by Tracy Borman
She was outside the door now and drew a breath as she pressed her ear to it. All was silence within. She waited a few more seconds, then slowly eased the key into the lock. It was stiff and would not turn at first so she applied more pressure, pausing between each attempt to listen. At last, with a loud grating sound, the lock gave way.
Slowly, Frances lifted the latch and pushed open the door. The first room was deserted. The furniture was much as she had remembered it, though it was shabbier now – clearly Edward did not use the apartment for entertaining, or he would have wasted more of Longford’s fortune on expensive furnishings. As she inhaled, she caught the familiar scent of her father’s tobacco and a wave of grief washed over her, as raw as it had been more than two years earlier. But the pulse of fear soon returned, drawing her into the other rooms of the apartment. When she reached the last, Edward’s bedchamber, and found that it, too, was deserted, she almost cried out with relief.
Suddenly she saw it. There, on the panelling between the pillars of her brother’s bed, was the painting she remembered so well from their childhood. She took a step closer. The colours had faded, but the figure of Eve was still clearly visible, the apple concealed in her hand and the serpent coiled around the branch above. It had hung in their mother’s chamber at Longford and she had often referred to it when telling the children that nothing must remain hidden from God. How like Edward to use it as a place to conceal the birds’ eggs he had stolen from the hedgerows surrounding the estate. Frances had always retrieved them, carrying them carefully back to the closest nests she could find in the faint hope that the birds that lived there would adopt them as their own.
Glancing quickly behind her, she gently lifted the painting from the wall. She could feel the small niche that ran along the inside of the thick frame. With trembling fingers, she turned it over slowly. Her heart sank as she saw that the back of the frame was empty. She had been so sure that the indenture would be there.
A bell sounded in the distance. She must not tarry: Edward could arrive at any moment. Pushing down her disappointment, she took a quick look out onto the courtyard below, then began to search the rest of the apartment. As she quietly pulled open drawers and lifted the lid of chests and caskets, she felt gratitude that her brother had not stuffed them with treasures. If he had, she would have been there for hours. Before long, she was back in the parlour. Aware that this was the final place to search, she took even greater care than she had in the other rooms, looking for hidden compartments under chairs, balancing on a chest so that she could search behind the picture frames, peering inside the fireplace and running her fingers along its inner ledge.
Nothing.
Frances sighed as she brushed the soot from her fingers. She was about to embark upon a second search when she heard voices in the courtyard below. Running to the window, she concealed herself behind one of the shutters and peered down. She glimpsed Edward’s coat as he ducked under the archway beneath her.
Heart thudding, she tore out of the apartment, closing the door as quietly as she could. The voices grew louder as she fumbled with the key in the lock. Please, please, she mouthed silently, the iron digging painfully into her palm as she used all her strength to turn it. At last it grated into place and she raced along the corridor, away from the advancing footsteps.
She had just rounded the corner when Edward and his companion reached the top of the stairs at the other end. Clamping her hand over her mouth to silence her panting, she waited, crouching against the wall.
‘And you are sure you were not followed?’
Edward’s voice. Whoever he was addressing must have answered with a nod.
‘Good. I would not want the prince to know that I am stealing his whore.’
He gave a bark of laughter and there was an answering giggle from his companion, followed by a rustle of skirts and a small moan. Frances’s lips curled in distaste. Clearly her brother shared more with his patron than the desire to destroy herself.
She heard the key turn in the lock. Curiosity got the better of her and she poked her head around the corner. Her brother’s back was to her, and she could see only the pink silk of the lady’s skirts, which he had lifted up to her thighs. Her head was lowered against his chest as her fingers worked to unlace his breeches.
‘I must have you now,’ Edward groaned, pushing open the door to the apartment.
Just before he pulled the woman in after him, Frances caught a glimpse of her face, flushed with desire. She leaped backwards and waited until she heard the door close behind them.
Lady Blanche.
