Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Bacon whispered, ‘It seems the King’s angel has fallen from Heaven – for a time at least.’

  Frances allowed herself a small smile as she glanced at the favourite. Then her gaze moved to the princess, whose eyes were fixed upon the masque that had begun. Frances hardly noticed the garish costumes or the lively music, though she appeared to delight in both. Inwardly, she praised God for bringing about this unexpected miracle.

  When at last the performance was over, the courtiers surged forward to be presented to the princess. It gave Frances such pleasure to see how greatly loved she still was – she had always been the most popular of the Stuart family. Little wonder that the Powder Treason plotters would have set her on the throne. Elizabeth received them all with a gracious countenance, betraying no sign of fatigue, though Frances knew she must be exhausted after her long journey.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Bacon was gesturing for her to take his arm so that they might progress to the dais. She hesitated, nervous at the prospect of greeting the young woman with whom she had shared so much, but who had been little more than a stranger since her marriage. Though Frances had continued to write to her, she had received only a handful of replies – all hastily written, but full of affection. It was not surprising that Elizabeth had been a poor correspondent, for there had clearly been much to preoccupy her since her husband Frederick had accepted the throne of Bohemia.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ She sank into a deep curtsy, then kissed the large sapphire ring that glittered on Elizabeth’s right hand. Keeping her gaze lowered, she inhaled the familiar perfume of rose and lavender. Tears filled her eyes. How she had missed her.

  ‘Lady Tyringham – Frances.’

  She raised her eyes at last and saw that the princess was smiling down at her with such warmth that the tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  ‘And Lord Bacon.’ Elizabeth turned to him. ‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance. Frances read so many of your books to me that I feel I know you already.’

  Frances saw him flush at the compliment. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

  As they prepared to make way for the courtiers behind them, the princess whispered to her: ‘It gladdens my heart to see you. Pray call upon me tomorrow, in my presence chamber. We may talk more freely then.’

  With a final curtsy, Frances walked slowly from the dais, heart soaring.

  CHAPTER 40

  3 February

  ‘Oh, Frances!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, embracing her tightly. ‘I thought I should never see you again after I left this place. It seems a lifetime ago now.’

  ‘It is a lifetime, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, thinking of the children they had both borne – and lost – since then. ‘We had only just received news of Prince Rupert’s birth. He is well, I trust?’

  Elizabeth gave a sad smile and sank into her chair. ‘Quite well. He is a dear little thing – very like my brother Charles. Already he gazes at me with the same solemn expression.’ She sighed. ‘I hated to leave him so soon – little Elisa too. She clung to my skirts as I climbed into the carriage. I could still hear her howls as we passed the palace gates.’ Her shoulders heaved.

  ‘The pain of parting will make the reunion all the sweeter,’ Frances said gently, thinking of how William had sobbed when she had last taken her leave of him at Tyringham Hall. His lady mistress had written only last week to say that he was thriving, but it grieved Frances to think of how she had missed his first faltering steps.

  ‘You always knew how to comfort me, Fran.’ Elizabeth squeezed her hand. ‘I wish I could have you with me again. Frederick has been so kind. He saw how I pined for you, so he arranged for some English ladies to attend me – he would do anything for my ease,’ she added, with an affectionate smile. ‘But no one could fill your place. And now . . . now everything lies in ruins. Even with my father’s help, there is little prospect of reclaiming our lost kingdom.’

  ‘Many here were shocked that the King of Spain should act against your husband, given his alliance with your father.’

  ‘Inconstant wretch!’ Elizabeth cried scornfully. ‘He changes his coat as often as his breeches.’

  They smiled.

  ‘I wonder that my father made peace with him at all,’ she continued, ‘with Philip as committed a Catholic as ever.’

  Frances took a breath. ‘The Marquess of Buckingham has been a staunch advocate for the alliance,’ she replied, choosing her words carefully. ‘He dominates the council.’ She did not add that he dominated the King, too.

  The princess eyed her closely. ‘My brother has spoken of him to me. What is your opinion?’

