CHAPTER 32

14 May

‘It is no good,’ Kate said, turning from the looking glass. ‘I look ridiculous.’

Frances smiled kindly. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She took the ribbon from the young woman’s hands and began to weave it deftly between the curled strands of her hair. ‘I remember feeling the same about the costume I was obliged to wear for my first masque,’ she remarked, tying the vivid green silk into a neat bow at the base of Kate’s neck. ‘There. That is much better,’ she added, standing back to admire her work.

The girl gazed uncertainly at her reflection in the glass. ‘Thank you, Frances,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘You have made me look a little less monstrous.’

‘Your father would be proud to see you so gloriously arrayed.’ Frances patted her shoulder.

Kate’s smile vanished. ‘There has been no more news, since . . .?’

Frances shook her head. ‘I expect he is preoccupied with arranging matters at Belvoir. I understand that the King hopes to hunt there as soon as the weather turns.’

‘I have heard so, too,’ Kate agreed. ‘Though I pity my poor father for having to turn his mind to such matters when there is so much else to occupy him. I cannot but grieve for Mistress Flower and her daughters, though I know I should think only of the welfare of my little brother. Do you believe them guilty of bewitching him? It is sinful of me to doubt the judgement of the law – and of my mother the countess, I know. But . . .’

‘The guilt or innocence of the accused matters little in such cases,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘Countess Cecilia is not alone in believing that to lift a curse those who cast it must be put to death. I am sure she was not acting out of malice, but a desire to protect her son.’

‘Yes of course. I should not have . . .’ Kate looked down at her hands.

Frances clasped them. ‘I do not believe they inflicted any harm upon your brother,’ she said earnestly. ‘Fever and sickness are all too common, particularly in childhood, and often take hold suddenly. It is unusual that your younger brother has still not recovered, I admit, but that is more likely due to a natural frailty – or the attention of his physicians.’ Her mouth curled with distaste. How she wished she might attend him herself.

‘Then I pray God will gather their souls unto him, even though they died without the comfort of absolution.’

Did she mean the last rites of the Catholic faith? Frances wondered. She thought back to the aroma of incense in Kate’s chamber, many months before. They had never spoken of it, but the conviction that Lord Rutland’s daughter shared his faith had taken root in Frances’s mind. A flush was creeping up the young woman’s neck now.

‘You have spoken no sin,’ Frances said softly. Confessing that she, too, was of the old faith was dangerous. Yet she longed for Kate to unburden herself, knowing it would comfort her, strengthen the bonds of their friendship. ‘You cherish the same faith as your father, I think?’

Kate’s head jerked up in alarm.

‘Please, you need have no fear,’ Frances urged, stroking the back of her friend’s hand with her thumb. ‘I believe as you do. It is a secret that I keep hidden in my heart, as all faithful subjects must, but that diminishes neither its strength nor its truth.’

The young woman’s shoulders sagged and her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I have wanted to speak of it to you for so long, but I promised my father . . .’

‘He was right to ask this of you and wants only to protect you while the King still persecutes those of our faith so relentlessly . . . But it is something we might share together, in private.’

Kate’s face brightened. ‘That would bring me such comfort, Frances!’ she exclaimed. ‘Sometimes I feel that God does not heed me when I pray alone. I am always so fearful lest someone discovers me that I often forget the words. With you by my side, I know I would have greater courage.’

Frances smiled. ‘Perhaps we might pray now for the health of your poor brother and the souls of those who were thought to have bewitched him.’

Kate rose at once and scurried off into the adjoining chamber. Frances heard some rustling, then the click of a key in a lock. A moment later, she returned with a richly embroidered cloth and a rosary. There was something else in her other hand but her fingers were too tightly closed over it for Frances to see. She busied herself with spreading out the cloth for them both to kneel on, then placed the rosary on a small table next to it. Frances came to join her friend and they knelt, heads bowed. Kate made the sign of the cross over her breast, then slowly opened her hand.

‘My father gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.’

Frances looked down at the exquisitely carved marble figure. The Virgin’s eyes were downcast, but her mouth was lifted in a beatific smile and her arms were held open, as if for an embrace. Kate raised it to her lips, then set it down on the table and began to pray.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’

A feeling of peace swept over Frances. Here, in this quiet chamber, the troubles of court seemed far distant. The loss of their fortune, Buckingham and his scheming, the heretic King his master, who had shown so little care for his wife’s passing that he was staging a magnificent pageant the evening after her funeral: all were as insubstantial as a dream. She closed her eyes and began to repeat the familiar words.

The light was dwindling by the time Frances made her way back to Thomas’s apartment. She slowed her steps, savouring the unusual quiet that shrouded the palace. Her hand was on the latch when the door was wrenched open and she almost collided with her husband.

Frances’s heart lurched in panic. ‘What has happened?’

‘It’s the King.’ Thomas’s face was ashen. ‘He is dying.’

Frances stared at him, stupefied.

