The rain whipped against the carriage window as Frances peered out. In the gathering gloom, she could just make out a dark mass covering the hill ahead: the Earl of Rutland’s famed woodland, which surrounded his castle, whose turrets she could now see rising above the trees.
Their progress had slowed since Grantham, thanks to the arrival of the rains that had threatened all day, turning the dusty track into a river of mud. She could hear the horses whinnying as their hoofs slipped on the now treacherous path that led steadily uphill. Frances cursed her failure to persuade the coachman to press on to the castle, rather than rest his horses at the town, which lay just seven miles before it. They could have been there by now, sheltered from the elements, the horses dry and warm in the stables. The man had spent a frustratingly long time at the inn, taking his meat with a rowdy group, while Frances, having eaten a hasty meal, paced up and down outside. She had been at the point of leaving him there and walking the rest of the way when he had emerged, ruddy-faced, oblivious to her scowls.
Now the carriage listed to one side, precariously close to the edge of the path, which fell steeply away into the valley below.
‘Whoa!’ The coachman’s shout was followed by a string of curses that were carried away on the wind.
For an agonising few minutes, they remained still, the carriage swaying in the gusts that blew across the valley. A fresh wave of fear assailed Frances. It had been four days since the messenger had arrived at Whitehall. If her husband was as gravely hurt as he was reported to be, she might already be too late. It was all too horribly familiar, she acknowledged, as she thought back to the cold March night when she had hastened to her dying father at Richmond. Surely God would not be so cruel as to take her husband from her so soon afterwards. No: they would have been intercepted by a messenger if Thomas had already died, she reasoned.
Frances looked down at the large leather bag that lay at her feet. Within her clothes, she had hidden her collection of dried herbs and tinctures. There had been no time to select those that would be of most use to her husband, so she had brought them all. It was probably wise not to leave any in Greenwich anyway. How she would treat her husband with them when the king lodged under the same roof, she did not know. She could only hope that they would be afforded some privacy as man and wife – the same privacy she had spent most of their marriage trying to avoid.
The carriage moved forward, throwing Frances back against the cushions. She could hear the slap and squelch of the horses’ hoofs as they plodded up the track. Darkness was falling quickly now and Frances could see the faint glimmer of lights in the castle. She wondered which room her husband lay in.
At last, they reached the drive that snaked through the parkland to the entrance. Frances heard the sharp crack of the whip followed by the rapid crunch of hoofs on gravel as the horses finally cantered towards the gatehouse. Lowering the window, she felt heat as they passed the torches that blazed on either side of it. A few moments later, they were inside the courtyard. Not waiting for the groom, who was scurrying towards her from the castle, Frances stepped down from the carriage and hastened towards the large doorway from which he had emerged.
A sombre-faced footman stepped forward as she approached. He bowed.
‘Have you been invited for dinner, mistress?’
‘Lady Frances Tyringham.’
She saw his eyes widen briefly in alarm.
‘Then please allow me to escort you to the hall, my lady.’
Frances tried to suppress her rising impatience. ‘Thank you, but I will go straight to my husband, if you could show me to his chamber?’
‘Of course, my lady. I will fetch someone to accompany you.’
Before she could protest, he had turned on his heel and stepped smartly away. She could hear the rapid clip of his heels on the marble floor as he disappeared.
The entrance hall was vast. At the far end a huge stone fireplace was surmounted by the head of a bull, its glassy eyes staring straight ahead. Above, on the first floor, three large archways had been cut into the stonework, through which Frances could see a white marble staircase with ornate black iron balustrades. The walls to either side of her were covered with halberds, swords and other weapons, all artfully arranged into geometrical shapes.
‘Lady Frances.’
She spun round. A small woman was standing in the doorway that led through to the stairs. She was wearing a pale gold dress slashed with scarlet and edged with lacework at the sleeves and neckline. A large square ruff covered her neck, and her dark blonde curls were surmounted by a headdress of the same white fabric. Her features were pinched and her large grey-brown eyes were watching Frances intently.
‘Forgive me, Lady …’
‘Manners,’ she answered. ‘Cecily, Countess of Rutland. You are most welcome to Belvoir Castle,’ she added, in a tone that suggested Frances was anything but.
Frances curtsied.
‘Peake tells me you will not join us for dinner,’ she continued. ‘I assure you, it is no inconvenience – we have only just begun.’
‘Thank you, Lady Rutland, but I am anxious to see my husband,’ Frances replied. ‘How does he fare?’
The countess’s eyes were flitting over her, and Frances was suddenly aware of the shabbiness of her attire. She had dressed hastily before departing her chambers at Greenwich and had changed only her linens since. Glancing down, she saw that her simple grey gown was heavily creased, its hem caked with mud. But if the lady of the house objected to her appearing in such a state, having travelled for four long days to see her husband, who might even now be breathing his last, she must be cold-hearted indeed.
‘I have had my physicians attend him,’ she said. ‘Their reputation is unsurpassed in the county.’
‘You are most kind,’ Frances replied. ‘Now please, forgive me, I must see him.’
‘Of course,’ Lady Rutland said. ‘Follow me.’
She led the way up the staircase, which was flanked on either side by numerous family portraits. As they mounted the second flight, one of the pictures caught her eye. It was of a young man with dark brown hair and a fashionably pointed beard. He was pleasant-looking rather than handsome, but what struck Frances was the sadness in his eyes. Tearing her gaze away, she hastened after the countess, who stepped nimbly along a gallery at the top of the stairs.
