‘Some two days hence – and then with difficulty,’ he replied. ‘I did not know that he had . . . that the sheets were soiled. I will order new ones.’
He had almost reached the door when Frances stopped him.
‘There is no time for that now. The King needs fresh water. I’ll wager he has hardly taken a drop since falling into a delirium.’ The look on his face told her that she was right. ‘Bring some vinegar too, some garlic and salt. And a small quantity of saxifrage – the kitchens should have it,’ she added quickly, noting his confusion.
‘Make haste!’ the prince urged, as he hesitated. The boy scurried away. Then, more quietly: ‘What ails him?’
‘There is a contagion in one of his kidneys,’ Frances replied. ‘It could have been easily cured, but the ignorance of the physicians has enabled it to take hold. I will do what I can to purge it from his body.’
Charles’s eyes darted to his father in alarm. ‘Will he live?’
He looked so fragile standing there, pale as death. Frances longed to give him comfort. But she must not offer hope yet. It was too soon.
‘I will use what skills I have, Your Grace. God must do the rest.’
The young man took a step forward. ‘Will you pray with me, Lady Frances?’ He held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it and followed him to the end of the bed, where they sank to their knees. The prince closed his eyes and began to whisper a prayer so quietly that Frances could only catch the occasional word. She tried to concentrate on her own offering, but her ears strained to listen.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .’
Frances’s eyes flew open. She looked at the prince, who was slowly signing the cross over his chest. Those were not the words of his father’s prayer book. My little servant. The late Queen’s name for her son suddenly took on new meaning. Was it her faith he followed? She had wondered ever since the remark he had made during their meeting in Hyde Park.
Hurrying footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Charles opened his eyes at once. Before she could look away, he turned to her and his expression changed as he realised she had been staring at him. He gazed at her with something like fear, then gave a small, uncertain smile and rose to his feet.
The groom had brought everything she had asked for. Frances set to work at once, glad of the distraction. A pungent aroma rose from the mortar as she ground the garlic and saxifrage into a paste with the salt, adding a few drops of vinegar every now and then. When it was a smooth consistency, she mixed it with several draughts of fresh water and poured some into a glass.
The King moaned as the groom propped him up on the pillows so that Frances could administer the tincture. His nostrils twitched as she brought it close to his lips. James grimaced and looked as if he might spit out the liquid, but Frances clamped his jaws closed, while he writhed and groaned. At length, she saw his throat pulse as the tincture slid down it. She glanced up at the prince, who was watching from the other side of the bed, fearing his shock that she should handle his father so roughly. But he gave a nod of assent. Frances repeated the procedure again several times, the King’s resistance becoming weaker with each, until at last the glass was empty.
‘That will suffice for now,’ she said, glancing at the clock. Despite the prince’s reassurances, she knew that Buckingham must not find her there. If his royal master were to die, he would make sure that the full weight of blame fell upon her. ‘I will return after the court has retired – if you could send word.’
‘Thank you, Lady Frances,’ the prince said. ‘You have performed a great service. I shall not forget it.’
CHAPTER 34
22 May
‘Bravo, my lord!’
Gondomar’s cry was echoed by others, and soon the entire tiltyard was in jubilant uproar. Frances watched as Buckingham took off his helmet and, with a flourish, held it up to the crowds, prompting another chorus of loud cheers.
The joust had been staged to celebrate the King’s safe deliverance. His recovery had been swifter than Frances had dared to hope. Even by the evening after her first visit to his chamber, the swelling on his back had significantly reduced and the fever had begun to abate. The prince had been true to his word and had ensured the utmost discretion for her visits. Whether the King knew that she had attended him she could not be certain. He had slept a great deal once her tincture had started to do its work, and she doubted he would remember much about the illness. But even though his delirium had soon passed, he had continued to murmur about the lost treasure. Frances had noticed his son’s discomfiture but had said nothing.
‘It is as if he brought the King back to health himself,’ Thomas muttered beside her.
‘I am sure most people here believe him capable of performing miracles,’ she responded acidly.
Her husband knew of the service she had performed and had tried to persuade her against it, fearful lest she was discovered and accused of witchcraft once more. But her desire to heal had been greater than her fear.
Another roar rose from the crowd and the Spanish ambassador was making his way down to the arena, flanked by an entourage of attendants all clad in the same black satin, white plumes on their caps. Buckingham dismounted his horse and swept an elaborate bow, then kissed the ring on Gondomar’s gloved hand.
‘They have dined together twice this week,’ Thomas murmured, his gaze fixed upon the two men.
Frances felt a familiar disquiet. She looked down at the marquess, his face wreathed in smiles. He was not courting the ambassador for his royal master’s sake alone – of that she was certain. Despite showing Gondomar every courtesy, the King seemed no more inclined to ally with Spain than he had before. Thomas had heard him mutter about King Philip’s dupli city shortly before he had fallen sick. But, then, James showed little enthusiasm for anything other than hunting, these days – that, and his favourite, of course.
Unable to bear the sight of Buckingham’s preening any longer, she glanced around the stands, which were crowded with spectators, all in their finery. She could see many faces flushed from the heat of the sun, which was now high in the sky. There was not a breath of wind to provide relief from the choking ruffs and heavy gowns. Her back felt damp and she longed to escape to the cool shade of the palace gardens. But she knew the tournament would be followed by a lavish feast and a series of masques lasting long into the night.
With a sinking heart, she looked across at the royal gallery on the opposite side of the arena. Prince Charles was seated under the canopy, his face in shadow. Frances could not imagine he took any more pleasure in the spectacle than she. He had none of his late brother’s martial prowess, and was so slight that lifting a sword, let alone wielding it in combat, might be too much for him.
Sitting close by, the Countess of Buckingham was gazing down at her beloved son with an expression of rapture. Frances thought back to the scene she had witnessed at Windsor almost three years before and felt the same revulsion she had experienced then. Any hope that the countess might return to Brooksby Hall had long since been extinguished. The King had even appointed her a suite of lodgings close to those of her son. The only saving grace was that she had never sought out Frances’s company, clearly believing her of too little significance to trouble with. If only the same were true of poor Kate. Frances looked across at her friend now and could tell from her fixed smile that she wished herself far away from Buckingham’s domineering mother.