Frances peered into the looking glass, running her fingers along her neck. It was still tender, but the redness had faded. She had made a paste with egg white and alum to conceal the mark and was grateful that the turn in the weather had given her the excuse to wear a high-necked gown. She was grateful, too, that Thomas had not been there to see it. He had left for Hertfordshire on the day of her visit to St James’s. Count Frederick had not joined the hunting party this time. Evidently he had not shown sufficient prowess, and the king had been heard to grumble that he did not wish to be hampered by him again. Frances wondered idly whether it would hinder Frederick’s prospects as a suitor. It hardly seemed to matter now.
Her husband would return this evening. Though she longed to see him, the prospect made her uneasy, too. He had been quiet on the morning of his departure, his eyes searching hers as he bade her goodbye. The lies would soon stop, she told herself. When she had fulfilled this final act and freed herself from the plotting and contagion of court, they could live in peaceful harmony, cherishing each other and their children.
Nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest.
Frances stared at her reflection. She was a fool to think that what she concealed would fade with time. It would remain as a canker, slowly spreading until it choked the love between her and Thomas.
With an impatient sigh, she leaned forward and blew out the candle. She must not lose her resolve now.
The sky had lifted to a leaden grey by the time Frances reached the Tower. She had half an hour at most before she must board a boat back to Whitehall. At sight of the dark outline of the imposing keep, Frances felt a chill run through her. Would she soon return here a prisoner – a traitor? She knew all too well the horrors that Tom and his fellow plotters had suffered. But her crime would be poisoning as well as treason, and the punishment for that was to be boiled alive.
The possibility of discovery had played endlessly on her mind, these past few days, so that now it seemed as real and insurmountable as the solid stone walls of the fortress before her. She had considered her means of escape, should the hue and cry be raised. She could go at once to Whitehall, flee with her husband and son under cover of darkness. They could be far from London by the time their absence was noticed. But where would they go? There were no safe havens in this kingdom, and she could not bear the thought of exile in some foreign country, far from everything they knew and held dear.
Far from Longford.
She could never forsake her beloved home, her son’s inheritance. What she planned carried great risk, but the rewards would be worth it. Longford would be restored to Catholic hands and this kingdom would be saved from another heretic king, even worse than the one who now sat on the throne. She sucked in the cold morning air, then walked briskly towards the outer bastion.
The guards eyed her curiously. She had only been there two days before. Her visits were not usually so frequent. She smiled, exhaling with relief as they nodded her through.
This time Raleigh was expecting her. He stood to greet her with his usual warmth when the guard let her in. ‘Lady Frances, it is a pleasure to see you, as always.’
He seemed unconcerned, though he knew the purpose of her visit all too well.
She did not take the seat he proffered.
‘You have it?’ she asked, without preamble.
Raleigh spread his hands. ‘My dear, you will wear out the flagstones if you continue thus. Pray, sit.’
Frances stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the chair opposite him. ‘I have little time.’
‘I know, I know.’ He patted her knee. ‘I do not wish to detain you but the guard will grow suspicious if you leave after only a few moments. Besides, there are details to discuss.’ He reached into his doublet and drew out a small piece of folded linen. It was tied with a cord at one end. He glanced at the door, then handed it to her. ‘The Arabs call it Satan’s Apple,’ he said, with a slow smile.
Frances felt its weight in her hand. Slowly, she lifted it to her nose. Even through the layers of fabric, she could smell the earthy, slightly citric scent of the mandrake root within. It hinted at something wholesome, healing. If taken in small doses, it could cure all manner of ailments. But a few drops more and it was deadly. She put it carefully in the pocket of her gown, next to her rosary. They would make excellent bedfellows. ‘You are fortunate to have such a wide circle of friends, Sir Walter,’ she said.
‘A sailor makes many acquaintances on his travels. Each one has something to give: a fine wine, an old fable, an exotic spice … The old queen used to delight in the treasures I brought her. But none was as valuable as the one I have just given you, Lady Frances,’ he added, suddenly grave.
‘I will use it well,’ she vowed.
‘The prince still plans to dine with his sister this evening?’
Frances nodded. ‘Yes – in Her Grace’s apartments. Count Frederick will be there too.’
‘And you are sure that Henry will not act against you before then?’
