Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Frances stared around her. The courtyard was the usual bustle of carriages arriving, wagons laden with provisions and servants hurrying to and fro. How happy she had been to leave this place, soon after Princess Elizabeth had embarked for the Palatine with her new husband. Thomas had been at her side, his hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. The memory quickened her steps now as she made her way to his apartment. She had heard the bells of St Martin’s strike four as the Holbein Gate had come into view. Her husband would soon return to make ready for the evening.

  Just before she reached the end of the passage that led from the state rooms to the first set of courtiers’ lodgings, a noise made her pause. She listened. There it was again – a gasp, quickly suppressed. It came from a dark recess to her right. She waited another moment, glancing around her to make sure she was not being watched, then took a step towards it.

  As she peered through the archway, she could see a faint glimmer of light at the far end of the recess. There must be another opening or a window just out of view. She knew she should continue on her way, ignore whatever clandestine tryst was taking place, but curiosity triumphed over discretion and she took another step forward. She heard the rustle of clothing and a man’s breath, quick and sharp. Slowly, she peered around the corner.

  A thin shaft of light illuminated the young woman’s face, which was contorted with pain or pleasure – Frances could not tell which. Her skirts were raised around her waist and her legs were held apart by the man who stood between them, bucking against her like a rutting beast. Next to the girl was a groom Frances recognised from the King’s household. He was naked and his eyes were alight with desire. She watched, transfixed, as the older man leaned over and kissed him deeply, his fingers stroking his arousal. As the light caught his face she drew in a sharp breath. George Villiers.

  His thrusting was rougher now, more urgent. The woman closed her eyes as he gave a shudder and cried out. Frances drew back and pressed herself against the wall, trying desperately to slow her breathing. As she padded silently from the recess, she heard Villiers give a low chuckle.

  ‘Now it is your turn, my young master.’

  Frances ran the rest of the way to Thomas’s lodgings. As she lifted the latch and stepped over the threshold, she breathed in its familiar scent, hoping it would calm her. Though it was a warm autumn day, the room felt cold and she noticed a thick layer of dust on the fireplace, which added to the air of neglect. Mrs Knyvett had grown less attentive in her duties without her master’s wife to keep an eye on her, Frances thought. Well, she would soon set it to rights, she resolved, as she unfastened her cloak and crossed to the grate. As soon as she had coaxed the damp wood into flame, she would begin cleaning.

  It was almost two hours before the rooms were arranged to Frances’s satisfaction. Polishing away the dust, sweeping the floors and putting fresh linens on the bed had helped to distract her from the rising anxiety that Thomas still had not returned. She had just decided to go and enquire after him when she heard the scraping of the door latch.

  ‘Frances!’

  The surprise on his face was soon replaced by anxiety.

  ‘What has happened? Is it Robert? John?’

  She rushed to embrace him. ‘All is well, my love,’ she murmured into his chest. ‘I came here for you – please, do not be angry. You would never have allowed it, but I could no longer abide to remain apart, knowing the dangers that surround you.’

  ‘Oh, Frances . . .’ He folded his arms around her, stooping to kiss her. ‘I cannot deny that my heart rejoices you are here, even though I should wish you safely back at home.’

  Gently, she led him to the fireplace. As he sank down into one of the chairs she had set there, she fetched him a goblet of wine. His hand clasped hers as he took it.

  ‘How are my boys?’ he asked, after taking a long sip. His face brightened at the thought of them, but Frances was concerned to see the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes. She resolved to say nothing of what she had just witnessed in the cloister: no good could come of it. The King was more likely to punish whoever told him of it than believe his favourite to be capable of such debauchery.

  ‘Thriving,’ she replied, with a smile. ‘Robert still cries lustily whenever he is hungry – which is often. John is learning to show more patience towards his little brother, though he rails at him for chewing his toys.’

  Thomas chuckled. ‘And what of George?’