CHAPTER 47
26 September
Frances watched as her son lifted the racquet, gripping it with both hands as he swiped it this way and that, following Charles’s lead. Now and then, the prince leaned over him, drawing his shoulders back or repositioning his fingers on the handle. He would soon reach his twelfth birthday, Frances calculated, as she watched his slender frame. Though he still walked with a slight stagger, he seemed to have grown into his body in recent months and his face, if not quite handsome, was certainly pleasing. With his piercing eyes and brown hair, he resembled his father much more closely than his elder brother did. Perhaps that was why he was the king’s favourite.
‘Play on!’ he called now, striding over to take his position on the opposite side of the court.
George did not turn to look at her, but she could see that he was apprehensive from the way he held himself, like an arrow pulled taut against the bow. As soon as the prince made his serve, he scampered after the ball, swiping at it vainly as it sped past him. He ran to retrieve it, face flushed more with embarrassment than exertion, Frances judged.
They played on, Charles winning virtually every shot and George becoming increasingly flustered as he tried to prove a more worthy opponent. Frances smiled. She relished these rare occasions when she could watch her son practising tennis, archery or one of the other sports beloved of his royal master. It pained her that she was not able to spend more time with him, particularly as he had become withdrawn again lately, even refusing the stories that he had always loved to hear at bedtime. Trying to coax the reason out of him had earned her nothing but more sulking. She had resolved to be patient and wait for him to unburden himself when the moment was right.
As the game wore on, she tried to focus on it with the same rapt attention that she usually felt. But her mind was still reeling from the events of the previous day – the coquettish smile on Blanche’s lips as she followed Edward into the apartment. She had thought over the occasions when her brother had visited the princess with his patron, trying to remember if there had been any frisson between Edward and Blanche. But Blanche had only ever had eyes for the prince. Frances wondered that she could have blushed so prettily whenever he spoke to her, when all the while she was bedding his protégé.
The knowledge of their affair deepened her unease about Edward. Now that he had an ally in the princess’s household – one so hostile to herself – he could wreak even more damage. Had he already drawn Blanche into his schemes? The young woman would prove all too willing an accomplice if she heard of his plan to have her rival condemned for witchcraft.
‘Really, Charles! You should choose an opponent who at least stands a chance of hitting it back.’
Frances turned sharply and saw the prince walking down the steps of the viewing gallery, closely followed by her brother. She froze as Edward’s eyes fixed upon her. As she rose to curtsy, she formed her features into an expression of what she hoped was polite indifference. Henry swept past her as if she were invisible. Leaping over the barrier with graceful ease, he sauntered over to his younger brother, who was eyeing him resentfully.
‘Master Tyringham, may I?’ Henry said, with exaggerated decorum.
Frances watched as her son handed over his racquet with a stiff bow, then scurried from the court.
‘Come, brother, as you were,’ Henry called to Charles, who was standing mute with rage.
> He stared at his elder brother a moment longer, then slowly walked to the back of the court, his eyes fixed upon the ground.
‘This should be diverting,’ Edward muttered, as he sat down next to Frances.
She remained silent, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Henry was bouncing the ball on his racquet while his brother waited for him to serve. At length, he unleashed a blistering shot, aiming it straight at Charles, who yelped and sprang out of the way. Henry’s laughter echoed around the court.
‘Bravo, Your Grace!’ Edward bellowed, then guffawed loudly.
Henry gave him a wolfish grin, then prepared to launch another volley.
‘You look so serious, Frances.’ Her brother jabbed her arm with his elbow. ‘Do you not delight in watching the prince excel in this, as he does all other things? Or perhaps your loyalties are divided?’
She knew that he was baiting her but did not rise, craning her neck as if to get a better view. As they watched Henry win point after point, Frances willed the charade to be over. Surely even the prince would tire of taunting his younger brother before too long.
‘Have you reflected on what I told you?’ Edward’s voice was lower now.
