Frances watched as Prince Henry downed the contents of his glass. His usually pale complexion was flushed, his hair dishevelled. Leaning across to Sir John, he laughed uproariously and slammed his palm down so hard on the table that it shook. The king shot a furious look at his son, but Henry seemed not to notice.
‘The prince is in high spirits tonight.’
Though her husband’s tone was light, Frances caught the concern in his eyes. She made no comment, helping herself to more of the capon. The feast was plentiful this evening. It had been intended to serve Gustavus and his entourage, as well as James’s court, but they had left early that morning. The marriage negotiations had broken off the previous evening, the king declaring that for as long as Sweden remained at war with his wife’s native land he could not consider an alliance. Henry had stood at his right side, sullen and resentful. To the left, his sister had kept her gaze fixed upon the floor. Frances had seen her shoulders sink with relief when Gustavus had bowed abruptly to her father and stridden out of the room, without bidding his intended bride farewell.
‘How is your mistress?’ Thomas asked.
Frances finished her mouthful. ‘Her Grace is saddened, of course,’ she said, not quite meeting her husband’s eye. ‘She has wept a great deal since last night and was too grieved to attend this evening’s entertainments.’
That at least was true, though the source of Elizabeth’s grief was not as most of those present supposed.
‘I had not thought her so enamoured of the prince,’ Thomas observed, ‘but the secrets of women’s hearts have always confounded the inferior sex. Perhaps Her Grace is grieving for a different reason.’
Frances forced herself to hold his gaze. They had not spoken of the matter after retiring to their chamber last night, though the rest of the court could talk of nothing else. She had allowed herself to hope that Thomas was content not to question the king’s reason for rejecting the proposed match. She had been careful to avoid raising her husband’s suspicions since her meeting with Anne Vaux, but she knew he still wondered at the cause of her absence in the middle of the night.
‘The princess has a tender heart and is saddened that her brother’s hopes are dashed – though she was hardly the cause,’ she added quickly.
Thomas reached out and clasped his wife’s hand. ‘Are you sure that is all, Frances?’
His words were drowned in a sudden cacophony on the king’s table. The prince had stood so abruptly that his chair had toppled off the dais, clattering onto the flagstones below. He was glaring at his father with undisguised fury. ‘You treat me like a child!’ he cried, fists clenched at his sides.
The king let out a bark of laughter. ‘That’s because you act like one,’ he replied scornfully.
Beside him, Cecil smirked, his dark eyes flitting around the room. The company had descended into a deathly silence and everyone’s gaze was fixed upon the dais. Frances was thankful that her mistress was not there. The poor girl’s nerves were already in shreds after a bitter encounter with her brother, when he had upbraided her for defying him.
James continued to stare at his son, apparently oblivious to his gaping courtiers. A slow smile crept across his lips. ‘I had a mind to make you Prince of Wales at last, but I see that you are still not ready for such an honour.’
Henry’s face whitened. The whole court knew how impatient he was for the title that had been his right since his father had taken the English throne. He had made little secret of it, railing against his lack of authority to anyone who would listen.
William Cecil reached out a hand as if to restrain his master, but the prince batted it angrily away. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then turned and strode from the platform instead, swiping at the table as he passed. The hall echoed with the sound of shattering glass.
James raised his cup in a mocking gesture to the prince’s retreating form, then drained its contents. A trail of the ruby liquid slid from one side of his mouth, glistening in the light of the sconces. ‘God save the prince!’ he slurred.
The courtiers looked at each other in bemusement. A few echoed the king’s words, but the rest remained silent. Several minutes passed before a low hum of chatter rose once more.
Frances and her husband resumed their meal. She ate slowly, picking at the array of dishes in front of them, glad of the distraction they provided.
‘Forgive me, Lady Frances.’
She started at the soft voice behind her. She had not noticed Jane Drummond approaching – the woman seemed to glide noiselessly around the court. Frances glanced at her husband and caught his mortification before he lowered his gaze.
‘The princess is asking for you,’ the young woman said, her eyes fixed upon Frances.
Frances dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin then rose to her feet, aware that her husband was watching her closely. ‘Thank you,’ she said coldly. ‘I will attend her at once.’
Jane Drummond walked briskly away. Frances made to follow her but the young woman was soon out of sight.
‘I will escort you there,’ Thomas said, rising quickly to his feet.
‘There is no need,’ Frances replied curtly. ‘I will not be long. The hour is late and my mistress will soon retire. Please,’ she urged, when he hesitated, ‘stay and finish your meal.’
She swept away before he could protest, quickening her pace as she weaved through the long tables of diners, who were now engaged in such animated talk that they did not look up as she passed.
When she reached the courtyard that lay behind the great hall, she took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool evening air. The moon cast its silvery shadow across the cloisters that ran along each side of the quadrangle, illuminating the ornately carved stonework above the archways. Crossing to the opposite corner, her soft leather soles making no sound on the cobbles, worn smooth by the footsteps of many thousands of courtiers, she wondered briefly if she should collect some tinctures from her apartment first, in case the princess was ill. But she dismissed the thought. Even though she had regained her mistress’s trust, it would offer little protection if she was found to have reverted to her old ways. Blanche would be only too happy to twist her rival’s healing into an accusation of sorcery and report it to Cecil – of that, she was certain.
