It was already dusk when Frances returned to her apartment. The princess had excused herself from that evening’s entertainments on account of a headache, but had asked Frances to keep her company in her privy chamber. She had said little at first and Frances had maintained a tactful silence, knowing her mistress’s temperament well enough to judge that it was better to wait for her to unburden herself unprompted.
At length, Elizabeth had confided that she had received a miniature of Count Frederick. It had not pleased her. Frances had understood why when she had shown it to her. With his large round eyes and plump cheeks, he looked much younger than his fifteen years – little more than a child, really, Frances reflected, as she studied the likeness. His lace collar was so high around his neck that it appeared to be choking him, and his narrow shoulders hinted at fragility.
But Frances knew she could not be complacent. For as long as Prince Henry championed the match, his sister would offer no objection. Indeed, she would make herself as pleasing as possible to her new suitor to show her gratitude to her beloved brother. Even so, Frederick’s physical shortcomings, with Lord Carr’s remarks about the king’s stance, gave Frances cause to hope that she might yet steer her mistress towards a Catholic suitor.
Lord Carr’s other remarks had played on her mind, too. Life is sometimes short, Lady Frances. Those words had come back to her time and again, sparking a torrent of dark thoughts. It was treason even to speak of the king’s death, let alone do anything to hasten it. The same was not true of his son and heir. She tried to dispel the notion. Even if Henry’s murder would rid the kingdom of a wicked heretic, it was sinful in the eyes of God, she reminded herself. He had commanded: Thou shalt not kill. Anyone who disobeyed would suffer the fires of Hell. Yet still the idea had gnawed at her, invading her dreams when she finally surrendered to sleep.
The sconces had not yet been lit and in the gloom of the corridor she was obliged to fumble for the latch. She startled when it was suddenly lifted but relaxed when Thomas opened the door. Her smile faded when she saw his expression. Did he know?
‘Forgive my tardiness,’ she said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘The princess was a little fretful this evening and it took me a long time to calm her.’ She drew off her cloak and draped it over a chair. Seeing that a jug of wine had been set on the table, she made towards it but Thomas stepped in front of her. His eyes were clouded with something she could not quite fathom. Then she realised it was fear.
Without warning, he clasped her to him so tightly that he almost squeezed the breath from her. She could feel the rapid pulse of his heart against her cheek.
‘Tell me what has happened.’
He did not answer at first, but held her even closer, as if he feared she might suddenly fade away.
‘Come – sit with me by the fire,’ he said, releasing her at last. ‘There is a chill to the air tonight, is there not?’ He was speaking quickly now, his movements awkward as he pulled out a chair for her.
‘You are making me fearful, Thomas,’ she said, a little too brightly, as she waited for him to speak.
He was immediately chastened. ‘Forgive me,’ he replied, running his hand through his hair. ‘That was not my intention.’ He gulped some wine.
Frances noticed his hand tremble as he set down the glass.
‘I accompanied the king on a hunt today, as you know,’ he began. ‘He did not plan to return until sunset, but our party was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger carrying grave tidings.’
Frances tried to stop her mind racing on, but she knew from her husband’s behaviour that whatever those tidings were they must concern her.
‘A conspiracy has been uncovered in Lancashire,’ he went on.
Frances relaxed slightly. She had no connection in that part of the country. Neither, to her knowledge, did Lady Vaux’s or Lady Drummond’s networks stretch that far north.
‘Catholics?’ she asked.
Thomas shook his head.
‘No, Frances.’ A pause. ‘Witches.’
The word seemed to hang in the air as she stared back at him. There had been no talk of witches at court for many months, the subject of the princess’s marriage and her brother’s ongoing feud with the king overshadowing all else. Frances had even heard one courtier say that James was more interested in hunting foxes than witches these days – though she had hardly dared give it credence.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was as parched as the cracked earth in the old herb garden.
