Neither spoke as the barge glided along the dark waters of the Thames. As the initial shock of her arrest began to subside, Frances felt almost calm. Whatever Cecil had in store for her, at least the tortuous weeks of waiting for him to pounce were at an end.
Soon Whitehall Palace came into view. Frances could see the lights blaze through the windows of the great hall. Her mistress would soon be dressing for the masque. Blanche would be delighted when her rival failed to attend and would be quick to take advantage. How trivial such matters seemed now, Frances reflected.
It was moments before the vessel bumped against the landing stage of the palace. William stepped quickly out and grabbed Frances by the wrist as he helped her alight. He did not relinquish his hold as he strode towards the gate. The guards quickly raised their halberds and Frances could feel their eyes following her as she allowed herself to be dragged towards the inner lodgings.
The shouts of revellers rang out across the courtyard as they walked briskly through it. They must be nearing Cecil’s apartment. Though she had never set foot inside it, Frances knew it lay close to the king’s. The richness of the tapestries along the panelling of the corridor confirmed it.
William stopped abruptly outside a large doorway halfway along the passage. Glancing up, Frances recognised Cecil’s coat of arms, surmounted by a coronet. She held her breath as she waited for William to open the door, imagining his father on the other side, a satisfied smile on his face. But the young man seemed to hesitate.
‘Forgive me, Lady Frances,’ he whispered. ‘I did not know what else to do.’ His expression had softened and Frances noticed how pale he was, how dark the shadows under his eyes. He no longer looked like her captor.
‘There is little time,’ he urged. ‘My father is gravely ill. He refuses to see a physician for fear that his rivals will learn of it and use his weakness to their advantage. Lady Frances, you must help him. There is no one else here with your skills.’
Frances tried to come to terms with the news that he had brought her to Whitehall to help his father, not to be interrogated. The idea that she should use her skills to treat the man who had conspired endlessly to have her condemned for witchcraft, who had watched, implacable, as the torturer’s blade had pierced her skin, seemed preposterous. It would be as good as signing her own death warrant, given that his son now had evidence she had been in conference with Arbella. She wondered vaguely how he had known to find her there.
‘If the earl will not accept the help of a physician, then he will hardly countenance that of a wise woman,’ she said.
William winced at the bitterness in her voice. ‘I know what he has done to you – that you have every reason to refuse me. But I cannot abide to watch him writhe in pain, knowing there is someone who might bring him relief.’
Frances tried to push down the pity she felt, to remind herself that this was the son of her enemy. ‘What is it that pains him?’
‘His stomach. The convulsions are so strong that they make him retch.’
Frances saw from the young man’s face that he was in earnest: this was not a trap. But how could she forget everything that had passed between her and Cecil, try to save his life when he had only ever tried to destroy hers?
‘Lady Frances – I beg you.’
She gazed at him a moment longer then slowly inclined her head.
The bitter stench of vomit pervaded the gloomy chamber. Frances drew a sprig of lavender from her pouch and pushed it into her bodice. The warmth of her skin soon released its fragrance. She breathed in deeply, then walked slowly to the bed.
Cecil turned to face her. His skin was the colour of beeswax, with a thin sheen of sweat. His dark eyes stared up at her and he smiled, though his jaw was clenched against the pain.
‘William.’
His son was at his side in an instant. ‘Do not be angry, Father. I did not know what else to do. You cannot suffer like this any longer.’
Frances busied herself with mixing a fresh tincture, plucking the tiny green leaves from the sprig of woad and grinding them with a little dried ginger and willow bark.
‘I’ll wager neither of us thought to meet like this, Lady Frances,’ Cecil rasped.
She glanced at him and saw that he was watching her carefully, though his smile did not falter. ‘Show me where the pain is,’ she said, ignoring his remark.
He moved his hand to the right side of his stomach. She reached out but he grabbed her wrist so suddenly and with such force that it surprised her. ‘You must let me examine you or I can do nothing to help,’ she said firmly.
After a few moments, he relaxed his grip and she carefully lifted his nightshirt. The lump was visible beneath the skin. She placed her fingers gently on it and heard Cecil’s breath hiss between his teeth. It felt hard to the touch. She knew that her herbs would work no effect upon it. She had seen the Reverend Samuels tend a woman in Britford with just such a growth in her abdomen. He had told her there was no remedy but to cut it out. The woman had refused. She had died within the month.
Frances had only ever used her knife to remove shards of wood and glass from wounds that had sealed over. To do anything more carried great risk, she knew. Many patients had bled out at the hands of inexpert surgeons.