‘He has summoned all his councillors to attend him – myself too. I must make haste.’

‘But he showed no sign of illness at the pageant,’ Frances countered, thinking back to the smirking glances that he and his favourite had exchanged during the ceremony at Westminster.

‘He fell into a sudden faint – that is all I know. Please – wait for me here. I will return as soon as I can.’

Frances watched as he walked briskly away and stood there long after he had disappeared from view, her mind racing. How could this be? Even the most sudden of fevers usually betrayed some warning signs a day or so before – a pale complexion, a little shortness of breath – but James had appeared in robust health, more so than he had for a long time. Even the gout that had plagued him these past few years seemed to have abated a little. What could have occasioned such a swift change? A thought struck her. Poison? Raleigh’s execution had reignited the fervour of discontented Catholics and every day seemed to bring a fresh rumour of some plot.

A cold wind blew along the cloister. She had hardly noticed it grow so dark since she had been standing there, lost in her thoughts. Quickly, she went inside and bolted the door. To distract herself from her rising agitation, she made a fire and tried to coax the meagre flames to life. The wood must have grown damp these past few weeks, she thought. When at last she was sure that the blaze would not die, she fetched a flagon of wine and poured herself a glass.

The minutes seemed to pass like hours as she waited, her ears straining for the sound of her husband’s footsteps. As the wine warmed her, her breathing slowed a little. Wasn’t this what she and Thomas – their fellow Catholics too – had wanted ever since James came to the throne? He had been a scourge on this kingdom, blighting his subjects’ lives with misery and fear while he lay steeped in sin. She thought of Buckingham, his face as he watched his master’s life slip away – his fortunes with it. He should have thought to cultivate the King’s successor earlier. She had seen him fawn over the prince at the various entertainments staged for the Count de Gondomar, but Charles had always seemed unmoved. She admired the young man even more for that. God willing, he would make a far more discerning king than his father.

Rapid footsteps jolted her from her thoughts. Frances leaped to her feet and ran to the door, sliding back the bolt with trembling fingers. Thomas stepped quickly inside. She said nothing but led him to the chairs by the fire and poured him some wine. He downed several gulps, then raised his eyes to hers.

‘Is he . . .?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I fear it cannot be long. He keeps lapsing into insensibility, and his skin has the pallor of a corpse.’

‘Has he a fever?’ Frances asked, forcing herself to consider the matter objectively.

‘I think not. He seemed rather cold than otherwise and was shivering violently, though every fire in the privy chamber had been lit. He was greatly troubled in mind, too, and kept ranting about the late Queen and the loss he had suffered.’

Frances was scornful. ‘How can he mourn one towards whom he showed such little regard in life?’

‘Her death did not seem to be the loss he was referring to,’ Thomas replied, ‘but his words were rambling and his mind so disordered that it was hard to make any sense of them.’

‘The marquess must be distraught.’

Thomas lifted the glass to his lips again and swallowed deeply before setting it down on the table. ‘He stands to profit by our master’s death, even more than by his reign. The King summoned us to witness his decree that upon his death Buckingham will assume the position of lord protector.’

Frances looked at him in confusion. ‘But the prince is old enough to rule alone.’ As she waited for Thomas to respond, she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.

‘That is of little consequence, it seems. The King has ensured that his son will be in even greater thrall to the marquess than he has been himself. Charles will be king in name only. All of his power will be vested in the lord protector.’

Frances sank back in her chair. ‘How can this be?’ she whispered. ‘Surely the privy council will not allow His Grace to ride roughshod over the laws of this kingdom – to say nothing of the prince himself.’

Her husband shook his head again, as if defeated. ‘Buckingham dominates the council, as he does the King. It seems he has been scheming for this since he first entered our royal master’s service. The terms of the decree have been set down and all of those present put their names to it.’

‘Even Lord Bacon?’ Frances asked, incredulous. Arch politician he might be, but she knew that his respect for the law exceeded his ambition.

‘He was not there. The King dispatched him on some business in France a few days ago.’

That would explain why she had not seen her friend at Queen Anne’s funeral. His absence had perturbed her but she had been too distracted by the events of that day to give it any further thought. The feasting and revelry that had followed the ceremony had made it seem more a cause for celebration than for grief.

‘We must prepare to leave this place, Frances,’ Thomas said quietly. ‘I will send word to my steward at Tyringham. Buckingham will be ruthless towards those he has marked as rivals. He knows that you enjoy some favour with the prince and will not suffer any impediment to the hold he means to exert over him.’

Frances felt cold. Though she longed to escape this place and return to their sons, she knew that for as long as he held power Buckingham would continue to plague them. And what would become of Kate if she abandoned her to his clutches? She could not forsake the promise she had made to Lord Rutland.

‘The King may yet recover,’ she suggested. ‘We should not act precipitately.’

‘After what I saw this evening, I cannot believe it likely,’ her husband replied grimly. ‘We must make ready.’