CHAPTER 30

27 February

The chimneys of the palace were coming into view now, the elaborately twisting brickwork silhouetted against the deepening grey sky. Frances looked at her companion, wondering again if she should have brought her there. But the thought of leaving Kate alone at Whitehall, where Buckingham would no doubt be swift to grasp the opportunity, had decided her.

It was two months now since Rutland had left for Belvoir. At first, his letters had been frequent, but neither she nor her charge had heard from him lately. Frances knew that her friend was as troubled by his silence as she was herself. The last news she had received from him had been deeply alarming. Having heard that Joan Flower and her daughters were to appear before the assizes in Lincoln, the sheriff had been instructed to escort them there. It was a journey of some thirty miles, but they had been obliged to make it on foot. Many times since Lord Rutland’s letter had arrived, Frances had imagined the three women trudging along the frozen lanes that led northwards to the ancient cathedral city, the icy winds whipping across the flat expanse of fields and pastures that stretched out on either side, as far as the eye could see. Frances remembered the bleak landscape from when she had travelled there to attend her husband as he lay, grievously wounded, in the earl’s castle. Poor Joan had not survived the journey – but, then, perhaps that was a mercy, with what surely lay ahead for them in Lincoln.

Kate’s young brother Francis still lingered, impervious to the attentions of the earl’s physicians. Countess Cecilia’s disappointment that her son had not recovered upon Joan’s death must have been bitter indeed, Frances reflected.

‘We are almost there,’ she said now, as Kate turned to her. The young woman looked frozen, though she had made no word of complaint during the long boat ride. She had readily agreed to accompany her to Hampton Court, eager to see the magnificent Tudor palace for the first time.

‘Shall we stay for long?’ she had asked, when Frances had proposed the visit. She had offered only a vague response. In truth, she did not know if their time there would be brief or prolonged. Lady Ruthven had written only that the Queen, her mistress, had asked for Frances to attend her. Her Grace had spent the past few winters at Hampton Court, enjoying the peace and repose it offered. Frances feared that this latest stay had not been for pleasure but to hide from the prying eyes of the court. Since Buckingham had taken up residence on the Strand, Denmark House had no longer provided the tranquillity the Queen craved. She had retreated to Hampton Court as soon as the Twelfth Night celebrations had ended.

The boatman tethered the barge to the landing stage and helped Frances and her companion to alight. It was a short distance along the covered walkway that led to the royal apartments. As they neared the Queen’s presence chamber, Frances summoned one of the pages who were stationed outside.

‘Please – show Lady Manners to her chambers.’

‘Am I not to attend the Queen with you?’

Frances squeezed her hand. ‘Her Grace has asked to see me alone this time,’ she replied with greater reassurance than she felt, ‘but I am sure she will soon be well enough to receive more visitors, and she cannot but be eager to make your acquaintance. I have told her all about you,’ she added quickly, seeing her friend’s crestfallen face.

‘I hope so,’ Kate replied. ‘Pray send Her Grace my greetings.’

‘The Queen will receive you now,’ the groom said, leaving the door ajar.

Frances rose to her feet. On the threshold, she listened for any sound within. All was silence. The shutters were closed against the meagre light that still lingered outside, and only a solitary candle burned beside the Queen’s bed. The curtains were drawn around it. There was a rustle of skirts and a sombre lady rose from the seat she had occupied by the fireplace. Frances had not seen her there, but quickly swept a curtsy. She was of about Anne’s age, Frances judged, and very finely dressed in a gown of dark grey satin, the bodice and sleeves edged with white lace.

‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Lady Tyringham.’

The lilt in her voice made Frances’s scalp prickle. She wondered that she had not recognised her. Anne had defied her husband by bringing Lady Beatrice Ruthven with her to England soon after he had inherited the throne. James had always despised her – perversely jealous of the affection his wife cherished towards her – so Anne had kept her hidden. But her secret had been discovered when Lady Ruthven had fallen dangerously ill. The memory of being summoned to treat her upon first arriving at James’s court was still vivid in Frances’s mind. It had helped to damn her for witchcraft, as well as to expose Lady Ruthven’s presence. Frances wondered when her favourite attendant had returned to her service – or whether, indeed, she had ever left it. She said nothing, but inclined her head in acknowledgement.

The older woman led her towards the bedside. Frances saw that the curtains were pulled back a little at the end. Her heart thudded as she drew near. She suppressed a gasp. Anne’s face, illuminated by the candle, appeared ghostly. Her cheeks were sunken and her breath rasped between her lips, which were slightly parted. A thin sheen of sweat glowed on her brow.

‘Your Grace.’ Frances made a deep obeisance, though the Queen seemed to be sleeping.

‘Frances?’

Her voice was so faint that Frances wondered if she had imagined it. Anne’s eyes fluttered open and flicked quickly from side to side, as if searching for her.

‘I am here, Your Grace.’ Frances knelt to kiss her hand. The skin felt cold and clammy.

‘I am sorry you find me in such a state as this.’ Anne croaked, then paused, her mouth open as if she was gasping for air.

‘I will do anything I can to ease your suffering,’ Frances said. She began to fumble in her pocket for the small pouch of herbs she had hidden there, but the Queen gripped her wrist.

‘I fear that I am beyond even your help, my dear.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile and her eyelids fluttered down once more. ‘Even my eyes have forsaken me – they open only onto darkness now.’ Frances was overcome by a wave of pity. ‘I asked Bea to summon you here because there is something I must tell you before I die,’ Anne continued. ‘Please, sit close to me.’

