by Tracy Borman
Frances looked behind her, but the garden was empty, the house silent. Turning back towards the maze, she took another step forward, reaching out to either side of her so that the hedges might guide her. This was madness, she chided herself. She might get lost in here, and have to wait until dawn to find her way out, by which time the princess might have been taken far away by Catesby and his men. She hesitated, then drew in a breath and moved deeper into the labyrinth. The darkness enfolded her, and she felt as if she were moving in a dream. As she took a few tentative steps, the sharp scent of yew filled her nostrils and her fingertips were pricked and scratched by the neatly clipped branches. He could not be in here, she reasoned, as she moved further into the maze. He must have moved to a different part of the garden, or abandoned the idea of meeting altogether. She looked over her shoulder, and realised that she would not be able to find her way back now. There was no choice but to go on.
As she turned back into the gloom, she caught the familiar scent. He was here. She stood still and listened, not sure if the sound of breathing was her own. Tentatively, she reached out her hands, but felt only the prickle of the hedges on either side of her. She took a step forward and gasped as a cold hand suddenly grasped her wrist. His other hand stopped her mouth from making another sound. Slowly, he released his grip, and Frances let out a long breath.
‘Forgive me. We must not be discovered,’ he whispered. She could feel his warm breath on her face.
‘What do you want of me?’ Frances demanded.
He placed a finger to her mouth and held it there. She could feel that his face was very close to hers now.
‘Your forgiveness,’ he answered quietly. ‘I did not wish to deceive you. If I had told you of the plot sooner, I would have placed you in great danger – especially as Cecil was already watching you. I had to wait until it was certain that you would leave court with the princess.’
‘And now I am meekly to play my part by keeping the princess safe and compliant while you murder her father and brother?’
Tom fell silent.
‘I will not force you to act against your will – or your conscience,’ he said at last. ‘But you must see how diseased this realm has become since the old queen’s death. You have more cause than most to despise this king. Would that we had blown him back to his Scottish mountains before he had fixed his evil gaze upon you.’
She could feel his breath come quickly now, and he grasped both of her hands in his own. It was a few moments before he was able to speak again.
‘Frances.’ His voice was softer now. ‘I know that you no longer trust me, but I beg you to see me as you once did, for you were not deceived. I love you as truly now as I did at the beginning.’
‘That I do not doubt,’ Frances replied bitterly.
Tom sighed, and scuffed the ground with his boot.
‘I know you think that I have played you false, but I swear on my life that the only artifice was in concealing the plot from you.’ He paused. ‘I admit that I sought you out because of your position in the princess’s household, but the more I came to know you, the more I craved your company for its own sake. You must believe me.’
He reached out and stroked her cheek. Frances closed her eyes and fought to steady her breathing. Reluctantly, she pulled away.
‘I have lived too long at court to know truth from falsehood,’ she said at last. ‘I see how you and your companions beguile the princess with your honeyed words. How much easier it must be to seduce a lowly attendant.’
Tom did not answer. The bitterness of her words seemed to hang in the air as they stood in silence. Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and she could see the outline of his face, but sensed rather than observed its pained expression. After a long pause, she sighed heavily.
‘I will not betray you,’ she said slowly. ‘You speak truth about the king, and I hold no loyalty towards him after what he has done to me – and to many others besides. But my first duty is to the princess. If I believe her to be in danger, then I must act as my conscience dictates.’
Tom inclined his head.
‘I can ask no more of you than that,’ he said softly. He reached out for her again, but she drew back. She knew that if he touched her, she would not have the strength to resist him. With every fibre of her being, she longed to step forward and feel his arms encircle her, to stay here for ever locked in his embrace, hidden from the world beyond.
The sudden hooting of an owl as it flew overhead broke the enchantment. Startled, Frances turned to go.
‘I may not see you for many weeks now,’ Tom said.
She stopped, but did not turn around.
‘I must leave before dawn – some of the others too. Parliament is likely to be convened any day now, so we will return to London. Catesby will follow as soon as the princess has departed.’
Frances nodded, but was unable to answer.
‘God keep you safe,’ he whispered, echoing the words she had spoken at the princess’s bedside that night. Frances felt her heart lurch. Although he had seemed a stranger to her since that day at Westminster, now she felt a whisper of their former intimacy.
‘And you,’ she mouthed silently, then slipped away into the darkness.
CHAPTER 34
26 March
‘She has marks all over her body, my lord. The Devil had easy work in concealing his.’ His spittle flew into her face as he spoke.
‘Then you must work all the harder to find it, Master Balfour.’
With a cry, Frances jolted awake. She sat up, and, with trembling hands, rubbed her eyes. Her skin was damp and hot, and her linen shift clung to her body. The smell was still in her nostrils, but she knew that when she breathed in again it would be gone, fading back into her subconscious with the rest of the dream.
Ambergris.
The sweet, cloying scent would have been overpowering had it not been mixed with the sharp tang of cloves. It was typical of the man who wore it that he should pay close attention to such trivial details as scent. Nothing escaped his notice.
Cecil.
