Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  Frances looked down at the beautifully bound volume with pleasure as she traced her fingers over the gilded inscription: Novum Organum Scientiarum. Carefully, she opened it to reveal the title page, upon which was an engraving of a galleon, its sails billowing as it passed between two enormous pillars.

  ‘The Pillars of Hercules,’ he explained. ‘I thought it fitting, given the labours I suffered in bringing this to pass.’

  Beneath the scene was written: ‘Multi pertransibunt & augebitur scientia’. Many will travel and knowledge will be increased.

  He had told her of the new system of logic and reasoning that he was beginning to devise some years before, and they had spent many hours discussing it. Frances had predicted it would be his greatest work – certainly it deserved to be. Thomas had been there when Bacon had presented it to the King, who had seemed delighted, declaring that he would rob himself of sleep in order to finish it. He had soon given up, though, and the book had become the butt of ridicule.

  ‘His Grace compared it to the peace of God, for it passeth all understanding.’ He was still smiling down at her.

  ‘Then I shall enjoy it all the more,’ Frances affirmed, ‘for it takes little to surpass the King’s understanding.’

  ‘Little Mal! Give her to me, Steenie.’

  The infant chuckled as the King bounced her on his lap. ‘Why, I think she has grown chubbier still since yesterday. Have you been stuffing her with comfits?’

  Frances noticed Buckingham grimace before he recovered his usual simpering expression. ‘She takes after her mother.’

  Behind him, Kate flushed and lowered her gaze. Frances despised the marquess for the insult and wished that her friend might fling one back at him. But she knew that Kate was as likely to do that as a sparrow might challenge a hawk.

  ‘His Excellency has little time, Your Grace,’ Buckingham prompted, casting a glance at Gondomar, who was still kneeling before the throne.

  James pretended not to hear him. ‘Her teeth are as sharp as a kitten’s,’ he exclaimed, withdrawing his little finger from her mouth. The child immediately reached out for the gold chain that lay around the King’s neck and stuffed it into her mouth. James roared his appreciation, but his favourite stepped forward and wrenched it from his daughter, causing her to wail in pain and disappointment. He then lifted her from his master’s lap and thrust her none too gently into her mother’s arms.

  ‘Hush, little one,’ Kate murmured into Mary’s ear, as she rocked her. It warmed Frances’s heart to see her tenderness towards her daughter. She hoped that Mary provided her mother with some comfort amid the misery of her marriage.

  ‘Your Grace?’ The count’s soft voice cut through the silence that followed.

  With an exaggerated sigh, the King at last turned to the Spanish ambassador. ‘Well?’ he demanded, gesturing for him to stand. ‘I told you not to attend me again until your master has agreed to help my son-in-law. Is that the case, or does he persist in his stubbornness?’

  Gondomar gave a small cough. ‘King Philip is most desirous to assist, of course, Your Grace. But the matter is complicated . . .’

  James thumped his fist so hard on the arm of his throne that Frances felt the floorboards vibrate.

  ‘The devil take him! Perhaps the matter exceeds his judgement – he is new on the throne, after all. Allow me to explain it again,’ he went on, in a sing-song voice. ‘King Frederick and my daughter have been deprived of their lands in Bohemia and the Palatine. I have already expended a vast portion of the royal treasury on their behalf, but until your master’s forces join with mine we can hope for little success. King Philip is honour-bound to oblige me in this, since it was his father who robbed them of their lands in the first place.’

  The ambassador had the grace to look momentarily abashed. ‘My master sympathises with King Frederick, Your Grace, but—’

  ‘To hell with his sympathy!’ James shouted.

  As the ambassador opened his mouth to reply, little Mary began to wail again.

  ‘Take her away,’ Buckingham snapped at his wife, who immediately rose to her feet and, bobbing a hasty curtsy, scurried from the room. Seizing her opportunity, Frances slipped away un noticed and followed in her wake.