  Frances felt the familiar surge of pride at the thought of her eldest son. She had visited him at Longford two months earlier, arriving in time for his birthday. It was hard to believe he was nine already – although he had grown tall and slender since she had last seen him. ‘His appetite has quite exhausted our supplies,’ her mother had said, with a fond smile. George had the same restless energy as his late father and much resembled him. Tom would have been as proud as she was of the young man he had become.

  ‘My mother’s letter arrived last week. He is well, though as greatly spoiled by his grandmother as ever. He misses his papa.’

  Thomas was the only father George had ever known – or would know, pray God. He had doted on the boy since the earliest days of their marriage. Frances still marvelled at the sacrifice Thomas had made in taking his dead friend’s lover as his wife, their bastard child as his too. She would never tell George the truth. It carried too much heartache – danger as well. The son of a notorious traitor would hardly thrive in these times.

  ‘I miss him too,’ her husband replied. ‘And I have missed you, Frances. Though it is only a little over two weeks since I left Buckinghamshire, I have yearned for you.’ He took her hand, pressing his lips to it. She saw his expression turn grave. ‘But I cannot let you stay. The court is even more dangerous now than it was at the time of the Powder Treason. There is endless sniping between the factions that gather about the throne, and their war of words will soon turn to bloodshed. Only yesterday, a servant of William Herbert challenged one of Somerset’s men to a duel. The hostility between them spreads like a contagion throughout the court.’

  ‘And the King does nothing to stop it?’ Frances asked.

  Thomas’s mouth curled with derision. ‘He encourages it. He seems to find it as diverting as the cockfighting that has become such a regular pastime here.’

  A weak king will always encourage division among those around him, Sir Walter Raleigh had once observed. She knew he was right. ‘What of Villiers?’

  A muscle twitched in her husband’s jaw. ‘The King’s appetite for him grows ever greater. He no longer troubles to hide what passes between them. They have shared a bed since our visit to Farnham last month.’

  Frances tried to hide her dismay.

  ‘Sir George had arranged for the progress to call at his mother’s house at Gotley the week before. It soon became apparent from whom he inherited his character. Mary Villiers is every bit as ambitious and ruthless as her son, but clever, too. She dissembled so skilfully that, by the time we took our leave, the King declared her a perfect model of motherhood.’

  ‘He has little enough to compare her with,’ Frances observed drily. ‘He hardly knew his own mother and did not trouble to observe his queen’s efforts in that regard.’

  Thomas smiled weakly. ‘That may be true. But it seems that, in His Majesty’s eyes, everyone associated with Villiers is as faultless as the wretch himself. He has even managed to advance his brothers, though they are strangers at court.’

  ‘The King’s obsessions burn brightly but are soon extinguished,’ Frances reminded him. ‘Many believed that Somerset was unassailable, yet he now clings to favour with his fingertips.’

  Her husband fetched a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted. Frances rose to her feet and held out her hand. ‘Come to bed, my love,’ she said gently. ‘The King can spare you for one evening – he has company enough to divert him.’

  Thomas seemed uncertain, but then his shoulders sagged with relief. ‘You
are right. And I must be up early tomorrow for the hunt.’ He stood and drew her to him, kissing her deeply. ‘But do not think to sleep just yet.’

  CHAPTER 7

  6 September

  ‘Well played, Your Grace!’

  The Earl of Pembroke’s voice rang out across the bowling green. William Herbert was a small, stocky man with a high forehead and a dark, pointed beard. His small, beady eyes flitted from the King to his favourite, who was standing close by. Behind them, Somerset was a brooding presence.

  Thomas stepped forward to take his turn. He looked more rested than he had when his wife had first arrived at court and had slept much better with her at his side. Although he still insisted that she must return to Tyringham at the earliest opportunity, he could not disguise how much comfort he drew from her presence. Frances watched as he drew the ball back with a steady arm, then released it so that it rolled, straight and true, down the centre of the green. There was a soft tap as it clipped the edge of the jack, followed by polite applause.

