CHAPTER 61

2 March

‘Ladies.’ Frances watched, horror-struck, as the duke swept an elaborate bow. ‘Lucky you brought this . . . gentleman with you or your reputations would have been quite ruined by visiting my chambers at this hour. Why, I am barely dressed,’ he added, brushing at the folds of his richly embroidered nightgown. He strolled to the dresser and poured a large glass of wine. ‘Forgive me – would you care for some? I do so hate to drink alone, especially when there is such cause for celebration.’

Frances bit the inside of her cheeks as she glared at him.

‘No? As you wish.’ He swallowed a long draught. ‘You are looking at me in amazement, Lady Tyringham! Anyone would think you did not expect to find me here, yet where else would I be but by my master’s side?’

‘The King left you to manage his affairs at Whitehall.’ Her voice was as hard as flint.

‘You are quite right, as always, my lady, but I knew that His Majesty could never bear to be parted from his angel for long, so I saved him the trouble of summoning me. It is as well I came – he has sickened for want of me.’

Frances felt a shudder of apprehension. Had he poisoned the King already?

‘Oh, there is no need to fear – he is much improved now. My presence helped, of course, and I had my wife bring our physician from Tyringham, just in case. Dr Lambe was full of the wonders of your old herb garden, Lady Tyringham.’ He smiled. ‘He has been able to prepare all manner of potions and salves.’

Frances felt as if she might vomit. The idea that the plants she had so carefully cultivated should be put to such evil use was too much to bear. ‘You are sure His Grace is out of danger?’ she demanded.

‘Yes – for now, at least,’ the duke purred. ‘But stubbornness can stir such foul humours, so my physician is on hand to administer his cures if it persists.’

It was just as she and Bacon had predicted. Buckingham meant to poison the King if he did not agree to the French alliance.

‘Well now, God has clearly smiled upon my endeavours in coming here, for He has made sure that I was able to greet you when you arrived. Tell me, how was the journey from Calais, Lady Ruthven?’

‘The devil take you!’ Felton growled, stepping forward. He made to draw his sword but the duke was there before him. Quick as a snake, he pulled a dagger from the pocket of his gown and held it to the man’s throat. ‘Be still, dog,’ he sneered. A droplet of blood trickled down Felton’s throat as Buckingham pressed the blade into his skin. ‘Now, should we dispense with these niceties?’

As Felton struggled to free himself, Frances saw his eyes alight upon something at the back of the room. She turned to see the Marquis de Châteauneuf flanked by two thickset men. They must have been hiding in the shadows. The envoy’s smile flashed white in the gloom. Following her gaze, Lady Ruthven’s hands tightened on the casket.

‘I must say, it is very good of you to save me the journey, Lady Ruthven. When His Excellency told me that his man had been foully murdered, I had a mind to come and find you myself. How surprised the King will be to learn of your presence. He will scarce believe that the woman who flouted his banishment years ago, then fled with his wife’s jewels has now been found . . . but without the treasure. He can only conclude that you sated your greed by selling it all.’ Lady Ruthven flinched as one of the marquis’s men took a step closer. ‘I wonder which punishment he will choose? The gallows will be far too good for you.’

‘And what of you, Lady Tyringham? You have been unusually silent on the matter. Did you hope to win a share of the jewels and restore your husband’s pathetic fortune? One of the small trinkets would have been more than enough for that. Tyringham Hall could fit inside the stables here,’ he scoffed. ‘Though it is quaint enough, I suppose, and Kate has developed a fondness for the place. Well, she can return there for as long as she wishes now.’

‘You should not judge others by your morals, Your Grace.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The only reward I sought was to rid this kingdom of evil . . . to rid it of you.’

Buckingham affected a wounded expression. ‘Come now, my lady. Your passions were as stirred as mine by our little encounter in Hyde Park. I have thought of it often since. No wonder your husband looks as sullen as the King’s dogs whenever he is apart from you.’

Frances’s hand itched to slap him but his blade was still pressed to Felton’s neck.

‘Neither have I forgotten the matter we spoke of,’ he went on. ‘That should be enough to buy your silence about the jewels, once the marquis and I have reclaimed them.’