‘Quite sure. The king will not return from the hunt until this evening so will take supper in private. His son will desire as great an audience as possible when he levels his accusations against me. Tomorrow is All Hallows when the court will gather for the feast. It is the perfect opportunity.’
‘His Grace was ever one for theatrical gestures,’ Raleigh agreed. ‘They play to his natural vanity. How sad that he will be denied this particular spectacle.’ He smiled. ‘And how apt that he will breathe his last on the eve when we remember the dead.’
Frances’s mouth twisted in distaste. Though she was certain of what she had to do, she could not rejoice in it as Raleigh did. She stood and crossed to the window. The light was gathering quickly now and the sky was tinged pale yellow. Her gaze wandered to a solid, squat tower on the far side of the green, close to the one in which she had been tortured. A light flickered in a narrow window on the upper floor. As Frances watched, she saw a shadow move across it, then grow still. She strained her eyes to see. It appeared to be the outline of a woman, but perhaps the light was playing tricks with her.
‘Lady Arbella is abroad early this morning.’
Raleigh’s voice made her start. She turned to see him gazing at the same spot, over her shoulder.
Frances had not known the lady’s quarters lay so close. ‘How does she fare?’ she asked, her eyes on the shadow.
Raleigh gave a heavy sigh. ‘She has been driven near mad by her captivity, I am told,’ he said, ‘and means to starve herself to death.’
Frances’s heart lurched with pity. Though she had disliked the haughty woman and had never wished to see her crowned, it pained her to think of her wasted body and wretched mind as she waited out the endless hours until death would claim her. ‘Is there any news of Seymour?’
‘Still in Flanders, as far as anyone knows. There is talk of him amassing a huge army with the King of Spain and sailing across the Channel to seize the throne. But it is only idle chatter. Seymour is not the stuff of which kings are made.’
As she watched the shadowy figure, Frances thought she saw a hand lift in greeting – or blessing, perhaps. She raised her own and pressed it to the glass. She might have saluted Arbella as queen, if Fate had twisted otherwise. Increasingly, it seemed that the distance between success and failure, righteousness and sin, was as insubstantial as a thread of gossamer silk.
‘God speed your endeavours, Lady Frances,’ Raleigh whispered behind her.
Frances lit the last of the sconces in the princess’s chamber. The soft light reflected off the gilded frames and the intricate tracery around the windows, making the room appear so breathtakingly beautiful that she almost forgot what must take place there. She went to the large oak table, laden with wine and sweet delicacies, picked up one of the glasses and held it to the light. It would be easy enough to slip the tincture into the prince’s wine. She would take care to do so towards the end of the evening, in case the mandrake should take effect sooner than she predicted. If it seeped into his blood while he slept, it would slow his heart gradually, luring him towards death as gently as a mother might coax her child to sleep with a lullaby.
She allowed her mind to drift ahead, imagining the consternation that news of the prince’s death would cause. Elizabeth would be distraught. She loved her brother deeply, even though his control of her had become ever more suffocating. Frances hoped that, in time, her mistress would draw comfort from her new-found freedom. Her father had never shown the same obsessive interest in her marriage as his son. Neither was he so opposed to the idea of his daughter marrying a Catholic, if the rewards were great enough. Henry’s death would at least hold out the prospect that Elizabeth might take a husband of the true faith. But Frances no longer felt any compulsion to influence her mistress’s choice. Lady Vaux must find another pawn for her game. Tonight would be her final act – and it would be hers alone.
‘I hope you have not tasted our mistress’s wine?’
Frances set down the glass slowly. ‘Good evening, Blanche.’
The young woman’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. She was dressed in a new gown of pale blue satin, very fine. Her fair hair was swept up in an elegant coiffure and a necklace of sapphires sparkled at her throat. All for the prince’s benefit, no doubt. She was beautiful, Frances had to admit. It must have been no chore for her brother to bed her. Had he told her about the indenture? If he had, Blanche was an arch dissembler, for her behaviour towards Frances had not altered. She was as coolly disdainful as ever.
‘The marriage treaty is agreed, they say,’ Blanche remarked. ‘It awaits only the king’s signature. There will be even more cause for celebration at tomorrow’s feast, I am sure.’
She watched Frances closely. Even more? So she was right. The prince planned to accuse her there. ‘What else shall we be celebrating, Blanche?’ she asked lightly.
