As she rounded the corner, she saw a slender figure huddled under the Holbein Gate. She stopped, but he had already seen her. Slowing her pace, she proceeded towards him. As she drew closer, she recognised the embroidered swan in chains on his doublet. Buckingham’s livery. His face was pinched with cold and he kept moving from one foot to the other. No doubt he had been waiting here for some time, Frances thought. He eyed her uncertainly, then gave a short bow and turned back to face the road ahead.
Frances did not think he knew her – certainly she had not noticed him before – but she took the precaution of walking in the opposite direction of her destination, up a small side street. As soon as she was out of view, she turned left into another narrow street and quickly weaved her way along it until she came to the Strand.
Most of the snow had been cleared from the footpath that ran alongside the road, so Frances could quicken her pace. By the time she reached the westernmost end of the street, she had broken into a run. Ahead, the skeletal trees of St James’s Park were silhouetted against the grey sky. To her right, the spire of St Martin’s rose above the rooftops. Turning towards it, she hastened along the road that snaked northwards. The tolling of the bell sounded as she passed. Three o’clock. Pray God I am not too late.
She ran on, panting, her linen shift clinging to her back despite the cold, until she saw the squat tower of St Giles-in-the-Fields up ahead. Almost there. Her legs ached and she longed to cast off the woollen cloak that had shrouded her from the cold but now weighed heavily upon her. Lord Rutland’s carriage would likely turn down this road after it had reached St Giles’s Cross, but she could not be certain so she knew she must reach the crossroads. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the tower, she surged onwards.
A few moments later she was standing, breathless, at the crossroads. She gazed along the wide road that was the main thoroughfare for travellers from the north and west. She had come this way many times before – first from Longford and then Tyringham. Usually the road was crowded with carriages, wagons and stalls, a riot of noise, people and horses. But today just a handful of carriages rumbled slowly along, the horses’ hoofs slipping on the compacted snow. Frances prayed that Lord Rutland’s would soon be among them.
As her breathing slowed, the cold seeped into her bones and she drew her cloak around her, glad of its warmth once more. Her thoughts returned to the countess: she would not rest until her son had won the glittering prize that they saw as his by right. Buckingham’s lavish spending had always outstripped the generous gifts and salaries that the King had bestowed upon him. He would settle for nothing less than the richest estate in the kingdom. That Belvoir lay close to his mother’s made it ideal. He would not lack for excuses to visit her, Frances thought, with distaste. She could not help thinking that, for his mother, a large part of Kate’s appeal lay not so much in her riches as in her plainness and mild nature. Here was not a woman to rival her own hold over her son.
Frances was so lost in thought that at first she did not notice the sleek black carriage coming into view. Only when a gust of wind sent the white plumes at each corner fluttering did it catch her eye. She ran towards it. The carriage was travelling much faster than the others and before long she could hear the snorts of the horses and see the steam that rose from their flanks.
‘Stop! Please!’ she called, stepping out into the road.
The coachman muttered a curse and glowered at her, but did not draw in the reins.
‘Lord Rutland!’ she cried, louder this time.
A moment later, a gloved hand pulled back the heavy curtain and the earl’s gaunt face peered out into the gloom. He gave a sharp rap on the roof of the carriage and it came to such an abrupt halt that the coachman lurched forward. He directed another dark look at Frances before climbing down to open the door for his master.
‘Lady Frances?’
‘Do not be alarmed, my lord. I will explain. But we must make haste – please,’ she said, gesturing that she would join him in the carriage. He made room for her at once, but before she climbed in she called up to the coachman: ‘Please, wait here for a few moments.’ Scowling, he peered over the side of the coach towards his master, who looked briefly at Frances, then nodded.
Frances glanced across at the small form swaddled in furs on the seat opposite. His face was turned towards the back of the carriage and she could just see a few wisps of fair hair beneath his velvet cap. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable that her breath caught in her throat. She turned back to his father.
‘The Countess of Buckingham knows you are bringing your son to London,’ she said shortly. ‘Lady Katherine let it slip – please, don’t be angry,’ she added quickly. ‘The poor girl has berated herself enough already. Buckingham has appointed one of his grooms to look out for you – I saw him on my way here. It is too dangerous to take your son to the palace now. The King has agreed that Dr Lambe should treat him and you can ill afford to cause offence by refusing.’
At this, the fury went out of Lord Rutland’s eyes.
‘We shall go to my mother’s house at Whitefriars,’ Frances went on. ‘I can attend to your son there and return to Whitehall every evening, in case my absence attracts notice. I will tell Katherine to keep to your chambers as much as possible during the day, so that people will assume I am with her. She can tell the Countess that you have delayed your departure from Belvoir because the roads are impassable.’
Lord Rutland did not reply but eyed her steadily.
‘We cannot hope to conceal your presence here in London for long,’ she continued, ‘but, God willing, I will have time enough to ease your son’s suffering.’ She looked back at the boy, his frail body jolting as the carriage rumbled along the Strand.
Suddenly Lord Rutland reached across and lowered the window. ‘Take us to Whitefriars,’ he called to the coachman.
CHAPTER 36
27 January
Frances gazed at the small hand that lay in hers. The skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, and the spidery blue veins showed clearly beneath it. A large fire roared in the grate, but the warmth did not seem to permeate the boy’s frail body, which was almost as cold to the touch now as when his father had carried him in from the carriage the evening before.
‘You should get some sleep, my dear.’
Frances smiled at Lord Rutland, who was seated on the opposite side of his son’s bed. The dark shadows under his eyes told of a restless night for him, too, though Frances had made her mother’s lodgings as comfortable as she could.
‘I will warm some more broth first,’ she said, turning back to the boy. ‘He may take a little more, now that he is settled.’
She was careful to keep her tone light, but she knew that Lord Rutland also feared a recurrence of what had happened before. At first his son had seemed to swallow the thin stew easily, but after a few spoonfuls he had begun to splutter and choke, then vomited. Frances had been concerned to see black bile but had said nothing. His father would have noticed it too.
A light tapping on the door made them both jump. Frances waited, straining her ears. Three more knocks, then silence. That was the signal. Exhaling with relief, she padded out of the chamber, taking care to close the door, just in case.