Fallen Angel

by Tracy Borman

  CHAPTER 50

  23 May

  The King took another grape from the bowl and glared at the young man who nervously plucked at the strings of the lute.

  ‘His Majesty is in an ill humour again this evening,’ Frances heard a diner remark.

  ‘Aye, and will be until his wife returns,’ muttered his companion. There was a murmur of suppressed laughter.

  Frances knew they spoke the truth. Any hopes she had cherished that Buckingham’s hold over James would be diminished by his spell in the Tower had soon been dashed. Her husband had felt the effects of his royal master’s increasingly irascible behaviour. Ever since the departure of his favourite and the prince two months before, he had veered from gloomy introspection to petulant outbursts. Only when a messenger had arrived with news of them – or, better still, a letter from Buckingham – had his spirits lifted. Indeed, he had been so transported with joy when he had first heard from him that he had declared his intention to make him a duke. This was no mere impulse: Thomas had seen the letters patent that had been drawn up the following day.

  But the King’s dark mood had soon returned. His physical health had suffered, too. With no Steenie to take his mind off the pain of his gout-ridden legs, he had kept to his chambers, and whenever he did venture out into the public court, he leaned heavily upon a staff.

  ‘Will the hunt go ahead tomorrow, do you think?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Thomas replied. ‘Though I have everything in readiness again, of course.’

  Frances could not be sorry at the postponement – she had grown used to spending more time with her husband in the last few weeks. But she had hoped that he might use Buckingham’s absence to regain some of his former favour.

  ‘Perhaps we might visit Longford, if His Grace will grant you leave.’

  ‘I had the same thought. William turns five next week – we could surprise him.’

  Frances smiled and squeezed his hand. If they could not win any advantages at court while the new duke was in Spain, they could secure an arguably greater prize by spending time with their sons. A movement on the dais caught her eye. A slender young man was bowing before the King. His hair was so fair as to be almost white, and his large eyes were of the palest blue. James was watching him with interest.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Arthur Brett – Lord Cranfield’s brother-in-law,’ Thomas murmured. ‘He is newly arrived at court. Cranfield hopes to win him a place in the privy chamber.’

  They exchanged a knowing look. It was a clever ploy on Cranfield’s part. Although he, too, had failed to gain any greater influence during his rival’s absence, he had clearly judged that a younger, more attractive man might.

  Gradually, the conversations around them began to die down as people noticed the scene that was unfolding on the dais. The King had invited Arthur Brett to sit by him and was talking animatedly, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘I’ll wager His Grace will soon find the separation easier to bear,’ murmured the gentleman next to Frances.

  ‘This young buck will be in attendance before the week is out, you mark me,’ replied the other. ‘The duke has a new rival, it seems.’

  Frances took a long sip of wine.

  ‘I will only be gone for two weeks, I promise,’ Frances said, clasping her friend’s hands. ‘The King’s passion for hunting has been reignited so Thomas will soon need to return to his duties.’ She did not add that other passions had been awakened, too. Master Brett had barely left his new master’s side since his appointment as a groom of the bedchamber.

  Kate resumed folding Frances’s linens into one of the coffers – she had insisted upon helping when she had arrived to find her friend busy packing for the journey. They had met in Thomas’s apartment many times over the past month or so. Frances had been overjoyed when the first message had arrived, inviting her for a ride in Hyde Park. There had been more meetings during the weeks that followed, and gradually something of their former closeness had been restored – though Frances had learned not to mention what had happened that night in Chelsea. She had also been careful in her choice of words about the absent duke.

  The chimes of the chapel clock sounded through the window as they worked. Kate cast an anxious glance towards it. ‘I should go. The countess will soon be calling on Mary and me.’

  Buckingham’s mother had watched her daughter-in-law like a hawk since his departure for Spain, so Frances and she had been obliged to employ some discretion. ‘Have a care, Kate,’ Frances said, rising to embrace her.

