‘Is there any more news of the prince?’
Frances took another sip of wine and pretended not to listen to the conversation on the opposite side of the table. She had spent the day trying to comfort the princess, assure her that all was well, while she had prayed that it was not. Eventually, Elizabeth had retired to bed, exhausted with worry, and had sent her apologies to her father for this evening’s feast.
‘None that I know of. They say he was delirious last night and ranted about sorcery and bewitchments.’
Frances’s blood ran cold.
‘Was this witches’ work, do you think?’ another asked.
‘Who’s to say? But when he recovers, I’m sure he will come looking for whoever cast the spell.’
Thomas looked anxiously at his wife. ‘Ignore their idle prattle, my love. They have little enough news to feast upon so seek to invent their own.’
She gave him a weak smile and toyed with the stew, which was rapidly congealing on her plate.
‘I have made my own enquiries, on behalf of the king,’ he added quietly.
She swung around to look at him. ‘Oh?’
‘His Majesty did not wish it to be known that he was enquiring after his son’s health, so asked me to find out for him. I have it on good authority that Henry is much recovered. His fever has broken and he is already calling for ale.’
Frances tried to hide her disappointment. ‘The princess will be relieved to hear it. I must call on her before we retire.’
She said little for the remainder of the meal. Her mind was too preoccupied with the prince. She knew with a sickening certainty that the gossips were right. Henry would use his illness as proof that he had been bewitched. And there was only one possible perpetrator. Together with the stories that Edward had supplied, the prince’s sudden sickness would eradicate any doubts as to her guilt.
Her thoughts ran on. If the prince recovered, she could not wait for another opportunity like the private dinner to administer the poison. By the time that such an event took place – if it ever did – Henry would have had her accused and imprisoned.
‘Frances?’
Her husband was waiting for an answer.
‘Forgive me, my love. My mind was elsewhere,’ she said, giving his hand a pat. ‘What did you say?’
‘It was no matter.’ His smile did not reach his eyes.
All of a sudden, there was a loud clatter at the end of the hall. All eyes turned towards the dais, where the king had staggered to his feet, his gilded chair lying on its side behind him. ‘To the prince!’ he cried, swaying precariously.
He thrust his glass to the ceiling, causing most of its contents to spill onto the floor. There was a brief silence before others repeated the toast. Frances stole a glance at her husband as he took a sip of wine. She raised her own glass to her lips but the wine that had warmed her belly earlier now tasted bitter. She swallowed it, fearing it might choke her.
Frances had attended the princess early the following morning, as much out of hope that she might glean some information about the prince as for concern about her mistress. The young woman had emerged from her chamber looking as if she had not slept at all. The same dark shadows marked her own eyes. The night had passed agonisingly slowly.
None of the diversions that Frances had suggested had won favour with Elizabeth, and they now sat in silence. The long hours of waiting reminded Frances of that other time, several years before, when she had been desperate for news of Tom, seizing upon reports that the gunpowder had been lit, the king and his parliament destroyed. It had all proved false. She shook away the memory of what had happened next. It was still too painful, and always would be.
Even Falstaff seemed to have picked up on the atmosphere and had sat on the footstool all day, his head resting on his paws and a mournful expression in his eyes. Little wonder that Blanche had found an excuse to absent herself, Frances thought. Not that she was sorry for it. Her impatient sighs and petulant remarks had grated on Frances’s nerves.
The light was already fading by the time the messenger arrived from St James’s. The princess leaped to her feet and waited, ashen-faced, for him to speak.
‘Well?’ she demanded, reaching out to clasp Frances’s hand.
‘His Highness’s condition is a little improved, Your Grace,’ the man announced. ‘The physicians say that his fever has broken but he is still very weak so they have bled him.’
Frances felt the princess’s hand relax.
‘That is good news!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, the colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘Pray give him my dearest love and tell him I will visit him tomorrow.’
‘Is that wise, Your Grace?’ Frances asked. ‘We do not yet know if the contagion has passed.’
‘I cannot spend another day here, eking out the hours with worry and waiting.’
Frances could not deny that she felt the same.
‘If my brother is not well enough to receive me tomorrow, we shall stay at St James’s until the following day. I would like to be close at hand. You will come with me, Frances? I am sure that Henry will not mind if I am with you alone, just this once. We are hardly likely to discuss my marriage at such a time.’
Frances knew it was not a question. The thought of accompanying the princess to St James’s was akin to entering a lion’s den. But she smiled and agreed.
‘Then it is decided,’ Elizabeth declared. She turned back to the messenger. ‘Pray ensure that chambers are made up for Lady Tyringham and myself. We will ride over to the palace as soon as it is light.’
‘St James’s?’
Thomas was aghast. She gave a small nod.
‘But what if the contagion has spread? I cannot let you risk your life – and that of our child – by going there.’
Frances took his hand in hers and kissed it. She smiled up at him. ‘We will be quite safe, I assure you,’ she said. ‘There is no report of any member of the prince’s household falling sick, and they would surely have done so by now if it was the sweat or smallpox. The likelihood is that he has had a cold in his head or some other trifling complaint.’
Thomas did not return her smile. ‘I do not want you to go.’
Frances knew he suspected she was concealing something from him. Several times since his return from Hertfordshire, she had caught him staring at her. He had been quieter than usual, too, and she had filled the silences with idle chatter, fearful lest he ask the questions that she sensed were swirling in his mind. He could not know, she kept reminding herself. She was seeing meaning where none existed.
She wrapped her arms around him now, pressing her face into his chest so that he could not see the fear in her eyes. ‘I will be gone for a day – two at most,’ she assured him.
He did not reply but she could feel the rapid beat of his heart next to her cheek.
‘Promise me you will do nothing to hazard your life,’ he murmured into her hair.
She thought of the glass phial that still lay hidden inside her pocket. ‘I promise,’ she whispered.