Frances rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she peered out of the carriage window. She had slept only fitfully after hearing that Edward had been at court, that he was now a baron. What else had he been occupied with during his time at court? Idle hands are the devil’s instrument. The words from scripture had tormented her, robbing her of sleep until long after the third chime of the clock in the hallway had faded.
‘We will soon be there, my love,’ her husband said, as he closed his hand over hers.
She had been glad to break their journey at Tyringham Hall, wishing they might remain there, that she had never taken George from its relative safety to the snakepit of court. Now Edward was among the vipers that awaited her there.
As the coach passed under the Holbein Gate and into the courtyard, Frances’s fear was subsumed in excitement at seeing George. It seemed a lifetime since she had been with him and her arms ached to hold him. His letters had become less frequent, but she supposed that, with the unseasonably warm weather, he was spending more time out of doors with Jack.
Thomas helped her down from the carriage and they walked towards his apartments. The courtyard was strangely quiet and the last of the sun’s rays cast long shadows over the cobbles. The evenings had grown chill this past week and soon would shorten, too. She quickened her pace as they reached the final corridor, though her fall months before had made her cautious and she kept hold of her husband’s arm.
‘Do not fret, Frances,’ he said. ‘I sent word to Mistress Knyvett that we would be arriving this evening so she will have kept him up to see us – not that she could have done otherwise, I’m sure,’ he added.
When at last they reached the door of their apartment, Frances flung it open, her face alight with anticipation. Startled, Mrs Knyvett jumped up from her chair by the fireplace, dismay on her face. Brushing past her, Frances went into the bedroom, expecting to see her son fast asleep. But the pallet was empty. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded, striding back into the parlour.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ the woman said, wringing her hands. ‘Sir Thomas’s message only arrived this morning and Master George had already left for St James’s. I sent word for him to return but have heard nothing since.’
‘St James’s? But the king is in residence here.’
‘His son is not, though,’ Thomas reminded her. ‘Prince Henry spends all of his time at the palace now and is seldom seen at Whitehall, even – or perhaps especially – when his father is here.’
Frances fell silent for a moment. Why was George at Prince Henry’s court when he was a member of Charles’s household? The younger prince still resided at Whitehall, and George’s letters had been written from there.
‘The invitation arrived early this morning, my lady, and your son was most eager to go.’
‘You should not have allowed it without our permission,’ Frances snapped.
The older woman looked stricken. ‘I would not have agreed, were it not for the fact that the boy’s uncle delivered the invitation and offered to accompany George himself.’
Edward.
Frances saw her alarm reflected in Thomas’s eyes. ‘We must go there at once.’ She was already making for the door.
‘But, my love, it is late.’ Thomas grabbed her arm as she passed. ‘George will already have retired by the time we get there. You are tired from the journey and should rest here tonight. We can fetch him at first light.’
Frances wrested her arm free. ‘I will go alone if you do not wish to accompany me.’
She was halfway down the corridor when she heard his footsteps behind her. ‘Frances, wait,’ he said, as he caught up with her. ‘You know I will not let you go there unaccompanied.’
The warmth of his hand on hers eased her agitation, and they hurried together towards the outer courtyard.
The sound of drums striking a lively tune was almost drowned in the shouts of revellers as the carriage came to a halt outside the great hall. Frances glanced up at the brightly lit windows, as if expecting to see George’s face peering down, but she could make out only the silhouettes of ladies as they flitted past in the dance.
As she and Thomas mounted the sweeping staircase, lined on either side with vast paintings of biblical scenes, the noise from within the hall grew louder. One of the doors was flung open and a man staggered out. He took a few swaying paces before collapsing against a wall and sliding down it, his head lolling forward, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Frances steeled herself as she and her husband walked through the open doorway. The hall within was crowded with brightly dressed young courtiers, some dancing a galliard, others watching while they sipped wine and stuffed sweetmeats into their mouths. Frances’s gaze swept the room. She was in search of an official who could tell her where George was sleeping, but everywhere was a riot of russet silks and chinking glasses. Clasping Thomas’s hand, she pushed through the crowds, looking this way and that as they made their slow progress.