  ‘God speed your journey. I will look for your return daily.’

  Frances breathed in the earthy scent of woodland as the carriage rumbled along the path that led towards the castle and felt the familiar surge of contentment. The journey had seemed endless, such was her impatience to see her sons, her mother and Longford. Glancing at Thomas, she saw the same anticipation in his eyes. But they were tinged with sadness, she thought. He would never return to his own family home.

  Helena and the boys were waiting to greet them at the entrance to the courtyard. Frances scooped a laughing William into her arms and he whooped with delight as she whirled him around. Robert clung to her skirts as soon as she had set his younger brother down and John smiled shyly at her from behind the long brown locks that covered his forehead. Frances experienced a pang as she realised that she no longer had to stoop to kiss his cheek. Behind him stood George. Almost five years had passed since she had seen him, and in that time he had become a man. He was so like Tom that she blinked back tears as he bowed first to her, then to her husband.

  ‘Anyone would think we were at court!’ Thomas scoffed, clapping him on the shoulder. Frances was relieved to see her son’s accustomed grin as he moved to embrace them both.

  ‘Mama, Papa, I am very glad to see you.’ Frances was surprised by how much deeper his voice had become. ‘My younger brothers have been running quite wild here in Wiltshire.’

  ‘How you exaggerate, George!’ His grandmother shook her head in mock-despair. ‘Besides, it is you who has encouraged their more wayward tendencies – all except John, of course.’ She planted a kiss on John’s head and he flushed with pleasure. ‘Now, where is my greeting?’

  Frances was in her mother’s arms in a moment. ‘How I have missed you.’

  Helena’s eyes sparkled with tears as she examined her daughter. ‘You have lost weight,’ she declared. ‘You look tired, too.’

  Frances laughed. ‘We have been travelling for three days, Mother.’

  ‘And the King’s table is not as fine as yours, my lady marchioness,’ Thomas added, as he stepped forward to kiss his mother-in-law on both cheeks. Helena beamed at him. She had always loved him like a son.

  ‘How is Samuel?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Sleeping – God be praised,’ her mother replied, rolling her eyes. Frances’s gaze lingered on her as she turned to address Thomas. Her mother would be seventy-five this year, yet still she had the energy and looks of a woman half her age. There were a few more silvery hairs intertwined with the red, it was true, and her mouth and eyes were more deeply lined than when Frances had last seen her, but her waist had hardly thickened since her youth and she had the same proud bearing that had set her apart from the other ladies of court.

  ‘Come, let us dine,’ Helena said now, taking her son-in-law’s arm.

  The sun was sinking behind the trees that edged the woodland as Frances strolled towards them, following the riverbank. It would take longer this way, but she wanted to commit every detail of her beloved home to memory so that it might sustain her during the long months at court that lay ahead. Although the bells of St Peter’s had already struck eight o’clock, there was still warmth in the sun’s rays and she longed to unlace her heavy gown. Her stays had grown tighter, too, since eating the succession of delicious dishes that her mother’s cooks had prepared.

  Longford always calmed her soul and made her troubles seem far distant. That all those
she loved most were here made this visit even more special. She allowed her mind to wander, to imagine staying here for ever as she watched her boys grow into men – like George. How proud she was of her firstborn. He would be eighteen next year. Over dinner, they had discussed his plans for Cambridge. Frances had thrilled to hear him talk so animatedly about studying law. He would never know that he was following his father’s profession – Thomas was his papa and always would be. To tell him the truth would place his life in mortal danger. The Powder Treason was seen now as an even more shocking crime – against God, as well as the King – than it had been when first discovered. The numerous pamphlets that had been published since had presented it as a satanic conspiracy, aimed at damning James and all his subjects to Hell. If it was discovered that Tom Wintour’s line had not died on the scaffold that cold January day, but that he had a healthy son and heir who had been raised to revere the Catholic faith, the King would not hesitate to have him thrown into the Tower – or worse.