  Kate was already out of sight by the time Frances passed the yeomen stationed outside the presence chamber. But the aroma of violets trailed behind her. Frances had made the perfume as a gift for her twenty-second birthday. Although Kate had not spoken two words to her since her return to court and had been careful to avoid her gaze, the fact that she still wore it gave Frances hope that their friendship might yet be revived.

  As she rounded the next corner, she saw a flash of green silk in one of the archways that led out into a small knot garden close to the royal apartments. Slowing her pace, she walked towards it.

  ‘Kate.’

  The young woman leaped at her voice, though she had spoken softly. She cringed away, shielding her child from her, as Frances took a step forward. ‘Please, do not be afraid. We are still friends, are we not?’

  Kate did not reply but glanced quickly around, as if fearing they were being watched. ‘You must not speak to me. My husband forbids it.’

  Frances smiled to hide her dismay. ‘What harm can there be in two old friends conversing?’

  Kate’s eyes widened in panic as Frances moved to sit down next to her. Mary peered at her curiously from behind her mother’s sleeve and gave a shy smile. Her face reminded Frances of the cherubs that were painted on the ceiling of the royal chapel. The face of an angel, just like her father. She pushed away the thought. ‘Did my letters reach you?’ she asked. ‘I wrote to you often, after . . .’

  Kate was silent for so long that Frances thought she would not answer. Then: ‘I burned them.’

  Her words smote Frances. This was Buckingham’s doing, she told herself. Unless . . . Did Kate blame her for what had happened that night? Did she believe Frances had abandoned her? She felt as if her chest was being squeezed. ‘Kate?’ she ventured, reaching out to touch her hand. The young woman pulled it quickly away. ‘Kate, you must listen to me. I am as true a friend to you now as I ever was. I cannot bear to see you so afraid.’

  ‘Would you not fear the devil?’ Kate spat back, rounding on her. Mary gave a little whimper but she seemed not to notice. ‘My husband has told me what you are, how you bewitched my poor brother to death and would do the same to me – to our child – if you had the means.’

  Frances stared at her in horror. ‘Kate, no.’

  ‘Lady Buckingham,’ she corrected. ‘You presume too much upon our former acquaintance.’

  Frances fell silent, measuring her words. ‘I see that you are not minded to heed me, Lady Buckingham,’ she replied, her voice steady. ‘I see, too, that your mind has been corrupted. But I speak truth when I say that I have only ever shown you kindness, compassion. And I received the same from you in return. You were the closest friend I have ever had in this place’ – although Kate’s face was still turned away from her, she saw a muscle twitch in her jaw – ‘and I pray God that He will open your heart to me again one day.’

  Little Mary made a soft cooing noise and began opening and closing her tiny fists. Frances resisted the temptation to stroke her downy hair, but instead rose slowly to her feet and gave a curtsy of farewell.

  CHAPTER 48

  19 December

  ‘Frances!’

  Someone had gripped her by the shoulders. The guards must be here already. She thrashed about, like a fish on a hook, knowing there could be no escape.

  ‘Frances.’ Softer, this time – the voice familiar. ‘Hush, my love. It was a dream, that is all. You are safe.’

  She opened her eyes to see Thomas leaning over her, his eyes filled with concern. She blinked, fearing he was nothing more than a vision she had conjured in her sleep, then flung her arms around his neck and clung to him as if she would never let go.

  ‘I should leave you more often, if this is my greeting,�
� he murmured into her hair, then planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘You feel hot,’ he said. ‘Is it a fever?’

  ‘No, no, I am quite well,’ she assured him, the ghastly image of Buckingham’s lifeless face fading now. The dream had been so real: Lady Vaux at her side, urging her on as she dripped the poison into his mouth. ‘I should not have laid the extra cover on the bed, only it was so cold in here when I returned from the banqueting hall.’

  ‘Mrs Knyvett should have made up the fire. She has become very neglectful in her duties again lately.’

  Frances said nothing. They both knew the reason. Their old servant had been obliged to take on other work to make up for the diminishing wages she received from them.

