George darted between the rose bushes, their heavy blooms obscuring him from view, as Jack, another member of the young prince’s household, raced after him. Frances was glad that her boy had made a friend at last. These past few weeks, he had been happier than she had seen him since their arrival at court, and she could almost believe that they were settling into a steady and harmonious routine.
‘You are pensive again today, Frances.’
Her husband’s voice intruded upon her thoughts. She cast him a glance and saw that he was watching her with the familiar look of concern that she had intercepted many times lately. Though she had tried not to show the turmoil she had felt since that encounter with Seymour, Thomas always seemed to sense when she was hiding something.
‘I worry for George,’ she said, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible.
They turned in the direction of the child, whose high-pitched shrieks echoed around the garden as Jack wrestled him to the grass.
‘But he is clearly thriving now and no longer pines for Tyringham Hall as he once did,’ her husband reasoned. ‘Children are much more accepting of changed circumstances than adults.’
George and his friend were now charging along the pathways between the plant beds.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘You must forgive an anxious mother. We naturally fear the worst.’
‘And what of you, Frances?’ he asked. ‘You seem troubled. I know it has been a difficult few weeks, since your father …’ He trailed off, as if regretting saying that much.
Frances felt an unexpected surge of affection. God knew there were few enough men at court who shared her husband’s gentle nature. His mention of her father also caused her a pang of guilt: she had hardly thought of him over the past few days. ‘I am well enough,’ she replied, forcing a smile. ‘Or as well as I can be, so far from the country. Masques and assemblies are a poor substitute for the fields and woodlands of Buckinghamshire.’
Respect for her husband compelled her to name his home, rather than the one she really craved. Longford. Her heart contracted as she thought of her brother Edward there, striving to ruin the estate before her son could inherit.
‘Perhaps I could persuade the king to release you from duty for a few weeks, so that you might take some rest. He is already planning another hunt so I will have ample opportunity.’
The prospect of escaping from court, its troubles and dangers, was appealing, and for a moment Frances was tempted. But even before she began to imagine being in the tranquillity of the Tyringham estate, she knew it was impossible. Cecil’s spies had followed her there before and would do so again. As would Seymour. His eyes flashed before her again, and she felt the terror she had experienced that night. No, she must remain here and do his bidding, for George’s sake. Besides, she had work of her own to accomplish with the princess’s marriage. Not for the first time, she was trapped in an endless maze, with no prospect of escape.
‘You are kinder than I deserve, but my duty lies here with the princess,’ she replied. ‘I cannot abandon her so soon after Prince Gustavus’s departure. She is still racked with guilt and grief.’
‘Better that than suffer a marriage without affection,’ her husband said, almost to himself.
They walked on, and soon Frances’s eyes were drawn to a flurry of activity ahead, where a dozen or more gardeners were hurriedly digging. As she and her husband drew level with them, Frances noticed a row of small shrubs lined up against the wall.
‘You are admiring my new arrivals, Lady Frances?’
She and her husband turned sharply at the king’s voice and swept a deep obeisance. Neither had heard him approach, as he was only sparsely attended. As she raised her eyes, Frances saw a groom standing two paces behind his sovereign. To James’s right was the smiling Robert Carr, who gave the slightest of nods towards them.
‘Your Majesty, forgive us.’ Thomas spoke before his wife could reply. ‘We did not mean to trespass upon your privacy.’
James waved away his apology. ‘Dinnae trouble yeself, Tyringham. Rabbie and I wanted to see how my gardeners are progressing.’ He looked across at the men, who had all ceased digging and were standing, heads bowed. ‘Well, get on wi’ it!’ he cried irritably. ‘The berries will wither on their branches if ye dinnae make haste.’
At once, the gardeners returned to their labours, digging even more frantically than before.
‘Your hounds are made ready for the hunt, Your Grace,’ Thomas said, deflecting his master’s attention.
James grunted. ‘They’ll need to wait a while yet,’ he muttered. ‘Cecil has urged me to delay our journey until after the prince has been ennobled.’
So Henry was to have his wish after all and be made Prince of Wales, Frances thought. The king seemed to alter his course as often as his favourites.
‘A most wise decision, Your Grace.’ Carr simpered. ‘This country sets great store by its titles and ceremonies. Your subjects here will surely be content for a while if you indulge them – though they little deserve it,’ he added, with a sneer.
The king reached over and stroked the man’s cheek. With a deft move, Carr turned and kissed his palm. Frances hoped the shock had not shown on her face. The old queen had excited enough gossip by tickling the neck of her favourite, Robert Dudley, as he knelt to receive a knighthood. How much more scandalised would Elizabeth’s courtiers have been by her successor?
