by Tracy Borman
It took Frances a moment to realise he was referring to William Cecil, who had inherited the title upon the death of his father, her old adversary. She was careful to assume a neutral expression.
‘William Cecil, my lady,’ Bacon offered, when she did not reply. ‘You would have known him as Viscount Cranborne, of course.’
Frances gave a tight smile as she struggled to keep her expression neutral. An image of the young man when she had last seen him flitted before her. He had sought her out as she had walked in the privy gardens at Whitehall, the evening after Prince Henry’s death had been announced, to congratulate her on carrying out their plan. In vain, she had protested that the prince had died of a natural sickness, not at her hands. The fear that he still believed her to be a murderess, a heroine of the Catholic cause, had haunted her ever since.
‘I did not know you were cousins,’ she observed at last, trying to keep her voice light.
Bacon took a sip of wine and helped himself to some trout. ‘Second cousins. My mother’s sister advanced our family’s fortunes greatly when she married William’s grandfather, Lord Burghley, though, of course, she did not know it then. Queen Elizabeth came to depend upon him utterly. She called him her “Spirit” ’
‘My mother respected him greatly, and always said that he placed the Queen’s welfare above all else – his own included.’
‘He was a most loyal servant,’ Bacon agreed, ‘more so, perhaps, than our present king has known.’
Frances did not reply. She knew her companion was referring to Burghley’s son and successor, Robert Cecil, who had plagued her for so many years. He it was who had conspired to have her arrested for witchcraft, twisting her skills as a healer to further his own ends and convince the new King that he shared his obsession. The ordeal that had followed had intensified her hatred of James and his adviser, inspiring her to commit treason by supporting the Catholic plot to blow up Parliament. Only after his death had it been discovered that Cecil had secretly shared the same faith as those he had condemned.
‘How does Lord Salisbury fare?’ she asked, deciding to steer the conversation away from his father.
‘Very well, I believe,’ Bacon replied, toying with a piece of manchet loaf, ‘though his duties as Lord Lieutenant of Hertfordshire are proving more burdensome than he expected. I fear it will be a long time before he is at leisure to return to court.’
Good. Frances had come to help her husband, not to be drawn back into the dangerous web of Catholic conspiracies. She glanced at Thomas, who was engaged in conversation with Lionel Cranfield, Earl of Middlesex, a wealthy merchant who yearned for a political career. Although her husband appeared to be listening attentively, she recognised the polite smile of interest and knew that he would be willing the evening to draw to a close.
At that moment, James stood abruptly, causing all of his courtiers to scramble to their feet.
‘I propose a toast to Sir George,’ he slurred, as he gestured towards his favourite, spilling wine from his glass. Frances saw Somerset swipe irritably at his doublet, the stain already showing on the pale grey satin. Further along the table, Prince Charles was watching his father with a mixture of dismay and embarrassment.
‘To Steenie!’
The King’s cry was echoed, half-heartedly, by the assembled throng.
‘May he be long to reign over us,’ Frances heard her companion whisper. She did not know if he was referring to the King or to his favourite.
CHAPTER 8
16 September
The cloister was damp and chill after the mellow sunshine that had warmed her in the privy garden. It was gloomy, too, and Frances slowed her pace so that her eyes could grow used to it. As she rounded the corner, she collided with a gentleman. He made an impatient noise as she stumbled against the wall and pulled her roughly to her feet. She looked up at him in surprise.
Somerset.
His face was deathly white and his eyes were filled with panic. Before she could address him, he pushed past her and strode purposefully in the direction of the King’s apartments, a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. Frances watched his retreating back, then continued on her way. Another spat with Villiers, no doubt. But he had looked more afraid than angry.
At the far end of the passage, she could see a shaft of light from one of the apartments. As she drew closer, she caught muffled sobs. The door was ajar and she stood close to it, straining her ears for any other sound. She did not know who lived in the apartment, but its proximity to James’s privy lodgings suggested it belonged to one of the higher-ranking members of his court. She hesitated. Decorum required her to continue past as if oblivious to the distress of the person within. Besides, she had no desire to involve herself in Somerset’s affairs if this related to them, as she was sure it must. But neither could she ignore the suffering of a fellow courtier.
