by Tracy Borman
There was an audible gasp. Frances felt as if she had been dealt a blow to her stomach. Instinctively, she reached into her pocket and began working the beads of her rosary between her fingers. But it failed to calm her racing thoughts. Cecil a Catholic? It could not be. For as long as she had known him, he had pursued all those of her faith relentlessly, never flinching from meting out the severest penalties. That he had secretly shared the same faith was unthinkable. And yet …
Frances looked at her husband, whose eyes were still fixed upon the king. Had he not told her that Cecil had died tormented in mind as well as body? She had assumed that remorse had set in as the hour of death approached. How much greater his anguish must have been if it was caused by having betrayed his conscience all these years.
‘And so I have appointed my trusted servant Lord Carr as secretary of state …’
Frances had hardly been aware that the king had begun to speak again. She forced her attention back to the dais.
‘… with full powers to hunt down all those associated with his predecessor in this post and bring them to face the king’s justice.’
‘Carr?’ her uncle muttered under his breath.
‘Furthermore, I have instructed my Lord Chief Justice to introduce stricter penalties for any subject who fails to swear the oath of allegiance, or who is otherwise found to adhere to the Catholic faith. From henceforth, no mercy will be shown to those obstinate papists who, through their wicked and wilful disregard for God’s true word, seek the destruction of the king’s person and of his entire realm. All of their property and goods will be seized by the Crown, to be dispensed with at the king’s pleasure – along with their lives.’
Silence descended upon the hall. The only noise that Frances could hear was the pulse that throbbed in her ears.
CHAPTER 39
31 May
‘George!’ Frances remonstrated. ‘You must practise your letters, as I have shown you.’
The boy stared sullenly at the paper but made no move to pick up the quill that lay discarded next to it, a trail of black ink spilling from the nib. She quelled her rising exasperation.
‘I do not like the text you have chosen,’ he muttered, pushing the paper away and folding his arms in defiance.
Frances had selected a passage from the Book of Tobit, which told of the young boy Tobias’s journey to collect a debt owed to his father. She had thought the story might appeal to George, who was close in age to the hero. That it was drawn from a text favoured by the old religion was no coincidence.
‘But it used to be your favourite. You would always beg me to read it to you again, even though you had heard it the previous night – and the one before that,’ she coaxed, trying hard to keep the tension from her voice.
George’s scowl deepened and he pressed his lips together. ‘I am no longer a child, Mama.’
Frances could not help but laugh. ‘You are not yet seven, George. There will be many more summers before you are a man.’
‘That’s not true!’ he shouted, leaping from his chair and pushing it back with such force that it clattered to the ground. ‘Prince Henry says that I hold a sword better than many of his father’s soldiers. He says it will not be long before I can join the crusade against heretics.’
Frances stared at her furious son and felt as if she was looking at a stranger. ‘What do you know of heretics, George? Do you even understand what the word means?’
‘Of course I do!’ the boy shouted, stamping his foot. ‘They are the enemies of God and the slaves of the devil. They are wicked and – and—’ His face was puce as he tried to remember the other words the prince had used. No doubt they had been repeated to him often enough during her absence last year, Frances realised, with mounting horror. What else had Henry said to him?
‘They would burn us all in our beds and dance upon our graves,’ George continued, eyes alight with triumph as the words came back to him, ‘just like those wicked men who tried to blow up the king.’
Frances’s mouth dried. She gripped the back of the chair, her fingernails digging into its smooth carvings. ‘What did you say?’
George started at her voice, which was now dangerously low. The colour drained from his face. ‘The men who …’ he faltered, then cast his gaze to the floor.
‘Go on, George. The men who did what?’ Frances hissed, through gritted teeth.
Her son’s hands, clasped tightly in front of him, began to shake. He bit his lip as if to stop the tears that threatened. All at once, her fury abated. He was but a child, for all his defiant words – words that had been put into his mouth by that devil the prince. She was at his side in a couple of strides. He recoiled, as if fearing she would strike him. Frances knelt in front of him and gently took his hands.
‘You must forgive me, George, but you do not know of what you speak,’ she soothed. ‘It angers me to think that you have been so deceived.’
His eyes darted up to hers and she saw a flicker of their former defiance.
‘Those men died for their faith. They held it as dear to their hearts as you are to mine. Theirs—’ She had almost said, Theirs was the true faith, but though she wished with all her heart that her son might come to share the same beliefs, she must have a care. ‘We must always be true to our hearts, George,’ she finished.
His brow furrowed, as it did when he was trying to sound out a word he did not recognise. He fiddled with the ties of his doublet, lacing and unlacing them until Frances gently stilled his fingers.
‘But the prince never lies, Mama,’ he said at last. ‘And he says that there is only one true faith. All those who believe otherwise will burn in Hell.’
Frances knew she must not say too much, yet neither could she let George be corrupted by Henry’s wicked lies. ‘We must serve God before all others, George – even the king,’ she said, clasping his hands again. ‘Only He can guide us to the true path.’
