The turrets of the palace were silhouetted against the dark grey sky as the barge at last approached the landing stage. It had been an agonisingly slow journey, the tide against them all the way. With every twist of the river, Frances had craned her neck, hoping to see the fields surrounding the city give way to the gently sweeping hillsides of Richmond. Please God may I be in time, she had prayed over and over.
Before the oarsman had even tethered the boat, Frances had leaped onto the wooden platform and begun to run towards the house, her heart in her mouth. It was still in darkness, save for a solitary light that blazed from an upper room in the east wing of the palace. Her father’s bedchamber.
Frances hammered on the door and waited, panting. A few moments later, it was opened by the elderly steward. His features were grave, and she swept past him, not daring to ask if she was too late. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and hurried along the dark corridor that led to her father’s room. A soft light seeped under the door, but all was quiet within. Frances knocked, then pushed it open.
As she stepped over the threshold, she breathed in the stale aroma of sweat. The room was only dimly lit, and the curtains had been pulled around her father’s bed. As she walked around it, she saw her mother sitting on the mattress, her head bent over her husband’s hand. She turned at the sound of Frances’s footsteps and leaped up to embrace her. Her cheek was wet against her daughter’s neck and Frances began to weep. She could not bear to look past her to the bed and see her father’s lifeless body.
‘This is a fine greeting, after so many years.’
His voice was so faint that Frances wondered if she had imagined it. Gently, she released herself from her mother and stepped slowly forward. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw her father smiling up at her, his hand outstretched. With a cry, she flung herself down on the bed and pressed her lips to his fingers, smothering them with kisses. They felt cold and waxy, and though she continued to clasp them, she could not warm them. When at last she raised her eyes to his, her heart contracted. His face had the grey pallor she recognised all too well. Though she tried to reason that it was just the effects of the fever and that his strength might yet return, she knew that her herbs could offer no resistance to the inexorable march of death. The most that she could hope was to ease his suffering.
‘Father,’ she croaked, as she leaned forward to kiss his forehead.
With an effort, he raised himself on his pillows. Frances tried to hide her dismay at the sight of his wasted chest, the ribs showing through his nightshirt.
‘My love,’ he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. His hand soon fell away and he was panting as he tried to recover from the exertion. Frances’s throat tightened as she tried to hold back her tears.
‘How I have missed you.’
‘And I you, Father,’ she whispered, squeezing his hand. ‘I have wished myself here so often, these past four years. It seems a lifetime ago that I was last in your presence.’
‘Well, it is a lifetime.’ He smiled. ‘How fares my grandson? Your mother says he is a fine young man already.’
Frances returned his smile. ‘He is very like you,’ she said, taking out the miniature that Thomas had commissioned shortly before they left Tyringham Hall. She handed it to her father.
‘Ah, what a handsome fellow,’ he said, stroking the picture with his thumb. ‘A credit to his father.’
He raised his eyes to meet his daughter’s. She swallowed, unable to reply.
‘I should so like to have met him,’ he added.
‘I shall arrange it,’ Frances said, as she got to her feet and began to unpack the herbs and tinctures onto the small table next to the bed, ‘as soon as spring is here and the days are longer. I can be excused from my duties for one day, and George would so enjoy the boat ride. Or we could ride here, if the roads are good. He is an accomplished little horseman, thanks to my husband …’ She sank down onto the chair, her chest heaving with silent grief. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ her father said. ‘Your herbs have worked many wonders in the past, but you know as well as I that I am beyond their help now. Do not weep, my love. I am at peace, and would that you were too.’
Her tears flowed as she bent to embrace him, her head resting lightly on his chest as he stroked her hair, just as he had when she had curled up next to him as a child.
‘Our faith will sustain us both,’ he murmured. ‘You must never forsake it, Frances, even though the path you have chosen is fraught with danger. It is better to hazard your mortal self than your immortal soul, though I pray God will keep you safe after I am gone.’
Frances turned her face to his. ‘I promise, Father,’ she said earnestly, then sank back down onto his chest.
After a while, her father’s breathing became shallower. Frances glanced at him anxiously, but saw that he was sleeping. Slowly, she raised herself from the bed.
‘You should rest now.’
Frances turned to her mother, who was sitting by the fire. She seemed to have aged overnight. Her pale skin sagged, and her eyes were filled with such sadness that Frances could hardly bear to hold her gaze. Her own grief at losing Tom after their brief time together had been so overwhelming that she had often thought it would stop her breath. How much greater would her mother’s be for the husband she had loved deeply for more than thirty years?
