If Thomas was jealous, he did not show it. Frances knew he had no reason to be. Although Bacon clearly enjoyed the company of women – herself in particular – she had never once seen the flicker of desire in his eyes. Perhaps his passions lay elsewhere. Besides, her husband could hardly complain if she sought diversion. Even when he was not away on the hunt, his duties occupied him for most of the day because he needed to ensure that the buckhounds had sufficient exercise.
‘Myrtus communis,’ Bacon muttered, as he stooped to pluck one of the dark green stems. ‘It will bring down a fever more quickly than anything else I have tried.’
And numb even the most severe pain, Frances thought, but merely nodded politely. Friendly though they had become, she knew better than to confide her knowledge of healing to so new an acquaintance.
‘I will gather a few more sprigs now, to add to my collection,’ he said, drawing out a pair of exquisite silver scissors from his pocket.
Frances experienced a jolt of envy. Bacon was respected as a man of science, and his interest in the natural world was therefore accepted and encouraged. If she spoke so openly of such matters, or was seen to be gathering herbs and plants with which to make remedies, she would be hanged as a witch.
‘If you have every species of which you have written then it must be extensive indeed,’ Frances observed, as her companion snipped at the myrtle.
Bacon gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Alice quite despairs of it. She complains that York House is so full of my treasures there is no room for hers.’
Frances had known that Bacon was married, but the better acquainted they had become, the more it had surprised her.
‘Cardinal Wolsey’s former palace? There must be room enough for a whole woodland of species.’ She had passed the mansion on her visit to the Queen two weeks before. It occupied a vast tract of land on the south side of the Strand and was second only to Denmark House in splendour.
Her companion chuckled. ‘Ah, it is the same with plants as with books: one always needs space for more.’
Frances smiled. ‘That is true. My husband has already extended the library at Tyringham twice since our marriage. Does your wife share your interests?’
His expression clouded. ‘Sadly not, Lady Frances. She is much younger than I – we were betrothed when she was just eleven. Her time is spent counting her jewels and ordering new gowns. It is my own fault. I spoiled her during our courtship.’
‘I do not think I have seen her at Whitehall,’ Frances said.
Bacon shook his head. ‘She prefers the company of her gems to that of the King and his courtiers.’
Frances resisted the temptation to say that in this, at least, she was in accord with her – though it was the company of her books she preferred, not her modest collection of jewels.
‘You cannot have much leisure to pursue your studies, now that you are attorney general.’ She moved the conversation away from his marriage.
‘The burden of office does indeed weigh heavily upon my shoulders at present. I hope, in time, to use my proximity to the King to further the cause of scientific discovery.’
They exchanged a look.
‘It will be akin to the labours of Hercules, I admit,’ he added, rolling his eyes. Frances grinned. Her new friend’s irreverence was one of the qualities she admired most in him. ‘But perhaps the strength of his piety will bring him to understand their importance. “All knowledge appeareth to be a plant of God’s own planting,” the prophet Daniel tells us. It is beholden of all His people to help it spread and flourish.’
James never tired of reminding his subjects that he was God’s representative on earth. He had justified all manner of acts on the basis that he was carrying out God’s work, hunting down witches principal among them. She had wondered many times how God must view His servant’s other activities. Surely even James was not so great a hypocrite as to suppose He smiled upon them.
They lapsed into silence as they continued their progress through the park. Looking at the trees on its western edge, Frances noticed that the leaves were already tinged with brown. The woods that surrounded Tyringham Hall were at their most beautiful in autumn, gold, red and rich brown. John had delighted in watching the leaves fall, scampering around the forest to catch them in his plump little fingers. She would miss him doing the same this year, would miss his infant brother’s wonder at the spectacle. Pray God her husband’s affairs here would soon grow more settled so that she could visit their sons before the onset of winter.
‘Tell me, Lady Frances, what do you make of this matter with Somerset’s former acquaintance?’ her companion asked, distracting her from her melancholy thoughts.
‘Sir Thomas Overbury?’ she replied. It was safer not to confide what she knew of the matter. ‘I hardly know. I was not at court when he died.’
‘Hmm. It is a curious business. He was an objectionable sort of fellow and guarded his friendship with Somerset jealously. He despised Lady Somerset – the Countess of Essex, as she was then – on sight and did everything he could to obstruct their marriage. When I heard of his death in the Tower, I assumed he had choked on the gall of envy and spite. But perhaps it was something even more bitter.’
‘Rumours of poison often accompany sudden deaths, particularly those of note,’ Frances said dismissively. An image of Prince Henry flitted before her, his lips parted as she brought the deadly tincture to them.
‘True enough,’ Bacon conceded, ‘but I wonder why there were no such rumours at the time. It is only now, two years later, that there is talk of foul play.’
‘I am sure the court gossips will soon turn to other matters,’ she replied, pretending to focus on a flock of wild geese that had just landed on the large expanse of water to their left.
‘Perhaps.’ A pause. ‘But when such rumours emerge so suddenly, one must always consider whom they serve.’
Frances did not reply. She knew that he was referring to Sir George Villiers. Her suspicion that he had started the rumours had deepened into a firm conviction over the past few weeks. Thomas had also voiced it, though he had been careful to keep his counsel in the public court. He had no desire to sharpen Villiers’s antipathy towards him.
They were nearing the gates at the eastern edge of the park now. Frances was in no hurry to return to Whitehall but knew that her companion would soon be required there. He motioned for her to pass through ahead of him. She had just walked out onto the street when the thundering of hoofs made her step back into the gateway. Bacon stood next to her, shielding his eyes as he gazed towards the carriage. She saw his expression harden as it drew level with them, but it passed so quickly that she caught only a fleeting glance of the white-haired man inside. As the carriage retreated from view, she could just make out an elaborate red and blue crest on the back. She struggled to think where she had seen it before.
‘Do you know him?’ she asked, turning back to her companion.
He nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Yes – though I wish it were otherwise,’ he muttered. ‘Sir Edward Coke.’
Frances’s blood ran cold. He had presided over the trial of the Powder Treason plotters. She could still hear his sonorous voice echoing around the lofty chamber of Westminster Hall, urging the severest penalty be visited upon them, lest their contagion spread until the entire kingdom is in the grip of the devil and his minions. How much greater a devil held the kingdom in thrall now.