Frances smiled. ‘Perhaps we might pray now for the health of your poor brother and the souls of those who were thought to have bewitched him.’
Kate rose at once and scurried off into the adjoining chamber. Frances heard some rustling, then the click of a key in a lock. A moment later, she returned with a richly embroidered cloth and a rosary. There was something else in her other hand but her fingers were too tightly closed over it for Frances to see. She busied herself with spreading out the cloth for them both to kneel on, then placed the rosary on a small table next to it. Frances came to join her friend and they knelt, heads bowed. Kate made the sign of the cross over her breast, then slowly opened her hand.
‘My father gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.’
Frances looked down at the exquisitely carved marble figure. The Virgin’s eyes were downcast, but her mouth was lifted in a beatific smile and her arms were held open, as if for an embrace. Kate raised it to her lips, then set it down on the table and began to pray.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’
A feeling of peace swept over Frances. Here, in this quiet chamber, the troubles of court seemed far distant. The loss of their fortune, Buckingham and his scheming, the heretic King his master, who had shown so little care for his wife’s passing that he was staging a magnificent pageant the evening after her funeral: all were as insubstantial as a dream. She closed her eyes and began to repeat the familiar words.
The light was dwindling by the time Frances made her way back to Thomas’s apartment. She slowed her steps, savouring the unusual quiet that shrouded the palace. Her hand was on the latch when the door was wrenched open and she almost collided with her husband.
Frances’s heart lurched in panic. ‘What has happened?’
‘It’s the King.’ Thomas’s face was ashen. ‘He is dying.’
Frances stared at him, stupefied.
‘He has summoned all his councillors to attend him – myself too. I must make haste.’
‘But he showed no sign of illness at the pageant,’ Frances countered, thinking back to the smirking glances that he and his favourite had exchanged during the ceremony at Westminster.
‘He fell into a sudden faint – that is all I know. Please – wait for me here. I will return as soon as I can.’
Frances watched as he walked briskly away and stood there long after he had disappeared from view, her mind racing. How could this be? Even the most sudden of fevers usually betrayed some warning signs a day or so before – a pale complexion, a little shortness of breath – but James had appeared in robust health, more so than he had for a long time. Even the gout that had plagued him these past few years seemed to have abated a little. What could have occasioned such a swift change? A thought struck her. Poison? Raleigh’s execution had reignited the fervour of discontented Catholics and every day seemed to bring a fresh rumour of some plot.
A cold wind blew along the cloister. She had hardly noticed it grow so dark since she had been standing there, lost in her thoughts. Quickly, she went inside and bolted the door. To distract herself from her rising agitation, she made a fire and tried to coax the meagre flames to life. The wood must have grown damp these past few weeks, she thought. When at last she was sure that the blaze would not die, she fetched a flagon of wine and poured herself a glass.
The minutes seemed to pass like hours as she waited, her ears straining for the sound of her husband’s footsteps. As the wine warmed her, her breathing slowed a little. Wasn’t this what she and Thomas – their fellow Catholics too – had wanted ever since James came to the throne? He had been a scourge on this kingdom, blighting his subjects’ lives with misery and fear while he lay steeped in sin. She thought of Buckingham, his face as he watched his master’s life slip away – his fortunes with it. He should have thought to cultivate the King’s successor earlier. She had seen him fawn over the prince at the various entertainments staged for the Count de Gondomar, but Charles had always seemed unmoved. She admired the young man even more for that. God willing, he would make a far more discerning king than his father.
Rapid footsteps jolted her from her thoughts. Frances leaped to her feet and ran to the door, sliding back the bolt with trembling fingers. Thomas stepped quickly inside. She said nothing but led him to the chairs by the fire and poured him some wine. He downed several gulps, then raised his eyes to hers.
‘Is he . . .?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I fear it cannot be long. He keeps lapsing into insensibility, and his skin has the pallor of a corpse.’
‘Has he a fever?’ Frances asked, forcing herself to consider the matter objectively.
‘I think not. He seemed rather cold than otherwise and was shivering violently, though every fire in the privy chamber had been lit. He was greatly troubled in mind, too, and kept ranting about the late Queen and the loss he had suffered.’
Frances was scornful. ‘How can he mourn one towards whom he showed such little regard in life?’
‘Her death did not seem to be the loss he was referring to,’ Thomas replied, ‘but his words were rambling and his mind so disordered that it was hard to make any sense of them.’
‘The marquess must be distraught.’
Thomas lifted the glass to his lips again and swallowed deeply before setting it down on the table. ‘He stands to profit by our master’s death, even more than by his reign. The King summoned us to witness his decree that upon his death Buckingham will assume the position of lord protector.’
Frances looked at him in confusion. ‘But the prince is old enough to rule alone.’ As she waited for Thomas to respond, she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.
‘That is of little consequence, it seems. The King has ensured that his son will be in even greater thrall to the marquess than he has been himself. Charles will be king in name only. All of his power will be vested in the lord protector.’
Frances sank back in her chair. ‘How can this be?’ she whispered. ‘Surely the privy council will not allow His Grace to ride roughshod over the laws of this kingdom – to say nothing of the prince himself.’
Her husband shook his head again, as if defeated. ‘Buckingham dominates the council, as he does the King. It seems he has been scheming for this since he first entered our royal master’s service. The terms of the decree have been set down and all of those present put their names to it.’
‘Even Lord Bacon?’ Frances asked, incredulous. Arch politician he might be, but she knew that his respect for the law exceeded his ambition.
‘He was not there. The King dispatched him on some business in France a few days ago.’
That would explain why she had not seen her friend at Queen Anne’s funeral. His absence had perturbed her but she had been too distracted by the events of that day to give it any further thought. The feasting and revelry that had followed the ceremony had made it seem more a cause for celebration than for grief.
‘We must prepare to leave this place, Frances,’ Thomas said quietly. ‘I will send word to my steward at Tyringham. Buckingham will be ruthless towards those he has marked as rivals. He knows that you enjoy some favour with the prince and will not suffer any impediment to the hold he means to exert over him.’