She drew him to her and held him tightly. He stood stiffly at first, but then he put his arms around her and she felt his small hands press into her back.
‘Well,’ she said, planting a kiss on the top of his head, ‘I think we have done enough work for today. How about a ride in the park? I am determined to reach the oak tree before you this time!’
George’s face lit up and he raced off to change into his riding clothes.
The sun had sunk low in the sky by the time Frances and her son had returned from their ride, exhilarated but exhausted. For once, George had needed little persuasion to retire to his bed and she had heard his steady breathing before she had even reached the door of his chamber after bidding him goodnight. But while her body ached for rest, her mind would not allow it.
‘Can you not sleep either?’ her husband whispered, surprising her. He must have been feigning sleep all this time. Relief flooded her as she nestled against his warm chest. Though he had been lying next to her, she had felt so alone when she thought that she was the only one awake, tormented by the fears that ran incessantly through her mind.
‘Is it Cecil?’ he asked, when she made no move to speak.
Frances exhaled deeply. ‘In part, yes. I keep thinking of the king’s announcement. Can he really have been a Catholic, when he persecuted them so relentlessly?’
For a while Thomas did not answer. She sensed that he was choosing his words carefully. ‘We know only that his private chapel contained remnants of the old religion,’ he said slowly. ‘But that is true of many noble houses in this realm – even of some churches. The late queen had just such a chapel for her private worship, though she espoused the reformed faith. It is possible to cherish remnants of the old, even when embracing the new.’
Frances considered this. ‘You are right, of course. But Cecil? He, of all people, should have practised every part of the faith he imposed upon others. He should have known the dangers, too, of allowing any room for doubt. Many have perished for less proof than he left behind.’
Thomas traced a pattern on her shoulder, hi
s fingers trailing idly over her cool flesh. ‘It is perplexing,’ he conceded. ‘Cecil never betrayed any hint that he did not conform privately to what he pursued so forcefully in public. But how well can we know any man or woman, even those to whom we are close?’
It had been many months since her husband had looked upon her with suspicion. What had happened between them at Belvoir had changed everything. Now Frances saw nothing but love in his eyes. She hoped he saw the same in hers, even though there was much that she still concealed.
‘You do trust me, don’t you, Frances?’ he murmured, when she gave no reply.
‘Of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I would trust you with my life – George’s too.’
‘Good,’ he replied, squeezing her shoulder. ‘You must know that you can confide anything to me.’
Frances’s heart was hammering now. She twisted her head to look up at him. Though he wore the same gentle smile, his eyes were clouded with concern. Her skin prickled as she thought of how she had betrayed him – and did so still. For all that she might try to convince herself that she was concealing her schemes to protect him from danger, she knew that the truth would destroy him just as surely. As she held his gaze, she felt an overriding urge to confide in him now, share the burden she had carried for so long. Her lips parted.
‘Thomas …’
He looked down at her, waiting.
But then she imagined the hurt and fury her words would bring to him, how the love she saw in his eyes would disappear, replaced by loathing. He could not but hate her for what she had done – what she still sought to do. The love that had grown between them these past months was like one of the tender blooms she had nurtured in the woods at Longford, shielding it from the chill winds of winter so that it might flourish in the warmth of spring. She could not destroy it before it had even taken root. She pressed her lips to his chest. ‘I love you.’
He gave a deep sigh and kissed her.
‘And I you,’ he said, his lips still brushing against hers. ‘I always have.’
CHAPTER 40
8 June
‘I will be gone for just a few days,’ Thomas assured her. ‘Parliament will convene on Monday, so the king will need to return to Whitehall at least a day before.’
Frances felt suddenly desolate. He tilted her chin so that her eyes met his.
‘You are quite sure that all is well, Frances?’ he asked, lowering his voice so that George might not hear. He was sitting across the room, studying one of his books. ‘You hardly touched your breakfast and you are so pale.’
‘Nothing ails me, I promise,’ she lied.
The truth was that she had been feeling wretched for days. She had barely slept, her mind turning ceaselessly over the revelation about Cecil, her worries about George and Longford, and the constant, gnawing guilt that she was betraying her husband. Her bones ached with fatigue and she had no appetite. She had laced her stays more tightly this morning, yet still her gown hung off her wasted frame.
Thomas looked at her for a long moment. Then, adopting a cheerful expression, he went to George and lifted him high into the air. For all that he liked to pretend that he was a man, George exclaimed gleefully, his feet kicking the air. ‘Now then, young sir, can I trust you to look after your mama while I am gone?’
‘Of course, Papa,’ George replied earnestly.
‘Good. Because if your attention should slip—’
At this, Thomas released his grip so that the boy started to fall, but caught him before he struck the floor. Even though his papa had performed the same trick numerous times, George whooped with delight.
‘And you must work hard at your lessons,’ Thomas continued. ‘You are to be master of Longford one day, and your tenants will not take kindly to a dullard.’