  Although she knew the prince was as distrustful of his father’s favourite as she was, loyalties changed with deadly swiftness in this place. ‘He enjoys greater favour with His Majesty than any who went before him – even Lord Somerset,’ she began. ‘Your father has rewarded his . . . service with numerous promotions for himself and his family. Yet still he wants more and is ruthless to any who cross him.’

  Elizabeth considered this. ‘You have been among them, I think?’

  ‘My husband has suffered most,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘As master of the horse, Buckingham is his superior.’

  ‘Then I pity him, if what I have heard is true,’ she observed. ‘I understand that my father named him for St Stephen, yet he has the heart of a devil.’

  Frances’s silence signalled her assent.

  ‘Well, I have crossed him now too,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘In securing my father’s support for our war against the emperor, I have ruined the alliance with Spain.’

  ‘And proved the limits of Buckingham’s power,’ Frances added. ‘His pride is so insufferable that he will seek to avenge himself.’

  Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively. ‘I care little for his threats and sulks. He reminds me of poor Henry when he was in one of his tempers.’

  Frances stared at her, surprised. After Prince Henry’s death, Elizabeth had been so full of remorse for defying him over her marriage that she had taken Frederick as her husband at once, even though it had been against the wishes of her heart. She had spoken of her late brother with the utmost reverence ever since. But, then, she had hardly mentioned him in her correspondence, Frances realised. The intervening years had evidently brought her to a more measured opinion of him.

  ‘I am glad of it,’ she replied, ‘though I would urge Your Grace to use caution. The marquess is at his most deadly when he is under threat.’ She paused. ‘With your permission, I would tell you of a scheme in which I believe he is currently embroiled.’

  ‘Please – go on.’

  Frances did not wish to endanger her, but neither could she let this opportunity pass. ‘Although Buckingham has received more riches at the King’s hand than any servant before him, still he is not satisfied. He means to seize one of the most valuable estates in the kingdom.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The Earl of Rutland has a daughter, Katherine, of marriageable age. She is his eldest child, but he had two sons by his second wife. A few years ago, they both sickened suddenly – it was said they had been bewitched – and the elder died. His brother survived but his health continued to falter. None of his father’s physicians could bring any improvement in him. Lord Rutland became so desperate that he decided to bring the boy here, so that I might attend him.’ Elizabeth knew of her former attendant’s skills: Frances had nursed her when she had been stricken by smallpox. But she also knew that such things were forbidden in her father’s court.

  ‘Please – go on.’ Her face was impassive.

  Frances told her how their plan had been discovered, how Lord Rutland had fled from Whitefriars with his son, intent upon returning to Belvoir, but had been overtaken by Buckingham and brought back to court.

  ‘Who is Dr Lambe?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘There has been no mention of him in my father’s letters.’

  ‘He is newly arrived at court but has been in the countess’s service for some time,’ Frances re
plied, trying to keep her voice even. ‘He pretends to be a physician but relies on tricks and conjurations. He claims all manner of powers – from soothsaying to recovering lost treasure.’

  ‘I wonder my father should allow such a man at his court!’ the princess exclaimed.

  ‘If Lambe had had a different patron, he would have been hunted down long ago. But he enjoys the countess’s protection – and that of her son.’

  ‘And you believe he means to poison Lord Rutland’s boy on their behalf?’ Elizabeth’s gaze did not waver as she waited for Frances to respond.

  ‘If Lord Rutland’s son should die, Katherine will inherit the entire Belvoir fortune,’ she whispered. ‘Buckingham has been courting her for some time. For all her virtues, she has nothing but her riches to tempt a man like him. If he loved her for her own sake, he would have asked for her hand long before now.’

  The princess fell silent. Frances knew she had taken a risk: in accusing her father’s favourite of plotting murder, she had called the King’s own judgement into question.

  ‘I will do what I can to help the poor boy – his sister too,’ Elizabeth said eventually. ‘I cannot hope to persuade my father to think ill of his favourite. From what you have told me, it is clear that he is utterly in thrall to him. But Dr Lambe . . .’