Passing under the archway on the far side of the courtyard, Frances found herself plunged into darkness. The page had not yet lit the sconces – supposing, no doubt, that the feast would continue long into the night. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she reached out to touch the inner wall of the cloister to use it as her guide, but an icy hand gripped her wrist. She made to cry out but another hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pushed roughly back against the wall, the cold bricks pressing against her neck.
‘Do not speak or I will stop your breath,’ the man whispered, his breath hot against her face, his hand gripping her throat. He was much taller than Frances, and though she strained her eyes to make out his features, they were entirely in shadow. She could feel her pulse throbbing against his fingers, which were soft. Gentleman’s hands.
After a long moment, he relaxed his grip but kept his fingers close to her throat while his other hand still clasped her wrist. Frances tried to quell her fear, though her legs felt as if they would collapse.
‘You have performed a great service by getting rid of the Swedish fool,’ he continued. ‘The princess would have married him to please her brother, had it not been for your persuasions.’
Frances opened her mouth to protest but he pressed his fingers to it. ‘Now you must perform an even greater one.’
Whose schemes had she become involved with now? Was this the plot Raleigh had hinted at?
‘England will soon be saved from heresy by another marriage,’ he continued.
Even though he spoke quietly, his voice was laced with excitement and Frances thought she caught the flash of a smile.
The King of Spain’s nephew must have embarked for England. She had not wanted to speak to the princess of another marriage so soon, but she must find a way, before the prince reached these shores. Her mind raced on, despite the terror that consumed her.
‘The negotiations for the princess’s hand are as nothing to this – though they provide a useful distraction,’ he said, ‘and while the eyes of the court are focused upon the husband that milksop the prince will choose, a far greater alliance will have been forged.’
Frances stared at the dark outline of his face as she struggled to understand his words. Another alliance? Surely Catholic hopes rested upon the princess alone.
‘Our plans are now almost in place. We await only the court’s return to Greenwich, where my mistress resides.’
‘The queen?’ Frances whispered.
He pressed his fingers to her lips again. She inhaled the sharp tang of tobacco. ‘No – though my mistress will be called by that name soon enough.’
A shaft of moonlight pierced the gloom, illuminating his handsome features. Frances gasped as she recognised the serious young man she had seen at the Swedish prince’s reception two months earlier. His sensuous mouth curled into a slow smile and his eyes glittered as he gazed down at her.
‘William Seymour,’ he said, and made an exaggerated bow.
Seymour. The name had been synonymous with royalty from the time that the virtuous Lady Jane had become King Henry’s third wife. Though her triumph had been brief, her family had hankered after the Crown ever since. This latest scion was as blinded by the same ambition as his grandfather, who had married Lady Katherine Grey in secret. Frances’s mother had told her of the scandal. Far from winning him the Crown, it had landed him in the Tower at the old queen’s orders. Clearly William had learned nothing from his grandfather’s example.
‘Who is your mistress?’ Frances asked, though she already knew the name before he spoke it.
His smile broadened. ‘Arbella Stuart.’
Frances tried to order her thoughts. ‘And what has this to do with me?’
‘You will be our witness,’ he said simply.
Frances stared up at him, incredulous. Why had they chosen her from all the courtiers who thronged the chambers of the royal palaces? She had not spoken a word to either of them until tonight.
‘We are assured that you can be trusted,’ he continued, as if reading her thoughts. ‘God knows there are few others here who can boast the same qualification.’
Assured by whom? Frances thought at once of Lady Vaux. But then she remembered the look in the woman’s eyes when she had mentioned the wider plot to which Raleigh had referred. Frances wondered whether her net was cast as wide as she liked to claim.
‘I cannot imagine who told you that, Lord Seymour, but I assure you I am the king’s faithful subject.’
His eyes lit with amusement. ‘I have been at the card tables all evening and have no patience for more games, my lady,’ he said, any trace of humour gone. ‘You know as well as I that you are up to your neck in treason.’ He took a step closer and trailed his fingers across the smooth skin of her throat. ‘One word from me in the king’s ear and he would gladly see it snapped,’ he murmured, clicking his fingers so suddenly that she jumped back.
‘I have committed no crime against His Majesty since coming to court,’ Frances muttered, as soon as her breathing had slowed.
‘Not on this visit, perhaps.’
Seymour’s eyes never left hers as his words echoed into silence. He could not know about her involvement in the Powder Treason, about Tom. And yet something in his steady gaze told her he knew everything.
‘It is treason for those of the royal blood to marry without their sovereign’s consent,’ Frances said. ‘Why do you suppose I would hazard my life for your sakes?’
His smile did not falter. ‘Ah, but there are other lives at risk aside from yours, are there not, Lady Frances? Your son is a fine boy. What a pity it would be if he were to wither suddenly on the vine.’
Frances’s breath caught and she gripped the wall behind her. ‘My son has no more to do with this than I shall!’ she cried.
Seymour lunged forward and clamped his hand over her mouth again, pressing her so hard against the wall that she feared her skull might break. She struggled for breath as he held her there, his grip tightening.
Leaning towards her so that his lips almost touched her ear, he murmured, ‘I shall send word when the time is ripe. You will not fail us.’ He released his grip.
Frances stumbled forward and felt a sharp pain as her knees hit the cobbles. Panting, she watched his slender frame disappear into the gloom.