by Tracy Borman
‘Tell me, how was the play that I missed two nights ago?’ Frances asked. She had pleaded a headache upon hearing that Doctor Faustus was to be performed. The King’s obsession with the demonic had deepened since the disappearance of his late wife’s jewels the previous year. He had become increasingly convinced that the theft was part of some wider conspiracy, and that the sickness with which he had been afflicted had been the result of a bewitchment. Frances prayed that her attendance on him would remain hidden. He would not hesitate to have her arrested, even though he owed his recovery to her.
‘I can hardly remember it,’ Kate replied.
‘What is it?’ Frances asked softly.
‘It is nothing – truly,’ her friend replied, not meeting her gaze. ‘I should be grateful, for it was meant as a kindness, I am sure. It is just . . .’ She bit her lip and fell silent.
‘Kate?’ Frances prompted.
The young woman at last raised her eyes. ‘I was seated next to the Countess of Buckingham again,’ she began. ‘She was in an ill humour and I feared that it was because she finds my company irksome – I lack the conversation of her other acquaintance, you see,’ she added, as if repeating something that had been said to her.
Frances stopped herself making a retort, lest it discourage her from sharing whatever it was that troubled her.
‘In order to divert her, I prattled about how harsh the winter had been, how there had been so few carriages arriving at the palace this past week . . . and then . . . then I said I hoped the furs I had sent to Belvoir had arrived in time for my brother’s journey.’
Frances was careful to maintain her composure. The poor girl looked utterly wretched.
‘I realised too late what I had said,’ she went on. ‘I tried to change the subject, but the countess had seized upon my words at once and would not be quietened until I had told her all – though not your part in it, Frances, I swear,’ she added. ‘I said only that my father had decided to bring my brother to London so that he might benefit from the greater range of medicines that are available here. She insisted that her own apothecary attend him, and though I tried to tell her that my father had already made arrangements, she would not be gainsaid. Already her son has secured the King’s support for the idea. Oh, Frances, what have I done? That man is the devil himself.’ She began to sob.
Distractedly, Frances stroked her friend’s back in an attempt to bring her comfort, but in truth she was as stricken as Kate. Lord Rutland had wisely counselled her and his daughter to say nothing of his plan to bring Lord Ros to London, aware of the danger in which it would place Frances if it became known that she had agreed to treat the boy. Frances had been apprehensive that he had brought Kate into the secret, but had respected his decision, knowing how close the bond was between them. Her friend had not uttered a word of it, even during the time they spent alone together, and Frances had begun to feel more confident in her discretion. But now everything lay in tatters.
Frances knew the ‘devil’ to whom Kate referred. John Lambe styled himself ‘Doctor’ but had nothing except the countess’s patronage to recommend him. Certainly, he was not part of any guild. It was whispered that he would have been hanged as a witch long before now, if it were not for Buckingham’s intercession.
‘Calm yourself, Kate,’ Frances said. ‘It is hard enough to keep a secret, let alone one that concerns your own brother.’
‘I do not deserve your kindness, Frances. I should have admitted this sooner, but I was so ashamed of what I had done. Besides,’ she added, swiping at her cheeks, ‘I told myself that perhaps it was for the best – that this way would keep you safe. I hated to think of the danger in which my father’s scheme had placed you. Perhaps . . . perhaps he might reject the countess’s offer, find a more trusted physician to attend my brother.’
Frances said nothing. The Countess of Buckingham was not a woman to be contradicted. Her thoughts ran on. There was no longer any hope of concealing Lord Rutland’s arrival at court, now that the countess was expecting him. She must intercept him before he arrived, then take him and his son somewhere they could stay without fear of discovery, for a few days at least. The plan had been for Frances to treat the boy in Lord Rutland’s apartments at Whitehall, where she was already a regular visitor and so would excite little suspicion. But that was impossible now. The countess would not let the boy out of her sight. His life – or the loss of it – was too valuable to her own son: Kate stood to inherit the entire Rutland fortune if her brother died. Frances shuddered at how easily that fragile life might be snuffed out.