The realisation smote her like a blow to the stomach. He had been Sir Everard’s confidant on the day they had left Hampton Court. Her mind raced back to the dark corridor where she had stood, straining to listen. Closing her eyes, she imagined the door being opened by Sir Everard, the warm rush from the fire within, the scent of ambergris carried in its wake.
Her eyes sprang open. How could she not have recognised it before? She knew of no one else at court who wore the same fragrance. Yet he must do so sparingly, she realised, as she only recalled smelling it once before. The terror of that occasion must have caused her mind to bury the recollection.
She threw the covers off, and ran over to the dresser. Pulling out one drawer after another, she found her writing case at last. Her hands fumbled over the small wooden stopper on the inkpot. When at last she had released it, she jabbed her quill into the pot and began to write.
Thomas Wintour, Gray’s Inn, London
Her usual neat script was reduced to a hasty scrawl, and she paused briefly to study it, fearing that the letter would not reach its destination. But there was no time to begin again, so she continued:
You must come to Coombe Abbey as soon as this letter reaches you. You are in great danger.
F
Frances folded the parchment and crossed to the fire so that she could melt the wax in the embers. Pressing her ring into the deep red liquid, she laid it on the dresser to set while she pulled on a simple woollen gown that required little lacing, and slipped her bare feet into her leather shoes. Twisting her hair up into a coif, she pinned it quickly into place, and drew on her cloak.
She picked up the letter and lightly prodded the seal, which was still warm. No matter – it would be set by the time she put it in the hands of the steward. She quietly let herself out of the room, and ran on tiptoe down the stairs to the entrance hall. The pale light of dawn was beginning to cast shadows on the pillars and
flagstones, and Frances could just make out the door that led down into the servants’ quarters. It gave an ominous creak as she pulled it open, and she held her breath as she listened for any movement above. Satisfied that the rest of the household was still asleep, she continued down the dark stone stairs.
At the bottom was a large parlour. In contrast to the upper quarters of the abbey, it was a hive of quiet activity, as the servants bustled this way and that, stoking up fires and ovens, kneading bread, filling ewers, and making myriad other preparations for the day ahead. They barely noticed her as she slipped into the room. She guessed that she must look like one of them in her simple apparel.
Having asked one of the servingwomen for directions to the steward’s room, Frances made her way there. She knocked lightly on the door, and opened it, not pausing for an answer. A young man sat at a desk, writing entries in an account book. He looked up in surprise as she entered, and scrambled to his feet.
‘Ma’am.’
‘I apologise for troubling you at such an early hour, Mr Carter, but I have a letter that needs sending to London without delay.’
The man’s eyes darted to the parchment in her hand. They narrowed briefly, but then he bowed and took it from her.
‘Of course, my lady. I will see that it is dispatched.’
Frances hesitated, but decided not to press the point. She had clearly aroused enough suspicion already. Forcing a smile, she nodded her thanks and walked briskly out of the room.
Mounting the stairs back up to the entrance hall, she turned her thoughts to what else she could do. The note seemed so insubstantial. Would it be enough to make Tom abandon whatever he was engaged in and leave at once for Warwickshire? It might not even reach him. She had not seen nor heard from him since their clandestine meeting at Chastleton. Parliament had been postponed yet again, so he and his friends might have left the city – even the country, for all she knew. With a pang, she recalled the last words he had spoken to her. They seemed to take on an air of finality now. Pushing the thought away, she closed the heavy oak door behind her as quietly as she could, and began to climb the stairs back to her room.
‘You are abroad early, Lady Frances.’
She froze. Turning, she saw Lord Harington step slowly from the shadows, leaning heavily on his stick.
‘Good day, my lord. Forgive me – I hope I did not disturb your rest?’
He gave a weak smile of reassurance, but continued to regard her closely.
‘One of the many trials of old age is to rob a man of sleep during night-time hours. Only when the sun is high in the sky, and the rest of the household is full of cheer and chatter, do I feel my eyes grow heavy. I fear I have been poor company for your mistress.’
‘Not at all, my lord,’ Frances said, returning his smile. ‘You have been a most convivial and generous host. Her Grace and I have almost forgotten the diversions of the court, so richly have we been entertained here at Coombe.’
Harington waved away her compliment.
‘It is nothing – to me, at least, if not to my cofferer,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I am heartened that you and your mistress have not found life here too dull. There is a good deal less to converse about so far from London, where every day there is a new play to admire, a new fashion to emulate …’ He trailed off as if losing his train of thought. Frances was just about to speak, when he continued: ‘Or a new plot to uncover, eh, Lady Frances?’
His dark eyes seemed to bore into her very soul as they stood in silence for a few moments. Though Catesby had inferred that their host was privy to his conspiracy, she had not spoken of it since their arrival at Coombe. She had come to hope that he knew nothing about it, or of her own involvement.
The old man moved a few steps closer, and Frances noticed him wince every time his weight fell onto his right leg. A tincture of willow bark and dandelion would ease the pain from his swollen joints, but she knew better now than to offer her skills.
