‘This king will perish,’ Arbella’s voice rasped, close to her ear. ‘My husband is poised to strike.’
She broke off, gasping for breath. Frances held her own as she waited, heart thrumming.
‘He has gathered a mighty army in Flanders and will sail across the Channel as soon as the King of Spain’s fleet reaches Ostend.’
Frances’s wrist throbbed as Arbella tightened her grip, the bony fingers pressing into her flesh. Desperately, she tried to calm her racing thoughts. She had heard such treasonous talk before. But for all his promises – real or imagined – the King of Spain had never stirred himself for invasion. Why should she believe that he was any more likely to do so now?
Arbella’s short, grating breaths echoed in the darkness as Frances waited for her to continue. She could not have spoken a word in response, even if she had wished to.
‘You must help him,’ Arbella urged, then fell into a paroxysm of coughing.
Seymour?
At that moment, the young woman returned, a burning taper in her hand. Quickly, she moved to pick up the candle that lay at Frances’s feet and lit it again. It seemed to glow much brighter now.
‘Can you ease her suffering?’ the attendant asked, as Frances kept her eyes fixed on the waxen skin of Arbella’s face.
Frances knew that she was beyond all help; even the smallest drop of one of her tinctures would not slip down her swollen throat. Besides, it was safer to do nothing. She had no desire to be under suspicion of causing another death. She gave a slight shake of her head and heard a small sob escape the young woman’s lips, before it was quickly suppressed.
Arbella’s eyes opened again, and as she stared at Frances they blazed with the intensity she remembered so well. Despite all the danger in which the woman’s schemes had placed her in the past, Frances could feel only pity for her now. She could see no obvious cause for her affliction: there was no fever, and she did not appear to be in pain from a tumour. Upon Frances’s last visit to the Tower, Raleigh had told her that his fellow prisoner seemed likely to starve herself to death. At the time, Frances had thought it just another of Arbella’s ploys to win attention, now that she could no longer be at the centre of plots against the King. But as she gazed at her skeletal form, she knew that Raleigh had been right.
‘Raleigh.’
Frances jumped to hear Arbella whisper his name, as if she could read her thoughts.
‘Help him,’ she rasped, her breath rattling in her throat.
Frances watched as the woman’s gaze became fixed and her chest fell still. Several moments passed, but all was silent.
‘My lady?’ the attendant whispered, moving slowly towards her mistress.
Frances rose to her feet and discreetly traced the sign of the cross over her chest. As she moved past the young woman, she saw that her eyes glistened with tears. She said nothing, but walked quietly from the room.
As soon as she was outside, she drew in a deep lungful of the cool morning air. The first tendrils of light were showing on the horizon and the faint shrill of birdsong echoed around the walls. With sudden resolve, Frances quickened her pace in the direction of Raleigh’s apartment.
CHAPTER 11
25 September
‘Lady Frances,’ Raleigh said, with genuine warmth, as he turned from the window to greet her. She knew that he would have seen her approaching, but he had always welcomed her as if she were the only person in the world he wished to see. She returned his smile and caught a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. Did he fear she would rail against him for concealing the part he had played in William Cecil’s plot? If so, then he soon recovered himself. As she drew close to him, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘It does my soul good to see you again.’
Frances gave a small smile, then reached in her pocket and drew out his signet ring. ‘I believe this is yours.’
Raleigh looked contrite. ‘Forgive me for disturbing your slumbers, my lady. I had heard that you had returned to court and could think of no one more suited to help that poor lady.’ He turned and looked out across the green.
‘I’m afraid I could do nothing, Sir Walter,’ Frances replied quietly. ‘She is with God now.’
A long breath escaped Raleigh’s lips. ‘Then I pray He grants her greater peace than she enjoyed in this world.’
‘Arbella spoke of you,’ Frances said. ‘With her last breath, she urged me to help you.’
Raleigh turned back to her. ‘Oh?’ he remarked, raising an eyebrow. ‘That was most kind of her but I have everything I require.’
Frances no longer had the patience for the hints and riddles that her companion had always indulged in. ‘Are you involved in the plot she spoke of? She said her husband stands ready to invade as soon as the King of Spain joins forces with him.’
Raleigh’s eyes widened and the smile faded from his lips. ‘Come, let us sit by the fire. I will have my servant fetch some wine.’
‘I cannot stay,’ Frances said abruptly. ‘I must return to Whitehall before my absence is noted.’ It was not entirely a lie. Even though her formal duties there had ceased, she had often caught the curious stares of her fellow courtiers as she walked through the public rooms or took her place at dinner. No doubt the story of her arrest for witchcraft had been repeated – and embellished – by those who had been there to witness it. It made her yearn for the simple domesticity of her life at Tyringham Hall, with her precious children and woodlands for company.
‘Then let us move from the window, at least.’ Raleigh cupped her elbow and steered her towards the middle of the room. He picked up his pipe from the small table nearby and lit it with a taper he dipped into the embers of the fire. He sucked on it deeply, then blew out a long plume of smoke. Frances had loved the earthy smell ever since she had been a girl and had watched, mesmerised, as her father had prepared the tobacco, rubbing it between his fingers before pressing it down into his pipe. Five years had passed since his death but she missed him keenly. She knew she always would.
‘I have petitioned His Majesty to release me from this place so that I might undertake an expedition in his name,’ Sir Walter began. ‘For several years now he has been obsessed with the idea of finding El Dorado.’
‘The City of Gold?’ Frances could not keep the scorn from her voice. She had heard many outlandish tales about the mythical kingdom from returning adventurers, eager to entice their patrons into funding a fresh voyage. Raleigh himself had undertaken one during the closing years of Elizabeth’s reign, journeying to the furthermost edge of Africa with the promise of bountiful riches echoing in his ears. His fleet had returned laden with nothing more than some brightly coloured silks and caskets of exotic spices. Her mother had told of the Queen’s fury. But it had not deterred Raleigh from launching another expedition the following year, with no more success.
‘Surely you do not still believe that it exists,’ Frances said, incredulous.
Sir Walter’s mouth twitched. ‘The beliefs of a humble subject are of no consequence next to those of a king. If His Grace desires it, then I shall set sail as soon as a fleet can be assembled.’
Frances regarded him closely. ‘You plan to escape by this means?’