by Tracy Borman
‘Lady Katherine!’
The countess was striding towards them, arms outstretched. ‘You are most welcome, my dear,’ she said, kissing her on both cheeks. Her smile vanished as she flicked a glance at her companion. ‘Lady Tyringham.’
She gestured for an attendant to offer them some wine. Frances discreetly sniffed the contents of her glass before taking a small sip.
‘I hope the night air has sharpened your appetite. Our feast is almost ready.’
Kate gave a tight smile.
‘And I for one am ravenous.’ Buckingham flashed Kate a wolfish grin as he sauntered into the room. He bent to kiss her hand, his lips lingering a little too long. A blush crept across her cheeks. The marquess saw it, and his smile widened. She does not blush from pleasure but shame, Frances wanted to tell him. But she merely curtsied.
‘So the little mouse has been coaxed from her nest,’ he remarked, taking a slow sip of wine. ‘Tell me, Mother, what bait did you use? A few morsels from your kitchens, perhaps?’ He strolled over to the countess and kissed her on the lips as she gazed adoringly at him. ‘Or was it the prospect of something more . . . satisfying?’
Frances swallowed her revulsion.
‘The feast is ready, ma’am.’
The countess waved away the groom impatiently and snaked her hand around her son’s arm so that he might lead her to the dining room. Frances took Kate’s hand and they followed at a distance.
The dining table stretched in front of them. The King’s cook must have been hard at work for days. The rich aroma of roasted meats, fragrant sauces and spiced wine was intoxicating. Though she had no appetite, Frances could not but admire the countess’s lavish hospitality, even if she wondered at its cause.
‘Please, my dear.’ Lady Buckingham steered Kate towards the chair next to her son. Frances moved to sit on her other side, but the countess was there before her. ‘Your seat is over there, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances hid her irritation as she moved to sit down. Kate looked thoroughly miserable as she stared at her plate. She reminded Frances of a lamb that had wandered into a den of wolves.
‘May I help you to some oysters, my lady?’ Without waiting for a response, Buckingham reached across Kate and spooned a few onto her plate. Frances noticed her cringe as his arm brushed against hers. He helped himself and began to eat, his eyes never leaving Kate as he swallowed each one.
‘How do you like Chelsea, my lady?’ Frances asked, determined to divert the attention away from her beleaguered friend.
‘Well enough,’ Lady Buckingham replied airily, ‘though it lacks society.’
The conversation turned to banalities. Frances helped herself to some pickled herring as the countess droned on about the forthcoming masque, the King’s planned hunting expedition, Count de Gondomar’s expected return to court to revive negotiations for Prince Charles’s marriage to Infanta Maria . . . Each subject was punctuated by the arrival of more courses. Every time the servers entered the hall, Frances hoped to see them bearing the wafers and hippocras that would signal an end to this interminable feast. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It was almost ten. They would soon have to depart or they would miss the tide.
‘Tell me, sweet Kate, how does your father fare?’
Frances bit back a reproof at Buckingham’s over-familiarity. He was leaning closer to the girl now, his hand resting idly on the back of her chair.
‘He is well, thank you, though he grieves for my poor brother – as do I.’ She stared down at her black satin skirts. Next to her, the marquess and his mother appeared as brightly painted peacocks.
‘Poor Kate.’ Buckingham clicked his tongue and gave a sad shake of his head. ‘If only there was something I might do to cheer you both. But, alas, your father seems intent upon condemning you to a life of spinstershood.’
‘My lord—’
Buckingham waved away Frances’s objection and moved so close to Kate that she could see the soft curls surrounding her face stir as he spoke.
‘It really is a vexatious business,’ he continued. ‘The court is filled with ripe peaches that I might pluck, yet this little one,’ he trailed his fingers down Kate’s neck, ‘remains just out of reach.’ A pause. ‘Or, at least, it has until now.’