He winked at Frances, who smiled indulgently.
‘I promise I will, Papa. By the time you return, I shall have mastered all of my letters and will read to you from the king’s new Bible.’
Thomas’s smile became fixed. ‘I shall look forward to it, George,’ he said quickly, before Frances could object, and ruffled the boy’s hair. Turning to his wife, he took her hands in his. ‘Take good care, Frances,’ he said, then bent to kiss her.
She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then gazed after him as he walked from the apartment, the warmth of his lips slowly fading from hers as the door closed behind him.
Frances watched as the princess smoothed the skirts of her new gown. She was standing on a footrest while the seamstress adjusted the hem, her fingers deftly pinning the silk in place. The colour reminded Frances of the soft purple irises that had just started to bloom in the palace gardens.
‘I don’t see the need for such trouble.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘There will hardly be much company, with my father away on the hunt and my mother still at Greenwich.’
‘All the more reason for Your Grace to shine, as you will be holding court on their behalf,’ Frances suggested. ‘I am sure many will want to pay you homage. There has been little enough to lift the spirits lately.’
The princess twisted around to look at her. The back of her gown had not yet been sewn together and it hung open, exposing the soft folds of her petticoat. ‘You mean since Cecil’s death?’
Frances nodded and returned to her needlework. Ever since the news had been announced, it was as if the entire court had held its breath. People spoke in whispers and eyed each other with suspicion. If the king’s chief minister had been a papist, how many others might be skulking in the shadows?
‘People are shocked by his betrayal, certainly,’ the princess agreed, ‘though it is a source of delight for his rivals. Your uncle expects to profit from the spoils, I think.’
Her mistress’s expression was suddenly grave. Frances tried to keep her own neutral, but she knew that even the mention of his name was enough to open a chasm between them. She had done her best to adhere to Lady Vaux’s instructions and make her uncle as appealing as possible to the princess, but the stories she had invented of his bravery, charm or ready wit had been exposed as the lies they were whenever he had come into Elizabeth’s presence. She would do as well to pretend that a crow was a bird of paradise.
‘He is a man of ambition, and always seeks to improve his prospects,’ Frances agreed.
How she loathed this artifice. She knew that the princess was no more fooled by it than she was, and resented the distrust that it had created. It was a constant check to Elizabeth’s growing affection. How much closer might they have been if Frances had not been obliged to fall in with Lady Vaux’s schemes? Not for much longer, she reminded herself again. She would find a way out of this labyrinth of lies and deceit.
Both women turned at the sound of footsteps. Frances rushed to the door so that she might intercept the visitor before they saw her mistress in a state of undress, but froze when she saw the prince.
He regarded her coldly but did not acknowledge her as she curtsied. As he strode into the apartment, another figure rounded the corner just behind him.
Edward.
Frances tried to keep the shock from her face as she stepped briskly forward, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘You may not see my mistress at present,’ she said firmly, ignoring the faint amusement on his face.
‘I am sorry, sister, but your authority is exceeded by that of my master. Now, please,’ he said, already reaching for the latch.
Frances was there before him. ‘The princess is being fitted for a new gown. I am sure you would not wish to dishonour her by intruding upon her privacy.’
Edward was momentarily abashed. Through the door behind her, Frances could hear the clipped tones of the prince as he addressed his sister.
‘I shall wait a few moments, then,’ Edward said tightly.
Frances glared at him. ‘Why are you here, Edward?’
‘The prince invited me to accompany him while he paid a visit to his sister. Was I to refuse him, to spare you the sight of me? It is clear that you can
hardly bear to breathe the same air as your beloved brother.’
‘I mean here at court. Surely you have matters enough to occupy you at Longford. Or have you already ruined our father’s estate?’
‘Longford is thriving, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘I will make sure that it remains so for the day that I hand it over to the care of my nephew – if that day ever comes. Tell me,’ he continued, before she could interject, ‘how does George fare? Such a promising boy and so fast to learn. You must be immensely proud of how he is maturing.’
Frances would not rise to his bait. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fury. ‘My son is well, thank you. Now—’
‘Such a pity that you have not allowed him to attend any more of our gatherings.’ Edward gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘He had a merry time of it on the last occasion.’
Frances pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak. Why was he here? He had been absent from Whitehall for so many months that she had begun to hope he had returned to Longford.
‘Of course he will return to St James’s soon enough,’ Edward continued cheerily. ‘Prince Henry has taken quite a shine to him. He does so enjoy the chance to mould young minds to his own opinions and beliefs, to bring them to the truth before they can be corrupted by lies and sedition.’
‘George will be raised to know his own mind, free from the influence of those who seek to manipulate him for their own gain,’ Frances retorted, her jaw tightening.
A ripple of laughter sounded through the door as they glared at each other.
‘You should have a care, sister,’ Edward drawled. ‘Loose words might be twisted into treason, especially if they come from the lips of one who is already under suspicion.’