Frances imagined seizing the dagger and plunging it deep into his heart. The desire to see the blood spurt from his chest was overwhelming, visceral.

The marquis gave a small cough, prompting.

‘Forgive these petty squabbles, Monseigneur,’ the duke said. ‘Now, Lady Ruthven, it is time to relinquish the burden you have carried all these years.’ He nodded to one of the marquis’s men, who seized the woman’s shoulders. As she tried to struggle from his grasp, the casket fell to the floor, its contents spilling out. A shard of light glimmered through the shutters, illuminating the glittering haul.

The corners of the duke’s mouth curled into a lazy smile. He gazed down at the treasure for a long moment, then motioned for the other man to gather it back into the casket.

A movement over Buckingham’s shoulder drew Frances’s gaze. The marquis had seen it too. His face paled as he stared.

‘How dare you lay hands upon my jewels?’

The prince was standing on the threshold of Kate’s chamber, which adjoined the duke’s. Buckingham’s eyes narrowed as he saw his wife step from behind Charles, her gaze lowered. She had gone to warn the prince, Frances realised, her heart surging with admiration for her friend.

Seizing his chance, Felton whipped the knife from Buckingham’s grasp and held it to his neck. Frances heard Kate make a small cry when she saw this swift reversal. The prince gave her a brief smile of reassurance and they stepped into the room, followed by four yeomen.

‘Give them to me,’ he commanded.

The marquis’s man looked towards his master, who gave the smallest of nods. Charles took the casket from him and looked down at it for a moment, then closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks.

‘My mother bequeathed these to me so that I could use them to do God’s will,’ he began, looking from Buckingham to the marquis. ‘You would have used them to do the devil’s work. I thank God that He put an end to your wicked schemes.’

‘No, Your Grace,’ Buckingham urged. ‘It was in God’s name that I acted. Through this alliance, England will be saved from heresy. When you are king and married to the French King’s sister – a princess of the true faith – you will restore us to the Catholic fold. This treasure will give you the means to crush all resistance.’

The prince faced him. ‘You speak treason, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘My father is king, yet you anticipate his death. What makes you so certain it is imminent?’ He let the question hang in the air. ‘You speak heresy, too. His Majesty established the reformed faith as the one true religion. Anyone who veers from that, or seeks to make this kingdom a vassal of Rome, is a traitor to the state.’

‘But I thought . . .’ the duke began, staring at the prince in consternation. ‘Your enthusiasm for this match – and that with the infanta – led me to believe—’

‘That I was a papist too?’ The prince glanced at Frances, who smiled her acquiescence. Charles was right not to trust Buckingham with the knowledge of his private faith.

‘I was doing God’s will,’ the duke repeated, in rising agitation.

‘No, my lord duke. You descended to Hell years ago. You were damned from the moment you began to seek power, riches,’ he said, holding up his mother’s casket.

‘She is the sinner, not me,’ Buckingham cried, pointing a trembling finger at Frances. ‘Her allegiance to the old faith was once so strong that she involved herself in the plot to blow your father and Parliament to the heavens.’

His words echoed into silence. Frances saw the prince grow pale as he stared at Buckingham before turning his eyes to her. Next to him, Kate looked as if she might faint.

‘Does he speak truth, Lady Frances?’

She thought of protesting a denial, of railing against the duke for voicing such slander. But instead, she remained silent.

‘If she will not confess, then I will do it for her.’ Buckingham’s voice rose in triumph. ‘She even birthed the bastard of Tom Wintour. George Tyringham is not Sir Thomas’s boy, but the son of a traitor.’

Frances closed her eyes. She could not bear to see the shock in the prince’s eyes, Kate’s too, the revulsion that would soon follow. Neither could she stomach the triumph in Buckingham’s. An image of George came before her, his eyes filled with love as he bade her and Thomas farewell. Then he was a boy again, in the saddle as his beloved papa led his horse around the stable-yard. And now he was a baby cradled in her arms as she rocked him to sleep in her bed at Tyringham Hall. Now that the duke had betrayed her secret, George’s life would be blighted for ever.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she faced the prince at last. He returned her gaze, not with disgust but pity. ‘Leave this place,’ he said. Frances lowered her eyes to the floor, then made to walk away but Charles rested his hand upon her arm. ‘My lord duke,’ he said, more firmly this time. ‘Leave this place at once. Go far from here, before I change my mind.’