Frances rose abruptly to her feet. ‘Forgive us, my lady. It is late and we must return to Whitehall before the tide turns.’
Kate made to rise but the marquess gripped her shoulder so tightly that she winced.
‘There is no need for such haste – for Lady Katherine, at least,’ the countess purred. ‘She will be my guest tonight.’
Her smile chilled Frances to the bone. ‘That is most kind, but we are expected back at court this evening so I regret that we must decline,’ she said firmly.
Lady Buckingham turned to her. ‘My invitation does not extend to you, Lady Tyringham.’ Her words were shards of ice. ‘You are free to return to Whitehall, or go wherever you please. It is of no concern to me.’
Kate looked as if she might cry. ‘But I have nothing with which to make shift, no nightclothes . . .’
‘You will have no need of those,’ Buckingham said, releasing his grip. Frances could see the imprints of his fingers on Kate’s shoulder. He stroked the base of her neck idly with his fingertips.
Frances could no longer tolerate their games. ‘Madam, you know that it is impossible for Lady Katherine to stay here alone. Her reputation would be ruined.’
‘Quite so.’ Lady Buckingham addressed her as a child who was slow to learn. ‘As soon as word gets out that Lord Rutland’s daughter has stayed here with my son unchaperoned no other suitor will touch her, no matter the riches she might bring. She will be soiled goods, soured milk . . . however you wish to term it. There will be nothing else for it but to marry her to my son.’
‘Even your mule of a father will see that, my dear Kate,’ Buckingham added. He glanced towards one of the King’s grooms, who was standing, impassive, by the fireplace. ‘And there are plenty of witnesses to attest to your disgrace.’
‘No!’ Kate cried, wresting herself from his grasp. She ran towards the door but he was there before her. With a swift move, he had her arms pinioned behind her back and pressed himself against her groin.
‘The taking of her will not be such a chore as we imagined, Mother,’ he called, over his shoulder. ‘A prey tastes all the sweeter if it has tried to evade capture.’ Without warning, he thrust his hand up Kate’s skirts. She cried out in shock but he silenced her with his mouth. Frances felt as if she had slipped into a nightmare and, for a moment, she was unable to move. Then she launched herself forward, seizing a glass from the table. The countess shouted a warning to her son but Frances had already brought it smashing down on his skull.
Buckingham’s hand fell away from Kate’s thigh and he stood, panting, as the blood trickled down his neck. Then, slowly, he turned to face Frances. He ran his tongue along his lips, which were almost white. Slowly, he cocked his head and his eyes roamed over her as if he were examining some rare species that the King’s sailors had brought back from the New World. Suddenly he dealt her such a blow that she fell sprawling to the floor, her cheek slapping against the flagstones. Her vision clouded as a searing pain ran through her jaw and she tasted blood. The last thing she saw were Kate’s skirts as she was bundled into an adjoining room. As she slipped into insensibility, a piercing scream sounded in her ears, as if in a dream.
CHAPTER 45
16 May
The late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, warming the stones of the old chapel, which were bare of paintings or tapestries. The only adornment was a simple gold cross set atop the small altar. The King must approve of such a sparse interior, Frances thought. He was seated next to the altar, so close to his favourite that he might have touched his white satin doublet. She had been surprised to learn that he would be attending the nuptials – even more so that he seemed to take great delight in them. Perhaps he judged that Lady K
atherine posed no threat to his own hold over Buckingham. The marquess’s passions could hardly be sated by such a plain, timid little creature – or so she had heard someone whisper at dinner the previous night.
Frances glanced at her now and her heart contracted with sorrow. She had seen little of her since that dreadful night – the countess and her son had made sure of that. They had kept Kate a virtual prisoner at Chelsea and even her father had been admitted only once, to sign the marriage contract that he had had little choice but to agree to. Although the court had been scandalised by Lady Katherine’s transgression, Frances had made sure that Rutland knew the truth. It still pained her to recall his grief and fury, and she had been hard pressed to stop him seeking out Buckingham and running him through with his sword. The King had denied his request for a duel with his favourite, declaring that whatever their differences, they must be settled without bloodshed. But Frances knew that Kate’s father would not rest until he had avenged his daughter’s rape. He was standing at her side now, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes blazed as he stared at the man who was about to become his son-in-law.
