by Tracy Borman
All of the sconces along the corridors had been lit and Frances was glad of their warmth as she walked briskly along. She had just entered the passage when she saw a man walking towards her. He had a pronounced limp and was hunched over a staff. Frances noticed that it had an ornately carved piece of marble at the top, but the shape was obscured by the man’s hand. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the floor and quickened her pace.
‘Beg pardon, my lady.’
His voice echoed along the empty corridor. Frances stopped and turned. His features were in shadow, but she could see that his sharply pointed beard was as white as the snow that covered the courtyard.
‘Forgive me – I did not mean to startle you. I have been wandering these passages for an hour or more, looking for the banqueting hall. Whoever thought to build such a maze?’
Frances smiled and felt herself begin to relax. ‘Pass through three more courtyards and you will see it ahead of you – and hear the noise from it, too. The feast will begin at seven.’
‘Thankee, thankee,’ he muttered, shuffling forward a little so that his face was illuminated by the sconce above.
Frances was struck by his eyes, which were so piercing that they appeared to see into her very soul. Looking more closely, she noticed that one was green and the other blue. When he smiled at her, his lips became so thin that they were almost invisible. She glanced down at his garish attire. If she had not known better, she would have taken him to be a jester, but the King’s dislike of such entertainment was well known to all. His doublet and breeches were covered with bright blue and red stripes, and slung over one shoulder was a cloak of green satin edged with silver. Most extraordinary of all was the red and gold hat perched on his head. Frances could not decide whether it looked more like a mitre or a crown.
‘Will it suffice, do you think?’ he said with a grin, giving a slow twirl.
Frances stopped staring and inclined her head, then made to continue on her way.
‘Of course, I of all people should not have lost my way.’
‘Oh?’ she asked, a little impatiently.
‘Why, yes!’ the old man exclaimed, clearly enjoying the moment. ‘We cunning folk can find our way out of the most tangled of labyrinths. We can find hidden treasure too . . . or whatever else may have been lost.’
His words trailed into silence as he fixed Frances with a stare. She felt herself grow cold as realisation dawned. Dr John Lambe – the Buckinghams’ notorious astrologer and physician.
‘The late Queen’s jewels are not the only things to have been lost lately,’ he went on, emphasising each word with care, as if to measure its impact. Another pause. ‘There are lost souls, too. That poor boy. He should have been here long ere now.’
Frances’s neck felt warm. ‘Forgive me, I do not know—’
He gave a low chuckle. ‘It is easier to navigate the corridors of this palace than the words spoken by those within it.’ He gave a dramatic sigh, as if defeated. ‘Well, well, I must be on my way. The countess does not take kindly to latecomers, and her patience has been even shorter than usual since . . . But enough of such trifles.’ He ran his tongue over his upper lip. ‘A pretty lady such as yourself does not wish to waste time with a foolish old man when she clearly has more pressing matters to attend to. I hope you will find Lady Katherine in better spirits than I did earlier.’
He let his gaze rest upon her for just a moment too long, then gave another exaggerated sigh and made to leave. As he did so, his fingers slipped briefly from the top of his staff and Frances glimpsed the carving. It was a skull.
CHAPTER 37
28 January
The cawing of a rook made Frances start as she hastened through the deserted streets. She had risen long before dawn, having lain awake since she and Thomas had returned from the previous evening’s revels. Dr Lambe had played a prominent part in them, and the King had seemed to delight in his elaborate tricks and conjurations. The gasps and cries of the assembled courtiers sounded in Frances’s ears as she recalled the ghostly figure he had whipped up out of smoke, only for it to disappear as soon as he clicked his fingers. Deceiver’s tricks. The crystal ball he had flourished before the court was as likely to lead him to the ‘lost treasure’ he talked of as a broken compass.
