‘My daughter has accompanied me, though,’ he added, his face brightening a little. ‘I do hope she might make your acquaintance. It is her first visit to court and she is anxious to be well received.’
Frances smiled. ‘I would be delighted to meet her, my lord. I have few enough female companions so it would be a great pleasure. Forgive me,’ she said, aware that he must be hungry after his journey. ‘Will you join me?’
The earl shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I have already eaten.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘I would be glad of your company, though, if you have finished your meal. My bones ache from being cooped up in that carriage, so I have a mind to take a stroll by the river.’
‘Gladly,’ she replied, setting down her napkin and dipping a quick curtsy to the other occupants of her table, who had resumed their conversations and barely noticed her leave.
A few boats bobbed against the landing stage, but the river was quiet now, most people having either settled at court for the evening or returned to their homes. It was beautifully mild and there was not a breath of wind as they walked along the water’s edge. It was Frances who broke the silence into which they had fallen.
‘How old is your daughter now?’
‘Katherine will be sixteen next month.’ She could hear the affection in his voice at the mention of her name. ‘Her poor mother did not live to see our precious girl grow beyond childhood.’ Frances stole a glance at him and saw that his eyes were filled with sadness. ‘She shared your name – and something of your looks too,’ he continued. ‘Her hair shone like burnished gold when the sun fell upon it. I was greatly blessed to have such a wife, even for a short time.’
‘She was blessed too,’ Frances remarked with sincerity. ‘Was it long before you married Lady Cecily?’
The earl gave an audible sigh. ‘Three years – though it would have been longer, had I not allowed myself to be persuaded. When Frances died, I vowed never to take another wife, for I knew that none would ever be so dear to me as she was. But my sister-in-law urged that I must do so for Katherine’s sake – that a father could never supply the place of a mother, no matter how beloved he is.’
Frances said nothing. She knew Lady Cecily’s character all too well and did not wish to appear disingenuous.
‘Theirs has never been an easy relationship,’ he went on. ‘Katherine was such a loving, biddable child, yet the countess found nothing but fault in her. I hoped that when we had children of our own, it might soften her opinion, but it made it sharper. I would not have been without my boys, of course, and for that reason it is sinful of me to regret marrying her. But far from bringing my daughter comfort, it has blighted her life.’
Yours too, Frances thought, but did not say.
‘What ails your young son?’ she asked, deciding it was better to talk of other matters, even if they grieved him too.
‘I wish I knew,’ he said with feeling. ‘He and Henry fell ill at the same time. The fever came on so suddenly. They had been playing happily in the morning, but by the evening they were both delirious. My wife summoned the best physician in the county, but he was at a loss to explain it. The boys’ ranting frightened him, I think. He told us they had been bewitched.’
Frances saw her own scorn mirrored in his expression. ‘How many other such claims have been made in order to conceal ignorance?’
‘Incompetence too,’ her companion agreed. ‘I knew it was nonsense, of course, but word spread rapidly throughout the village, and soon people were casting about for someone to blame. It was not long before their malicious gaze alighted upon Mistress Flower and her daughters.’
Frances thought back to the woman whom she had met during her stay with Thomas at Belvoir Castle five years before. The earl had taken her to Joan’s dwelling on the edge of Bottesford village so that she could supply Frances with salves for the wounds her husband had sustained from the riding accident. Frances remembered her small, bird-like frame and watchful dark eyes. Joan’s younger daughter, Philippa, much resembled her, but the elder, Margaret, who also worked at the earl’s castle, was a plump, fair-haired beauty. Little wonder the locals had whispered about the girls’ parentage – especially since Joan was unmarried. She might have been a respectable widow for all they knew, but she had never troubled to enlighten them.
‘Have they been accused?’ Frances asked, fearing the answer. It took little more than gossip to bring a suspected witch to trial.
‘Not yet,’ he replied, ‘though my wife is intent upon it. Many times, she has reminded me that to lift a curse the person who made it must be put to death.’
Frances shivered, though the shoreline was still bathed in warm evening sunshine. ‘I wonder they have not already been taken to the assizes,’ she remarked.
‘I have ordered the countess to take no part in the matter – my tenants too. God knows I make few enough demands of her, and those I do she sets little store by. But even she would not venture so far as to act in this without my sanction.’
Frances wished she shared his conviction. ‘It must have pained you to leave your estate at such a time.’
‘In part, yes. My little boy looked so frail when I took my leave of him. He has lingered on like this since his brother died. Many times I have feared he would follow him to the grave, but still he clings to life, God save him.’
Frances had known scores of children carried off by a fever, but it was usually of short duration – as had been the case with the earl’s elder son. That his younger brother was still labouring under the same sickness three years later was perplexing. She wished she might attend him so that she could judge his symptoms for herself. It would not surprise her if the ministrations of the various doctors and apothecaries who had seen him over the years had prolonged, rather than relieved, his malady.
‘But I confess I was glad to receive the King’s summons,’ the earl continued, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Lady Cecily’s persecution of my daughter has increased since Henry’s death. Worry for our surviving son has worn her nerves to shreds, and poor Katherine has suffered the consequences. It pains me to see how fearful she has grown,’ he added. ‘I hope the court might restore something of her former spirit. She was always such a happy child before . . .’
His voice trailed off into silence, and they continued their steady progress along the river.
‘I will do everything I can to help your daughter, my lord,’ she said. ‘I hope you will soon arrange a time for us to meet. Tell me, does she ride?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the earl replied, with enthusiasm. ‘She was in the saddle even before her feet could reach the stirrups. It has been her main source of pleasure ever since – though she has lacked the opportunity of late,’ he added, his smile fading. ‘Lady Cecily thinks it is bad for her complexion.’
Frances bit back a scornful remark. ‘Then I shall be delighted to accompany her. There are many fine parks within reach of court, and the flowers and hedges are at their very best at this time of year. It will gladden her heart to see them.’
‘You are every bit as kind as I remember, Lady Frances,’ her companion said warmly. ‘I have thought of you often since you and Sir Thomas stayed at Belvoir. I expect a young man such as he is quite recovered by now?’