  ‘I am so glad to see you, Thomas.’ Frances ran her fingers through the hair at his nape. ‘Did the King have good hunting?’

  Her husband rose from the bed and began to undress. ‘Good enough,’ he replied, as he unlaced his doublet. ‘The prince joined us.’

  Frances was surprised. The King had long since despaired of his son showing any inclination to share his beloved pastime.

  ‘Buckingham’s idea, apparently.’ They exchanged a look.

  ‘Perhaps he hoped to humiliate him,’ she mused, remembering the last time that the King and his son had ridden out together. James had soon lost patience with the prince’s obvious lack of skill in the saddle. Charles had returned to the palace, grim-faced, within the hour.

  ‘So I assumed.’ Her husband climbed in next to her and drew her into an embrace. His skin felt cool next to hers as she snuggled against him. ‘But he could not have been more solicitous towards him, slowing the pace of his own mount so that they could ride next to each other – even though that meant he hardly saw the King.’

  ‘How gracious.’ Her words dripped with sarcasm, but she felt uneasy. ‘How was the prince towards him?’

  It was only a few short weeks since a furious row had erupted between the King’s son and his favourite. Buckingham had been walking with his royal master in Greenwich Park when the prince had turned a jet of water from one of the fountains on him as he passed, soaking him to the skin. James had furiously upbraided his son and Buckingham had stormed off in a rage. Frances wished she had been there to witness it. Although the whole court knew of his dislike of the marquess, for Charles to humiliate him in such a way was quite out of character. Perhaps he would not make such a weak ruler as his father supposed.

  ‘He seemed more astonished than pleased, but thanked Buckingham for his pains. The King berated the marquess for neglecting him, though. Their quarrel could be heard throughout Apethorpe, until Lord Fane ordered the pipers to strike up a tune.’

  Frances had not visited the hall since she and Thomas had joined the royal party there eight years before. How different things might have been if Sir Anthony had not permitted the new attendant to serve the King at table. An image flitted before her of the scene she had witnessed in the hunting lodge shortly afterwards.

  ‘Are they reconciled?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently so – at least, they shared a carriage back to London,’ he replied, turning to kiss her. ‘But let us have no more talk of that now.’

  In the bright winter sunshine Frances slowed her pace and looked out across the river. It was the first fine day since the court had arrived in Greenwich, and the ground was still wet underfoot. Her soft leather soles were already sodden, though she had been walking for only a few minutes.

  The Christmas celebrations had been more muted this year, James laid low with a heavy cold. He had kept to his chamber throughout most of the twelve days of feasting and revelry. Buckingham had held court in his absence, appearing in an array of magnificent costumes, each designed to draw every eye in the room. He had insisted upon being served on bended knee, choosing from a vast selection of dishes that were laid before him on gilded platters. At the feast of his namesake St Stephen, he had gone further still. There had been a shocked silence as he had lowered himself onto the King’s chair. His rival Baron Cranfield, lord high treasurer, had eventually voiced a protest and even Buckingham’s supporters had muttered their disapproval. Frances had caught the fleeting look on Prince Charles’s face before the marquess had made him smile with some jest. Buckingham should have a care, she thought. Already people were beginning to whisper that he was the alter rex – the other King.

  With his royal master incapacitated, Thomas had snatched a brief visit to Tyringham to oversee the inventory of their belongings before they were transported to Longford. The boys had arrived there in time to celebrate Christmas with their grandmother and elder half-brother. The thought of how they would be spoiled lessened the pain of knowing they would never see their childhood home again – and of her continued separation from them. Thomas had promised that, as soon as the spring came, they would make the journey west to visit them.

  Her eye was drawn to a movement on the river, where a solitary barge was making its way towards the palace. Although it was too far to see clearly, it didn’t seem laden with provisions – besides, there were more than enough victuals to sustain the court for the few days they had left here. Neither could she see more than one passenger – a man, sitting at the furthest end from the oarsman. Frances kept her eyes fixed upon him as the vessel drew closer.