And yet she had been so unnerved by the old conjurer that she had resolved to warn Lord Rutland to set out for Belvoir without delay. She could see that neither the countess nor her son believed Kate’s story that her father had postponed his journey because of the snow. They knew he was too desperate for his son’s recovery. It would not be long before their enquiries led them to Whitefriars. The earl’s carriage was distinctive enough to have attracted attention as it had passed through the streets of London.
Her heart in her mouth, she mounted the steps to her mother’s lodgings and crept silently along the corridor. No light showed from under the door and she could hear nothing as she pressed her ear to it. She took a breath, then knocked lightly, using the same repetition as Thomas.
At length, she heard the creaking of a floorboard and a few moments later the door was opened a crack. She breathed her relief at the sight of the earl’s face peering anxiously into the gloom. He ushered her inside at once.
‘We must make haste,’ she said, without preamble. ‘Dr Lambe is at court. He seems to know that you have deceived his patrons – or suspects it, at least. You must leave this place and return to Belvoir. If you hurry, you will be clear of the city’s walls before daybreak. I will travel with you as far as St Paul’s. Then you and your son can take a carriage northwards. There will be plenty to hire at this time of the morning. I will be back at Whitehall before the court has risen.’
The shadows under Lord Rutland’s eyes seemed to deepen as she spoke. ‘You have put yourself at great risk in coming here,’ he whispered. ‘I cannot allow you to increase it by accompanying us. You must go back to Whitehall before the alarm is raised.’
‘I am quite safe. I made sure that I was not followed, and there are three hours or more before the court will assemble for breakfast. Please – let us make haste.’
Her friend hesitated, then turned on his heel and strode towards his son’s chamber. Frances could hear the boy’s quiet moan as his father woke him from his slumber. While she waited for them to emerge, she busied herself with gathering the few belongings that Lord Rutland had brought with him to Whitefriars. She must leave no trace of them here. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the lock of one of the coffers, trying to push from her mind the image of Buckingham’s men searching these apartments.
‘We are ready.’
Lord Rutland was standing on the threshold to the bedchamber, his frail son, wrapped in the fur blanket Kate had given him, in his arms. Frances led them quietly out of the apartment. The streets were as still and silent as a crypt, but every time they passed an alley or doorway Frances slowed her pace lest one of Buckingham’s attendants should step from it. She thought of how he had lurked in the shadows of the Bloody Tower that night, shortly before Raleigh had been sent to his death. He hardly needed the services of his mother’s seer, Dr Lambe: his spies were everywhere.
Before they turned into the narrow passageway that led to the Thames, Frances saw something move in the doorway of a large house. She stopped abruptly, heart hammering. But then she saw a girl curled up on the steps. She was about George’s age, Frances judged. The child’s eyes stared up at her from the gloom and she held out her hand in supplication. Frances pressed a coin into it. But they must hurry. Despite her assurances to the earl, there was little time.
The riverside was in darkness, with just a solitary brazier glowing dimly on the landing stage ahead. Their breath misted in the chill air as they stood peering across the dark water. None of the mansions on the southern bank were visible, and Frances envied those who slept peacefully within. As they drew closer to the wooden platform, she smelt the sharp tang of tobacco and soon afterwards heard the low murmur of voices. Two men turned at
the sound of their footsteps.
Lord Rutland tried to sound calm as he asked them to take him to St Paul’s. Frances saw the boatmen’s eyes flick from him to the boy in his arms. She pulled her hood further over her head and kept her eyes downcast. One nodded and led them towards his boat. As they climbed in, Frances took care to keep her face turned away. Neither she nor Lord Rutland spoke, and the only sound was of the steady, rhythmic creak of the oars as they sliced through the dark waters.
The journey seemed to take an age. Frances glanced up at the sky, fearing it was lightening. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, that was all. She glanced at the boy, who was asleep, as peaceful as an angel. It would have been better for him to stay in the warmth of Whitefriars for several more days before the long journey back to Belvoir, but the risk was too great. We can find hidden treasure. Though she knew better than to believe in his tricks and illusions, she felt as if Dr Lambe’s eyes were following her.