She faced him. ‘You mean the indenture?’ she asked nonchalantly.
‘That and other matters besides,’ he replied, his expression darkening. ‘I hope you did not think I was in jest.’
Frances’s mouth lifted into a slow smile. ‘On the contrary, brother. I knew you were quite in earnest, which is what made it all the more surprising.’
Edward raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. Frances paused for several moments, enjoying his evident impatience. ‘You must know that it is tantamount to treason, compassing the king’s death?’ she said, inwardly triumphant as she saw her words had hit their mark. ‘If you succeed in having me condemned for witchcraft, then it will not be long before you follow me to the scaffold. You have signed your own death warrant, Edward,’ she whispered, repeating Raleigh’s words.
She could see a tiny vessel pulsing at his temple. As she held his gaze, his features began to relax and the familiar smirk returned to his lips. ‘But there is only your word to sustain such a conviction, is there not, Frances? You have no proof that the indenture exists – indeed, I recall you being quite careless with it when I showed it to you. Ah, I see you remember that, too,’ he said. ‘Well, you shall never have it in your hands again. I have made sure of that. So we are back to the same conundrum, I’m afraid, dear sister,’ he continued, with a heavy sigh. ‘Your word against mine. Or, if you like, the word of a notorious witch against that of a favoured subject.’
Frances turned back to the court. She would not let him goad her. She had seen the fear in his eyes when she had spoken of treason. He knew the risk he had taken. She must not rest until she had found that document.
‘Stop, Henry, stop!’
Charles’s shrill cry echoed across the court and tears streamed down his cheeks. This prompted a fresh burst of hilarity from the prince, who began prancing about the court, aping his brother’s awkward gait as he swished his racquet from side to side.
‘Well played, Your Grace, well played!’ Edward shouted, as Henry made an elaborate bow.
Unable to bear the ridicule, Charles ran from the court.
The sun was glinting off the gilded weather vanes of the palace as Frances shielded her eyes to gaze along the wide expanse that stretched out beyond the Holbein Gate. Thomas had sent word that he would be returning with the rest of the king’s hunting party in time for that evening’s entertainments. She knew that he usually rode ahead of his master and the wagons that carried the hounds with their kill.
Though she had more than ever to conceal from him, she ached to feel his arms encircle her, to breathe in his familiar scent. He had been away for a month, but so much had happened since he left that it seemed a lifetime.
Her ears pricked at the distant blare of a trumpet. Jumping down from the wall that ran alongside the gate, she strained her eyes towards the horizon again and her heart leaped as she saw a group of riders silhouetted against the sinking sun. It took all of her resolve to stop herself running towards them. As they drew closer, she recognised her husband.
‘Frances!’ Thomas called in surprise, with a smile that warmed her more than the dying rays of the sun.
He dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms waiting by the palace gates, then swept her into his arms.
‘I have missed you, Thomas,’ she said, as she kissed his lips.
‘And I you, my love,’ he replied. ‘But I did not expect such a greeting as this.’
Frances grinned. ‘Is it wrong for a wife to anticipate her husband’s return so eagerly, when he has deserted her for so long?’
He returned her smile, then reached out and placed his hand on her belly. ‘And how does our young knave fare?’
‘He – or she – is as restless as those hounds,’ she said, with mock exasperation. ‘I am woken several times a night. It does not bode well.’
Thomas stroked his hand across the small swelling that was still invisible beneath the folds of her gown. At the sound of the king’s carriage approaching, they turned and made their obeisance, then walked slowly in its wake, Frances’s arm on her husband’s.
‘Edward has not troubled you further?’ Thomas asked, breaking the silence into which they had fallen.
‘All is well,’ she said. ‘I saw George playing tennis earlier. I fear he is no closer to mastering it. Perhaps you could give him another lesson.’