  ‘Please, Your Grace, have a care. I do not wish to add to your troubles, or to see you risk your father’s anger at such a time. You and your husband need the support he has pledged.’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘Do not worry, Fran. The King may be blind to his favourite’s true nature, but he is still an indulgent father to his daughter.’

  The banqueting hall was lit by a thousand sconces and Frances breathed in the warm scent of beeswax mingled with spiced wine. This promised to be the most lavish of the receptions that the King had staged in honour of his daughter. He had not always been such an attentive father, she reflected. Perhaps her long absence had softened his heart.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at Thomas as he returned with two glasses.

  ‘It seems that all of London is here.’ His eyes roamed the crowded hall.

  ‘Her Grace is as beloved as ever.’

  ‘By you, too, I think? You have seemed a good deal happier since her arrival.’

  He was right. The unexpected joy of seeing her former mistress had lifted her spirits beyond measure. Frances had not realised how full of fear and anxiety she had become. For the past two nights, she had slept as peacefully as a child. Although she knew she must not rest all of her hopes upon Elizabeth’s ability to help, her very presence in this court was a great comfort. She wished that she might never return to Bohemia.

  A sudden hush descended as the King and his daughter processed onto the dais. Elizabeth was resplendent in a gown of emerald satin fringed with tiny pearls that glowed in the candlelight. She smiled graciously as her father’s courtiers swept a deep bow, then moved to take her seat next to him. Charles sat on James’s right, and Frances saw her own joy mirrored in his eyes as he looked out across the hall. Her smile faded as the Marquess of Buckingham made his entrance. There was no trace of the ill humour that had marked his handsome features when she had last seen him. Instead, the all too familiar grin had returned and he walked with his accustomed air of languor.

  As soon as the King and his guests were seated, there was an unseemly scramble for the tables closest to the dais. Thomas and Frances waited until the chaos had subsided before choosing a table halfway down the hall. The servers were already placing an array of steaming dishes in front of their fellow diners by the time they sat down. Frances helped herself to some of the herring in white wine with plump caper berries. Even though it was winter, the King had clearly ordered the palace cooks to raid their depleted supplies for this latest feast. If his daughter stayed for much longer, they would be eating little but salted beef until spring. It would be a small price to pay, Frances reflected.

  She was hardly aware of the conversations around her as they ate. Her attention was entirely focused upon the dais, where Elizabeth was talking animatedly to her father. Now and then, he would lean over and kiss her hand, as if to reassure himself she was not some vision that would dissolve as soon as he looked away.

  At the far end of the table, Buckingham was toying with the food on his plate, a lazy smile playing about his lips. He did not speak to the companions on either side of him but stared out across the hall, as if appraising every one of its occupants in turn. All of a sudden, his eyes flicked to Frances. She stiffened, but his grin widened and he slowly inclined his head. Seeing this, Thomas placed a protective hand over hers and the spell was broken. Relieved, Frances turned to him. ‘The marquess seems in better humour this evening.’

  Thomas grunted. ‘Whenever that man smiles, I fear the cause.’

  The tables were being cleared in preparation for the evening’s revels. Frances wished that she might steal away to Lord Rutland’s apartment. His son would soon be in need of more of her tinctures. She resolved to prepare some at first light. Finding a way to deliver them to him might prove more difficult.

  The King and his guests rose and took their seats at the side of the dais while their table was cleared away. The excited babble subsided. Frances pushed down her rising impatience. Pray God it is not another masque.

  All of a sudden, the dais was plunged into darkness and a drum roll thundered around the hall, sparking several cries and gasps from the audience. An ominous silence followed. Then a faint tap-tapping echoed across the hall. There was a flash of light and John Lambe’s face was briefly illuminated at one end of the dais. A moment later, it appeared again – at the other, which caused a murmur of excitement. Frances stared in dismay. His head seemed to hover in the air as the flame flickered beneath it. Then he slowly parted his lips and raised his eyes to the ceiling in imitation of a death mask. The rising tension in the silent hall was almost palpable. Frances had to fight the urge to get up and run. At length, the old man lowered his eyes and gazed out across the assembled throng.