Frances knocked lightly on the door. She heard a stifled sob, then silence. She waited for several moments, unsure whether to knock again. Then she heard the light tread of footsteps and the rustle of skirts from within. The door was pulled slowly back and Lady Somerset stood before her. Her chin was lifted high and her mouth was set in a firm line, but her beautiful eyes were swollen with tears.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ Frances said, lowering her gaze so that the young woman could compose herself further. ‘I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy, but I wanted to make sure that all was well.’
Lady Somerset remained silent for so long that Frances wondered if she would close the door on her. She glanced up and saw that her eyes had filled with tears again.
‘I am quite well, thank you, Lady Tyringham,’ she replied. ‘It is just an imbalance of humours – caused by the child, no doubt.’ She stroked her stomach distractedly.
Frances gave a sympathetic smile. ‘You must be eager to set out for Sherborne.’
A shadow crossed the younger woman’s face. ‘My departure is in some doubt just now. I do not know—’ She broke off, her voice cracking.
‘Please, my lady,’ Frances said, as she took her arm and steered her back into the apartment, closing the door behind her. Once the young woman was comfortably seated, she busied herself with plumping the cushion at her back and pouring her a glass of water. Then she took a seat opposite and waited.
‘I am not used to such kindness,’ Lady Somerset said quietly. On the few occasions they had talked in the past, Frances had never warmed to her. She was typical of so many other members of James’s court, whose true thoughts and motives were concealed behind a veneer of charm and flattery. But it was clear that she was not dissembling now.
‘You may have known my husband’s former friend, Sir Thomas Overbury?’
The name was familiar to Frances. She remembered some gossip about the nature of their friendship, but that had been swiftly silenced by Somerset as he had risen in the King’s favour. Not long after she had left court two years earlier, Thomas had told her that Overbury had been committed to the Tower, charged with contempt for refusing the King’s offer of an embassy abroad. James had long been jealous of the intimacy that had existed between the two men. Overbury had died before the King could take any further action against him.
‘I do not think I ever met him,’ she replied.
‘Then you are fortunate indeed, Lady Tyringham,’ she retorted, her voice edged with bitterness. ‘He was a dark-hearted villain, intent upon destroying anyone who threatened his hold over my husband.’
Including you, Frances thought, but kept her counsel. She had heard it said that Overbury had violently objected to Somerset’s plan to marry the beautiful Lady Essex.
‘He even defied the King, though he would have found Moscow a good deal more temperate than the Tower. Well, God saw fit to punish his defiance. You know that he died after only a few months of imprisonment?’
Frances nodded. She saw the other woman’s hand tremble as she sipped the water.
‘No doubt he choked on his own bile,’ she went on. ‘I co
nfess that I rejoiced at the news, for I would no longer be plagued by him – and neither would my husband.’ Her chest heaved as she struggled to control her emotion. ‘But it seems that he is resolved to torment me from the grave.’
Her face was now deathly white and Frances saw the same fear in her eyes that she had in Somerset’s. She wished she had ignored the impulse to help and continued walking back to her own chambers. She knew all too well that words could carry as much danger as deeds in this court.
‘The King has received a letter from Sir Gervase Helwys containing such calumny that I hardly know how to respond.’
‘The lieutenant of the Tower?’ It had been with some satisfaction that Frances had heard of Sir William Wade’s dismissal from that post. He must have expected to live out his days in his comfortable lodgings there: just reward for having hounded Tom and the other Powder Treason plotters to their deaths.
Lady Somerset nodded miserably. ‘He alleges that Overbury was poisoned at my orders.’
Frances felt suddenly cold.
‘My husband has denied it, of course, but he suspects me still,’ she continued, twisting the russet silk of her skirt between her fingers. ‘How could he believe that I, his own wife, would stoop to murder?’ She clamped her hand over her mouth as if to suppress another onslaught of sobbing.
