Frances studied the prince’s face. His skin was so pallid that it gave him an almost ethereal appearance. His dark eyes never left her.
She remembered the portrait being painted soon after she had first come to court. He had been ten years old then, but already insufferable in his pride and arrogance. How much worse would he become if he survived beyond his eighteen years?
There was no sound from the chamber beyond, though Frances strained to listen. Henry had insisted that the princess go in alone. No doubt he intended to use the opportunity to press her on the matter of her marriage, find out how well she liked the count. Or perhaps he was already slandering his sister’s favourite attendant.
Frances turned at a soft sound behind her. William Cecil entered the room. She made to rise but he gestured for her to remain seated and bowed.
‘Lord Cranborne.’
How like his father the young man had grown, she thought, though he was tall and straight-limbed. His lips were slightly parted, as if weighing his words before speaking them.
‘His Grace will take comfort from seeing his sister, I am sure,’ he said at last. ‘It was good of you to accompany her, considering the risks.’
Frances eyed him closely. What risks did he refer to? ‘Though we have received many reports from St James’s, the princess was anxious to see Prince Henry for herself and be reassured that he is out of danger.’
William gave a small smile. ‘Your mistress is very wise. My father always said that one should judge a courtier by his actions, for his words are meaningless.’
He was still dressed in mourning, Frances noticed. She wondered how deeply he had grieved his father’s passing. They had served different masters and had seldom been seen together at court, but that signified little. She had rarely seen her own father since she had come to Whitehall, but the bond between them had never weakened. Neither had her pain at his loss. ‘That is perhaps how we should judge all men, Lord Cranborne,’ she replied.
William seemed to hesitate, then came to sit close to her. ‘I will always be grateful to you, Lady Frances,’ he said, in a low voice.
She looked up at him in surprise.
‘You eased my father’s suffering greatly and gave him more life than he would have enjoyed if you had not attended him. There are few enough people at court who would have done the same. He was not well liked.’ He paused. ‘And you, Lady Frances, had less cause than any to help him.’
She held his steady gaze.
‘I know how he persecuted you,’ he continued, when she did not reply. ‘He told me of it, soon after I began my service here. The prince had made some remark about you, after we met for the lion-baiting at the Tower that day. He said he would not have a witch serving his sister.’
So Henry had been intent upon her destruction from the beginning. She glanced towards his chamber door.
‘Henry would say nothing further, so I asked my father about it.’ His voice was barely a whisper now. ‘He told me you were innocent, that he had brought the accusation against you to win favour with the king.’
Frances had known it to be true, but to hear the words spoken aloud smote her. She had been nothing more than a pawn in Cecil’s game. And now the prince had taken up the pieces. ‘I am no witch, Lord Cranborne,’ she said at last. ‘I have only ever used my skills for good, not evil.’
Until now.
The voice she heard was Thomas’s. Her heart lurched.
‘I know that, and I am deeply sorry for everything you suffered at my father’s hands.’ He looked down for a moment. ‘He was sorry too, Lady Frances.’
She opened her mouth to protest but he held up his hand. ‘Please – let me continue.’ He took a breath. ‘Our chaplain attended him at Marlborough. He said that my father was in great wretchedness of mind and took no solace from the rites that the old priest performed. He begged to make confession, though it is considered heresy now.’
Frances drew a breath.
‘Seeing his distress, our chaplain eventually agreed,’ William went on, his face ashen. ‘My father told him of his crimes against you, that he would have seen you hanged, though he knew you to be innocent. Only when the priest had assured him of God’s forgiveness did he quieten.’
There was a long silence. Frances tried to order her thoughts but she was still reeling from what she had heard. Even after his private chapel had been discovered at Hatfield, she had never quite believed the rumours that Cecil had been a closet Catholic. To act so contrary to his beliefs seemed impossible. But now she understood that he had spent his life sacrificing those same beliefs upon the altar of his ambition. Little wonder he had suffered such torment as death approached. He might have confessed many other crimes with his final breath. That it was his actions against her that had plagued him most shocked her to the core.