‘Twelve people have been arrested and await trial at the York assizes,’ Thomas continued. ‘They are accused of bewitching one man to death and causing several others to fall grievously ill.’
‘So it was not a conspiracy against His Majesty?’ Frances asked.
‘No, but he has taken a great interest in the matter. When the messenger told of how several of the women have already confessed to making a pact with the devil and letting him suck their blood, the king became greatly agitated. He questioned the man closely for an hour, devouring every word as if it came from God Himself. By the end, he was alight with such a passion that I have not seen the like in him before – even for his favourites. He—’ Her husband shook his head slightly.
‘What is it, Thomas?’ she asked quietly, holding his gaze until she saw his shoulders sag, as if defeated.
‘It is nothing. He was in a frenzy, that is all, and seemed no longer master of his actions. After the conference was over, he crossed to the stag he had slain and ripped open its belly with his knife, then stamped the beast’s entrails into the soil.’
A wave of nausea swept over Frances and she leaned forward, her head in her hands. She was only vaguely aware of her husband placing his arm around her shoulders, whether to comfort or steady her she could not tell. He continued to hold her as he began to speak again.
‘It is as if the news has ignited something deep inside him, given him a purpose that he has lacked for several years. Already he has issued orders for the suspects to be searched for the Devil’s Mark and has dispatched his own witch-pricker there for the purpose.’
Frances shivered, despite the warmth from the fire. She raised her eyes to her husband’s to rid herself of the image of the blade as it jabbed at her flesh, probing ever deeper until she cried out in fear and pain. ‘He will not stop there,’ she said at last. ‘I have seen the same light in his eyes, have suffered at the hands of his interrogators. Now that he has been reminded of the pleasure it gives him, he will hunt down other witches to sate his appetite. And it will not be long before his gaze alights upon me.’
Thomas looked stricken but said nothing. She knew she had spoken his own fear and that he could not lie to her by denying it.
‘I will not let any harm befall you, Frances,’ he vowed, clasping her hands as he knelt before her. ‘I cannot lose you, not now that we are – that you have come to feel for me what I have long felt for you.’
Her heart swelled as she looked down at him, his head bowed. ‘Thomas …’ She trailed off, suddenly uncertain. He raised his eyes to her. ‘It is not only your wife whom you need to protect.’
‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘George too – I know that. If anything were to happen to you—’
‘Not just George,’ she interrupted, taking his hand and guiding it to her stomach.
Thomas’s hand froze, like that of a statue. Then his eyes flew up to hers. ‘You are with child?’ he said, in wonder.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded. ‘I think so. I have been so tired lately and find the thought of food abhorrent at times, though at others it is as if my hunger will never be satisfied. It was so with George.’
‘How long …’ His eyes, too, were glistening.
‘I cannot be sure, but I have missed two courses now so perhaps two months – three at most.’
Thomas sat back on his heels, as if winded. Frances watched a succession of emotions cross his face but did not know which held sway. ‘Are you glad?’ she ventured, trying hard to keep the fear from her voice.
His features lifted and he gave a bark of laughter. ‘Glad? Frances, you have made me happier than I have ever been in my life!’ he exclaimed, then clasped her to him tightly.
She stroked his hair as he pressed his face against her belly. But then he pulled back suddenly, as if fearing he had been too rough.
‘It’s all right, Thomas.’ She smiled. ‘I am not made of glass – and neither is our child.’
He placed his hand on her stomach again, more gently this time. ‘That may be so,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘But you are both far more precious.’ He cupped her face with his hands and gazed at her, his eyes alight with joy. ‘I will not let anything happen to you – to either of you.’ His smile faded as he spoke, and fear assailed her as she thought of their earlier conversation. How precarious life was in this court, she reflected bitterly, where happiness was as fleeting as sunshine in a cloud-laden sky.
But then Thomas leaned forward and kissed her, and her fear began to dissipate as she savoured the warmth of his mouth on hers.