She walked over and bent to kiss her. ‘And you too, Mother,’ she said gently.
Helena smiled but said nothing, and Frances knew that she would not leave her husband’s bedside. She walked slowly from the room, casting a final glance towards the bed as she did so.
The thundering of horses’ hoofs woke Frances. A moment later the front door slammed and she heard rapid footsteps mounting the stairs. She threw back the covers and hastily wrapped a shawl over her nightgown, then ran out of the room. It was pitch black and the clock in the hall chimed ten as she raced along the corridor towards her father’s chamber, castigating herself for sleeping so long. As she neared the bedchamber, she could hear muffled voices, one of which – a man’s – was raised in anger. Not pausing to knock, she burst into the room.
Edward was standing next to the bed, one of Frances’s tinctures clasped in his hand. He turned as she entered, his face puce with fury.
‘Do you mean to damn us all to Hell, sister?’ he demanded, his hand shaking as he thrust the phial towards her. ‘Is it not enough that our father is dying but you must condemn his soul with your potions and witchcraft?’
‘Edward, please!’ Helena implored, clutching his arm. He shook it roughly away and continued to glare at his sister.
‘Come, Frances,’ he went on. ‘You are not usually slow to express your opinions. What is the meaning of this?’
As she glanced from her mother’s anguished face to her father, who lay senseless on the bed, a knot of rage uncurled in Frances’s stomach. When at last she spoke, her voice was ominously low. ‘You do more harm than I ever could. I mean only to help our father, but you – you cannot see beyond your selfish fury. Are you blind to how you grieve our mother? You would do better to return to Longford. I wonder that you came here at all, unless it was to serve your own ends.’
Edward’s face turned a deeper shade of red. His mouth worked as if he was trying to form a response and his eyes blazed with hatred. ‘And why are you here, sister?’ he asked at last. ‘I am surprised you troubled to make the journey from Greenwich. There is nothing for you here. I am our father’s heir.’
So that was why he had come so quickly, Frances thought, no doubt breaking the wind of several horses in the attempt to reach his father before he breathed his last, not to say goodbye but to claim his inheritance. Would that she was a witch! She would curse him to Hell.
‘Edward.’
They turned to their father, his eyes filled with such sorrow that Frances felt wretched with shame. She brushed past Edward and went to kneel by her father’s side. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, kissing his wasted hand.
His fingers twitched, then were still.
‘Please, leave us,’ he said, looking from Frances to her mother. ‘I would speak with my son alone.’
Frances studied her father’s face. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead, and the skin beneath was a pallid yellow. His lips were dry and cracked, and his breath came in gasps. She reached for the glass of water on the table, but Edward swiped away her hand. ‘You heard our father – leave us,’ he hissed.
Helena placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder as she stood to leave. Reluctantly, Frances followed her, seeing triumph in Edward’s eyes as she passed him.
As soon as they were out of the room, her mother clasped her hand and kissed it. ‘You must not mind Edward,’ she said, as they walked towards the gallery. ‘He was always a headstrong boy, but he has a good heart.’
Frances squeezed her mother’s hand in return but said nothing. She did not wish to vex her at such a time, and there was little she could say to change her opinion. The bonds of maternal love would not easily be loosened – she knew that.
‘Will you stay here after …’ Frances gazed out over the neatly manicured gardens, which were lit by braziers.
Helena shook her head. ‘I cannot.’
Frances heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath as she tried to halt her sobs.
‘There are too many memories. It is seven years since my beloved mistress departed this world here, her favourite palace. And now your father …’ She trailed off, her shoulders quivering with silent sorrow.
A fine drizzle had begun to fall, causing the braziers to spit and gutter. Frances took her mother’s hand. ‘You could come and live at court. The queen esteems you highly and would find you a place in her household. And I would love to have you near – George too.’
Helena smiled. ‘I am too old for court life and cannot serve another mistress, even one I respect as much as our queen. I wish only to live in quiet retirement. Your father has bequeathed me a manor some forty miles from Longford. It will suit me very well.’
Frances felt a rush of resentment. Though her mother would never admit it, she knew Helena feared Edward would not make her welcome at Longford. His sights were set upon the future, not the past. Neither would he suffer any check to his authority, even from his mother.
She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Edward crashed through the door at the far end of the gallery and marched towards them, his hands clenched at his sides. He stopped when he reached them. ‘I congratulate you, sister. You have achieved what you have been scheming for since we were children,’ he snarled, trembling with rage. He pushed past her and strode out of the gallery, ignoring his mother’s pleas, slamming the door so hard that several of the paintings shuddered on their chains.