  She had reached the edge of the woods now. The scent of bluebells filled her nostrils. The delicate blooms were at their peak, covering the forest floor in a haze of blue-violet. How many hours had she spent as a child lying among them or plucking their delicate stems to make a fragrance for her mother and sisters? She resolved to bring the boys tomorrow. Robert and William would be more interested in climbing the trees, but they would at least gain a good vantage point from there.

  As she walked among the tangled roots, her fingers twitched to pluck the tiny white flowers of the wild cherry and the smooth green leaves of devil’s spit. Both would make an excellent poultice for gout. If the King had not declared such things witchcraft, she might have eased his suffering. She slowed her pace and closed her eyes so that she could immerse herself in the smells and sounds of the forest. How had she lived without this for so long? The gardens at Whitehall were a poor imitation, where Nature’s beauty was clipped and trained into the neatly confined patterns that were pleasing to the King’s eye.

  Would she and Thomas ever be free of the court? Her heart sank as she thought of how they were more tied to the King’s service than ever, now that they had lost their home as well as their fortune. Thomas was too proud to accept the help her mother had offered, but even that would not have been enough to support them for long. She had refused to use the inheritance that Tom had bequeathed her, which she had signed over to George for when he came of age. Their only chance to secure their future and that of their other sons was to win favour with the King and his successor. The royal bounty was the source of fortune and power. Little wonder that men took such risks in its pursuit.

  Frances had reached the edge of the woods now. In the distance, she could just see the ancient tower of St Peter’s. The light was fading too fast for her to walk there and satisfy her curiosity in meeting the new incumbent. Her mother had written to tell her of Pritchard’s death the previous year. Few people in the village would have mourned him – certainly she herself had been glad of his passing, though she knew it was sinful. She had rejoiced, too, upon hearing that his successor was the nephew of her old mentor, the Reverend Samuels. She hoped he would bring the same moderation and kindness that had made his uncle so beloved of those who worshipped there.

  The bells began to chime. Instinctively, she reached into her pocket and clasped the smooth beads of her rosary. Had she been right to deny Anne Vaux and Lord Salisbury – and, in so doing, her faith? God had given no sign that any of the plots to bring England back to the Catholic fold were pleasing to Him. The lives of those involved had been blighted, and the heretic King still sat securely on his throne.

  She closed her eyes and an image of Buckingham flitted before her. Could he really be the saviour of whom the late Queen had spoken? She thought of everything he had done since he had first come to the King’s notice at Apethorpe: the scheming, the ruin of his rivals, the subjugation of an innocent young woman and God knew how many more. She could not – would not – believe it had all been to serve anything other than his own interests. This latest expedition was no different. It was the lure of Spanish treasure rather than the prospect of a Catholic princess on the throne that had enticed him.

  Her fingers tugged at the beads so sharply that she felt the chain snap. No. She would rather be cast out of Heaven than support such a man as Buckingham.

  CHAPTER 51

  27 August

  Frances traced the droplet with her finger as it trickled down the glass. It had rained incessantly for more than three weeks now, ruining the harvests and plunging the kingdom into a deep melancholy from which it seemed destined never to recover. The court had the atmosphere of a prison, nobody having ventured outdoors except to scurry between their lodgings and the state rooms, cowering beneath the downpours. Denied any opportunity to hunt, King James had reverted to the same testy, petulant behaviour that he had displayed when Buckingham and the prince had first embarked for Spain. Even his new favourite had been unable to raise his spirits. The pervading damp had exacerbated the inflammation in his joints, making him more irritable still.

  The court’s enforced confinement had made the return from Longford even harder to bear. Although she and Thomas had been back at Whitehall for two months now, Frances still missed her old home as keenly as the day they had left. Every time she thought of how she had bade her mother and sons farewell, her throat tightened. It had been a comfort to see Kate again, and her affectionate greeting had warmed her more than the fire that had been made up in their apartment ready for their arrival. But the countess had kept an even closer watch on her daughter-in-law than usual so their opportunities to meet in private had been scarce.