‘Why, All Hallows Day, of course,’ Blanche replied, with a sly smile.
At that moment, the princess emerged from her bedchamber. ‘I hope you have not been arguing, ladies,’ she said, with a frown. ‘You remind me of two cats with their backs arched, ready to pounce.’
‘Of course not, Your Grace,’ Blanche said, with a trill of laughter.
Frances merely bobbed a curtsy and smiled.
‘My brother and Frederick will be here at any moment. Is everything made ready?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Frances replied. ‘There is food enough for half the court, and a plentiful supply of wine. I ordered the Rhenish.’
Elizabeth nodded her approval. Frances noticed her hand shake slightly as she smoothed her skirts. She must be dreading the evening. Although she had got on well enough with Frederick during their private encounters, her brother would be pressuring for more than the polite, stilted exchanges they had shared. He wanted evidence that his sister would comply with his wishes.
All three women started at the sharp rap on the door. Blanche was first to it. Frances saw her curtsy. The prince. She waited for sight of the man whose breath she would stop before the night was over.
But it was Count Frederick who walked in first, head bowed and eyes darting nervously about the room. His childlike awkwardness was thrown into even sharper relief by the princess’s easy grace. ‘Good evening, Count Frederick,’ she said. ‘You are most welcome. May I offer you some wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said quickly, a blush creeping over his cheeks.
‘Well!’ Elizabeth declared, after a prolonged silence. ‘I cannot think what is keeping Henry. He is not usually so behind his time. Perhaps we should be seated.’
Frederick nodded and went to the table. The princess chose a seat at the opposite end. If etiquette had not prevented it, Frances would have come to her mistress’s rescue by making conversation. As it was, Elizabeth attempted a few remarks, but they elicited only a smile or a nod from her companion. Frances sensed her rising exasperation.
Two chimes rang out from the clock above the fireplace. Frances glanced at it. The prince was now half an hour late. What if he had decided to act sooner than she had predicted and was even now waiting in the king’s privy chamber? No, she reasoned, his father might not return for another two hours yet and Henry would not keep the count waiting for that long.
Several more minutes passed. Then, at last, the sound of rapid footsteps could be heard. Instinctively, Frances’s hand closed over the tiny glass phial in her pocket. It was almost time. She listened to the low murmur of voices on the other side of the door. Then it was flung open and Henry’s chamberlain strode in.
He gave a swift bow before addressing the princess. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your brother the prince can no longer attend. He is gravely ill.’
Frances’s mind raced. Was this a trick? Was he even now making the final preparations for her destruction?
‘Henry!’ the princess exclaimed, her face ashen. ‘I saw him only yesterday and he seemed well. A little tired, perhaps. What has happened?’
The man’s face darkened. ‘It was very quick, Your Grace. His Highness was fencing with one of his attendants this afternoon when he suddenly threw down his sword and collapsed, clutching his stomach. By the time he had been carried to his chamber, he was in a high fever.’
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth.
Frances forced herself to focus. ‘Were there any other symptoms?’ she asked.
The chamberlain looked at her with reproof, then turned back to address the princess, as if she had asked the question. ‘There was a slight rash on his stomach.’
‘My poor brother,’ Elizabeth murmured, almost to herself. ‘I should go to him.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Frances said. ‘Until we know what ails him, you must not put yourself at risk of contagion. I am sure his physicians are taking good care of him.’
She imagined them now, with their leeches and potions. They were more likely to be inflicting harm than good.
‘Well, give him this token of my love and esteem,’ the princess said, taking off her ring and handing it to the attendant. ‘And God speed his recovery.’
The man gave a curt bow and strode out. Seizing his opportunity to escape, the count stood abruptly, made obeisance and followed in his wake.
Frances glanced at Blanche, whose face was marked more with disappointment than concern. She would have to flaunt her finery on another occasion. Clearly having no patience to comfort their mistress, she too left the room.
As soon as the door had closed, Frances rushed to the princess’s side.
‘Oh, Frances! This is my fault!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘I have been dreading this evening so much that I prayed to God He might spare me. But not like this!’ Her face sank into her hands.
Frances put an arm around her shoulders. The princess’s anxiety and grief contrasted sharply with her own feelings. Although she was frustrated to have been denied the chance to put her plan into action, she could hope now that God might do her work for her.