At last, she saw the dark outline of St Paul’s tower ahead. She motioned to Lord Rutland, who followed her gaze. A few minutes later, they had drawn level with the landing stage. Frances stepped out, then helped her companion and his son.
‘Wait for me here,’ she said to the boatman, ignoring his curious stare as she handed him a small purse. Glancing around, she led Lord Rutland and his son towards the crossroads that lay on the northern side of the cathedral. Every step seemed to echo in the silent streets as they hastened along, Frances’s eyes darting left and right. But she kept them fixed ahead as they passed St Paul’s churchyard, where some of the Powder Treason plotters had met their grisly ends. She must not think of that now.
To her relief, as Paternoster Row opened out into a large square, she could see several carriages, each lit by a lantern. A coachman jumped down from the one closest to them and doffed his cap. Frances handed him the coffer she had been carrying and he held open the door so that Lord Rutland could climb in. Frances watched as he laid the sleeping boy on the seat opposite his own. It would be three days at least before they reached Belvoir – more, perhaps, if the snow continued to thaw and the roads turned to mud. But they would be clear of the city’s walls by daybreak and, God willing, the danger would recede with each passing mile.
As she made to step down from the carriage, Lord Rutland clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘God go with you,’ he whispered, his eyes alight with fear.
‘And with you.’
She watched as the coachman climbed onto his seat and, with a sharp tug on the reins, urged the horses forward. The clatter of their hoofs sounded in her ears as she hastened back towards the river.
The boatman was still standing on the landing stage when she arrived – she had smelt his tobacco as she approached. Peering into the shadows to reassure herself that she had not been observed, she climbed into the small vessel and drew her cloak around her as the man began to row back towards Whitehall.
Frances tore off another piece of the warm manchet loaf. The smell of the food that was spread out on the tables in front of the assembled courtiers had made her ravenous. Elation had sharpened her appetite, too. She had stolen quietly back into the palace a little over an hour earlier. The only person to notice her absence had been Thomas. She had expected his anger, but it had soon been supplanted by relief at her safe return. Together, they had prayed for Lord Rutland and his son, who she judged should soon be approaching Waltham Abbey. She did not imagine the earl would stop there to take his ease, as most travellers did.
‘They say the King’s daughter is likely to lose her crown.’
The mention of her former mistress jolted Frances back to the present.
‘Aye, her husband cannot withstand the emperor for long. His army is by far the mightier.’
Two months earlier, news had reached the court that Count Frederick had accepted the throne of Bohemia, in defiance of Emperor Ferdinand, whose territory it was by right. Frances knew Princess Elizabeth would exult in the title of queen and had rejoiced at it herself, little knowing how soon their new kingdom would be under threat. Now she felt cold with terror at the danger her beloved former mistress faced.
A crash at the end of the hall made everyone turn. One of the serving boys was staring, red-faced, at a pile of upturned dishes, their contents splattered over the flagstones. Next to him, Dr Lambe was flapping his arms and mumbling an apology. He made a show of trying to help the boy, a smile playing about his lips. His appearance at last night’s revels had been similarly dramatic, but instead of the clatter of plates, there had been the thundering of drums followed by a cloud of smoke. Like his patron, he seemed to thrive on the attention – good and bad.
Frances could see a mixture of interest and apprehension on the faces of her fellow diners as the old man moved between the tables in search of somewhere to sit. She shrank back and fixed her eyes upon the piece of bread in front of her. To her dismay, as Lambe drew closer, the courtier next to her rose to his feet and gestured for the old man to take his place.
‘Such trouble, such trouble,’ Lambe muttered, as he shuffled along the row.
Frances looked around, as if for some means of escape, but leaving now would draw attention. She could only hope that the people seated around her would engage the physician in conversation. Certainly, they were all eyeing him with undisguised curiosity.