With sudden resolve, she hastened into her bedchamber and pulled on the heavy woollen cloak she usually reserved for long journeys. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the hook and drew up the hood. ‘Go back to your father’s apartment, Kate,’ she told her. The girl was gaping at her with a mixture of confusion and dismay. ‘I will come to you later.’ She flashed a smile of reassurance that did not reach her eyes.
*
An icy wind whipped around the courtyard. The snow lay so thick that it obscured the cobbles, making it impossible to pick out the paths that lay between them. By the time Frances reached the large archway at the entrance to the courtyard, her soft leather soles were sodden and her toes numb with cold. The exposed cobbles were slippery with ice and she was obliged to clutch at the cold stone wall to stop herself falling.
As she rounded the corner, she saw a slender figure huddled under the Holbein Gate. She stopped, but he had already seen her. Slowing her pace, she proceeded towards him. As she drew closer, she recognised the embroidered swan in chains on his doublet. Buckingham’s livery. His face was pinched with cold and he kept moving from one foot to the other. No doubt he had been waiting here for some time, Frances thought. He eyed her uncertainly, then gave a short bow and turned back to face the road ahead.
Frances did not think he knew her – certainly she had not noticed him before – but she took the precaution of walking in the opposite direction of her destination, up a small side street. As soon as she was out of view, she turned left into another narrow street and quickly weaved her way along it until she came to the Strand.
Most of the snow had been cleared from the footpath that ran alongside the road, so Frances could quicken her pace. By the time she reached the westernmost end of the street, she had broken into a run. Ahead, the skeletal trees of St James’s Park were silhouetted against the grey sky. To her right, the spire of St Martin’s rose above the rooftops. Turning towards it, she hastened along the road that snaked northwards. The tolling of the bell sounded as she passed. Three o’clock. Pray God I am not too late.
She ran on, panting, her linen shift clinging to her back despite the cold, until she saw the squat tower of St Giles-in-the-Fields up ahead. Almost there. Her legs ached and she longed to cast off the woollen cloak that had shrouded her from the cold but now weighed heavily upon her. Lord Rutland’s carriage would likely turn down this road after it had reached St Giles’s Cross, but she could not be certain so she knew she must reach the crossroads. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the tower, she surged onwards.
A few moments later she was standing, breathless, at the crossroads. She gazed along the wide road that was the main thoroughfare for travellers from the north and west. She had come this way many times before – first from Longford and then Tyringham. Usually the road was crowded with carriages, wagons and stalls, a riot of noise, people and horses. But today just a handful of carriages rumbled slowly along, the horses’ hoofs slipping on the compacted snow. Frances prayed that Lord Rutland’s would soon be among them.
As her breathing slowed, the cold seeped into her bones and she drew her cloak around her, glad of its warmth once more. Her thoughts returned to the countess: she would not rest until her son had won the glittering prize that they saw as his by right. Buckingham’s lavish spending had always outstripped the generous gifts and salaries that the King had bestowed upon him. He would settle for nothing less than the richest
estate in the kingdom. That Belvoir lay close to his mother’s made it ideal. He would not lack for excuses to visit her, Frances thought, with distaste. She could not help thinking that, for his mother, a large part of Kate’s appeal lay not so much in her riches as in her plainness and mild nature. Here was not a woman to rival her own hold over her son.
Frances was so lost in thought that at first she did not notice the sleek black carriage coming into view. Only when a gust of wind sent the white plumes at each corner fluttering did it catch her eye. She ran towards it. The carriage was travelling much faster than the others and before long she could hear the snorts of the horses and see the steam that rose from their flanks.
‘Stop! Please!’ she called, stepping out into the road.
The coachman muttered a curse and glowered at her, but did not draw in the reins.
‘Lord Rutland!’ she cried, louder this time.