There were just a handful of guests to witness the marriage at Lumley House, one of Buckingham’s more modest residences. That Frances and her husband were among them was the only concession Buckingham had made to his prospective wife. Although she hoped that her presence might bring some small comfort to Kate, Frances railed against her powerlessness to do anything but watch as her friend was bound to that devil.
‘. . . for the mutual society, help and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity . . .’
The Reverend Williams’s voice interrupted her thoughts. The young chaplain was clearly revelling in the moment, confident that it would bring him even greater riches from his patron Buckingham. His small eyes darted from the bride to the groom. A few days earlier, he had finally succeeded in persuading Kate to renounce the Roman Catholic faith. Frances had experienced a mixture of admiration and fear for her friend when she had openly declared herself a papist. Such a thing would have spelled death for any but the intended bride of the King’s great favourite. Kate’s refusal to relinquish her faith had been the only remaining impediment to the marriage, once her father had at last given way. Looking at her friend now, Frances shuddered to think what it had taken to make her submit.
Williams addressed Kate: ‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?’
Frances saw her friend’s already pale face grow deathly and her hand trembled as it sought her father’s.
‘. . . Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him . . .’
Rutland grasped his daughter’s fingers so tightly that his knuckles showed white.
‘. . . And forsaking all other keep thee only to him, so long as you both shall live?’
Silence.
Frances held her breath. Next to her, Thomas edged a fraction closer so that his arm brushed against hers. Her eyes never left Kate. Though her friend’s face was turned from her, she could tell from the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders that Kate was struggling to master her emotions. The countess gave a loud cough, prompting. Frances rejoiced at the consternation that this act of defiance must have caused the older woman. Perhaps, after all, the bounties of the Rutland estate would be snatched away from her son at the last gasp.
Even as she thought it, Frances knew it was impossible. Buckingham had bullied, cajoled and schemed his way to this moment and would force the words from his bride’s lips if he had to – he had already done far worse.
‘Speak up, girl!’
Kate jumped at the King’s words, which echoed around the small chapel. Another pause. She turned to her father and gave a small nod. He stared at her for a moment before releasing his grip. His daughter looked back at the clergyman and straightened her shoulders.
‘I will.’
PART 3
1622
CHAPTER 46
12 January
‘It is a girl.’
Frances watched as her husband set down the note and gazed out over the parkland. His hair had become flecked with grey these past few months, his shoulders more hunched. It was as if their burdens weighed heavily upon his body, as well as his mind.
‘Does she have a name?’ She kept her voice light, but it pained her that she had not received the news from Kate’s own hand. Her friend was hardly at fault, though: Buckingham had kept his new wife a virtual prisoner at Wallingford House, the handsome new mansion close to St James’s Park he had purchased from a rival at a good deal less than it was worth. He now owned more than twenty properties in London, by Thomas’s reckoning, as well as the numerous country estates that the King had granted him.
Her husband looked back at the letter distractedly. ‘Mary.’
Named for the countess. Frances felt a stab of loathing for Buckingham’s domineering mother, who now held sway over the ladies at court as if she were queen consort. Even a young woman as biddable as Kate could not help but feel suffocated by her overbearing presence.
‘The marquess will be disappointed not to have a son and heir,’ she remarked.
Thomas smiled. ‘In that respect at least I am a good deal richer than he.’