Frances did as she was asked. As she waited for the Queen to continue, she saw that her chest was rising and falling in rapid, jerking movements, as if each breath pained her. A salve of feverfew and spurge would bring her ease, Frances knew. Her fingers itched to prepare some now.

‘I know how much you hazarded for his sake,’ the Queen murmured, as if in a dream. ‘Raleigh,’ she said, opening her eyes.

Frances glanced to where Lady Ruthven was seated, her fingers toying with the embroidery on her lap.

‘Do not mind Bea,’ Anne said, sensing her hesitation. ‘She knows all my secrets and can be trusted to keep them. Neither has she forgotten the debt she owes you, my dear.’ She fell silent, tears in her eyes. Then: ‘I am to blame for his death.’

Frances took care to conceal her shock as she held her unseeing gaze.

‘His expedition was my idea,’ Anne went on. ‘It was I who arranged it with the King of Spain, I who helped to pay for it. I had to do so from my own funds, of course – my husband allows me little enough from the privy purse. Like you, my dear, I staked everything I had upon its success. Ah, I sense that you doubt me,’ she said, gesturing weakly. ‘I lie here in the splendour of this palace, surrounded by luxury, just as I did at Denmark House. But it is all the king’s. I own nothing but the jewels I carried with me when I sailed across the North Sea thirty years ago. Even my dresses are borrowed from the late Queen’s wardrobe.’

‘I am sorry, Your Grace.’ Disappointment was mingled with pity for the Queen. She had allowed herself to hope that Anne might help her and Thomas out of their predicament. It was not a hope she had voiced to her husband – she had been too ashamed even to acknowledge it to herself – but when she had received the summons to Hampton Court, it had flared again. Looking at the Queen now, she felt a wave of remorse for her selfishness. She was little better than the sycophants of court, who flattered and fawned their way to advancement.

‘I wish I could make amends – to you as well as Raleigh,’ Anne went on, as if reading her thoughts, ‘but there is nothing I can do. I must go to my grave knowing I caused the death of a man of truer faith than any in this kingdom, and the ruin of many more besides. I pray—’ She broke off, a paroxysm of coughs racking her. Frances raised her on the pillows then poured a cup of water and held it to her lips. She took a small sip, but most of it dribbled down her chin as another fit overtook her. Eventually, the spasms subsided and she sank back onto the pillows.

‘You should rest, Your Grace,’ Frances murmured.

Anne shook her head slightly. ‘I can have no rest – in this world or the next. God will not forgive my sins.’

‘He has nothing to forgive, Your Grace,’ Frances whispered, clasping the Queen’s cold fingers in her own. ‘You sought only to honour him, to restore this kingdom to the true faith. There are many sinners at court but you have never been among them. God will reward your righteousness.’

‘I should have heeded the signs He sent, Frances,’ Anne persisted. ‘None of the plots to restore this country to the Catholic faith have succeeded. The Powder Treason, Arbella, Raleigh . . . So many lives blighted – yours more than most, my dear. Can you forgive me, even if God cannot?’

A solitary tear weaved its way down her cheek as she stared towards Frances, her unseeing eyes imploring. Frances tried to answer but her throat constricted, so instead she bent to kiss the Queen’s fingers. Anne exhaled deeply and closed her eyes. After a few moments, her breath became slower, more rhythmical. Frances released her hand and rose from the bed. She made to step quietly away, but jumped as the Queen’s cold fingers suddenly gripped her own again.

‘I beg of you, stay a little longer,’ Anne rasped.

Frances held her breath as she gazed down at her.

‘I have lost all my children, save one,’ the Queen began. ‘God saw fit to claim Henry as His own, Mary and Sophia, too. Elizabeth sailed from these shores to marry a heretic, so her soul was lost to me, as well as her body.’ Her eyes were wide with grief and she clasped Frances’s hand even more tightly. ‘I have only my precious little servant now.’

Frances smiled that the Queen still referred to Prince Charles in this way, even though he was now eighteen.

‘I know that I should see this as God’s will – His punishment of my manifold sins. But I cannot. I will not.’ Her dark eyes were alight with a fervour that Frances had not seen for many years. ‘My husband will soon choke out his breath from lechery and excess. Our son Charles must marry a Catholic princess. Only then will this kingdom be saved.’

Frances stared at the dying Queen in alarm. Surely she was not asking her to involve herself in a fresh plot, after everything she had just said.

‘Do not be afraid, my dear,’ Anne said, her expression softening. ‘I know I cannot beg your forgiveness with one breath and ask that you plunge yourself into danger again with another. There are those who have already agreed to do my bidding in this. I ask only that you do nothing to hinder them – no matter how greatly you may wish it.’

Frances looked at her in confusion. She had ceased to involve herself in the plots that swirled endlessly about the throne, but she would always cherish her faith in her heart. How could Anne think that she would defy it altogether?

‘I ask more of you than you think, my dear.’ The Queen’s voice was so faint now that Frances had to lean forward to catch her words. ‘Please do not forsake me, after I am gone.’

‘I do not understand, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, her eyes searching Anne’s. ‘Why would I betray you – betray our faith?’

But the queen had closed her eyes once more, as if to signal an end to their conference. Frances waited for a few heartbeats, then slowly straightened and padded silently towards the door, her mind racing. Lady Beatrice raised her eyes from her needlework as she approached.

‘God go with you, Lady Frances.’