Frances felt cold. Though she longed to escape this place and return to their sons, she knew that for as long as he held power Buckingham would continue to plague them. And what would become of Kate if she abandoned her to his clutches? She could not forsake the promise she had made to Lord Rutland.
‘The King may yet recover,’ she suggested. ‘We should not act precipitately.’
‘After what I saw this evening, I cannot believe it likely,’ her husband replied grimly. ‘We must make ready.’
CHAPTER 33
16 May
Frances held her breath and lay perfectly still. It was not yet light, though Thomas had already left for the stables. Buckingham had become an even more exacting master in the brief time since the King’s illness had been announced, as if he already held the title of lord protector. His royal master still clung to life, but the physicians had warned that it could not be long now.
There it was again: a faint knocking. Frances sat bolt upright, her pulse racing. Quickly, she rose and drew on a cloak over her nightgown, then crept to the door. She pressed her ear to it but could hear no sound. Taking a breath, she pulled it open.
A young man stood before her, wearing the prince’s livery. ‘Lady Frances Tyringham?’
‘My husband is not here,’ she replied steadily.
‘It is you whom I seek, my lady. His Grace requests your presence.’
Frances stared at him in surprise. ‘Now? The court has not yet risen.’
The attendant inclined his head. She wanted to ask more, but something in his manner silenced her. With a curt nod, she hastened back into the apartment to dress, then followed the man in the direction of the prince’s lodgings.
The presence chamber was dimly lit. Frances glanced around as she waited, distracting her racing thoughts by focusing upon the collection of paintings that hung on the walls. Although the colours were dulled by the gloom, she could make out enough details to tell that they were very fine. She remembered the late Queen proudly telling her that her son had discerning taste in art.
‘Thank you for coming, Lady Frances.’
She turned at the prince’s soft voice. She had not heard him approach. He stood on the threshold of the chamber, then walked quickly towards her. She swept a deep curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Forgive my summoning you here at this time, but I dare not tarry any longer.’ His dark blue eyes appraised her closely. ‘You know that my father the King lies dangerously ill? Though his councillors have tried to keep it from the court, there are no secrets here. If he dies, this kingdom will be in thrall to that devil Buckingham.’
Frances said nothing.
‘My mother told me of your skills in healing, that you could be trusted to assist me if ever the need arose.’
She dared not answer, but inclined her head slightly.
‘I beseech you to do so now, Lady Frances. My father’s physicians have exhausted every means to cure him of this malady. But I set little store by their potions and tinctures. God knows I suffered by them enough as a child,’ he added, with distaste. ‘The late Queen had such faith in you, as did my sister, and I always trusted her judgement. Please, will you attend him?’
Frances struggled to hide her consternation. The prince was asking her to save the life of an accursed heretic – one who had almost had her put to death for witchcraft. An image of Robert Cecil flitted before her. It was the late lord privy seal who had brought the case against her, eager to win favour with the new King. Yet she had later tended him as he had lain mortally sick with a tumour, cutting away the growth so that his life might be preserved for a time at least. If she used her skills to treat the King now, and he survived, he might have her arrested as a witch once more. But if she refused and he perished, Buckingham would reign supreme.
‘You will suffer no consequences, whether you cure him or not,’ Charles continued, anticipating her objection. ‘My father has barely woken for two days now, and his thoughts are so dis ordered that he does not know who attends him. He spoke to one of his grooms as if he were the King of Spain the other night.’
‘That may be so, Your Grace, but I will be seen by other eyes than the King’s,’ Frances reasoned.
‘Not if we make haste,’ Charles countered. ‘The marquess will not rise for two hours at least – his devotion to my father does not run so deep that he will leave his bed earlier than is his custom,’ he added, with a sneer. ‘I have grown familiar with his habits this past week. There will be few others in attendance at this hour, and those who are can be trusted. They love me more than their master’s favourite.’ His eyes were imploring. ‘I beg you, my lady. You will be rewarded for your pains – in this life or the next.’
Frances thought of Buckingham, his lips curled into a smile as he watched her fall to the ground clutching her stomach, her child bleeding away. ‘I will do as you ask, Your Grace.’
The heat in the chamber was so stifling that Frances could hardly breathe. Little wonder the King was so faint. She instructed one of the grooms who stood by his bed to open the windows. The boy’s eyes flitted to the prince, who nodded his assent.
Frances breathed in a lungful of the cool dawn air. ‘Now douse the fires.’
The groom did as she said – straight away this time. There was a sharp hiss as he poured the contents of a large ewer over the flames, and Frances blinked away the smoke that stung her eyes. James gave a low moan as she approached the bed. Thomas had been right. Even in the dim light of the chamber, she could see that he was as pale as death. She placed her fingers lightly on his neck and waited. After a few moments, she felt a faint, fluttering pulse.
‘They are gone – all gone,’ he cried out, grasping her wrist.
Frances stepped back in alarm and cast a quick glance at Charles, who gave a slight shake of his head as if warning her not to speak.
‘Who has taken my treasure?’
The King’s voice made her turn back to the bed. His eyes were still closed but tears were now streaming down his cheeks. Frances waited until his breathing had slowed, then moved to examine him more closely. His skin was burning and his breath had the fusty stench of decay. Now and then, his brow creased and he gave a low groan, as if something pained him. Gently, Frances probed his neck, but there was no trace of swelling. Although his arms were covered with angry red sores, she recognised them as the marks left by the leeches the physicians had applied. Pushing down her scorn, she drew back the thick coverlet and almost gagged at the acrid stench. The King’s linen shift had ridden up so that it only just covered his groin. Beneath it, Frances could see that the sheets were stained a brownish-yellow. She motioned for the groom to bring her a candle, then placed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned closer. There were darker flecks among the stain. Holding the flame as close as she dared, she realised with alarm that it was blood.
Quickly, she set the candle on the table next to the bed. Then, as gently as she could, she slid her hand under the King’s back. He gave a loud moan and rolled onto his side. Frances heard the groom’s intake of breath as she lifted James’s shift above his waist. As she had expected, there was a small swelling on one side of his back.
‘When did His Majesty last pass water?’ she asked the groom.