‘Be still, George,’ Frances whispered, as she placed a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder.
The curls at the nape of his neck were damp with sweat and he pulled at the collar of his shirt as if trying to free himself from it. Frances could feel a trickle of sweat running down her back. She drew her shoulder blades together so that the tightly laced bodice lifted away from her skin.
The lofty hall at Westminster had provided welcome respite from the oppressive heat outside, but the press of bodies had soon caused the temperature to rise. It had occasioned some surprise when the king had announced that the ceremony would take place in the Court of Requests, rather than the far larger main hall of the palace. While Frances was thankful not to have had to return to the place of Tom’s trial, she wished that a more spacious hall had been chosen. But this was one restraint that James had insisted upon. He would rather have had no ceremony at all, but Cecil had persuaded him of the political advantages to be gained from putting on a show of Stuart splendour.
Frances could not help but be impressed by the magnificence of the occasion. She had never seen such lavish decorations, even at the old queen’s court, which generally far outshone that of her successor. She had heard several guests remark that it was like a coronation, and she could believe that this was no exaggeration. The stone walls were hung with richly embroidered arras, the gold thread picked out by the candles that blazed in the sconces above. A carpet of deep purple had been laid along the entire length of the aisle, and at the end of each row of seats a plume of feathers floated atop a golden pole, representing the prince’s new title. Contrary to what the king had said that day in the garden, all of the nobility had turned out to pay homage to their prince, and Frances was dazzled by cloth of gold, cobalt silks and ruby red satins.
A cheer rose from the crowds that had assembled outside the hall. Everyone turned expectantly towards the great oak doors, which were now flung open. Frances shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight that flooded the hall. Silhouetted against it, she could make out the stooped figure of the king, a large crown balanced precariously on his head. His legs appeared even more bowed than usual, as if he was struggling under the weight of his finery. Robert Carr walked half a pace behind him, stooping occasionally to fuss over his master’s train.
The queen followed in their wake. Frances knew how much the long walk must pain her, but Anne betrayed no hint of it as she held herself erect, an elegant and dignified contrast to the king, who seemed to stamp as he walked, like an angry child. The princess was breathtakingly beautiful in the ivory satin gown that Frances had chosen for her that morning. She bore herself with the same dignity as her mother. Frances felt a surge of affection and pride as she watched her gracefully acknowledge the courtiers on either side of her as she passed. She had called for Frances earlier than usual, unable to sleep because of her terror at the prospect of being seen in public for the first time since Gustavus’s departure.
‘They will look upon me with loathing,’ she had sobbed, ‘just as Henry does now.’
Frances had known better than to reason with her, but had carefully prepared her gown and jewels, then dressed her slowly, hoping that the familiar ritual would eventually calm her. By the time that Elizabeth had been escorted from her rooms by one of her father’s grooms, her hands had ceased to tremble and she had even ventured a smile as she bade Frances farewell.
The princess was holding the hand of her younger brother Charles, who looked a good deal less assured. Frances watched as his eyes darted nervously across the crowds. Though he could now easily walk unaided, his gait was still awkward and his thin legs, like his father’s, were slightly bowed.
When the royal party had taken their seats on the dais that had been specially built for the ceremony, the courtiers looked back to the entrance. A few moments passed, yet still there was no sign of the prince. A low hum of animated whispers echoed around the hall as they began to speculate on the reasons for Henry’s absence. Perhaps he had quarrelled with his father again and decided to snub the occasion. Or some accident had befallen him on his way to Westminster.
George looked up at his mother in alarm. Frances smiled down at him and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She suspected the prince was simply biding his time so that his arrival would achieve the greatest possible impact. Thomas was on the opposite side of the dais. She caught his eye and he smiled, as if to assure her that he was unconcerned.
At that moment, a fanfare of trumpets rang out across the hall, causing many of those present to start. Frances turned back towards the doors and saw Prince Henry standing on the threshold, surveying the throng as if they were his subjects, not his father’s. He was dressed in cloth of silver that dripped with jewels, and from his shoulders was suspended a long train lined with ermine.
After a long pause, he made his stately progress along the aisle. Though he knew all eyes were upon him, he kept his own fixed straight ahead. George craned his neck to get a better view.
The prince was now mounting the steps of the dais.
‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost …’ The sonorous voice of Archbishop Bancroft echoed around the hall and the courtiers took their seats. He was elderly now and his shoulders were even more hunched than they had been when Frances had last seen him. His beard was still the colour of dark mahogany, though, and there was no trace of grey.
There was a long pause before the ceremony of investiture began. Frances looked across the aisle to Thomas, whose gaze was now on the prince, kneeling before his father. She was about to turn back towards the dais when she saw, a few rows behind her husband, a solemn-faced young man staring directly at her.
Seymour.
Her blood ran cold. She had not seen him for several weeks, and Arbella had appeared only seldom at court since Gustavus’s reception in Greenwich. Frances had begun to hope that Cecil or one of his informants had thwarted their plans and that she would therefore escape any involvement. Now she feared not.
Frances held Seymour’s gaze. His expression did not alter as he stared at her. A small movement at the edge of her vision made her turn. Thomas was watching her too. Frances forced herself to focus upon the ceremony of investiture that was now well under way on the dais.
‘I, Henry, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and truth I bear unto you, to live and die against all manner of folk.’