A moment later, a gloved hand pulled back the heavy curtain and the earl’s gaunt face peered out into the gloom. He gave a sharp rap on the roof of the carriage and it came to such an abrupt halt that the coachman lurched forward. He directed another dark look at Frances before climbing down to open the door for his master.
‘Lady Frances?’
‘Do not be alarmed, my lord. I will explain. But we must make haste – please,’ she said, gesturing that she would join him in the carriage. He made room for her at once, but before she climbed in she called up to the coachman: ‘Please, wait here for a few moments.’ Scowling, he peered over the side of the coach towards his master, who looked briefly at Frances, then nodded.
Frances glanced across at the small form swaddled in furs on the seat opposite. His face was turned towards the back of the carriage and she could just see a few wisps of fair hair beneath his velvet cap. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable that her breath caught in her throat. She turned back to his father.
‘The Countess of Buckingham knows you are bringing your son to London,’ she said shortly. ‘Lady Katherine let it slip – please, don’t be angry,’ she added quickly. ‘The poor girl has berated herself enough already. Buckingham has appointed one of his grooms to look out for you – I saw him on my way here. It is too dangerous to take your son to the palace now. The King has agreed that Dr Lambe should treat him and you can ill afford to cause offence by refusing.’
At this, the fury went out of Lord Rutland’s eyes.
‘We shall go to my mother’s house at Whitefriars,’ Frances went on. ‘I can attend to your son there and return to Whitehall every evening, in case my absence attracts notice. I will tell Katherine to keep to your chambers as much as possible during the day, so that people will assume I am with her. She can tell the Countess that you have delayed your departure from Belvoir because the roads are impassable.’
Lord Rutland did not reply but eyed her steadily.
‘We cannot hope to conceal your presence here in London for long,’ she continued, ‘but, God willing, I will have time enough to ease your son’s suffering.’ She looked back at the boy, his frail body jolting as the carriage rumbled along the Strand.
Suddenly Lord Rutland reached across and lowered the window. ‘Take us to Whitefriars,’ he called to the coachman.
CHAPTER 36
27 January
Frances gazed at the small hand that lay in hers. The skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, and the spidery blue veins showed clearly beneath it. A large fire roared in the grate, but the warmth did not seem to permeate the boy’s frail body, which was almost as cold to the touch now as when his father had carried him in from the carriage the evening before.
‘You should get some sleep, my dear.’
Frances smiled at Lord Rutland, who was seated on the opposite side of his son’s bed. The dark shadows under his eyes told of a restless night for him, too, though Frances had made her mother’s lodgings as comfortable as she could.
‘I will warm some more broth first,’ she said, turning back to the boy. ‘He may take a little more, now that he is settled.’
She was careful to keep her tone light, but she knew that Lord Rutland also feared a recurrence of what had happened before. At first his son had seemed to swallow the thin stew easily, but after a few spoonfuls he had begun to splutter and choke, then vomited. Frances had been concerned to see black bile but had said nothing. His father would have noticed it too.
A light tapping on the door made them both jump. Frances waited, straining her ears. Three more knocks, then silence. That was the signal. Exhaling with relief, she padded out of the chamber, taking care to close the door, just in case.
It was all she could do not to throw herself into Thomas’s arms when she saw him on the threshold. He smiled down at her with the easy humour she had grown to love so dearly. But as he embraced her she saw his eyes were alight with apprehension.
‘I have brought everything you asked for,’ he said. Frances took the small casket from him and smiled her thanks. ‘How does his young lordship fare?’
‘He is very weak,’ she whispered, ‘and has been unable to stomach anything but water since we arrived. But, God willing, these herbs will do their work.’
‘You look tired,’ her husband said, stroking her cheek.
She kissed his palm. ‘Were you able to speak to Kate, as I asked?’
‘I called upon her last night. She was greatly agitated and full of remorse for her mistake. But it was a comfort that you had reached her father and brother in time. She wanted to write to you, but I told her we must not commit anything more to paper. You took a great enough risk in sending that note with Lord Rutland’s coachman. He is a surly fellow,’ he added, with a rueful grin.
