She finished dressing, then took it to the hall and settled on the window seat. She had just opened it when there was a loud shout from the courtyard below.
‘The King! I demand to see the King!’
Frances set down the book and knelt up on the seat so that she could peer out of the open casement. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset was being marched across the courtyard by two yeomen of the guard, each grasping an arm as he struggled to free himself.
‘Unhand me, churls!’ he yelled, thrashing like a fish caught on a hook.
Frances heard more rapid footsteps approaching. She craned her neck to see, then sprang back in horror as she saw Lady Somerset following in her husband’s wake. She did not fight her guards but walked slowly and with dignity across the cobbles, her hands resting on her distended stomach. Frances fought the urge to look away, to press her hands against her ears and shut out the terrifying spectacle in the courtyard below. She watched the lady’s skirts billow behind her as she made her steady progress, as if she were taking a leisurely morning stroll. Surely the King would not confine a woman so close to her time in the Tower. Even as she thought it, she knew with a creeping certainty that he would.
Another shout drew Frances’s gaze back to Somerset.
‘Villain!’ he yelled, twisting around. His face was puce with rage. Frances followed his gaze. There, standing at the entrance to the courtyard, just below her window, was Sir George Villiers.
‘This is your doing!’ Somerset shrieked. ‘I will see you hang for this!’
As the captive’s frantic scuffling echoed into silence, Frances caught Villiers’s low chuckle. He watched as his vanquished rival was dragged through the gateway that led to the river, his wife following quietly behind. Then, slowly, he raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss towards their retreating shadows.
1616
CHAPTER 14
6 January
Frances stole a glance at her husband as Sir George Villiers mounted the steps to the dais. The King’s eyes flashed as he watched him walk slowly to the throne. The jewels on Villiers’s scarlet cloak glittered in the candlelight when he swept an elaborate bow. James rose unsteadily to his feet and looked up adoringly at the young man. He was a good deal shorter than Villiers, who towered over most others at court. An attendant stepped forward and handed his master a gold satin sash, from which was suspended a crest bearing the King’s arms. Villiers sank to his knees and lowered his gaze.
‘My most trusty and well-beloved servant, Sir George Villiers, I confer upon ye’ the office of master of the horse.’
James bent to place the sash around the favourite’s neck, his hand brushing against the skin that showed above Villiers’s richly embroidered collar. ‘Ye’ are charged with the management of all ceremony attendant upon the office, as well as of the keeping of my stables, coach houses and kennels, and of the horses and hounds therein.’
Villiers had taken great delight in telling Thomas of his promotion two days before. It was one of the greatest prizes to be had at court, for as well as superintending all of the magnificent displays and pageantry associated with the King’s public appearances and progresses, the master of the horse was also entitled to a place on the privy council. Thomas was not the only one to feel aggrieved at the young man’s meteoric rise. But he had particular cause, for as master of the buckhounds he was now directly answerable to him. Frances knew as well as he that Villiers would delight in exercising his authority to the full. The prospect of his proving as fair a master as the Earl of Worcester, whose place he had usurped, seemed entirely distant.
The new master was rising to his feet now, his eyes triumphant as he turned to receive the obeisance of the assembled company. Frances gave her husband’s hand a quick squeeze. As she rose from her curtsy, she saw Villiers staring at him with a look of faint amusement that made her blood run cold.
The banquet that followed was even more lavish than those staged in honour of visiting princes or ambassadors. Platters bearing exquisitely crafted sugarwork and intricate marchpane were carried aloft by the servers. As one drew closer, Frances noticed that the delicacies were all inspired by Villiers’s new office: there were tiny stirrups, horseshoes and collars, the details picked out in bright dyes and gold leaf.
‘I will take some air.’ Thomas raised his voice to be heard above the growing cacophony. ‘It is even more stifling in here than usual.’
‘I will come with you,’ she replied, but her husband shook his head.
‘Please – stay and enjoy the banquet, my love. I shall be back soon.’
He had already started in the direction of the balcony at the opposite end of the hall before Frances could protest. She watched with a sinking heart as he weaved his way through the crowds.
‘Have you tried the stirrups? They are quite delicious.’
Sir Francis Bacon was standing before her, his face lit with his usual good humour. She smiled. ‘How are you, Sir Francis? I have hardly seen you these past few weeks.’
He spread his hands. ‘I know, my dear – and I am sorry for it. But His Majesty has found much business to occupy my time.’
Bacon had told her that the King had appointed him to gather evidence for the Somersets’ trial, which made her glad she had not confided what she knew of the matter. The couple had languished in the Tower since their arrest almost three months before. Lady Somerset had given birth to a daughter there in the early days of December. The King had shown no pity when informed that her labour pains had begun and had refused to have her moved to more comfortable lodgings. The child had been taken from her almost as soon as it had drawn breath. Frances’s heart lurched with pity again as she thought of the young woman in that grim fortress, consumed by grief and terror.
‘Is there a date for the trial yet?’
Bacon shook his head. ‘Everything is made ready, but still the King has not given word.’ He leaned towards her so that he would not be overheard. ‘Another of Somerset’s attendants was executed yesterday. That brings the tally to three. I fear there will be more before this business is concluded.’
Frances felt cold, despite the oppressive heat of the hall. She glanced towards the dais and saw James feeding his new master of the horse a sugared apricot. Their heads were so close together that Villiers’s luscious brown locks brushed against the King’s brow. It did not seem so very long ago that Somerset had enjoyed such intimacy. Now he looked set to be hanged at his master’s orders.
The thunderous boom of a drum rang out across the hall, signalling the start of the dance. Frances almost dropped her glass, and her hand trembled as she clasped it more tightly. The crowds were forming two lines down the centre of the hall. Seizing the opportunity, Frances signalled to her companion to follow her to one of the window recesses, where they could talk at greater liberty. She judged that everyone else would be too intent upon the dance to heed their conversation.
‘Have you found anything to support the accusations against Somerset?’ Frances asked, when they were settled on the window seat.
‘No,’ he answered shortly, ‘though the King would have me seize at even the most trivial of details and twist it into something darker.’ A shadow flitted across his face and he hesitated before continuing. ‘The same is not true of Lady Somerset, though.’