  ‘Your husband is greatly skilled, Lady Frances,’ observed her companion.

  ‘I wonder that yours does not play, madam.’

  The Countess of Somerset formed her pretty mouth into a smile and rested her hands lightly upon her swollen belly. ‘He enjoys observing how the game will play out.’

  Frances knew she was no longer talking of bowls. She decided it was safer to change the subject, given their proximity to Villiers and his friends. ‘I must congratulate you. When do you expect your confinement to begin?’

  The countess flinched at ‘confinement’, but she soon recovered herself. It was her first child – perhaps she was anxious. ‘Next month, if my physician has it right,’ she replied. ‘My husband has ordered Sherborne to be made ready.’

  Raleigh’s beloved castle, Frances remembered. James had bestowed it upon his new favourite a few years earlier. She wondered if he would allow Somerset to retain it once he had been ousted from court, as seemed more likely with every day that passed. They lapsed into silence and Frances pretended to focus on the game. Villiers was taking his turn now. She saw James’s eyes roving over his lithe body as he bent to pick up the ball. Without warning, he sent a blistering shot down the green. There was a loud crack as the balls were scattered in all directions.

  ‘Bravo, Steenie!’ the King cried, then strode forward to embrace the young man.

  Frances had soon heard about the affectionate name James had bestowed upon Villiers. It was derived from St Stephen, who had the face of an angel. She and her companion watched as the King kissed his favourite on both cheeks, then whispered something in his ear. Sir George assumed a shocked expression, his long fingers pressed to his mouth, before they both collapsed with laughter.

  ‘Our game is at an end,’ the King declared. ‘We will retire to our chambers for a time.’

  The assembled company made their obeisance as he took Villiers’s arm and began to walk slowly from the green. Frances waited, head bowed, for them to pass.

  ‘Ah, Lady Frances, I heard ye had returned.’

  Her scalp prickled at the King’s voice. ‘Yes, Your Grace – for a time at least.’

  James eyed her closely. ‘I hope you will not distract your husband from his duties, as wives are wont to do.’ He shot a sideways glance at the countess. ‘I mean to hunt as much as possible before the onset of winter.’

  ‘My wife will soon return to Tyringham, Your Grace,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I wonder that you came at all, Lady Frances.’ Villiers’s voice was smooth as silk. She turned cold eyes to him. ‘Your new son can be only a few months old and they are so vulnerable to sickness in their first year, are they not? I thank God that my own dear mother was more solicitous of my welfare.’

  Frances saw her husband bristle and knew that Villiers was baiting him. ‘I thank you for your concern, Sir George,’ she said, before Thomas could respond, taking care to keep her voice light, ‘particularly when there must be so many more pressing matters to occupy your thoughts.’

  His smile became fixed as he stared down at her.

  ‘Come, Steenie, I need my rest,’ James grumbled impatiently.

  It was as if a spell had been broken. At once, his favourite swept a deep bow, then proffered his arm for his master to lean upon. Frances gave a quick smile of reassurance to her husband as he passed, but she could see the anger still blazing in his eyes. Thomas had always been mild-mannered but Villiers had a knack of goading him, as he did his other rivals, finding out their weaknesses and scratching at them as he would a sore that had scabbed. As she watched his slender figure retreat from view, she resolved to find out what his weakness was.

  A great company had assembled for the feast that evening. Frances was grateful that she was seated towards the back of the hall. Few others there felt the same, she knew. The tables closest to the dais were crowded with courtiers – her husband among them – but her own had several empty places. James was notoriously unwelcoming to the spouses of his close attendants. Thomas had taken it as an insult that his wife had not been assigned a place next to his, but Frances had soothed him with the assurance that she would be more comfortable at a distance from the King – and his favourite.