  ‘Your Majesties, my lords.’ His sonorous voice was at odds with his ghostly appearance. ‘I will perform such miracles tonight as you will never have seen the like.’

  The flame beneath his face was extinguished and there was another loud thunderclap, followed by a blaze of light so dazzling that Frances had to look away. Even from this distance, she could feel the heat of the brazier. The courtiers seated directly in front of the dais shrank away from it, gasping for breath. A slow smile crept across the magician’s face as he stared out at them, apparently oblivious to the searing heat. Then with a deft movement, he threw a heavy cloth over the flames and the dais was filled with a thick cloud of smoke.

  ‘God’s wounds!’ the King spluttered. Next to him, his daughter fell into a paroxysm of coughing. Lambe stepped nimbly forward and held out a large silver goblet. Frances saw her former mistress hesitate. She glanced at her father, who gestured for her to take it. Elizabeth did so, but before she sipped, she rose to her feet and held up the goblet so that everyone in the room could see it. Frances held her breath as she slowly, deliberately, put it to her lips and swallowed. Still standing in full view of the assembled courtiers, she placed her hand on her throat, as if the liquid burned as it slipped down. Suddenly her legs gave way, and with a cry of ‘Father!’ she sank to the floor.

  Everything was in confusion. Frances watched, aghast, as the King rushed to his daughter’s side while his attendants flapped helplessly around him. There were cries of dismay from the crowd as everyone surged towards the dais.

  ‘Poison!’

  The shout prompted a chorus: ‘Treason! Seize him!’

  Dr Lambe looked about him in alarm. Buckingham stepped quickly forward, as if to shield him from the baying crowd. Frances sprang to her feet. Before Thomas could stop her, she was pushing her way through the crowds, oblivious to the curses that sounded in her ears. Elizabeth was still lying senseless on the platform, the folds of her skirts fanned out around h
er. The King was cradling her head on his lap and rocking her to and fro, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘It was nothing – nothing,’ Lambe muttered, as two yeomen grasped his arms. ‘A simple potion of honey and rosewater – here,’ he said, trying to free himself so that he might pick up the goblet, even though most of its contents had spilled onto the floorboards.

  ‘Arrest him!’ James cried. ‘He has poisoned my daughter.’

  Frances climbed onto the dais in time to see the physician being dragged from it.

  ‘Sire, please!’

  But James seemed not to notice his favourite as he stared down at his daughter, his chest heaving. Buckingham hovered over them. His face was deathly pale and his eyes blazed – with fear or fury, Frances could not tell. Then he turned on his heel and pushed past her, almost knocking her from the dais.

  ‘Your Majesty, please – let me assist.’

  The King looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘There has been enough witchcraft for one evening,’ he spat.

  ‘I served your daughter faithfully for many years, Your Grace,’ she persisted, keeping her voice low. ‘When she lay mortally sick, I alone attended her.’ She saw a flicker of remembrance. ‘I beseech you, let me do so again.’

  James stroked a stray hair from the princess’s face.

  Frances saw she did not have the pallor of one who lay close to death. ‘Please,’ she repeated.

  The King’s shoulders dropped and he gave a nod of assent.

  CHAPTER 41

  3 February

  Frances waited while Elizabeth’s attendants fussed around, smoothing the sheets and plumping up the pillows behind their mistress’s head. When at last they had finished, she stepped forward and began to examine her as they watched. Clearly, the King would not allow a woman he had once had arrested for witchcraft tend his daughter alone.

  Elizabeth’s skin felt warm to the touch and, though she still lay unconscious, her heartbeat was strong and regular. Her lips were not parched and there were no blotches on her throat, or any other sign that she had been poisoned. Instead, she appeared in a peaceful slumber. Frances poured a small glass of the fresh water she had asked one of the ladies to bring. Holding it to the young woman’s lips, she tilted it and waited for her to swallow. Elizabeth did so without a murmur, her throat pulsing as the water slipped down. Frances gave her a little more, then continued her examinations, working methodically, as the Reverend Samuels had taught her.