‘We must go to your father,’ Helena said, before Frances could make any comment. Her face was ashen, but something in her eyes hinted that she knew the reason for Edward’s fury.
Both women were breathless by the time they reached the bedchamber. Frances looked at her father anxiously. His breath was rasping in his throat, and his linen nightshirt was drenched with sweat.
‘My daughter,’ he whispered, and held out his hand.
Frances sat on the bed and stroked his cheek. Though it still glistened with sweat, it felt as cold as ice. As she gazed at him she saw his eyes mist.
‘You were always my precious jewel,’ he said tenderly. ‘I wish I could have kept you safe.’ A solitary tear trickled down his cheek.
Frances gave a sob as she pressed her fingers gently to his lips. ‘You have, Father. You have given me so much, and I will always think myself the most blessed of daughters.’
‘I would give you something more—’ He fell into a paroxysm of coughing that left him fighting for breath.
Quickly, Frances reached for the tincture she had prepared upon first hearing of her father’s illness several weeks before. She tilted a few drops into her palm and carefully smoothed them onto his chest. His nostrils wrinkled at the sharp aroma of hartshorn, but soon his breathing became steadier and his eyes fluttered open again.
‘Though we have suffered for our faith – you more than any of us – you must always cherish it in your heart, Frances,’ he said, when he had recovered. ‘It will comfort and sustain you for the rest of your days, as it has for me. This heretic king—’ He broke off, panting.
Frances was aware of holding her breath as she waited for him to continue.
‘The kingdom will never flourish while he is on the throne. God speed the work of those who would wrest him from it,’ he rasped, eyes blazing.
Did he know of her endeavours, of the wider plot that Raleigh had spoken of? She wanted to ask him, but the words stopped in her throat.
‘I have bequeathed Longford to your son,’ he said, after a long pause.
Frances was dumbfounded. There had never been any doubt that the estate was Edward’s by right, as the eldest surviving son.
‘George?’ she whispered, when she found her voice.
Her father blinked slowly, as if in assent.
‘Longford must remain in Catholic hands,’ he replied. ‘Your brother has sworn to uphold the religion of King James. He will not waver in this, I know – though I have not spoken of it to him, and neither must you. He cannot be trusted, Frances – even by his closest kin.’
Her father struggled for breath. Frances’s mind was racing. Though her heart soared at the thought that her son would one day inherit the place she loved more dearly than any other, she knew it must be bought at a terrible price. ‘But George has been raised a Protestant, Father,’ she murmured. ‘In my heart I will stay true to the Catholic faith for the rest of my days, but I cannot hazard his life by making him share it.’
‘You will hazard his soul if you do not.’
At her mother’s voice Frances turned. Helena’s eyes showed the same fervour as her husband’s. He had always implied that his wife knew nothing of his faith – and certainly not of the plots in which he and their daughter had become entangled. Now Frances saw she knew everything.
‘You cannot keep your faith hidden from everyone, Frances. Our grandson must learn of the comforts it offers, when he is old enough to understand,’ Helena continued. ‘In the meantime, you are right to ensure that he conforms to that of the king – although you must take care to protect him from its worst excesses. His mind and heart must remain open to the true religion, when the time comes.’
Frances grasped the wisdom of her mother’s words. It had always troubled her to see her precious boy being raised a heretic, to watch as he solemnly repeated the words of the Protestant prayer book. She had comforted herself with the knowledge that he could hardly understand their meaning. But that would not be true for much longer. George was a bright boy and quick to learn. She must keep him from those who would turn his mind from the true path – his own stepfather included – even if it meant breaking the promise she had made at her marriage.
Her father fell into another fit of coughing. She rushed back to his side and gently lifted his head to ease his breathing. Her mother knelt down next to them. When at last the fit had passed, he was so weak that his eyes kept closing.
‘Edward will hold Longford in trust, until my grandson comes of age.’
His voice was so faint that Frances had to lean forward to catch his next words.
‘It is written in my will and in the deeds of the castle, so it may not be altered – though Edward will try, you may be sure. Do not let him prevail, Frances,’ he begged, clutching her hand. ‘Do not …’ He sank back on the pillows and closed his eyes. His breath now came in short, choking gasps. Slowly, his grasp weakened and his fingers grew still. The clock on the fireplace began chiming the hour, its high-pitched tone ringing out across the chamber.
Midnight.
As the last chime echoed into silence, Frances listened for her father’s breath. But the only sound was her mother’s muffled sobbing. Raising her eyes to her father’s face, she saw that he had gone.