Though he was in his seventeenth year, the prince still spoke with the same shrill voice that Frances remembered from her first meeting with him. She wondered if it would deepen in time. It was hard to imagine him commanding a parliament or an army if he still sounded like a child. She smiled at the thought that a king whom his subjects could not understand would be succeeded by one they could not respect. God willing, she would help to spare them that fate.
The king was now standing over his son and placing a ring on his outstretched finger. Frances saw Henry wince as his father forced the bejewelled band over his delicate flesh. He then handed his son a sword with a ruby at its halberd that glittered in the light from the high windows. Finally, and with great solemnity, the aged archbishop passed the coronet to his sovereign. James lifted it above his son’s head, then held it suspended, as if taunting him. Henry kept perfectly still, but Frances noticed a red flush creep up the back of his neck. At last his father lowered the coronet onto his head and the prince stood to face the assembled throng. He reminded Frances of a child who had been allowed to try on his father’s clothes.
Archbishop Bancroft rose unsteadily to his feet and read out the investiture oath – first in Latin, then in English. When his words had echoed into silence, the prince gave a stiff bow towards the throne, then walked slowly down the aisle. Two yeomen of the guard opened the heavy oak doors as he approached, flooding the crowded hall with bright sunlight. A loud cheer rose as Henry stood at the top of the steps. Frances could just make out his slender form as, slowly, he turned from side to side, raising his hand in salute.
The rest of the royal party began to leave the dais, followed by the lords of the council. Frances stared resolutely forward as her uncle passed. She knew he was looking in her direction but could not bear to see him, self-satisfied in his robes of office. Behind him walked the Earl of Worcester, with his neatly trimmed white beard and pale grey eyes, which flicked from side to side, as if searching for a hidden assassin. Frances wondered idly whether his wife was still a favourite with her uncle. No doubt he lusted after younger flesh, these days.
As she watched the other councillors progress towards the doors, she realised that Cecil had not been among them. Instinctively, she looked behind her, as if expecting to see him there, watching her. But the only faces she saw were those of the ladies of the household, who were studying the procession of other dignitaries following the lords.
Where was he?
Perhaps his absence had something to do with Arbella. Frances had not seen her among the crowds either. She looked across and realised that Seymour had gone. She must calm herself, order her thoughts according to logic not fear, as her father had taught her. Cecil had invested an enormous amount of time and energy in preparing for this day. Even if he had uncovered Seymour’s scheme, he would not choose this moment to pounce.
‘Mama!’ George was tugging impatiently at her sleeve. ‘We must hurry or we will miss the prince.’
She felt an unexpected jolt of unease at her son’s eagerness, but smiled down at him. ‘We will see him at Whitehall, for the investiture feast,’ she said. ‘And there will be many celebrations to follow. I wouldn’t wonder if you had tired of the sight of him by the time they are over.’
‘Never!’ George protested. ‘He is the best prince in the world and will be my king one day.’
Perhaps.
Her son had already darted along the row of seats. She was hard-pressed to keep up with him as he scurried down the now crowded aisle, weaving between the brightly coloured skirts and silken hose. By the time she reached the small chapel that lay to the east of the nave, just before the main doors, she had lost sight of him.
‘George!’ she called, but her voice could hardly be heard above the excited chatter as the courtiers made their way out of the hall.
All of a sudden, she was being jostled towards the chapel. ‘Lady Frances, please – come this way.’
Frances knew the voice before she saw him at her side, steering her firmly towards the small doorway. She was about to turn and walk away when she saw her son crouched on the floor of the chapel. She ran towards him and heard the door close behind her.
‘George!’ She scooped him into her arms.
He wriggled to be free, and Frances saw that a cluster of tiny bones and a bright red ball lay at his feet. Jacks. Her son had loved the game ever since Thomas had presented him with his first set the previous New Year.
‘Go ahead, young master – see how you fare.’
She could hear the smile in Seymour’s voice before she turned to him. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed. Casting a quick glance at George, who was now engrossed in the game, she walked over to Seymour. ‘How dare you take my son?’ she hissed.
The young man shrugged, clearly amused. ‘I did not take him. He gladly followed,’ he replied, flashing a smile at the boy. ‘You should be more careful with him, lest he fall into the wrong hands. The court is full of villains, Lady Frances. One of them wears a crown.’
Frances glared at him, fear and fury rising in her breast. ‘You will not touch him again. He has nothing to do with your twisted schemes,’ she spat.
Seymour’s smile broadened. ‘Ah, but he does, Lady Frances – as you well know.’ He glanced again at George. ‘But so long as you play your part, no harm shall come to him.’
She fought the urge to lash out at him. Her breathing was rapid and she could feel her face burning, but she kept her gaze fixed upon him.
‘God is smiling on us this day,’ he continued at length. ‘We have seen the prince ennobled, and we will soon have cause for further celebration.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everything is made ready. The nuptials will take place as soon as the court moves to Greenwich two weeks hence. Let us hope that the king’s little Beagle has not recovered by then. He would not be a welcome guest.’
‘What has happened to him?’
‘He has taken to his bed, complaining of stomach pains. Perhaps the lamprey had not been well enough salted or the Burgundy wine was too strong for his palate.’ He smirked.
Frances stared in horror. Had Seymour had him poisoned?
Before she could reply, he continued, ‘You will receive word of the time and place. Do not think to betray us. You know what you would hazard.’
She turned to follow his gaze. George had stopped playing and was staring at them, an uncertain smile on his lips.
‘It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Tyringham,’ Seymour said, as he made an elaborate bow. ‘I hope we will meet again.’
George scrambled to his feet but the man was already striding towards the door, which slammed behind him.