‘My father raised me in the true faith, Lady Frances,’ he whispered. ‘Though he could never express it in life, I mean to honour his death by restoring this kingdom to the Catholic fold.’
The world seemed to shift around her.
‘The prince is an even greater heretic than his father. England will surely be damned if he lives to take the throne. But his younger brother is sympathetic to the Catholic cause. He might become more so, in time.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
William’s eyes burned with sincerity. ‘Because I know how you have tried to advance our cause – how you might still.’
‘What do you mean, Lord Cranborne?’ she said slowly.
‘You are wise not to trust the son of your enemy,’ he said with the flicker of a smile. ‘But you may depend upon my actions, even if you do not believe my words. We have a friend in common, Lady Frances. They told me to expect you.’
Raleigh?
‘I will do everything I can to assist, of course,’ he continued, as Frances tried to hide her confusion. She had been naïve enough to think she was acting alone.
At that moment, the door of the prince’s chamber swung open and the princess stepped out. ‘Oh, Frances, he is so much better!’ she exclaimed, her face alight with joy. ‘He is no longer feverish and his cheeks are rosier than I have ever seen them.’
‘I am glad for your sake as much as his, ma’am,’ she replied. ‘I know how anxious you have been.’
‘Does he require anything, Your Grace?’ William asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘He still has no appetite – but that will return soon enough, I am sure,’ she said quickly. ‘But he asked to see you, Frances. He knows how distressed I have been and wants to make sure that you are caring for me.’ She smiled. ‘He is such a dear brother and thinks only of my happiness.’
Frances bowed her head to disguise the alarm in her eyes. ‘I shall be glad to attend him,’ she said, as she rose to her feet.
She glanced at William as she curtsied to her mistress. He was watching her closely.
Frances knocked quietly on the chamber door and it was opened a moment later by one of the yeomen guards.
‘You may leave us now,’ Henry called.
She waited as the two men filed out of the room, then walked slowly in, closing the door softly behind her.
The chamber was dimly lit, and the aroma of beeswax did not quite conceal the stale odour of sweat. Frances tried to calm her breathing as she made a slow curtsy.
‘Do not stand there like some coy girl, Lady Frances,’ the prince commanded. ‘We both know you are very far from that.’
She gave a tight smile, jaw clenched. The stench grew stronger as she moved closer to the bed. Along with the sweat, she caught the sickly smell of decay. Henry was propped up against a large stack of pillows. His face was flushed, his hair matted at the temples. ‘How is Your Grace?’
He smirked. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Lady Frances, but as you can see I am much improved,’ he sneered. ‘You must have thought you would escape the rope a second time.’
Her gaze did not waver as she stared back at him. ‘On the contrary,’ she replied. ‘It grieved me to see my mistress so distraught. I understand you wish to discuss my care of her?’ she added, in mock innocence.
‘Do not toy with me,’ he murmured, leaning towards her. ‘You know as well as I that my recovery spells death for you. That—’
He was seized by a violent fit of coughing. Frances watched as his chest heaved with exertion. His shirt lay open and the skin beneath had the soft sheen of wax. As she looked more closely, she noticed a slight red mark just beneath his collarbone. Smallpox? No, it was more like a freckle than the angry red sores that marked the disease.
Henry reached across to the jug on the table next to him, but stopped, his hand suspended above it, as another fit overcame him. Frances poured him some of the ale and held it to his lips. He gulped at it, then sank back against the pillows, gasping.
She waited.
‘This sickness will soon pass,’ he rasped, when his breathing had slowed. ‘Already the fever has broken and I can feel the humour draining from my lungs. My physicians tell me that I will be well enough to receive my father within two days at the most.’
His eyes never left hers. She understood the threat that his words carried.
‘I pray that God will speed your recovery,’ she said.
The prince cocked his head, his lips twitching with amusement. Frances shifted slightly and felt the cool glass of the phial through the linen of her skirt.
‘Indeed?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you are more of a fool than I thought.’