Thomas opened his mouth to reply – but his eyes alighted upon something at the far end of the courtyard. Following his gaze, Frances saw the tall figure of the Earl of Rutland standing by a carriage. She watched as he held out his hand to guide someone from it and her blood ran cold as she recognised Countess Cecily.
‘What is she doing here?’ she breathed, looking up at Thomas, whose expression was inscrutable.
‘The king has invited all of the great nobles to attend the reception of Count Frederick,’ he replied evenly. ‘I admit I am surprised that the countess has come with her husband. I cannot remember ever seeing her at court.’
At that moment, Cecily turned towards them. Frances could see her saying something to her husband.
‘Sir Thomas!’ the earl cried, striding towards them. ‘And your beautiful wife. How good it is to see you again, Lady Frances.’
He bowed, despite his superior rank. Frances saw his wife’s nostrils flare briefly. She stared icily at Frances, waiting for her curtsy.
‘We are all most anxious to meet the count,’ the earl said, breaking the awkward silence that followed. ‘He is a fine young man, I wager. I have heard it said—’
‘I am no less eager to meet your brother, Lady Frances,’ Cecily interrupted. ‘He has won great favour with Prince Henry, I hear. Your family must be immensely proud.’
Frances inclined her head and held the older woman’s steady gaze. Edward had already threatened to use her treatment of Thomas at Belvoir to strengthen his accusation of witchcraft. Now he had someone who was ill-intentioned enough to act as his witness.
‘Well, you must excuse us, my lord, Countess,’ Thomas said, with a quick bow. ‘I am newly returned from the hunt and eager to see our son before the evening’s entertainments.’
He took Frances’s hand firmly in his and they walked briskly away. Frances could feel Cecily’s eyes upon her as they passed under the archway and out of sight.
CHAPTER 48
17 October
‘Come, Lizzie! Do not stand there looking like a startled fawn.’
James leaned forward on his throne and held out his arms. Elizabeth darted an anxious look at Frances before stepping slowly forward, then stood stiffly as her father drew her into a rough embrace. His face was already flushed with wine. Beside him, Anne sat quietly, her mouth fixed in a demure smile. Frances was glad she had made the rare journey from Greenwich for the occasion. She had heard it wh
ispered that the queen thought little more of the latest suitor than she had of the Swedish prince.
‘But ye’re so pale,’ the king cried, pinching his daughter’s cheeks so that a small, angry blush appeared briefly in each. ‘I hope you’re not coming to resemble that milksop brother of yours.’
Frances stole a glance at Prince Henry, who was standing behind his father, jaw clenched. His skin was even whiter than usual, she thought, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. It was hardly surprising. She had heard it said that he spent every night doused in wine.
‘I am a little tired, Father, that is all,’ the princess replied.
James snorted. ‘Ye’ll be more tired still once ye’re wed. The count will not let such a pretty wife sleep long.’
Frances noticed Elizabeth cringe away from her father’s grasp and thought for a moment that she might run from the hall.
‘Our daughter is right to be cautious, husband,’ Anne cut in smoothly. ‘Her previous suitors have proved lacking in one respect or another. We must reserve our judgement until we have met Count Frederick and can be sure of his character.’
‘Ha!’ James exclaimed scornfully. ‘What does character have to do with it, when royal marriages are made? Even if I had known more of yours before we were wed, I would have had no choice but to go through with it. Danish gold was worth more to Scotland than a pleasing wife.’
Frances could hardly bear to look at Anne, but she withstood her husband’s insult with typical sanguinity.
‘Count Frederick will bring us a powerful alliance,’ Prince Henry remarked haughtily. ‘The Palatinate is one of the richest territories in Christendom and a strong advocate of the true faith. The papists have been utterly vanquished there.’
The king swung around to glare at his elder son. ‘Cease your prattling!’ he spat. ‘This has nothing to do with you. The Swedish match was your idea and look how that turned out. I will have the governing of this one. Ye’ are not king yet – God willing you never will be,’ he muttered under his breath.