Cecil’s eyes never left her as she kept her own fixed upon the swelling, rapidly weighing the choices that lay before her. She could give him something to relieve the pain, but it would only be temporary. His torment would grow much greater as the tumour steadily consumed more of his stomach.
Better that he should die in torment than live to torment you.
She pushed away the thought. God had given her the skills to bring comfort and healing to the sick. She must not deny them. ‘The tumour must be cut out,’ she said, as she raised her eyes to Cecil’s.
Behind her, she heard his son’s sharp intake of breath. The older man’s mouth twitched, but there was fear in his eyes.
‘You can summon one of the court physicians to perform the task, if you wish,’ she continued, holding his gaze. ‘But it must be done soon. There is no other remedy.’
Cecil eyed her steadily. Though his body was racked with pain, his mind would be as sharp as ever as it ran through the possibilities. ‘No. You shall do it, Lady Frances.’
The pulse throbbed at her temples but she took care to show no emotion. He had placed his life in her hands, just as hers had been in his these past six years.
She began to prepare a fresh tincture of elder bark and turmeric, to reduce the inflammation. ‘I will need your help,’ she said, to William.
He was at her side in a moment. She tore off a clean strip of linen and soaked it in the mixture, then handed it to him.
‘You must dab the wound with this, while I remove the swelling,’ she instructed. ‘Make sure to keep replacing it with fresh. It will soon become soaked.’
William nodded, but remained silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cross to the bed and kiss his father’s forehead.
The knife glinted in the candlelight as she rubbed another piece of linen along it. ‘Give your father some wine – as much as he can stomach.’
She saw his hands tremble as he poured a large glass and held it to his father’s lips. Cecil took a long gulp, then spluttered. A few drops of the ruby liquid soaked into his white shift. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, but he brought the glass to his lips again and took another sip. For a moment, Frances feared he would vomit, but his breathing gradually slowed and he sank back onto the pillows.
She reached into her pocket and clasped the rosary, uttering a silent prayer. Then she came to sit on the bed and gestured for William to stand close by. Cecil’s eyes had closed, but not in sleep.
Frances took the linen from William and gently dabbed at the area around the swelling. Cecil flinched. She knew he was bracing himself for the pain. Slowly, she moved the knife into position. Its blade was now so close to Cecil’s skin that if he moved even slightly it would pierce him. Her hand remained perfectly steady, though her breathing had become rapid. She pushed the blade onto his skin now. For a moment, it did not yield, then suddenly the knife sank deep into his flesh and a thick trail of blood ran down his abdomen. She heard Cecil suck in a breath.
Knowing she must work quickly, she drew the blade around the edge of the tumour. By the time the circle was complete, several pieces of blood-soaked linen lay discarded on the floor. Frances was glad that William’s stomach was as strong as hers.
Carefully, she peeled back the skin to expose a fleshy white lump, about the size of a small apple. The blood was pooling around it so she could not see whether it extended any further. As soon as William had soaked through another linen, she eased her fingers around the tumour. Cecil gave a low moan. Glancing up at him, she saw that his face had a ghastly pallor and his breathing was shallow. She must do it now.
Taking the knife again, she began to cut around the growth. A foul odour rose up from it as she worked, her fingers slippery with Cecil’s blood. At last she felt the tumour loosen. Another cut and it was free. She grabbed a large clot of linen and pressed it firmly against the wound, then pulled the skin back over it and gestured for William to hold the clot in place while she washed her hands. The ewer was soon filled with bright red liquid.
Once her hands were dried, Frances threaded her needle and moved quickly back to the bed. Cecil was unconscious now and she could not tell if he was breathing, but there was no time to check. Another few minutes and he would bleed out from the wound. She began stitching while William staunched the flow of blood, exposing a little of the cut at a time for her to work on. At length, it was done. Frances cleaned the wound as best she could, then applied a final clot of linen and bound it in place.
She gathered up the discarded material from the floor and threw it on the fire. It hissed and spat as the flames consumed the sodden rags.
‘Will he live?’ William’s voice was barely a whisper.
Frances did not answer, but moved to the top of the bed and placed her fingers gently on Cecil’s throat. After a few moments, she felt a pulse – faint but steady. ‘If he survives the night, his chance will be greater,’ she said, watching Cecil’s face.
His mouth was still twisted into a grimace and there was a thin trail of blood from where he had bitten hard on his lip. The wound would pain him for many weeks yet, and it would be a long time before he was able to raise himself from his bed. Long enough for the Arbella controversy to die down. Even as she thought it, Frances knew that Cecil’s memory was more tenacious than most.
‘I am indebted to you, Lady Frances,’ his son said quietly.
She wondered whether Cecil would be too.