Her companion remained tight-lipped as Frances curtsied and walked slowly from the room. She had travelled only a few paces when the sound of the door slamming echoed along the cloister.
The King had decided to dine in private that evening with just a handful of favoured attendants. Frances knew she should count herself blessed to be among them – it was rare that the invitation extended to their wives – but the encounter with Lady Somerset had unnerved her and she found herself longing for the seclusion of the apartment.
So far, the conversation had been limited to the forthcoming hunting expedition, for which Frances was grateful. It had also enabled her husband to hold his master’s attention for longer than usual when Villiers was present. She could not help feeling a stab of triumph at Sir George’s obvious irritation. Lady Somerset was also present and looked radiant in a gown of azure blue satin, her creamy white bosom showing above the daringly low neckline. Her eyes had regained their former sparkle and she seemed the perfect model of composure as she listened with rapt attention to the chatter, even though Frances guessed that her nerves must be pulled as taut as her bodice.
‘Tell me, Rob, what news of the Tower?’
The words were softly spoken but cut across the conversation like a rapier blade through silk. Frances darted a glance at Somerset, who bristled at his rival’s familiarity. Next to her, his wife remained perfectly still and Frances sensed she was holding her breath.
‘All is well, I believe, George,’ he replied nonchalantly, then took a swig of wine. ‘When shall we depart for Hertfordshire, Your Grace?’ he continued, turning to the King. ‘The weather seems set fair so we ought not delay.’
James opened his mouth to reply, but Villiers cut in. ‘Oh?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Have you received no further reports of the Lady Arbella? I hear she lies mortally sick. I am surprised there are no rumours of foul play. You know how people like to gossip whenever there is news of sickness.’
‘God grant the meddlesome woman soon chokes out her breath,’ James muttered, reaching forward to spear a large piece of venison. ‘She has done nothing but plague me since I took the throne of this Godforsaken kingdom.’
Frances’s scalp prickled at the mention of the King’s most no torious prisoner. Though she had been embroiled in the plot to put Arbella Stuart on the throne, she had never had any desire to further the arrogant woman’s schemes.
‘I am sure her miserable life will soon be at an end, Your Grace,’ Sir George simpered. ‘Perhaps you should ask Rob to speed Death’s progress. He and his beautiful wife have more experience than most in such matters.’
‘Damn you, Villiers!’ Somerset cried, leaping to his feet. A goblet clattered to the floor, its contents spilling red on the white marble tiles. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Sir George affected a look of surprise, but Frances saw his mouth twitch at the corners. ‘Why, my dear Rob, how flushed you are! I do hope you have not caught a fever. You know that we must not put His Grace at risk of contagion.’
‘Answer me, churl,’ Somerset muttered, his voice dangerously low.
‘Peace, my lords.’ Thomas’s voice echoed in the ensuing silence. He stood and placed a restraining hand on Somerset’s arm, but was angrily shaken off. The King looked from one favourite to the other with a mixture of dismay and, Frances thought, anticipation.
After several tense moments, Sir George gave a shrug, then tore off a piece of bread, chewing it slowly and deliberately while his rival glared at him, waiting for a response. When he had finished the mouthful, he took a sip of wine. ‘I meant only that you have both suffered the loss of those close to you – as have many others at this court,’ he drawled as he set down his glass. ‘I cannot imagine what insult you thought I was levying at you.’
The earl’s jaw tightened as he scowled at his rival. His wife remained still and her eyes never left him. James leaned forward in his chair, no longer troubling to conceal his excitement. After a long moment, Somerset turned to his royal master and gave a stiff bow, then stalked from the room. Frances heard Lady Somerset exhale softly before she rose to her feet, curtsied and followed in her husband’s wake.
CHAPTER 9
19 September
‘Must you leave?’ Frances murmured, as Thomas bent to kiss her.
It was still early and the light in the chamber was dim. She could hear the patter of rain against the casement window and the room felt colder than it had for the past few days.
Her husband sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his riding boots. ‘Believe me, I wish I did not have to ride out in this. The roads beyond the city will already be treacherous. It has been raining for hours.’
Frances stroked his back. ‘You slept ill again?’
‘It is my own fault – I indulged too much at last night’s feast.’
She knew it was a lie. The dark shadows under his eyes told of the restless nights he had spent this week. It pained her to think that the comfort she had offered had proved so fleeting. What little she had seen of Sir George Villiers had convinced her that he was the cause of her husband’s anxiety. Thomas spoke of him only seldom, but she could guess at the daily taunts and sideswipes he had to suffer at the favourite’s hands. It must make his position intolerable, as it was for all others who were close to the King – Somerset in particular.
The hostility between the two men had deepened since that evening in the King’s privy chamber. Thomas had told her how Villiers had delighted in taunting his rival with hints about the controversy surrounding Overbury’s death, without ever naming him directly. Everyone at court now knew of it. There were whispered conversations at dinner about apothecaries and poison, which stopped abruptly whenever Somerset entered the room. Frances suspected that Villiers had spread most of the gossip.
‘How long will you be away?’
His shoulders sagged. ‘I wish I knew. A week? Two, perhaps, if we have to wait until the weather improves.’
Frances moved closer and circled her arms around him, laying her head against his back. ‘I shall miss you,’ she whispered.
‘And I you,’ he replied, trailing his fingers over her warm skin. ‘More than I can say.’
He made no move to go, and for a moment Frances hoped that he might stay with her in the quiet chamber, cocooned from the dangers of the world beyond. But he rose to his feet and slowly pulled on his cloak.
‘Promise me you will stay out of mischief while I’m gone.’ His smile did not quite reach his eyes as he leaned over to kiss her again.
She held his face in her hands. ‘And you must promise to come home safe to me.’
After passing through the gatehouse, Frances stood at the entrance to the vast courtyard and gazed around her. She had passed Denmark House – or Somerset Place, as it had been then – many times when she had served the princess. It lay on the south side of the Strand, which was one of the busiest thoroughfares of the city, leading east to the Tower and west to Whitehall and St James’s. The high wall that ran along the northernmost end of the courtyard meant that little of the mansion within could be glimpsed from the street. It had once belonged to Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, but upon his arrest for treason it had been forfeit to the Crown.