Frances hardly noticed the sumptuously decorated series of rooms through which they passed, her heart keeping time with her quickening pace. At length, they reached a dimly lit corridor. The countess stopped outside a door about halfway along it. For a moment, Frances feared that the woman would insist on entering with her, but instead she gave a nod and started back along the corridor.
Frances watched until she was out of sight, then lifted the latch.
The first thing she noticed was the heat, which hit her in a suffocating wave as she stepped into the chamber. An enormous fire blazed in the grate, and both of the small windows were tightly shuttered. Frances breathed in the sickly stench of decay. A young attendant dozed by the fire but stood as she entered. He looked at her in alarm, as if waiting for admonishment. Frances was sure the Belvoir servants received plenty from their mistress. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You may leave my husband now.’
The boy’s face showed relief and he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Crossing quickly to the windows, Frances flung them open. A gust of cool, damp air blew into the room, making the glass rattle in its casement. Frances closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer, then turned to the bed.
Heavy damask curtains were drawn around each side of it. Slowly, she walked towards it, straining to listen, but there was no sound from within. She felt the cold grasp of fear as she pulled back one of the curtains. Her husband was lying on his side, facing away from her. She padded around the edge of the bed, drawing another curtain as she did so. Her eyes never left his body, which lay perfectly still. When at last she saw his face, a small cry escaped her lips.
A large black bruise covered one side, which was so swollen that it completely obscured his fine features. Above his right eye, there was a deep gash that was crusted with dark blood and seeped yellow pus. There was more blood on the pillow, and as Frances looked closely, she saw that it came from a wound on the side of his skull, which glistened through his matted hair. His lips were parted and cracked. There was a yellow-brown stain on the sheets and the tang of vomit hung on the air. His knees were drawn up, and his right arm was bent at an unnatural angle across his chest. Frances placed her fingers around his wrist. He did not move. She waited, trying to still her own pulse as she felt for his. At last she found it – faint but steady – and let out a long breath.
Swallowing tears, she forced herself to look at her husband with the eyes of a healer, not a wife. His arm was dislocated, she was sure of that. Some, if not all, of his ribs were probably cracked. There were no signs of inward bleeding, but she could only guess at the severity of the wound to his head.
Working quickly, she took out her phials and dried herbs and set them on the table next to the bed, pushing aside the potions that had been left by the countess’s physicians. With a sudden thought, she walked quickly to the door and was relieved to see a key in the lock. She turned it and heard it click into place.
Back at the table, she plucked some dandelion leaves and ground them with brittle elder bark until the mixture became a powder, then added a few drops of juniper oil. Tearing off a piece of clean linen from the bolt she had brought with her, she dipped it slowly into the mortar, then dabbed the yellowy tincture onto the gash above Thomas’s eye. It felt hot to the touch. He made no move as she continued to clean the wound. It would need stitching. Reaching into her bag, she drew out the finest needle she could find, with some silk yarn. Her fingers shook as she tried to thread it and she cursed her clumsiness. When at last she had succeeded, she leaned forward and pinched one end of the wound together, then slowly pierced the skin. Thomas flinched, but after a few moments, his face relaxed and she continued to stitch, pulling the thread as tight as she dared so that the flesh would knit together.
In the distance, she could hear the chiming of a clock. Dinner must almost be over. She prayed nobody would disturb them just yet. Crossing to the ewer, she soaked a fresh linen cloth in the water, which had long since turned cold, and began to clean the deep gash on the side of Thomas’s head. Her fingers gently parted the hair around it, but in the soft glow of the candlelight it was impossible to see the extent of the wound. Feeling inside her pocket, she drew out the scissors she had put into it the last time she had worn the dress so that she might work on her embroidery with the princess. They were not very sharp but would suffice. Coiling his thick brown hair in her fingers, she had a sudden recollection of Tom, his head on her breast as she stroked the curls at the nape of his neck. She began to cut the hair. It was sticky around the wound and she was obliged to keep wiping the blades, which were soon blunted.
When she had trimmed as close to her husband’s scalp as she dared, she held the candle closer. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared in horror. A deep wound ran from behind his right ear to the top of his scalp, the bone showing in places through the swollen red flesh. A thin trail of blood pulsed from the deepest part and Frances could see that it was tinged with yellow. The wound was far too wide for stitching yet. The best she could hope was to stem the bleeding and stop the infection spreading.
She fetched more fresh linen, soaked some in the tincture she had made and applied it carefully to the wound. Folding a larger piece of the fabric into a thick wad, she placed it over the length of the wound, securing it with a long strip of linen, which she tied around Thomas’s head. Then she made up a fresh tincture with anemone and honey, adding a little water so that it would slip easily down his throat. She placed the small glass phial between her husband’s lips and gently tilted it. There was a gurgle as the mixture reached the back of his throat. Frances waited, fearing he might vomit, but after a few moments she saw his neck pulse as he swallowed. She gave him another tiny dose to swallow, then another, until at last the phial was empty.
Suddenly weary, she looked at the table, which was littered with discarded pots and herbs. She would need to gather more tomorrow. Kneeling at her husband’s bedside, Frances closed her eyes in prayer. She had done all she could for now. God must take her husband into His care.