‘There has always been talk of plotters and rebels, even in the late queen’s time,’ she replied at last.
Harington’s eyes wrinkled in amusement, and he nodded.
‘I know that better than most, having taken the most dangerous of them to her death,’ he said, with a hint of his accustomed pride. He paused. ‘Lady Frances, if ever you require assistance, you must tell me. I think you know that I can be trusted.’
She inclined her head.
‘Thank you, Lord Harington.’ She hesitated, then bobbed a quick curtsey, and began to climb the stairs. ‘Pray excuse me, but the princess will be awake by now, so I must attend her.’
With every step she took, she could feel his eyes upon her back.
‘I have a fancy to ride this afternoon, Frances,’ the princess announced as they were eating breakfast.
Frances looked out at the gathering clouds and frowned.
‘That might not be wise, Your Highness. Perhaps we could ride tomorrow, if the weather has improved?’
Elizabeth raised her chin and clenched her small hands into fists.
‘Nonsense!’ she declared. ‘The wind will soon blow those clouds away, and we will not feel the cold when we are riding. Besides,’ she added with an impish grin, ‘you have my permission to wrap me in my warmest cloak, if it will serve to brighten your face.’
Frances sighed quietly. She knew it was pointless to raise any further objection. Her mistress turned to their host.
‘Lord Harington, will you accompany us?’
‘I fear that I would only hinder your progress, Your Highness,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘I require the comforts of a carriage these days.’
The princess looked crestfallen. Frances knew that she craved the company of gentlemen, and that even the aged baron would suffice if there was nobody younger to take his place.
‘But might I suggest a destination for your ride?’ he continued. ‘I believe you are acquainted with Robert Catesby, Your Highness? His estate is only fifteen miles from here. It is a very pleasant ride – even in inclement weather,’ he added, shooting a look at Frances.
Elizabeth brightened immediately.
‘What an excellent idea!’ she declared, clapping her small hands together. ‘Catesby told me about Ashby St Ledgers when we met at Chastleton. It is one of the oldest houses in the kingdom. It will provide a history lesson, as well as fresh air, Frances,’ she persisted.
Frances felt a twinge of foreboding, but knew that the princess would not be persuaded against the idea.
‘I will prepare your riding clothes, Your Highness.’
Elizabeth crammed another piece of herring into her mouth and drained the contents of her glass, then bade Lord Harington farewell.
The horses were already prepared by the time that Frances and her mistress arrived at the stables. She could not fault their host’s efficiency, although she wondered at its cause. Ignoring the groom’s proffered hand, Elizabeth climbed the mounting block and jumped lightly onto the side-saddle. With a sharp tap of her heels, she cantered off down the drive, Frances following close behind. By the time they reached the cobbled bridge that led out into the parkland, she had caught up with her mistress, and they rode on side by side.
The wind whipped around them as they cantered across the gently undulating fields that lay beyond the abbey. The cold air made Frances’s eyes water and her cheeks sting, but she felt the familiar surge of excitement as her horse broke into a gallop. Elizabeth cried out in delight as she too gathered speed, and together they raced along the ridgeway that followed the line of the hills south-eastward towards Ashby St Ledgers.
By the time that the tall stone chimneys of the house came into view on the horizon, the sky had become leaden, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Frances dug her heels into her horse’s flank, and it lurched forward again, lowering its head to gather more speed. The rain was falling faster now, and before long it had become a torrent, almost blinding Frances as they raced towards the gatehouse. She was relieve
d to see a light blazing in the window of the lodge, and as they approached, a porter emerged, scowling at the unexpected visitors who had brought him out in such weather.
‘The master only arrived yesterday. The house is not made ready for visitors,’ he said gruffly as he helped them from their mounts.
‘The princess intends only a brief visit,’ Frances replied.
The man looked stricken, and stumbled into an awkward bow.
‘Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not know—’
Elizabeth waved away his apology. Handing him her reins, she strode purposefully towards the house, drawing up the hood of her cloak against the driving rain. A housekeeper was waiting by the door, and ushered them into a parlour, where a fire roared in the grate. She seemed a good deal less surprised to see them, Frances thought, as she helped the princess out of her cloak and hung it over a chair close to the fire with her own.
Elizabeth glanced around the room. Dark oak panelling lined the walls, which were bare of pictures or hangings. There was just one small window, and it was set so high into the wall that it afforded a view only of the sky, which was still leaden.
‘It is rather a gloomy place, is it not Frances? I had expected Mr Catesby to have better taste.’
‘Perhaps he spends little time here,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘Chastleton is more spacious, and only a day’s ride away.’
‘You are quite right, Lady Frances – as ever.’
They both swung around in surprise. Catesby was leaning against the doorframe, an expression of wry amusement on his face. The princess had the good grace to blush, but quickly recovered herself.
‘Do you creep up on all your guests like that, Catesby?’ she demanded.
His grin widened, and he swept an elaborate bow.
‘Forgive me, Your Highness, but the sight of you standing in my humble parlour was so bewitching that I was loath to disturb you, lest you should fade away like a dream.’
