‘I am not comfortable!’ the boy protested, wriggling against his pillows. ‘This bed is as hard as wood and the covers are too heavy. I long to be out of it.’
Rutland grinned at her. ‘My son’s impatience is a clearer sign of his recovery than any I have yet seen.’
The boy was watching them with a petulant expression. His skin was no longer pallid and a little more flesh clung to his frail limbs. ‘God willing, he will soon be able to return to Belvoir,’ Frances remarked quietly. They both knew the boy’s health was not the main barrier to that. ‘Has there been any more word from the King?’
Rutland glanced towards his son. ‘I petitioned him again yesterday, but he was not minded to decide upon the matter. Buckingham was there, of course.’ They exchanged a knowing look. ‘He made sure to turn His Majesty’s mind to other things.’
Frances saw that the boy’s eyelids were drooping. He had slept a great deal these past two weeks, but she was glad of it. Sleep would restore his strength even more surely than her remedies.
‘What of Lambe?’ she whispered.
‘Still in the Tower, God be praised, though I hear Buckingham petitions the King daily for his release. Only his daughter’s presence prevents it, I fear.’
Frances knew he was right. It was one of the many reasons why she wished her former mistress could stay for longer. But she had been in England for almost three weeks now and her father had already agreed to lend his support to Frederick’s war against Spain, so there was no reason to prolong her visit.
‘Then I pray the King will assent to your return to Belvoir before Her Grace takes her leave.’
Lord Rutland nodded grimly. ‘If need be, I will take my son to the King so that he might see for himself that he is well enough to travel.’ He gazed at the boy, who was now sleeping peacefully. ‘You have worked a miracle, Lady Frances. I never thought to see his eyes open again, or to hear his voice. It has been so long.’ His eyes glistened as he smiled down at her. ‘You have brought my boy back to me.’
CHAPTER 42
1 March
The day had dawned bright and clear, and as Frances turned her face to the sun she could feel the faint warmth of its rays for the first time in months. She had grown so used to the cold gloom of winter that she had almost given up hope of spring ever arriving.
A distant chiming of bells was carried on the breeze. Eight o’clock. The princess would soon be here. Frances had arrived in Greenwich two hours before, anxious to avoid the crowds that would soon be swarming along the riverside. Thomas had been obliged to stay at Whitehall so that he could join the King’s entourage as it made its stately progress along the Thames. She wondered if Lord Rutland would be among it. The King had still not acceded to his request that he might take his son back to Belvoir.
Frances turned at the sound of a light tread on the gravel path behind her. Even though she was dressed in her travelling robes, Elizabeth was still utterly beautiful. Her hair was now almost black, but the sunlight picked out the coppery tresses that had once covered her head, reminding Frances of the eight-year-old girl she had first met at Whitehall fifteen years before.
‘Your Grace.’
Elizabeth clasped her hand and they began to stroll slowly along the riverbank.
‘Is everything made ready for your journey?’
‘Yes, yes – the ladies have been fussing over all the coffers for days,’ she replied, with a touch of impatience. ‘I’m sure there are more now than when I arrived. But, then, my father has been so generous. Do you like this new gown?’
‘It becomes you very well, Your Grace,’ Frances replied, with an indulgent smile. Her former mistress had always been easily won by such finery. She was open-handed too, though, and had given Frances and her other attendants many rich gifts as reward for their service. She would not hesitate to come to her and Thomas’s aid now, if she knew of their debts. But Frances had always despised those who cultivated royal favour in hope of reward, and in her mind – if not the princess’s – it would tarnish their friendship if she asked for help.
‘Fran?’
Suddenly aware that Elizabeth was watching her closely, she brightened her expression at once. ‘How long will the journey take, Your Grace?’
‘Weeks, I expect. It seemed endless on the way here – but, then, I was eager to arrive.’
Frances looked at the young woman, but her eyes were fixed firmly ahead. ‘You must be anxious to see your children – and your husband,’ she observed carefully.
‘Of course,’ Elizabeth replied, a little too quickly. ‘I have missed my boys dreadfully – Elisa, too. I hope they will not have forgotten me.’
And King Frederick? Frances kept her counsel. She did not wish to vex the princess at such a time.
‘But I shall miss you, Fran.’ Elizabeth faced her. ‘You have been dearer to me than my own mother – God rest her. I came back here as much for your sake as for my husband’s. I do not know how I shall bear to be parted from you again.’ She blinked away tears as she pressed her lips together.
‘Nor I you, Your Grace,’ Frances said, when at last she was able to reply. Elizabeth’s return had been like a burst of sunlight in a stormy sky, and the clouds would seem all the darker once she had left. Looking at her now, she felt wretched at the thought that they might never meet again. ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me – for Lord Rutland’s son, too.’
The princess smiled. ‘I was glad to repay your many kindnesses to me, Fran. I just hope it will be enough.’ Her face clouded. ‘My father will tire of that villain soon, I am sure. His passions burn brightly but are quickly snuffed out. Poor Lord Somerset knows that all too well.’
That much was true, Frances reflected, as she thought of the former favourite and his wife, who still languished in the Tower.
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder towards the palace. ‘I should go back now. My father will soon be here.’
Frances nodded but could not speak. She raised the princess’s hand to her lips and held it there for a moment, then swept a deep curtsy and walked slowly away.
Frances closed her eyes as she breathed in the heady scent of lavender. The kitchen gardens at Whitehall were enclosed by a high wall, which trapped the fragile warmth of the early-spring sunshine. The weather had continued fine for the three days since Elizabeth’s departure and she was grateful for it. She had arranged with Lady Katherine that if the rain stayed away tomorrow, too, they would bring the young lord for a short stroll in the palace gardens. He still tired easily, but the air and exercise would do him good.
Her husband had left for the hunt that morning. The King’s mood had darkened after bidding his daughter farewell at Greenwich, so Thomas had suggested they ride out to Esher while the weather held. For once, Buckingham had proved reluctant to join his royal master. His petulance over the Lambe affair still lingered, even though he had at last persuaded the King to release him from the Tower. Frances was glad that the old man had shown enough discretion not to return to court. But she doubted he would stay away for long.
Her breathing slowed as she leaned back against the stone wall behind the bench, taking care to wrap her skirts around the herbs she had gathered, lest they blow away while she slept. She could not help but smile at the thought that the King had not only permitted a woman he had once arrested for witchcraft to treat Lord Rutland’s son but that he had placed his own plants at her disposal. How much had changed in a few short years.