  A fanfare of trumpets sounded as the King and his entourage entered the hall, Prince Charles among them. It was the first time Frances had seen James’s younger son and heir since her arrival at court. He would turn fifteen next month. His limbs had grown straighter and he had lost the awkward gait his elder brother had delighted in mocking throughout their childhood. Though he would never be tall, and his delicate features gave him an air of fragility, he bore himself with a quiet dignity that formed a sharp – and welcome – contrast to his father.

  ‘May I?’

  Frances had been so focused upon the prince that she had not noticed the arrival of the finely dressed gentleman who stood before her now. There was something familiar about him, though she did not think they had ever met.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, gesturing for him to sit down.

  He gave an elegant bow. ‘Sir Francis Bacon, my lady.’

  Frances could hardly believe that the greatest philosopher and scientist of the age was standing before her. She had read numerous of his books and had spent so many hours poring over The Interpretation of Nature that she felt as if the author was a close friend. Remembering her manners, she rose quickly from her seat and bobbed an awkward curtsy. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Sir Francis,’ she said warmly. ‘I am a great admirer of your works.’

  ‘Then you are clearly a lady of great discernment.’ His dark eyes sparked with humour.

  Frances stole another glance at her new companion. The engraving in the frontispiece of his Essays was a faithful likeness. His dark brown hair was thick and lustrous, and there were just a few flecks of grey in his beard. He was wearing a tall hat, which he removed with a flourish as he sat down. She judged that he must be in his fifties by now, though he appeared younger. He was much shorter than she had imagined and there was something delicate, almost feminine, in his looks.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, flustered, realising that she had forgotten to introduce herself. ‘I am Lady Frances Tyringham.’

  ‘Sir Thomas’s wife?’ he asked, glancing towards the front of the hall. ‘Then he is even more blessed than I thought, for not only is he a favourite with His Majesty but he has the love of a beautiful and clever woman. If envy were not so great a sin, I should be entirely consumed by it.’

  Frances smiled. ‘You, too, enjoy His Majesty’s favour, I think. Thomas told me of your appointment as attorney general. Such a position is only conferred upon a man whom the King trusts implicitly.’

  ‘My years at Gray’s Inn served me well,’ her companion observed modestly.

  She experienced a familiar pang at the name. Tom had been one of its brightest stars. She resisted the temptation to ask if Sir Francis had known him.

  They turned at a peal of laughter from the dais. V
illiers was leaning in towards his master, his mouth so close to the King’s ear that it was almost touching. James’s face was flushed – not entirely because of the wine, Frances thought. On his other side, Somerset was glowering at the dish in front of him.

  ‘That young man will rule us all before the year is out,’ Bacon mused. ‘I know better than most that a sovereign’s favour can be fickle, but I hear the King refuses him nothing. Now that he serves in the bedchamber, even greater promotions will follow.’

  ‘It is not so very long ago that Somerset enjoyed the same intimacy with His Majesty,’ Frances observed quietly. ‘Fortune’s wheel never stops turning at court, yet those who hanker for power seem to forget that.’

  ‘Ah, but that is what makes the game so diverting, my lady,’ Bacon replied. ‘For just as the King bestows his favour on a fortunate few, so those men in turn bestow it on their associates. A skilful player must watch carefully before deciding where to place his bet.’

  ‘Or not play at all,’ Frances countered.

  The older man studied her with interest, as if she were one of the rare species of exotic plant he had encountered in his research. ‘I hope you and I will become better acquainted, Lady Frances,’ he remarked. ‘There are few in this place who share your candour – or your wisdom. I am sure to profit from both.’

  Frances flushed at the compliment and inwardly chastised herself. She should know better than to be seduced by such flattery. Yet there was sincerity in Bacon’s eyes as he smiled at her.

  The moment was broken by the arrival of the first course of dishes. Sir Francis was assiduous in helping her to a number of them.

  ‘You left court two years ago, I understand, just before I was called to office. I confess we have a mutual acquaintance,’ he added, noting her surprise. ‘I believe you knew my cousin, the Earl of Salisbury.’