Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Frances had heard that Queen Anne had made a number of improvements to the house, but she had not expected it to be so grand – or so extensive. To either side of her, an elegant two-storey building stretched the length of the courtyard, and the low wall at the far end afforded a sweeping view of the river. In contrast to the cobbled courtyards of the other palaces, two huge, beautifully manicured lawns covered the quadrant. The one to Frances’s right was lined with neatly trimmed yews – Anne’s favourite. She hoped the Queen’s health had improved enough for her to stroll among them when the weather was more clement.

  The porter had directed her to the large door of a building on the western wall. It was higher than the rest and fronted by an elegant Palladian façade that contrasted with the Tudor style of the other apartments. Frances made her way towards it now.

  She had been glad to receive the Queen’s invitation earlier that day. Thomas’s departure had left her bereft, as usual – but uneasy too. She hated to think of him so far away, with little except James’s fickle favour to protect him from Villiers and his schemes. An audience with Anne not only provided some much-needed diversion, but also offered Frances the prospect of being able to do something to help her husband. Even though the Queen seldom attended her husband’s court, she had always been well informed of everything that passed there. She was sure to know all about this loathsome new favourite. Frances was determined to find out everything she could. She remembered a remark that her old enemy Robert Cecil had once made: It is often those details that seem of the smallest consequence that hold the greatest import. The more knowledge she was able to gather about Villiers, the more likely she was to discover a weakness.

  When she reached the door to Anne’s apartments, the yeomen of the guard nodded her through. The presence chamber was deserted, but the sound of retreating footsteps indicated that an attendant had been sent to announce her arrival. The large windows flooded the room with light, even on a day such as this. Frances admired the tasteful furnishings, which were far less extravagant than Anne’s status demanded. The delicate scent of rose oil filled the chamber, rendering it much sweeter than those at Whitehall or St James’s, where the air was made foetid by the constant crush of bodies.

  Frances heard footsteps again – slower this time – and a few moments later Anne entered the chamber. As she rose from her curtsy, Frances was surprised to see that she was unattended. Anne had aged considerably since she had last seen her at the princess’s wedding two and a half years before. Her hair had turned from light blond to white and her figure had grown even stouter. She leaned heavily on an ivory staff as she shuffled to the ornate chair underneath the canopy, then bade Frances to sit close by.

  ‘How good it is to see you again, Lady Frances – and looking so well,’ she said, reaching over to pat her hand. ‘Marriage agrees with you.’

  Frances smiled. ‘I am blessed in my husband, Your Majesty – and for that, I shall ever be in your debt.’

  She had been a good deal less grateful when she had first learned that Anne had prompted Thomas’s proposal all those years ago. The Queen had confided to him that Frances had left court because she was carrying Tom Wintour’s child. She would not have betrayed her confidence unless she had been sure that Thomas would come to her assistance. Frances knew that now, but at the time she had been furious. She would never have predicted that her prospective husband would become the love of her life.

  Anne returned her smile. ‘I am glad of it. You deserve such happiness, after all you have suffered.’

  ‘And how does Your Grace fare?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Oh, my joints pain me more than ever,’ the Queen replied, ‘and I am tormented by an ulcer on my leg. I can quite see why old King Henry became such a tyrant in his later years,’ she added, with a wry smile. ‘But I take the waters at Greenwich often – Bath too, when I am strong enough for the journey – and my physicians have become my constant companions.’

  Frances felt a wave of pity. Even though Anne was making light of it, she knew how much she must suffer. ‘I would be glad to attend you myself, if you would permit me, Your Grace,’ she offered.

  ‘Thank you, my dear – though we would need to employ discretion, of course. Sir Thomas might be a favourite with the King, but my husband would not hesitate to have you arrested for witchcraft if he heard of it.’

  Frances seized the opportunity. ‘My husband has been eclipsed of late, Your Grace, as have others in the King’s service.’

  Anne gave a knowing smile and sank back in her chair. ‘You mean his “angel”, I suppose. I met Sir George a few months ago and understood at once why my husband is so enraptured. I have never seen such a pretty fellow. His delicate features and white skin must be the envy of all the ladies at court.’

  Many times in the past Frances had wondered how the Queen had borne the humiliation of her husband’s infidelities. He had done little to conceal them. Did the shame lessen with each brighteyed young favourite he paraded in front of her? She doubted it, somehow.

  ‘My ladies tell me that the King was heard to lament that he cannot make Villiers his wife,’ Anne continued.

  Frances failed to hide her dismay. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace. How can you bear it?’

  ‘I do not bear it, my dear,’ she replied. ‘I encourage it.’

  Frances looked at her sharply.

  ‘The King and I have not shared a bed since I fell pregnant with poor Sophia,’ she went on. ‘It was a difficult birth and left me with . . . well, no prospect of more children. So there was little point. Do not think to pity me,’ she added, seeing Frances’s expression. ‘Daily I rejoice that my conjugal duties are at an end – in that respect, at least. And, given the pleasure I take in my own freedom, it would be churlish of me to begrudge my husband his. Pray, would you pour me a glass of that cordial, my dear?’ she asked, indicating the pewter flagon on the table by the window.