‘Did Sir Gervase provide any proof, my lady?’ she asked.
Her companion looked utterly wretched. ‘He claims to have the written testimony of an apothecary from Yorkshire. Yorkshire!’ she cried, her voice rising in agitation. ‘I have no connection with that part of the kingdom and have never travelled further north than Oxford.’
Frances regarded the young woman closely. She seemed in earnest, and her panic-stricken eyes reminded Frances of a rabbit caught in a trap, the jagged spikes cutting ever deeper into its flesh as it struggled to free itself. ‘How did His Majesty respond to the claims?’ she asked.
Lady Somerset gave a heavy sigh and pressed her delicate white fingers to her brow. ‘Robert says he has persuaded him that it is nothing but slander and the King seems inclined to let the matter rest. But already there is gossip. I wish I was far from here. I cannot bear to hear the lies that they will whisper against me – against my husband, too.’
‘There is always gossip, my lady,’ Frances soothed, ‘most of it based upon half-truths and hearsay. The court will soon have fresh matter to occupy their conversations at dinner.’ She hoped her smile conveyed greater certainty than she felt. Somerset’s enemies would be quick to seize upon this – Villiers more than anyone.
The young woman’s face hardened and she stood abruptly. ‘I have detained you for too long, Lady Tyringham,’ she said, her voice clipped.
Frances remained seated as she held the cold stare. Lady Somerset had taken a risk in confiding in her. Her own husband was one of the King’s favourites and, for all that this young woman knew, he might twist the controversy to his advantage. ‘You may rely upon my discretion, my lady,’ Frances said, rising to her feet. ‘I hope that the matter will soon be forgotten and you can journey to Sherborne as planned. The welfare of your child is of far greater importance than the fleeting scandals of this place.’
Her companion remained tight-lipped as Frances curtsied and walked slowly from the room. She had travelled only a few paces when the sound of the door slamming echoed along the cloister.
The King had decided to dine in private that evening with just a handful of favoured attendants. Frances knew she should count herself blessed to be among them – it was rare that the invitation extended to their wives – but the encounter with Lady Somerset had unnerved her and she found herself longing for the seclusion of the apartment.
So far, the conversation had been limited to the forthcoming hunting expedition, for which Frances was grateful. It had also enabled her husband to hold his master’s attention for longer than usual when Villiers was present. She could not help feeling a stab of triumph at Sir George’s obvious irritation. Lady Somerset was also present and looked radiant in a gown of azure blue satin, her creamy white bosom showing above the daringly low neckline. Her eyes had regained their former sparkle and she seemed the perfect model of composure as she listened with rapt attention to the chatter, even though Frances guessed that her nerves must be pulled as taut as her bodice.
‘Tell me, Rob, what news of the Tower?’
The words were softly spoken but cut across the conversation like a rapier blade through silk. Frances darted a glance at Somerset, who bristled at his rival’s familiarity. Next to her, his wife remained perfectly still and Frances sensed she was holding her breath.
‘All is well, I believe, George,’ he replied nonchalantly, then took a swig of wine. ‘When shall we depart for Hertfordshire, Your Grace?’ he continued, turning to the King. ‘The weather seems set fair so we ought not delay.’
James opened his mouth to reply, but Villiers cut in. ‘Oh?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have you received no further reports of the Lady Arbella? I hear she lies mortally sick. I am surprised there are no rumours of foul play. You know how people like to gossip whenever there is news of sickness.’
‘God grant the meddlesome woman soon chokes out her breath,’ James muttered, reaching forward to spear a large piece of venison. ‘She has done nothing but plague me since I took the throne of this Godforsaken kingdom.’
Frances’s scalp prickled at the mention of the King’s most no torious prisoner. Though she had been embroiled in the plot to put Arbella Stuart on the throne, she had never had any desire to further the arrogant woman’s schemes.
‘I am sure her miserable life will soon be at an end, Your Grace,’ Sir George simpered. ‘Perhaps you should ask Rob to speed Death’s progress. He and his beautiful wife have more experience than most in such matters.’
