CHAPTER 22

9 July

Frances sat bolt upright in bed and listened. There it was again: a volley of thuds that echoed along the corridor outside her apartment. Beside her, George gave a small moan. It was pitch black, but as she scrambled out of bed she caught the flare of a torch outside her window.

Feeling her way to the door, she opened it as quietly as she could and came face to face with Mistress Knyvett. The light from the old woman’s candle illuminated her panic-stricken eyes and deathly pallor, making her appear like some ghoul that was stalking the palace. Steering her back into the parlour and closing the door behind her, Frances strained to listen.

Another thunderous volley sounded in the distance.

‘Open this door, in the name of the king!’

The voice was muffled. Too far away to be at her door, Frances realised with relief. She felt Mistress Knyvett tremble and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then padded quietly to the door and pressed her ear to it.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

Another man’s voice this time. Even at a distance, Frances could hear the terror in it. A moment later, there was scuffling and a door slammed. The man’s protests could be heard above the swift clipping of heels on the flagstones. Frances listened as they faded into silence. Then, with sudden resolve, she reached for her cloak. ‘Stay here with George, Mistress Knyvett,’ she said, with greater determination than she felt. ‘I must go to the princess.’

The old woman nodded, mute.

Frances slid back the bolt and lifted the latch. She took a breath before opening the door, her ears straining for any sound. All was silent. She let herself out quietly and stood blinking in the gloom. A dim light glowed from the stairs at the end of the cloister and she hastened towards it.

Quickening her pace, Frances was breathless by the time she reached the top of the stairs but broke into a run when she saw that several lights blazed outside the princess’s apartments at the end of the corridor. Two guards were stationed outside and watched her closely as she entered.

The room was empty. She had not known what to expect, but it was not this. Looking around, she saw that the door to her mistress’s bedchamber was ajar. She strode towards it and pushed it open, her heart in her mouth. The covers of Elizabeth’s bed had been flung back, as had those of the pallet at its foot.

‘The princess has been removed from here for her safety.’

Frances swung around to face the guard. ‘To where?’

Without replying, he walked back to his post. After a few moments, Frances followed briskly in his wake. Why wouldn’t he tell her? She was known to be one of Elizabeth’s favourite attendants. Even if her life was in danger, surely Frances should be trusted to accompany her.

Unless she herself was under suspicion.

She broke into a run again, but as she fled down the stairs, she lost her footing and fell heavily down the last few, her face slapping against the cold stone floor. She lay there for a few seconds, then carefully raised herself. Her face felt bruised and pain shot through her left ankle as she put her weight on it. Reaching down, she could feel that it was already swelling.

Frances hesitated. She knew she should return to bed and get what little sleep she could before whatever awaited her in the morning. She should also rest her ankle so that the swelling receded. But the urge to find out what was going on proved stronger. She would go to the queen’s privy chamber.

Hobbling painfully, Frances was obliged to keep stopping to rest her ankle. By the time she arrived, she was drenched with sweat and every bone in her body ached.

The guards eyed her closely before raising their halberds so that she could enter. Frances was relieved to hear voices within. The queen turned sharply as she crossed the threshold. ‘Great God! What has happened to you?’ she cried, gesturing urgently to one of her ladies to help Frances to one of the chairs close to where she was sitting.

‘It is nothing, Your Majesty. I had a fall. I should have carried a lantern.’

As she spoke, the same lady brought her a damp linen cloth to wipe her face. Frances dreaded to think what she must look like. The hem of her nightgown was torn and covered with dust. Anne regarded her steadily.

‘Where is the princess?’ Frances asked, when she made no move to speak.

The queen hesitated. ‘Cecil has arranged for her to be taken to St James’s, to be with her brother. He considers it safer there,’ she added, with a touch of impatience.

‘So she is in danger here?’ Frances persisted.

Anne gave a heavy sigh. ‘It is all nonsense, of course. He would have had me go there too, but I refused. There is little wonder that my husband jumps at shadows, with such a man as Cecil to advise him.’

Frances waited for her to continue.

‘A secret marriage has been discovered,’ she said at last. Frances’s heart lurched. ‘That foolish lady, Arbella Stuart, has wed another blood claimant – a Seymour, no less. It has been many years since one of their number has worn a crown,’ she scoffed.

Behind the queen, Frances noticed Lady Drummond shift uncomfortably and heard the soft rustle of her skirts. Their eyes met for a moment.

‘They were married here, according to Cecil,’ Anne continued. ‘To think that such a thing was happening under my very roof as I languished here, whiling away the hours with my ladies,’ she added.

Frances chose her words carefully. ‘They surely did not mean to seize the throne. Lady Arbella has few friends here at court, and fewer still beyond. She is well known to be a haughty, troublesome woman.’

She darted a glance at Jane Drummond and saw her expression harden.

Anne nodded. ‘I agree with you, Frances, and if she had attempted it alone she would have presented no danger. She is a Stuart, after all. But the English are a sentimental race and still hark back to the glories of the Tudors. William Seymour is one of the last scions of that dynasty.’

Frances tried to slow her breathing as she held the queen’s gaze. ‘Have they been arrested?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes – and various others besides,’ Anne replied. ‘Cecil is certain they had accomplices here in the palace.’

Frances hoped that the flush she could feel creeping up her neck would not show on her face. As she tried to compose herself, she heard Jane’s skirts rustle again and looked towards her, glad of the distraction.

The young woman was staring steadily at her. Her eyes were grey and beautiful and her hair was as silky black as a raven’s feathers. No wonder Thomas had been drawn to her. She thought of the awkward encounter between the three of them, the night when Seymour had first accosted her. Thomas had looked so stricken.

Her breath caught in her throat as another thought occurred to her. It had been Jane Drummond who had summoned her to attend the princess that night. She had been so distracted by her husband’s reaction to the young woman that she had not thought of it before. The realisation must have shown on her face because she saw Jane’s eyes widen briefly, as if in panic. So this was Seymour’s associate.

‘One can never be too cautious in such matters.’

They all turned at the soft voice. The Lord Privy Seal was standing in the doorway of the queen’s lodgings, his emaciated frame stooped over a black staff. He smiled pleasantly as he surveyed the room.

‘My lord – what news?’ Anne was the first to compose herself. She gestured for him to sit. He did so agonisingly slowly – whether through genuine frailty or a desire to increase the already palpable tension, Frances could not tell.

‘Seymour is safely in his lodgings at the Tower, Your Majesty,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I have entrusted the care of his new wife’ – he emphasised the word – ‘to Sir Thomas Parry at his house in Lambeth. He is eager to retain his place on the council so can be relied upon to watch her closely.’

‘Good, good,’ the queen said distractedly. ‘But what of the others? The guards have woken half the palace tonight. I am sure they were not dragging people from their beds to enquire after their health.’

Cecil gave a little chuckle. ‘Indeed not, Your Grace. We have apprehended several others who, we believe, were involved.’ His eyes flicked across to Frances. ‘There may be more arrests before the night is over.’

The queen gave him a long, appraising stare. ‘You were always most thorough, my lord.’ Her voice was as cold as ice. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my bed for what little is left of the night. Jane.’

She held out her hand. Lady Drummond hastened to take it, then gently helped her mistress to stand and guided her slowly to the door of the bedchamber.

Frances and Cecil rose, heads bowed. As soon as she heard the door click shut, Frances dropped a hasty curtsy and walked as quickly as she could from the room, gritting her teeth against the pain. She could feel Cecil’s eyes upon her with every step she took.