  At last it reached the landing stage a short distance ahead. The man stepped nimbly onto the platform and pressed a coin into the boatman’s hand. He was dressed entirely in black and his face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. Frances thought about moving back into the shadows, but she was too intrigued to find out who the newcomer was. He kept his head lowered as he walked towards her.

  The cawing of a rook made him look up.

  William Cecil.

  He saw her and stopped. They stared at each other for a moment. In the ten years since Frances had seen him, he had gained in stature – physically, as well as by dint of his title. He must be in his early thirties now, she judged, and he seemed to have grown taller somehow. Perhaps that was because of the long riding boots he wore, or the high ruff around his neck. Frances remembered him as pale and clean-shaven, but his face now had a more weathered look and he had grown a beard in the fashionable style.

  His face relaxed and he raised his hat in greeting, then continued to walk towards her. ‘Lady Frances. It is a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘Lord Salisbury.’

  ‘The years have been kinder to you than to myself, I fear!’ He grinned. ‘Or perhaps it is being away from court for so long – it certainly dulls the mind. I find that these days my thoughts are filled with crops and militia.’

  Frances knew of his appointment as Lord Lieutenant of Hertfordshire. She could not help wondering if it had been the King’s way of removing him from court. Although Salisbury’s father, her old adversary, had been the most powerful man in government and had groomed his son to succeed him, the younger Cecil had not won favour with the King. Even before Buckingham had risen to prominence, Salisbury had retreated to his father’s seat at Hatfield.

  ‘And your growing brood, of course.’

  His eyes lit with genuine warmth. ‘I have even more children than you, my lady. My father chose wisely. Catherine is the best of wives.’

  ‘Then you are fortunate indeed, my lord. Happiness is a rare blessing in most noble marriages.’ She had never met the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter but, as a member of the powerful Howard family, Catherine must have brought both political and financial advantage to her husband. ‘What brings you here at this time?’ she asked. ‘The Christmas celebrations are almost over.’

  He did not answer but held out his arm so that they might walk on. At a fork in the path, he steered them towards the parkland rather than continuing to the palace as Frances had expected. Only when its walls were out of sight did he begin to speak.

  ‘I came here to find you, Lady Tyringham. It is more than ten years since this kingdom was saved by the death of that heretic prince.’

  Frances turne
d sharply to look at him, but he held up his hand to silence her. ‘Have no fear. I do not mean to dwell upon the part you played in it – that must rest with your conscience. What concerns me – concerns all those of our faith – is what will happen when the King dies.’

  ‘Such talk is treason.’ Frances glanced around the deserted woodland. ‘I want no part of it.’

  ‘Please – hear me, Lady Tyringham,’ he urged, grabbing her arm as she made to leave. ‘What I have to say is of as much significance to you as to the kingdom.’

  Frances wished that she could close her ears to his words, run far from this place. Many times since Lady Vaux’s visit she had felt haunted by the ghosts of her past. Now another was standing before her. Was this God’s way of punishing her for her sins?

  ‘The King’s health is beginning to fail – I hear he has lain sick all through the festivities.’

  ‘Of a cold – nothing more.’

  ‘He is an old man,’ Salisbury continued, as if she had not spoken, ‘and so steeped in vice and excess that he will hasten his own end, just as the late Queen predicted. All eyes must turn to his successor. Prince Charles has the makings of a fine king, but he cannot restore England to the Catholic faith alone. Heresy has taken such deep root that many would oppose it.’

  Frances drew in a breath and waited. All of this felt horribly familiar.

  ‘The King of Spain has pledged to support our cause if the prince marries his daughter, the Infanta Maria.’

  ‘That is hardly a secret,’ Frances replied impatiently. ‘The Count de Gondomar first proposed the match more than two years ago and has been treating for it ever since.’

  He spread his hands. ‘What you say is true, my lady, but he is privy to matters that the King is not. As soon as the alliance has been forged and the infanta has been installed as Charles’s queen, his master will send an army to bring all England’s heretics to heel.’