‘But why?’ Frances whispered. ‘Sir George is ruthless and grasping, and will stop at nothing in his pursuit of power. He is a danger to all who serve your husband – perhaps even to the King himself.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘He is all of those things, Lady Frances,’ Anne replied quietly. ‘But he is more, besides. Do not think that I have taken leave of my senses in placing this devil in our midst. In time, you will understand that he is our salvation.’
CHAPTER 10
25 September
At first Frances thought that she had imagined it. She waited, straining her ears for any sound. There it was again: a sharp tap. It seemed to come from the direction of the window. She pulled back the covers and, shivering against the cold, padded quietly over to it. Opening the shutters, she peered down into the courtyard. A young woman was staring up at her. Her face was obscured by the hood of her dark cloak, which was drawn tightly around her.
‘Lady Frances?’ Her whisper carried on the still night air.
Frances nodded, mute. Was it Thomas? The boys?
The woman spoke no more but beckoned urgently. Frances hesitated for just a moment, then turned and dressed hurriedly, her trembling fingers fumbling with the ties of her skirt. She was just about to open the door when a thought occurred to her. Moving quickly to the dresser, she drew out the small casket from under her neatly folded linens and, unlocking it, pulled out a selection of tiny phials. She knew it was dangerous to have brought them here, but her herbs and tinctures were part of her now. She could as well relinquish them as her own soul.
When she reached the courtyard, the young woman was still standing beneath her window. She turned at Frances’s approach. ‘Please, Lady Frances, you must come with me.’ Seeing Frances’s hesitation, she drew something out of her pocket and gave it to her. ‘A trusted friend sent me.’
Frances glanced down at the gold signet ring in her hand. It was engraved with an elaborate R. She recognised it at once. Raleigh. He always wore it on the little finger of his right hand.
Not pausing to think any further, she followed the woman out of the courtyard, taking care to keep to the shadows even though the palace was deserted. She had no idea what time it was. With the King away on the hunt, there had been no feasting or entertainment that evening and she had retired early again.
They soon reached the water gate, where a boat was waiting for them. When they were seated, the oarsman pushed the vessel away from the landing stage and began to row eastwards.
‘Where are we going?’ Frances asked.
Her companion darted a glance at the oarsman. ‘The Tower,’ she replied, then gave Frances a look that made clear she must ask no more questions.
With the tide in their favour, progress was rapid. Frances tried to order her thoughts for whatever lay ahead. She reflected upon the last time she had seen Sir Walter. The sun had not yet risen on that cold October morning when she had visited him at the Tower. He had given her the mandrake root with which to prepare her deadly tincture for the prince. God speed your endeavours, Lady Frances. She could hear the words so clearly that it was as if he were sitting next to her now, whispering them in her ear. It still made her shudder to think of how close she had come to murdering the King’s eldest son and heir. In the event, Prince Henry had breathed his last a few hours after she had left his chamber, the stoppered tincture full to the brim in her pocket. She had taken it as a sign that God was pleased with the more righteous path she had chosen.
Although she had felt betrayed when she had discovered the extent of Raleigh’s involvement in William Cecil’s plot, her anger had soon abated. She and Raleigh had shared many confidences during her visits to the Tower, and she had grown fond of him. He had been the King’s prisoner for more than twelve years now. His lodgings were comfortable and he enjoyed greater liberties than most of the Tower’s other residents, but Frances could not imagine being held captive for so long, not knowing whether the prospect of execution or pardon was more likely. She wondered if James would ever decide upon his fate, or if he hoped that God would make the decision for him.
They rounded the next bend in the river and the familiar outline of the Tower loomed into view, the mass of its central keep dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Frances felt another jolt of apprehension. She had a creeping suspicion, too, of whom she was here to attend. The boatman was drawing level with St Thomas’s Tower now. As they passed under its sprawling archway, Frances could see the moonlight reflecting off the stone steps that led from the waterside, their edges worn smooth by the tread of hundreds of traitors who had passed that way. Tom’s had been among them.
A yeoman stood sentry at the top of the steps. Frances saw the woman press some coins into his hand and he nodded them through. A single brazier lit the narrow walkway that led from the landing stage to the heart of the Tower. Once or twice, Frances stumbled on the cobbles as she followed the young woman under the archway of the Bloody Tower. She glanced upwards as if expecting to see Raleigh above. They mounted the steps to the green and her companion made for the small, squat tower next to the one in which Frances had been tortured as a suspected witch all those years before. With a jolt, she remembered that this was Arbella Stuart’s lodging.
The King’s cousin had been as much a thorn in his side as she had his predecessor’s. Her royal blood had made her an irresistible prospect for disaffected subjects for at least twenty years. Frances remembered seeing her for the first time at the old Queen’s court. Even then, she had been a proud, haughty young woman. Her arrogance had deepened in the years that followed, blinding her to the danger of hankering after the throne she saw as hers by right. She had been a prisoner for five years now, Frances calculated.
Her companion knocked softly on the outer door and it was opened. Frances followed her inside, mouthing a silent prayer. They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and entered Arbella’s chamber. All was quiet within and briefly Frances thought it was deserted. But as her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, she saw a woman lying on the bed underneath a large canopy. She kept perfectly still as Frances moved towards her. The room smelt stale, as if no life had stirred within it for many years.
When she had drawn level with the head of the bed, Frances motioned for her companion to bring her the solitary candle that burned on the fireplace. Holding it close to the woman’s face, Frances suppressed a gasp. Arbella was hardly recognisable from when she had last seen her. Her cheeks were sunken and the bones at the base of her neck showed through her wasted skin. Already she had the appearance of a cadaver. Although she could only be forty years old – five years older than Frances – there were just a few red hairs among the thin white strands that covered her skull.
Frances could not tell if she was still breathing so drew nearer. The stale aroma grew stronger as she brought her face close to Arbella’s, trying to feel any warmth emanating from her dry lips, which were slightly apart. Nothing. Suddenly her eyes sprang open. Frances leaped back in shock and the candle fell from her grasp, plunging them into darkness.
‘I will fetch another,’ the attendant called, as she fumbled for the latch. Frances heard the door click shut and felt paralysed by terror. As she reached for the edge of the bed so that she might steady herself, an icy hand grasped her wrist.