‘But a trustworthy one. What of the countess and her son?’
‘She was full of scowls at last night’s feast and retired early. My master’ – he placed a sardonic emphasis on the word – ‘appeared entirely unconcerned.’
‘One may smile and smile, and be a villain,’ Frances quoted.
Her husband nodded grimly. ‘His countenance rarely changes. He may be planning some new revels or plotting treason, for all anyone can tell.’
‘Likely both. This delay to his schemes must frustrate him as much as it does his mother, but there is little he can do about it. Even if he were so minded, he could hardly set out to fetch Lord Rutland from Belvoir himself.’
‘That is true, my love,’ Thomas replied, lowering his voice, ‘but you must not tarry here for more than a few days. Should your absence be noted . . .’
‘You are right.’ She clutched his hands, which were still icy cold. ‘I will work as quickly as I can and leave God to perform the rest.’
Frances felt her heart surge with joy. It had been five days since their arrival at Whitefriars, and for the past three she had been able to administer progressively larger doses of the tincture. The boy had kept down more and more of the broth, too, and she had observed that his breathing was steadier.
Lord Rutland turned towards her, his face alight. ‘You have restored my son to me, Lady Frances. I can never repay you, no matter . . .’ His voice broke and he sobbed into his hands while the boy looked on, bemused.
She beamed at them. ‘Your son’s recovery is reward enough, my lord. But we must let him rest now,’ she added, seeing the boy’s eyes grow heavy again. ‘Sleep will bring him back to strength, if we have patience.’
‘Of course,’ the earl said, rising from the bed. He stooped to plant one more kiss on his son’s forehead before turning to follow Frances from the room.
‘He is not clear of danger yet, my lord,’ Frances said, as soon as the bedchamber door was closed. ‘The contagion in his lungs will be slow to clear, and he is still very frail. It is no wonder that his skin is cold to the touch when there is so little flesh beneath it.’
The earl nodded gravely. ‘But he will recover?’
‘In time, yes – God willing,’ she assured him. ‘You must make sure that he does not exert himself too much. He wil
l be eager to run about and play like other boys his age as his strength begins to return, but you must teach him to be patient.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘When will we be able to return to Belvoir? There has been no more snow for two days now so the roads will be easier than they were on our journey here.’
Frances knew that the turn in the weather was not the real reason why he was so anxious to leave this place. His nerves were as worn to shreds as hers from the constant, nagging fear of discovery.
‘Two days, perhaps – three at most. I will return to court this evening and remain there. I have prepared enough of the tincture to last another week, and you already know how and when to administer it. Make sure your son takes as much broth as he can manage – water too. By the time you return to Belvoir, he will be able to stomach some richer food. Give him whatever he has a fancy for.’
Lord Rutland clasped her hands in his. ‘I know you do not ask for my gratitude, but you have it. I shall be for ever in your debt.’
Darkness had fallen by the time Frances passed under the Holbein Gate. As had become her custom, she had taken a circuitous route back to the palace, casting frequent glances over her shoulder to make sure she was not followed. The outer courtyard was a hive of activity as pages, kitchen boys and attendants scurried this way and that in preparation for the evening’s revels. For once, Frances was glad of the hustle and bustle as it made her far less conspicuous than when she had first stolen out of the palace almost a week before. As she passed between the liveried servants and carts laden with provisions, her thoughts turned back to the dimly lit bedchamber at Whitefriars. She wished she could have stayed longer, assured herself of the young lord’s recovery, but the danger was too great. No, she must have faith – in her own skills, as well as in God. She would offer up her prayers in the chapel tomorrow.
As she neared the archway that led into the next courtyard, Frances glanced up at the ornate clock above it. A little before six. She hesitated then turned her steps in the direction of Lord Rutland’s apartment, unable to resist the temptation to tell Kate how her brother fared.