  A sharp aroma filled Frances’s nostrils as she did so. She recognised sage and marjoram, but there was something else too. Whatever it was, she hoped it would bring Anne relief. As she handed her the glass, she noticed that a sheen of perspiration had formed on her brow. How greatly she must suffer. Frances resolved to prepare a tincture for her that evening.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ she said, when the Queen had recovered her composure, ‘but you said you had encouraged this latest favourite. Surely that cannot be true. I was at Apethorpe last summer and witnessed their first meeting. From what I saw then and have heard since, Villiers needed no such assistance.’

  Anne held her gaze. ‘That is true – in part, at least. His looks were more than enough to recommend him. But my husband is not so easily manipulated as many believe. Often he takes his pleasure and rewards the giver only with fair words and promises. Somerset was clever enough to secure promotions, but most are not. If I had not intervened, Villiers would have remained a humble cupbearer.’

  Frances stared. She had always respected Anne for her judgement and discretion. Had she, too, been deceived by Villiers’s beguiling smile and easy charm?

  ‘When I heard that Somerset had succeeded in frustrating his rival’s ambitions for a place in the bedchamber, I invited Villiers to dine with me here,’ the Queen continued. ‘I knew that he lacked opportunity to spend time with the King alone – Somerset had made sure of that after their return from the progress. So I invited my husband, too. We made quite a merry party.’ She chuckled, noting Frances’s astonishment. ‘I was a generous host and ensured the King’s glass was always full of the Madeira wine of which he is so fond. It took only a mention or two of a bedchamber post that had lain vacant for some time to prompt him. By the time our feast was at an end, my husband had promised it to Villiers. I left them alone then, to seal the bargain.’

  ‘But why?’ Frances whispered. ‘Sir George is ruthless and grasping, and will stop at nothing in his pursuit of power. He is a danger to all who serve your husband – perhaps even to the King himself.’


  A flicker of a smile. ‘He is all of those things, Lady Frances,’ Anne replied quietly. ‘But he is more, besides. Do not think that I have taken leave of my senses in placing this devil in our midst. In time, you will understand that he is our salvation.’

  CHAPTER 10

  25 September

  At first Frances thought that she had imagined it. She waited, straining her ears for any sound. There it was again: a sharp tap. It seemed to come from the direction of the window. She pulled back the covers and, shivering against the cold, padded quietly over to it. Opening the shutters, she peered down into the courtyard. A young woman was staring up at her. Her face was obscured by the hood of her dark cloak, which was drawn tightly around her.

  ‘Lady Frances?’ Her whisper carried on the still night air.

  Frances nodded, mute. Was it Thomas? The boys?

  The woman spoke no more but beckoned urgently. Frances hesitated for just a moment, then turned and dressed hurriedly, her trembling fingers fumbling with the ties of her skirt. She was just about to open the door when a thought occurred to her. Moving quickly to the dresser, she drew out the small casket from under her neatly folded linens and, unlocking it, pulled out a selection of tiny phials. She knew it was dangerous to have brought them here, but her herbs and tinctures were part of her now. She could as well relinquish them as her own soul.

  When she reached the courtyard, the young woman was still standing beneath her window. She turned at Frances’s approach. ‘Please, Lady Frances, you must come with me.’ Seeing Frances’s hesitation, she drew something out of her pocket and gave it to her. ‘A trusted friend sent me.’

  Frances glanced down at the gold signet ring in her hand. It was engraved with an elaborate R. She recognised it at once. Raleigh. He always wore it on the little finger of his right hand.

  Not pausing to think any further, she followed the woman out of the courtyard, taking care to keep to the shadows even though the palace was deserted. She had no idea what time it was. With the King away on the hunt, there had been no feasting or entertainment that evening and she had retired early again.

  They soon reached the water gate, where a boat was waiting for them. When they were seated, the oarsman pushed the vessel away from the landing stage and began to row eastwards.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Frances asked.

  Her companion darted a glance at the oarsman. ‘The Tower,’ she replied, then gave Frances a look that made clear she must ask no more questions.

  With the tide in their favour, progress was rapid. Frances tried to order her thoughts for whatever lay ahead. She reflected upon the last time she had seen Sir Walter. The sun had not yet risen on that cold October morning when she had visited him at the Tower. He had given her the mandrake root with which to prepare her deadly tincture for the prince. God speed your endeavours, Lady Frances. She could hear the words so clearly that it was as if he were sitting next to her now, whispering them in her ear. It still made her shudder to think of how close she had come to murdering the King’s eldest son and heir. In the event, Prince Henry had breathed his last a few hours after she had left his chamber, the stoppered tincture full to the brim in her pocket. She had taken it as a sign that God was pleased with the more righteous path she had chosen.

  Although she had felt betrayed when she had discovered the extent of Raleigh’s involvement in William Cecil’s plot, her anger had soon abated. She and Raleigh had shared many confidences during her visits to the Tower, and she had grown fond of him. He had been the King’s prisoner for more than twelve years now. His lodgings were comfortable and he enjoyed greater liberties than most of the Tower’s other residents, but Frances could not imagine being held captive for so long, not knowing whether the prospect of execution or pardon was more likely. She wondered if James would ever decide upon his fate, or if he hoped that God would make the decision for him.