Frances looked down at the baby sleeping in her arms. Samuel. Thomas had suggested the name to honour an uncle who had recently died, but Frances would always think of her beloved old mentor and priest at Longford, the Reverend Samuels. The infant mewed as she stroked the wisps of chestnut hair on his scalp. It had been a troublesome pregnancy. She had been afflicted by sickness from the sixth week and had been forced to retreat to Tyringham well before her confinement was due to begin. You cannot hope to have an easy time of it when you are so advanced in years for childbirth. The Countess of Buckingham’s remark stung all the more for the truth it carried. As she shifted uncomfortably against the pillows, Frances had to admit that she felt every fraction of her forty-two years. This child would be the last, she was sure. But she could not regret his arrival, even if it had pained her more than the others. He cried more lustily than they had, too, she thought wryly.
Thomas moved to sit next to her and reached out to take their newborn son from her arms. ‘A pocket Hercules,’ he whispered, gazing down adoringly at the tiny infant, who began to writhe and whimper. ‘I fancy you will lead your older brothers a merry dance one day.’ He bent to kiss Samuel’s forehead.
His expression grew suddenly grave.
‘Your steward had no better tidings?’ Frances asked.
Thomas shook his head. ‘I had little hope of any. There are no more lands left to mortgage, and the interest on our debts has mounted since the last harvest.’ He raised his eyes to her. ‘I will soon have no choice but to sell this old place.’
Frances could not hide her shock. ‘Tyringham Hall has been in your family for generations. It is our home – our sons’ inheritance. You cannot relinquish it.’
Her husband drew the sleeping baby closer to his chest. ‘I have failed you, Frances – all of you. When we married, I urged you not to embroil yourself in any more Catholic plots, for no good could come of them. I should have heeded my own warning.’
Frances laid her hand on his arm. ‘We cannot always deny our hearts, Thomas. I cherished the same hopes for Raleigh’s voyage as you did – and many others besides.’ She did not add that she would not have ventured so great a sum on such a risky enterprise. Her husband knew his folly all too well. ‘How much longer have we?’
Thomas stood abruptly and laid Samuel in his cradle. Their son gave a cry of protest and made fists of his tiny hands. ‘Six months – a year at most.’ He had moved to the window again and was staring out across the parkland, as if expecting to see their creditors galloping towards them.
‘Can you not petition the King? He will surely be generous, after all your years of service. I am sure . . .’ The lie died on her lips. She kne
w as well as he that, even if James was inclined to grant them some funds, Buckingham saw every shilling that left the royal coffers. He would delight in making sure his inferior’s request was refused. Love thy enemy, the Bible commanded. Such a thing was impossible when that enemy was the devil himself. Her joy in her infant son was momentarily eclipsed by a shard of loathing for the man who had blighted their lives from the moment he had appeared at court.
‘We can expect nothing from His Majesty – or any other. Lord Rutland can no longer honour the pledge he made to us now that his fortune rests with his new son-in-law. Buckingham has appointed agents to monitor the earl’s coffers. The contract stipulates that the estate he bequeaths to his daughter must be at least equal to the value that it was at the time of her marriage. Besides, our debts are such that they cannot be settled by a gift of money here and there. I can see nothing else for it but to sell Tyringham Hall.’
He leaned his forehead against the glass. Frances longed to comfort him but she had nothing to offer. At the end of her bed, the cradle began to sway as Samuel grew more fretful. She would need to feed him soon. Pray God it would make him sleep a little. She needed rest.
‘When will you go?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘But our son was born only three days ago. Surely the King will not expect you to return so soon.’
‘Buckingham has sent word that His Grace wishes to hunt on Monday, before Parliament is convened.’ He did not look at her as he spoke, his breath misting the windowpane.
‘I will come to you as soon as I have found a wet-nurse and am able to travel.’
Her husband turned to her at last. ‘Please – tarry here a while. Poor Samuel will already lack his father. I would not wish to deprive him of his mother also.’
Frances swallowed tears. She did not want her husband to see the pain she felt at the thought of leaving their newborn son – his brothers, too.
