CHAPTER 4

21 August

‘Ha!’ James exclaimed, as the dice clattered to a halt. ‘I have it again. Surrender your fortune, Somerset.’

Frances peered over Lady Grace’s shoulder and saw Somerset give a resigned grin, pushing the remainder of his coins towards the King. His mouth dropped as Villiers stepped forward and refilled his master’s glass. The young man paused for just a moment too long after performing this task, the flagon suspended in his slender fingers. Frances saw James’s eyes rest upon them and he inhaled deeply, as if trying to catch his lover’s scent. She knew that her husband had seen it too. He had been shocked, but not surprised, when she had told him what she had witnessed in the hunting lodge a few days before. ‘We must keep our counsel,’ he had urged.

Frances knew he was right. The secret would be out soon enough anyway. The King was doing little to disguise his growing infatuation.

‘That will be all, Villiers.’

Somerset’s voice, sharp as flint, sliced through the heavy silence. Still his rival did not move. Only when the King gave a reluctant nod did he bow and step back into the shadows.

‘Come, Thomas,’ James said. ‘It is just you and I now.’

Frances took a sip of claret and forced her attention back to her companion. ‘You will be glad to have your house to yourselves again,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband tells me that the King plans to depart for Nottingham before the week is out.’

Lady Grace smiled. ‘We are greatly honoured by his visits, of course.’ She continued in a low voice: ‘Though they do place a burden on our estate – and those of our neighbours. Sir Anthony has been obliged to offer recompense for the damage wreaked upon their crops by His Grace’s incessant hunting.’

Frances shot a quick look in the King’s direction, but he was too intent upon his game to heed their conversation. She knew it was the same wherever James stayed – Thomas had often spoken of it. He had tried to persuade his master to lay out his own funds as a means of securing goodwill, but to no avail. This king had ever been careless of his subjects’ welfare, she reflected.

‘I would be glad if the Queen would accompany her husband sometimes,’ the older woman went on, ‘but it seems she prefers to remain in London.’

It was true. For most of the years that Frances had served at court, Anne had lived in a separate household at Greenwich. She had claimed the air was more beneficial to her health than that of Whitehall or St James’s, but her recent move to Denmark House on the Strand exposed this as a lie. It was hardly a secret that she could not bear her husband’s company – or he hers.

‘The King was ever best when furthest from the Queen,’ she whispered.

‘You have the luck of the devil, Thomas!’

Both women turned to the King, who was staring in mock-horror at Frances’s husband.

‘If you did not keep my hounds in such good order, I would have you whipped,’ he added, with a grin, as he handed Thomas a large pile of coins.

‘Another game, Your Grace?’

‘And let you further deplete my treasury? No, Tom, we will have no more sport this evening. Besides,’ he added, casting a glance over his shoulder, ‘I am tired after the day’s hunting so will seek my bed.’

The other men around the table rose as the King prepared to depart. Somerset was at his side, as if fearful that Villiers would forget his position and offer to accompany their master. As he reached the door, James turned and addressed Thomas again. ‘I have a mind to visit my hounds tomorrow morning, before we set out for the hunt. Bring some of the venison from tonight’s supper. Oswyn will enjoy feasting on that.’

Thomas bowed his assent. The affection that James lavished on his buckhounds – Oswyn in particular – had always surprised Frances. Thomas would often tell her of the latest gift he had bestowed upon them, from bejewelled gold collars to the choicest morsels from the royal kitchens. They were better served than even his closest attendants.

Frances watched as the King shuffled out of the room, Somerset half a pace behind. Thomas held out his hand for her to accompany him. She was glad to retire. Though it was still early, she felt unusually tired.

‘Goodnight, Sir Anthony, Lady Grace,’ Thomas said, as he and Frances made their obeisance.

Villiers was still standing by the door. He made the slightest of bows as they passed, his eyes glittering in the gloom.

The sun was already high by the time Frances awoke the next morning. She twisted towards her husband’s side of the bed but knew he would have risen early for the hunt and to accompany his master on the visit to the hounds that preceded it. It would be many hours yet before they returned. Perhaps she would go for a ride herself today, she mused, as she summoned the will to lift her head from the soft down pillow. She had not yet explored all of the parkland – her excursion to the hunting lodge had deterred her from venturing further than the formal gardens surrounding the house. But she would be returning to Tyringham Hall in two days’ time, as soon as the King and his entourage left for Nottingham, so she should make the most of the opportunity. The thought of being parted from Thomas again made her heart contract. Now, more than ever, she longed to be with him – their son, too.

Raising herself onto her elbows, she experienced a wave of nausea and hurried to the ewer. When at last the retching had subsided, she sank onto the bed, exhausted. She had been right, then. She had only missed one of her courses, so it was early for the sickness to begin. Perhaps this child would prove even lustier than John, who had wriggled and kicked inside her belly for many weeks before the birth. Gingerly, she edged herself back into bed, fearful in case this small movement sparked a fresh onslaught.

Frances did not know how long she had been sleeping when she was awoken by the sound of the door latch lifting. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she peered at her husband. Her smile of welcome faded as she saw his agitation.

‘Is the hunt over already?’ she ventured.

He did not answer but came to sit next to her on the bed.

‘Oswyn is dead,’ he said, without preamble.

Frances sat upright. ‘The King’s favourite hound?’

Thomas nodded miserably, then put his head into his hands.

‘We had only ridden out as far as Fotheringhay when I noticed he was lagging behind the rest of the pack, though he always outstrips them with ease. By the time I had dismounted, he had collapsed. It was then that he began to vomit. Soon, he was coughing up blood. I tried to calm him, but he was panting so fast and his eyes were wild with terror.’ Frances reached out to touch his arm, and he raised grief-stricken eyes to hers. ‘The poor beast died in torment, and there was nothing I could do to help.’

Frances knew he loved the hounds as much as his master did. ‘It was not your fault, Thomas,’ she said gently, taking both of his hands in hers.

‘The King turned back as soon as he realised Oswyn was missing,’ he continued. ‘I will never forget the look on his face when he saw him lying dead in my arms. It was as if his own son had been taken from him.’

Frances mused that Prince Henry’s death had caused the King a good deal less grief than the loss of one of his cherished hounds. ‘What do you think was the cause?’ she asked.

Thomas shook his head. ‘I cannot think. He was in good spirits when the King and I visited the stables this morning. I took him the venison, as requested.’

‘Perhaps it was too rich for him to stomach?’ Frances suggested.

‘He has had it many times before.’

She fell silent. They had eaten the same meat last night. Even if it had turned bad so quickly, it would not have caused such violent symptoms: the hound would have had a brief bout of sickness and recovered. As she held her husband’s gaze, she saw that he knew it too.

Oswyn had been poisoned.