  They rounded the next bend in the river and the familiar outline of the Tower loomed into view, the mass of its central keep dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Frances felt another jolt of apprehension. She had a creeping suspicion, too, of whom she was here to attend. The boatman was drawing level with St Thomas’s Tower now. As they passed under its sprawling archway, Frances could see the moonlight reflecting off the stone steps that led from the waterside, their edges worn smooth by the tread of hundreds of traitors who had passed that way. Tom’s had been among them.

  A yeoman stood sentry at the top of the steps. Frances saw the woman press some coins into his hand and he nodded them through. A single brazier lit the narrow walkway that led from the landing stage to the heart of the Tower. Once or twice, Frances stumbled on the cobbles as she followed the young woman under the archway of the Bloody Tower. She glanced upwards as if expecting to see Raleigh above. They mounted the steps to the green and her companion made for the small, squat tower next to the one in which Frances had been tortured as a suspected witch all those years before. With a jolt, she remembered that this was Arbella Stuart’s lodging.

  The King’s cousin had been as much a thorn in his side as she had his predecessor’s. Her royal blood had made her an irresistible prospect for disaffected subjects for at least twenty years. Frances remembered seeing her for the first time at the old Queen’s court. Even then, she had been a proud, haughty young woman. Her arrogance had deepened in the years that followed, blinding her to the danger of hankering after the throne she saw as hers by right. She had been a prisoner for five years now, Frances calculated.

  Her companion knocked softly on the outer door and it was opened. Frances followed her inside, mouthing a silent prayer. They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and entered Arbella’s chamber. All was quiet within and briefly Frances thought it was deserted. But as her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, she saw a woman lying on the bed underneath a large canopy. She kept perfectly still as Frances moved towards her. The room smelt stale, as if no life had stirred within it for many years.

  When she had drawn level with the head of the bed, Frances motioned for her companion to bring her the solitary candle that burned on the fireplace. Holding it close to the woman’s face, Frances suppressed a gasp. Arbella was hardly recognisable from when she had last seen her. Her cheeks were sunken and the bones at the base of her neck showed through her wasted skin. Already she had the appearance of a cadaver. Although she could only be forty years old – five years older than Frances – there were just a few red hairs among the thin white strands that covered her skull.

  Frances could not tell if she was still breathing so drew nearer. The stale aroma grew stronger as she brought her face close to Arbella’s, trying to feel any warmth emanating from her dry lips, which were slightly apart. Nothing. Suddenly her eyes sprang open. Frances leaped back in shock and the candle fell from her grasp, plunging them into darkness.

  ‘I will fetch another,’ the attendant called, as she fumbled for the latch. Frances heard the door click shut and felt paralysed by terror. As she reached for the edge of the bed so that she might steady herself, an icy hand grasped her wrist.

  ‘This king will perish,’ Arbella’s voice rasped, close to her ear. ‘My husband is poised to strike.’

  She broke off, gasping for breath. Frances held her own as she waited, heart thrumming.

  ‘He has gathered a mighty army in Flanders and will sail across the Channel as soon as the King of Spain’s fleet reaches Ostend.’

  Frances’s wrist throbbed as Arbella tightened her grip, the bony fingers pressing into her flesh. Desperately, she tried to calm her racing thoughts. She had heard such treasonous talk before. But for all his promises – real or imagined – the King of Spain had never stirred himself for invasion. Why should she believe that he was any more likely to do so now?

  Arbella’s short, grating breaths echoed in the darkness as Frances waited for her to continue. She could not have spoken a word in response, even if she had wished to.

  ‘You must help him,’ Arbella urged, then fell int
o a paroxysm of coughing.

  Seymour?

  At that moment, the young woman returned, a burning taper in her hand. Quickly, she moved to pick up the candle that lay at Frances’s feet and lit it again. It seemed to glow much brighter now.

  ‘Can you ease her suffering?’ the attendant asked, as Frances kept her eyes fixed on the waxen skin of Arbella’s face.

  Frances knew that she was beyond all help; even the smallest drop of one of her tinctures would not slip down her swollen throat. Besides, it was safer to do nothing. She had no desire to be under suspicion of causing another death. She gave a slight shake of her head and heard a small sob escape the young woman’s lips, before it was quickly suppressed.

  Arbella’s eyes opened again, and as she stared at Frances they blazed with the intensity she remembered so well. Despite all the danger in which the woman’s schemes had placed her in the past, Frances could feel only pity for her now. She could see no obvious cause for her affliction: there was no fever, and she did not appear to be in pain from a tumour. Upon Frances’s last visit to the Tower, Raleigh had told her that his fellow prisoner seemed likely to starve herself to death. At the time, Frances had thought it just another of Arbella’s ploys to win attention, now that she could no longer be at the centre of plots against the King. But as she gazed at her skeletal form, she knew that Raleigh had been right.

  ‘Raleigh.’