‘Then you are clearly a lady of great discernment.’ His dark eyes sparked with humour.
Frances stole another glance at her new companion. The engraving in the frontispiece of his Essays was a faithful likeness. His dark brown hair was thick and lustrous, and there were just a few flecks of grey in his beard. He was wearing a tall hat, which he removed with a flourish as he sat down. She judged that he must be in his fifties by now, though he appeared younger. He was much shorter than she had imagined and there was something delicate, almost feminine, in his looks.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, flustered, realising that she had forgotten to introduce herself. ‘I am Lady Frances Tyringham.’
‘Sir Thomas’s wife?’ he asked, glancing towards the front of the hall. ‘Then he is even more blessed than I thought, for not only is he a favourite with His Majesty but he has the love of a beautiful and clever woman. If envy were not so great a sin, I should be entirely consumed by it.’
Frances smiled. ‘You, too, enjoy His Majesty’s favour, I think. Thomas told me of your appointment as attorney general. Such a position is only conferred upon a man whom the King trusts implicitly.’
‘My years at Gray’s Inn served me well,’ her companion observed modestly.
She experienced a familiar pang at the name. Tom had been one of its brightest stars. She resisted the temptation to ask if Sir Francis had known him.
They turned at a peal of laughter from the dais. Villiers was leaning in towards his master, his mouth so close to the King’s ear that it was almost touching. James’s face was flushed – not entirely because of the wine, Frances thought. On his other side, Somerset was glowering at the dish in front of him.
‘That young man will rule us all before the year is out,’ Bacon mused. ‘I know better than most that a sovereign’s favour can be fickle, but I hear the King refuses him nothing. Now that he serves in the bedchamber, even greater promotions will follow.’
‘It is not so very long ago that Somerset enjoyed the same intimacy with His Majesty,’ Frances observed quietly. ‘Fortune’s wheel never stops turning at court, yet those who hanker for power seem to forget that.’
‘Ah, but that is what makes the game so diverting, my lady,’ Bacon replied. ‘For just as the King bestows his favour on a fortunate few, so those men in turn bestow it on their associates. A skilful player must watch carefully before deciding where to place his bet.’
‘Or not play at all,’ Frances countered.
The older man studied her with interest, as if she were one of the rare species of exotic plant he had encountered in his research. ‘I hope you and I will become better acquainted, Lady Frances,’ he remarked. ‘There are few in this place who share your candour – or your wisdom. I am sure to profit from both.’
Frances flushed at the compliment and inwardly chastised herself. She should know better than to be seduced by such flattery. Yet there was sincerity in Bacon’s eyes as he smiled at her.
The moment was broken by the arrival of the first course of dishes. Sir Francis was assiduous in helping her to a number of them.
‘You left court two years ago, I understand, just before I was called to office. I confess we have a mutual acquaintance,’ he added, noting her surprise. ‘I believe you knew my cousin, the Earl of Salisbury.’
It took Frances a moment to realise he was referring to William Cecil, who had inherited the title upon the death of his father, her old adversary. She was careful to assume a neutral expression.
‘William Cecil, my lady,’ Bacon offered, when she did not reply. ‘You would have known him as Viscount Cranborne, of course.’
Frances gave a tight smile as she struggled to keep her expression neutral. An image of the young man when she had last seen him flitted before her. He had sought her out as she had walked in the privy gardens at Whitehall, the evening after Prince Henry’s death had been announced, to congratulate her on carrying out their plan. In vain, she had protested that the prince had died of a natural sickness, not at her hands. The fear that he still believed her to be a murderess, a heroine of the Catholic cause, had haunted her ever since.
‘I did not know you were cousins,’ she observed at last, trying to keep her voice light.
Bacon took a sip of wine and helped himself to some trout. ‘Second cousins. My mother’s sister advanced our family’s fortunes greatly when she married William’s grandfather, Lord Burghley, though, of course, she did not know it then. Queen Elizabeth came to depend upon him utterly. She called him her “Spirit” ’
‘My mother respected him greatly, and always said that he placed the Queen’s welfare above all else – his own included.’
‘He was a most loyal servant,’ Bacon agreed, ‘more so, perhaps, than our present king has known.’
Frances did not reply. She knew her companion was referring to Burghley’s son and successor, Robert Cecil, who had plagued her for so many years. He it was who had conspired to have her arrested for witchcraft, twisting her skills as a healer to further his own ends and convince the new King that he shared his obsession. The ordeal that had followed had intensified her hatred of James and his adviser, inspiring her to commit treason by supporting the Catholic plot to blow up Parliament. Only after his death had it been discovered that Cecil had secretly shared the same faith as those he had condemned.
‘How does Lord Salisbury fare?’ she asked, deciding to steer the conversation away from his father.
‘Very well, I believe,’ Bacon replied, toying with a piece of manchet loaf, ‘though his duties as Lord Lieutenant of Hertfordshire are proving more burdensome than he expected. I fear it will be a long time before he is at leisure to return to court.’
Good. Frances had come to help her husband, not to be drawn back into the dangerous web of Catholic conspiracies. She glanced at Thomas, who was engaged in conversation with Lionel Cranfield, Earl of Middlesex, a wealthy merchant who yearned for a political career. Although her husband appeared to be listening attentively, she recognised the polite smile of interest and knew that he would be willing the evening to draw to a close.
At that moment, James stood abruptly, causing all of his courtiers to scramble to their feet.
‘I propose a toast to Sir George,’ he slurred, as he gestured towards his favourite, spilling wine from his glass. Frances saw Somerset swipe irritably at his doublet, the stain already showing on the pale grey satin. Further along the table, Prince Charles was watching his father with a mixture of dismay and embarrassment.
‘To Steenie!’
The King’s cry was echoed, half-heartedly, by the assembled throng.
‘May he be long to reign over us,’ Frances heard her companion whisper. She did not know if he was referring to the King or to his favourite.
CHAPTER 8
16 September
The cloister was damp and chill after the mellow sunshine that had warmed her in the privy garden. It was gloomy, too, and Frances slowed her pace so that her eyes could grow used to it. As she rounded the corner, she collided with a gentleman. He made an impatient noise as she stumbled against the wall and pulled her roughly to her feet. She looked up at him in surprise.