminished. But he had often fallen silent, and she knew that he had slept only fitfully.

  On the night before his departure he had unburdened himself. ‘Villiers will stop at nothing to destroy those he has marked as rivals, Frances,’ he had told her. ‘He means to have the King entirely to himself, and then he will rule the court.’

  And the kingdom, Frances had thought. She knew that her husband was among those upon whom Villiers had set his sights; she knew, too, that he had gathered a powerful faction about him. The Earls of Pembroke, Montgomery and Bedford would have ransomed their own mothers to get Somerset out of the way, little seeing that the viper with whom he was replaced would likely turn and bite them.

  With all her heart, she wished that her husband might resign his post and return to Tyringham Hall so that they could raise their growing family and live out their days in peace. But she knew that James would never allow it. He spent nearly all of his time hunting now, so his master of the buckhounds was more essential to him than ever. Despite Oswyn’s death, he knew Thomas was by far the most suited to the position. The hounds adored him even more than they did the King and would always do his bidding. James would no more wrest him from them than he would a suckling baby from its mother’s breast.

  She thought of the fierceness of Thomas’s embrace as he had bade her farewell, his eyes dark with foreboding. Robert had grown fretful in his arms and even John had fallen silent, gazing up at his father with his little brow f
urrowed. That was two weeks ago now. She had been unable to settle to anything since, her thoughts too full of how her husband might be faring. He had written only once, and the letter had contained little news, apart from that of his safe arrival at Whitehall. How much else might he have said, if his desire to protect her from worry had not been so strong? It was that which had decided her. She must go to him.

  ‘Hush, sweeting,’ she soothed, as her little son began to cry.

  The wet-nurse she had appointed was well respected in the area and had been recommended by a neighbour. Frances had already begun to bind her own breasts so that the milk would soon cease to flow. She knew that she had courted scandal by suckling the baby, as she had with John and George. Well-born ladies were not expected to do so, not least because it prevented their falling pregnant with another heir. But Frances had cared little for the idle gossip. People would soon find other matters to occupy their conversation at dinner.

  She had not told Thomas that she would soon be joining him at court. She knew he would do everything he could to dissuade her, anxious to keep her away from the danger that surrounded him. But he needed her – of that she was certain. The thought strengthened her resolve as she gazed down at Robert. She prayed it would stay with her as she bade him and his brother farewell in the morning.

  She had forgotten the noise. The endless clatter of hoofs on cobbles, the incessant cries of stallholders. The stench, too – so different from the fragrant woods that surrounded Tyringham Hall. It was a little over two years since she had last set foot in the city, but it felt like a lifetime.

  As the carriage rumbled into the palace courtyard, she had to push away thoughts of her departure from Buckinghamshire two days earlier. But images of Robert’s chubby arms held out as his wet-nurse tried to comfort him, and of John clinging to her skirts as she made to climb the steps of the carriage, flooded back. The jolt as it reached an abrupt halt brought her back to the present. Wiping away her tears as the coachman opened the door, she stepped down onto the cobbles.