  ‘We should go, my love,’ Thomas said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Lord Cranfield has commissioned a new masque to distract our royal master from his woes, so dinner will be served even more promptly than usual.’

  Frances’s heart sank. Another interminable evening to be spent watching garishly clad masquers prance about the stage while the King shouted encouragement and downed glass after glass of Burgundy wine.

  ‘Come now,’ her husband said wryly, seeing her expression. ‘It is based on the tale of King Arthur so cannot fail to be diverting.’

  ‘How clever of Lord Cranfield to find a way of giving his brother-in-law a starring role,’ she replied.

  Thomas grinned and kissed her firmly on the mouth. ‘We will soon be back here, safe from the world.’

  The great hall was already crowded when they arrived. The press of bodies made it stifling, yet all of the windows were closed and shuttered. Frances’s temples throbbed as she and Thomas threaded their way between the rows of courtiers in search of somewhere to sit. They were nearing the far end of the hall when she felt a hand on her arm.

  ‘Please – join me.’

  It was Lord Rutland.

  ‘My lord.’ Thomas bowed.

  ‘I am glad to see you both,’ he said, when they had sat on either side of him. ‘I have been away for barely three years, yet so many faces are unfamiliar to me.’

  Frances tried to hide her shock at how frail he looked. He had always been a slender man, but now his cheekbones jutted out sharply and his fingers were spider-thin. His sombre attire made him seem all the paler, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. ‘It is good to see you too, my lord,’ she said. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘A little tired from the journey, but otherwise in good health,’ he replied, spooning a small quantity of venison stew onto his plate. Frances noticed that the rest of the food on it was untouched.

  ‘And all is well at Belvoir?’ Thomas asked.

  The earl sipped some wine. ‘We have suffered by this late harvest, as have most other estates in the kingdom. The price of grain will be high this winter.’

  ‘Is the countess managing affairs in your absence, as before?’ Frances asked, careful to keep her tone light.

  ‘The countess is dead,’ he replied. ‘A sudden fever took her last month. I fe
ared it was the Sweat, but none of our household has sickened, praise God. Grief at the loss of our poor boy had weakened her body as well as her mind. She was never the same after that.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of your sad loss,’ Frances said. The news must have been delayed by the weather, which had turned most of the roads beyond the city into a deluge of mud. Though her heart went out to her beleaguered friend, she could not regret Countess Cecilia’s passing. The shrewish woman had been as mean-spirited and conniving as her husband was open-handed and benevolent.

  ‘And I am sorry for yours,’ Rutland said, turning to face Thomas. ‘I heard about Tyringham Hall.’

  Her husband nodded his thanks. The animated chatter around them grew steadily louder as their fellow diners enjoyed more of the wine that was served in great quantities at every feast.

  ‘What has brought you here, my lord?’ Frances asked.

  ‘The King desired my presence. He has a task for me to perform, but the letter said he would explain it in person. I must admit that I had thought myself quite forgotten.’

  Hoped too, no doubt, Frances thought. She glanced around the room but could see neither Kate nor her mother-in-law. The Countess of Buckingham had attended fewer court gatherings during her son’s absence, and her daughter-in-law had been obliged to keep her company most evenings. Frances wondered if Kate knew that her father had returned. ‘Have you seen Lady Katherine yet?’

  The earl’s face clouded. ‘I arrived just an hour ago,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘You must be anxious to meet your granddaughter,’ she persisted, ignoring Thomas’s warning look.

  ‘I do not intend to tarry,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I have performed whatever service the King intends for me, I shall return to Belvoir.’

  Frances felt angry on Kate’s behalf. It was unjust that her father had rejected her for marrying a man who had forced himself upon her in the most brutal way. But she knew that nothing could be gained by pressing the matter now.