A tall man dressed in an elaborate masque costume came hurtling towards them, almost knocking Frances off her feet. Only the crush of bodies prevented her from crashing to the ground. But as she thrust out her arms to steady herself, she let go of Thomas’s hand. A fresh wave of revellers closed around her, concealing her husband from view.
She was almost at the far side of the hall now and could see a small recess behind a pillar that was mercifully empty. With fresh resolve, she was soon inside it, her back pressed against the cool marble of the pillar.
‘Will you not join the dance, sister?’
She froze.
‘I wonder that you did not take part in the masque,’ Edward continued. ‘I hear that you were quite the performer in your youth. But, then, you are a respectable wife now. Tell me, how is Sir Thomas? He has been so long absent that the king has quite forgotten him.’
Frances ignored the barb. ‘He is fully recovered and will resume his duties now that we are back at court.’ She glanced over her shoulder hoping to see her husband, but her eyes alighted only upon the red faces and dishevelled hair of strangers.
‘It was reported here that his life was despaired of. Yet you nursed him back to health.’
‘I thank God that He saw fit to spare him,’ she replied.
‘You should not be so modest, sister. Everyone here knows how skilled you are in such matters.’
You will have made sure of that. ‘Where is my son? You had no right to bring him here without my sanction.’
‘Or that of his father?’ He smiled, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. ‘But that would have been impossible, would it not, sister?’
She swallowed her rage. ‘Where is he?’ she repeated.
Edward gestured to the raised dais at the end of the hall, and Frances saw George standing next to Prince Henry, who was seated on an elaborate throne beneath a vast canopy of state. As she watched, the prince leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, then laughed uproariously. George laughed too, but as if he did not understand the joke. He was holding a bottle, which he raised to his lips. He took a swig, some of the wine spilling down his shirt, which was already marked with red blotches. Horrified, Frances surged forward, her brother following in her wake.
‘George!’ she called, as she came within a few feet of the dais.
Her son did not turn at her voice but continued to stare adoringly at the prince, who was regaling him and his other companions with some story. As she climbed the steps, the prince’s eyes flicked to her, showing irritation at being interrupted, then triumph when he realised who she was.
‘Lady Frances. What an unexpected pleasure.’ His words were as smooth as silk.
George whipped around and gazed up at his mother with a mixture of joy and alarm. He took a step towards her, then stopped, his cheeks reddening.
‘I have come to take my son home,’ Frances said, without preamble.
Henry stared at her as if waiting for her obeisance. When it became clear that she had no intention of making one, his expression hardened. ‘George is my guest, Lady Frances.’ A pause. ‘Unlike you.’
‘He is too young for such entertainment,’ she hissed, looking down at her son, whose face was now pale. She reached out and put an arm around his shoulders, but he shook it off.
‘Nonsense!’ the prince declared, smiling at the boy’s gesture of defiance. ‘I was only five when I attended my first masque. You cannot keep him hidden from society for ever, Lady Frances. He will grow to lack refinement, as well as learning. He expressed some curious ideas about the scriptures when he first arrived at St James’s. I have made him see reason, of course. Young minds drink in knowledge as a dried riverbed absorbs a sudden rainstorm. Don’t you agree, Lord Longford?’
Frances’s fingers itched to deliver a slap to his smiling face. She could not bear to look at her brother, who now stood by her side. ‘That is the very reason I brought my nephew here, Your Grace,’ Edward replied, with a deep bow. ‘I rejoice to see how he has flourished under your care.’
George was now swaying and clutching his stomach. She was about to step forward and take him from the dais before the prince could make any further remarks when she felt the warmth of a hand on her back. Thomas. He bowed before the prince.
‘My wife and I are indebted to you for your kindness to our son, Your Highness,’ he said, laying a hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder. ‘But it is late and we must return to Whitehall. His Majesty requires my attendance tomorrow.’
The prince opened his mouth to speak, but Thomas was already guiding George from the platform. Without troubling to bid farewell, either to the prince or her brother, she followed.
The courtyard was deserted when they emerged from the palace. Frances breathed in a lungful of the cool night air, willing it to cleanse her of the foetid stench of sweat and wine that had pervaded the hall. Her son was between her and Thomas, holding a hand of each. His eyelids had kept drooping as they had descended the stairs, but the shock of the cold jolted him awake. He made a small groan, bent over and vomited onto the cobbles.