‘Your Grace!’ Felton objected, but his master raised a hand to silence him.

‘My father’s health is too fragile to suffer the shock of your arrest – for now, at least. I will tell him your mother has taken ill and begs your presence. You will not return here – and neither will you, Monseigneur,’ he said, turning to Châteauneuf. ‘The King is already tired of your presence and shows no greater inclination towards this alliance than he did when you first arrived. Tell your master he may send a different emissary, in time.’

‘This is all? You have accused me of all manner of crimes. Surely you would see me damned to Hell.’ Buckingham sneered. ‘And what of her? She is the real traitor in our midst. Are you going to set her free too?’

Frances forced herself to hold the prince’s steady gaze as he turned to her. ‘I have heard nothing but calumny and lies from you, Buckingham,’ he said, still looking at Frances. ‘Lady Tyringham has been more greatly wronged by you than I or anyone else – your poor wife excepted, perhaps.’ Kate flushed and lowered her eyes to the floor again. ‘They may choose to forgive you, but God never will. You have spoken with the tongue of the devil. George Tyringham was my childhood companion, appointed to serve me by the late Queen. If you slander him as the son of a traitor, you slander my mother’s memory – and call my father’s judgement into question too. That is not something he will easily overlook – even from you.’

Frances heard the bolt slide back as the marquis and his men slipped away. Felton pressed the blade against Buckingham’s flesh as his master took a step closer. ‘Now, go,’ the prince whispered. His servant reluctantly lowered the knife.

‘May I at least dress first?’ the duke drawled, with a lazy smile.

‘Your mother will have clothes enough for you,’ Charles retorted. ‘Do not wear my patience too thin. My guards will escort you from the estate. I do not wish to look upon you a moment longer.’

Buckingham’s smile broadened as he swept a deep bow, then strutted from the room, the four yeomen following close behind.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but was that wise? That villain would have murdered the King, stolen the late Queen’s jewels. He is as deadly as a serpent – more so, now that he is out of your grasp.’

Charles smiled and patted Felton’s arm. ‘You have ever been a loyal servant, John. I will make sure you are rewarded richly for your pains – yes, even though you protest,’ he added. ‘But you must trust me in this. I am not so foolish – or so forgiving – as you suppose. I spoke truth when I said that I do not wish to see my father vexed at such a time. He is dying.’ The prince turned anguished eyes to Frances. ‘The very thing that we tried to prevent by staying an earthly hand has been inflicted by a heavenly one. My father will not leave this place alive.’ He struggled to master himself.

‘I am sorry, Your Grace,’ she replied, with genuine feeling. Despite everything she had suffered at the King’s hands, she could not but share his son’s sorrow.

‘You must rest assured – all of you – that when I am king, I will suck the lifeblood from Buckingham, just as he meant to suck my father’s from him. Not by violent means,’ he insisted, catching Felton’s expression, ‘but by gradually depriving him of his power. That is what drives him, even more than riches. I will see him suffer the torment of knowing he will never claw back what he has lost.’

Frances knew the prince was right and admired his perception. Being stripped of his influence would be a greater torture than anything that the Tower gaolers could inflict upon the duke. Yet still she felt that gnawing, almost primeval desire for revenge. She would pray that God might forgive her – that, in time, He might lead her down a more righteous path.

‘I must go to my father now,’ Charles said, interrupting her thoughts.

Frances and Kate dropped a deep curtsy as he walked from the room. Left alone with her old friend, Frances felt suddenly afraid. Had she believed her husband’s words? She had imagined the horror in Kate’s eyes as he had spoken them. If so, she could surely never forgive her.

Frances was startled by the warmth of Kate’s hand in hers. She looked up and saw that her friend was smiling. ‘I have missed you, Frances,’ she whispered.