She stared at him, aghast. ‘The tincture was destroyed long ago,’ she replied truthfully. An image flitted before her of Thomas pouring it into the fire. She could still remember the acrid stench that had filled their chamber.
‘Ah, but the mandrake I supplied was enough to make several more of the same potency,’ he persisted. ‘I am sure that a woman with your skill would not have discarded such a jewel, knowing that the root has the power to heal as well as to kill.’
Frances tried to protest but the words died on her lips.
‘I beg of you, please do this for me. I lack the courage for what I must face,’ he urged, his eyes now wild with fright.
She longed to wrench her hand from him and run far from there. If she supplied Raleigh with the means to take his own life, he would surely be damned for all eternity. And if her part in it were discovered, she would be hanged as a witch – Buckingham would make sure of that. Her herbs had only ever been used for good. Although she had plotted to murder the prince with the tincture of mandrake, God had stayed her hand. Even though the King’s son had worked to destroy her and those she held dear, to take a life was a sin.
An image came unbidden into her mind of a man lying on a pallet bed in a dungeon not far away. She tried to push it from her, but it seemed to grow so sharply into focus that it was no longer Raleigh’s face before her but Tom’s. He was smiling sadly at her as he replaced the stopper on the tiny glass phial. I cannot let you forfeit your life for me. She tried to swallow as his words sounded in her ears. She had begged him to let her save him from the horror that lay before him. Just a few drops of the tincture would have been enough to stop his breath, robbing the executioner’s knife of its gruesome task of gouging out his entrails and performing all manner of tortures before his head was smitten off. She had replayed their whispered conversation so many times since that night, wishing she had had the strength to persuade him. But in her heart she knew there was nothing she could have said or done. Tom would never have allowed her to risk her own life by giving him a swifter, kinder death. He had loved her too much.
‘Please.’
Sir Walter’s voice brought her back to the present. He was staring intently at her, his eyes imploring. How could she deny him the same mercy she would have performed for Tom? She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Then, opening them, she gave the slightest of nods. Raleigh pressed his lips to her hand once more and sank back in his chair.
‘Raleigh will appear before the privy council tomorrow.’ Thomas’s expression was grave.
Frances had waited for this moment for more than two weeks now, not wanting to deliver the potion to Raleigh until his fate was absolutely certain. There could be only one verdict and Bacon had warned that the King would want to see the sentence swiftly carried out.
‘The lieutenant of the Tower has written to the King. He says that Sir Walter is too sick to travel to Westminster.’
Frances looked at her husband sharply. ‘What ails him?’
‘A fever, apparently. Sir Allen reports that he has not eaten for three days and has now fallen into a delirium.’
Frances considered this. Sir Allen Apsley had been appointed at Buckingham’s behest the previous year. He was unlikely to do Raleigh a favour by exaggerating his condition.
‘James will not hear of it,’ her husband continued. ‘He says it is all a ruse by Raleigh to escape his fate. Buckingham encourages him in this view, of course.’
Frances thought of her old friend suffering alone in that grim fortress. He had appeared frail enough when she had last seen him. If he was as sick as Apsley reported, her potion might not be needed after all. But she could not risk waiting, particularly as James was not minded to. She must go to the Tower tonight.
‘The King will not want to be denied his prey,’ Frances murmured, almost to herself.
Thomas nodded, grim-faced. ‘He seems to take pleasure in the prospect of sending a sick old man to his death.’
Should she tell him? She had almost done so upon her return from the Tower, but fear of implicating him had prevented her. This was a burden she must carry alone. Besides, the task was now less fraught with danger. If Raleigh was known to be gravely ill, few would think to question it if God were to claim him before the King’s justice could.
Frances moved to sit by her husband. ‘We must keep faith that God will wreak his vengeance – in this world or the next.’
CHAPTER 26
21 October
As she turned under the archway and mounted the steps to the green, Frances tried to push away the thought that this once great adventurer, the hero of the old Queen and the scourge of her successor, would breathe his last in a matter of minutes. It seemed impossible, somehow. He had always been so full of life – of hope, too, despite living under the threat of execution for fifteen years.
When she reached the edge of Raleigh’s garden, she looked up at the tower, its turrets silhouetted against the night sky. There was no sign of life within. Perhaps God had already taken him. She prayed that He had, though instinct told her he still drew breath.
Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she began to mount the steps. She saw that the yeoman was not at his post. He must have moved inside the lodging to shelter from the cold. She knocked lightly on the door and waited, her breath misting in the air. Everything was silent within. Slowly, she lifted the latch and pushed open the door, expecting to see the guard asleep. But the room was in darkness. She waited, straining her ears for any sound from the chamber beyond. Nothing. Summoning her courage, she took a step forward and reached for the handle. But just as her fingers closed over the cold iron ring, a hand gripped her wrist with such force that she cried out. There was an answering groan from Raleigh’s chamber, then silence.
‘Sir Walter does not usually receive visitors at this hour.’
The silken voice was so close to her ear that she could feel his breath. She felt like a rabbit caught in a snare and looked desperately about her, as if trying to find some means of escape. He took a step closer, his arm brushing against her back. Her breath was coming so quickly that she feared she might faint. Then he released his grip and there was a loud bang as he flung open the shutter. At once, the parlour was illuminated by the fragile light of the waning moon. Frances tried to turn but he pressed her against the door so that her head twisted painfully away from him.
‘What is your business here, Lady Frances?’
There was no mistaking his voice this time. A moment later, he released his grip and she turned to see Buckingham standing before her. He eyed her with faint amusement, as if he had caught a child stealing a comfit from the palace kitchens.
‘Where is the yeoman?’ she demanded, hoping to distract him while she tried to order her thoughts.
The marquess waved his hand dismissively. ‘I have relieved him of his duties for the evening. Some jewels are of such value that they should not be entrusted to others, as I advised His Majesty.’
‘You are very assiduous, my lord,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Surely Sir Allen would have been happy to oblige.’
‘I have no doubt of it. But the only means to be certain of an outcome is to perform the task oneself, is it not, my lady?’
His eyes glinted in the gloom. Frances held his gaze but did not answer.