‘Ah, my saviour of last night!’ he exclaimed, as he saw Frances. ‘What happy chance. It seems that God will always place you in my path when I have lost my way.’
‘Dr Lambe,’ she muttered, aware of the curious stares of the other diners.
‘Once more, you have the advantage,’ he remarked. Frances breathed the sharp tang of bergamot and violet as he lowered himself onto the bench. ‘For you know my name, and no doubt much more besides, yet I know you only by those beautiful eyes and that lustrous hair, which would make the brightest autumn leaves appear dull by comparison.’ He reached out as if to touch one of the tresses that lay over her shoulder, but his fingers stopped short of it. Frances kept as still as a statue, though inwardly every fibre of her being cringed from him.
‘Lady Frances Tyringham,’ she said curtly. Her instinctive fear of him had been replaced by a rising fury at his insolence. Neither did she have any patience for his play-acting. He knew her name well enough – Buckingham and his mother would have made sure of that.
‘Tyringham . . .’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I have heard the name somewhere . . .’
‘My husband is master of the buckhounds to His Majesty.’
‘Then you must spend little time together. The King shows greater passion for the hunt than for almost everything else.’ He let the emphasis hang in the air, making sure the other diners had noticed it. ‘Well now, Lady Tyringham,’ he continued, ‘how do you fill the many hours of solitude? There is only so much embroidery that even the most accomplished lady can do.’
Frances forced herself to take another mouthful of bread, even though she felt she might choke on it. As soon as she had finished, she would make her excuses and leave. ‘King James’s court does not lack for diversion, as I’m sure you are aware, Dr Lambe.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Indeed. But most pursuits are more fitted for gentlemen, are they not?’
He was goading her, but she merely inclined her head and took a slow sip of water.
‘Hunting, running at the ring . . .’ he went on. ‘Even the professions here are not suited to the fairer sex. The kitchens are filled with male cooks, the King may only be attended by boys and gentlemen . . . and then there is my own profession, of course . . .’ His voice trailed off but his sharp eyes never left her. ‘There are women who pretend to such skills, but rarely to any effect. And most are hanged as witches.’
Frances could no longer hear the clatter of dishes or the low hum of conversation that echoed around the hall. She held the old man’s gaze. ‘It has been a pleasure to see you again, Dr Lambe.’ Her words were like shards of ice. ‘But you must excuse
me, or I shall be late to meet an acquaintance.’
She rose to her feet before he could reply and did not wait for him to make his obeisance. She could feel his eyes upon her as she made her way out of the crowded hall, forcing herself to walk slowly when all she wanted to do was run.
CHAPTER 38
28 January
By the time Frances reached her chamber, her fingers were trembling so much with suppressed rage – fear, too – that she fumbled with the lock. John Lambe’s smiling face was before her, his silken words in her ears. The scent of bergamot and violet still clung to her, too. She wished that she could purge herself of it all, as the court physicians would bleed out an evil humour. But it was as if he was at her shoulder now, his thin fingers hovering above her hair.
When at last the latch clicked open, Frances flung open the door and slammed it behind her, with such force that the sound reverberated around the apartment. She started as Thomas stepped out of the bedchamber. He had left for the stables before she had gone to breakfast.
‘It is a wonder that old door has not come off its hinges.’ He was smiling, but his eyes were filled with concern. ‘What has happened, my love?’
Frances’s throat tightened but she would not waste tears on that odious man. Besides, he had said nothing to suggest he knew of Lord Rutland’s escape. He had made only hints and remarks aimed at drawing her out – a soothsayer’s device.
She shook her head, as if to dispel all thoughts of Lambe. ‘It is nothing – a conversation with the Countess of Buckingham’s astrologer at breakfast. I dislike that man intensely.’
‘With good reason,’ her husband remarked. ‘He said nothing of . . .?’
‘No. He was taunting me, that was all.’ She looked down at Thomas’s boots. ‘The King is hunting today?’