‘Damn you, Villiers!’ Somerset cried, leaping to his feet. A goblet clattered to the floor, its contents spilling red on the white marble tiles. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Sir George affected a look of surprise, but Frances saw his mouth twitch at the corners. ‘Why, my dear Rob, how flushed you are! I do hope you have not caught a fever. You know that we must not put His Grace at risk of contagion.’
‘Answer me, churl,’ Somerset muttered, his voice dangerously low.
‘Peace, my lords.’ Thomas’s voice echoed in the ensuing silence. He stood and placed a restraining hand on Somerset’s arm, but was angrily shaken off. The King looked from one favourite to the other with a mixture of dismay and, Frances thought, anticipation.
After several tense moments, Sir George gave a shrug, then tore off a piece of bread, chewing it slowly and deliberately while his rival glared at him, waiting for a response. When he had finished the mouthful, he took a sip of wine. ‘I meant only that you have both suffered the loss of those close to you – as have many others at this court,’ he drawled as he set down his glass. ‘I cannot imagine what insult you thought I was levying at you.’
The earl’s jaw tightened as he scowled at his rival. His wife remained still and her eyes never left him. James leaned forward in his chair, no longer troubling to conceal his excitement. After a long moment, Somerset turned to his royal master and gave a stiff bow, then stalked from the room. Frances heard Lady Somerset exhale softly before she rose to her feet, curtsied and followed in her husband’s wake.
CHAPTER 9
19 September
‘Must you leave?’ Frances murmured, as Thomas bent to kiss her.
It was still early and the light in the chamber was dim. She could hear the patter of rain against the casement window and the room felt colder than it had for the past few days.
Her husband sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his riding boots. ‘Believe me, I wish I did not have to ride out in this. The roads beyond the city will already be treacherous. It has been raining for hours.’
Frances stroked his back. ‘You slept ill again?’
‘It is my own fault – I indulged t
oo much at last night’s feast.’
She knew it was a lie. The dark shadows under his eyes told of the restless nights he had spent this week. It pained her to think that the comfort she had offered had proved so fleeting. What little she had seen of Sir George Villiers had convinced her that he was the cause of her husband’s anxiety. Thomas spoke of him only seldom, but she could guess at the daily taunts and sideswipes he had to suffer at the favourite’s hands. It must make his position intolerable, as it was for all others who were close to the King – Somerset in particular.
The hostility between the two men had deepened since that evening in the King’s privy chamber. Thomas had told her how Villiers had delighted in taunting his rival with hints about the controversy surrounding Overbury’s death, without ever naming him directly. Everyone at court now knew of it. There were whispered conversations at dinner about apothecaries and poison, which stopped abruptly whenever Somerset entered the room. Frances suspected that Villiers had spread most of the gossip.
‘How long will you be away?’
His shoulders sagged. ‘I wish I knew. A week? Two, perhaps, if we have to wait until the weather improves.’
Frances moved closer and circled her arms around him, laying her head against his back. ‘I shall miss you,’ she whispered.
‘And I you,’ he replied, trailing his fingers over her warm skin. ‘More than I can say.’
He made no move to go, and for a moment Frances hoped that he might stay with her in the quiet chamber, cocooned from the dangers of the world beyond. But he rose to his feet and slowly pulled on his cloak.
‘Promise me you will stay out of mischief while I’m gone.’ His smile did not quite reach his eyes as he leaned over to kiss her again.
She held his face in her hands. ‘And you must promise to come home safe to me.’
After passing through the gatehouse, Frances stood at the entrance to the vast courtyard and gazed around her. She had passed Denmark House – or Somerset Place, as it had been then – many times when she had served the princess. It lay on the south side of the Strand, which was one of the busiest thoroughfares of the city, leading east to the Tower and west to Whitehall and St James’s. The high wall that ran along the northernmost end of the courtyard meant that little of the mansion within could be glimpsed from the street. It had once belonged to Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, but upon his arrest for treason it had been forfeit to the Crown.