‘When will the ceremony be held, Your Grace?’ Thomas asked, his face a perfect mask of composure.
‘In two weeks – or more, if my little Beagle has his way. I’ll wager he intends to use it as a means of keeping me at court.’
Frances wondered if Cecil had grown used to the nickname his royal master had assigned to him. She rather hoped he had not.
‘Such occasions require a great deal of organisation,’ Thomas said tactfully. ‘No doubt it will be attended by all of Your Grace’s nobles and bishops, as well as those who reside here at court.’
‘To Hell with that!’ James shouted. ‘Half of them would have had me blown to the heavens – still would, if my council’s reports are true.’
He fixed his glare on Frances. She blanched as she lowered her gaze to the ground. A quick glance to her left revealed that George and his companion were hiding behind a rose bush. They had scampered there as soon as the king had arrived. She prayed they would not stir.
‘There will always be those foolish enough to conspire for the Crown, Your Grace,’ Carr said soothingly.
Frances did not dare to look up and see whether he, too, was staring at her.
‘But your faithful subjects are far greater in number and will rejoice to see your son created Prince of Wales,’ the young man added.
The king grunted again. ‘Ill-deserving wretch,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I wouldn’t wonder if he petitioned me to invite his friend Raleigh. God knows he visits him often enough.’
Frances was holding her breath. James must know that she and the princess had accompanied Henry on one of those visits. Sir William Wade would have been quick to convey the news, she was sure.
‘Your Grace has had reason to be vexed by your children of late,’ Carr remarked slyly.
‘Aye!’ his master exclaimed. ‘Lizzie was always a dutiful daughter, but even she has become obstinate. Well, she will learn soon enough that a woman does not have the freedom to choose her own husband.’
Frances tried to focus upon the spidery green stem of a weed that had forced its way through the gravel of the path. She could feel James’s eyes upon her. Did he know of her part in persuading his daughter to defy him?
‘Tell me, Your Grace, what are the saplings that your gardeners are planting? I have never seen their like in this country.’
She shot a look of gratitude at her husband.
‘Ah, these are more than saplings, Tyringham,’ the king said, brightening at once. ‘They will rescue this kingdom’s fortunes, eh, Rabbie?’
Carr was preening himself, like one of his master’s peacocks. ‘Indeed, your Grace,’ he replied.
James waited, evidently enjoying the interest on the faces of Frances and her husband. ‘For too many years, the French have enjoyed the monopoly of the silk trade,’ he began. ‘No doubt their new king looks forward to filling his treasury with the profits, just as Henri did. Well, he is a fool.’ He reached forward and plucked one of the dark green leaves. ‘The silkworm is a particular creature and will only feast upon one thing.’ He paused so that his words might take full effect. ‘Morus negra,’ he said proudly. ‘Black mulberry.’
Carr clapped his hands together gleefully and gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘And so by cultivating the tree here in England, His Grace will be able to produce that precious commodity on a far greater scale than King Louis.’ He beamed. ‘It is with justice that you are called the wisest king in Christendom.’
Frances looked at both men, understanding dawning. ‘What an ingenious plan, Your Grace,’ she said, with exaggerated deference. ‘No wonder you have brought over so many.’
‘Ha!’ the king exclaimed scornfully. ‘There are a great many more than you see here. I have had a four-acre field by St James’s Park cleared so that the rest can be planted. All ten thousand of them,’ he added, with satisfaction.
Frances struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Then I hope they prosper – and your plans too, Your Grace.’
But James wasn’t listening. He had turned towards his favourite and was toying with one of the buttons on his doublet. ‘I think we have earned a small celebration,’ he whispered to Carr, who smiled coyly.
Without troubling to take their leave, the two men walked swiftly back towards the palace, the king’s groom following in their wake.
As soon as they had disappeared from sight, Frances burst into a fit of laughter. Thomas turned to her in surprise. ‘What on earth can have made you so merry?’ he asked, smiling.
‘It is a pity the king condemns as witches those skilled in the art of healing,’ she said, when at last she was able to speak. ‘If he did not, perhaps he might have sought our advice before emptying his coffers to buy all these trees.’
‘Surely the king is not in error. I know little of plants myself, but even I have heard that silkworms feed on mulberries.’
‘Indeed they do,’ Frances replied, looking out across the long line of saplings that the gardeners were now beginning to plant. She turned back to her husband, her eyes still glistening with mirth. ‘White mulberries.’