As soon as he had heard of the boy’s death, Thomas had urged her to leave for Tyringham. But she felt strangely detached from the matter. Perhaps the weight of grief and remorse with which she was burdened had obscured any feelings of fear for herself. Or perhaps she felt that she deserved to be punished for failing to protect him. As she trudged along, the cold rain seeping into her cloak and making little rivulets down her neck and spine, she realised she hardly cared.
James had ordered that the earl’s son should be honoured with the full ceremony of a burial at Westminster, as if royal blood had flowed through his veins. Was it a penance for appointing a no torious witch to attend his son? Frances had heard it whispered by two ladies as she had entered the gallery the previous afternoon. Their conversation had stopped when they had seen her approaching. The funeral had been arranged with such haste that it had excited more gossip. Frances herself had wondered at it – particularly given that, as master of the horse, Buckingham had taken charge of the proceedings.
Ahead, the procession was turning left past the ancient church of St Margaret. Frances caught a glimpse of Kate, her head bowed and a heavy black veil obscuring her face. She had been unable to assuage her friend’s grief in the two days since her little brother’s demise. The poor girl had wept for so many hours that Frances wondered she had any tears left. Kate blamed herself for administering the tincture, insisting that she should have known it was corrupted, despite Frances’s assurances that it would have taken a skilled herbalist to notice anything awry. Her wretchedness had been increased by Buckingham’s unwanted attentions. The unseemly haste with which he had renewed his courtship had shocked even Frances. She could see him now, walking directly behind Kate, his countenance as cheerful as if he were attending a masque. His mother was at his side, her arm looped over his.
They had reached the west door of the abbey. Frances could hear the haunting voices of the choir echoing through the high stone vaults as she entered the nave. She lowered her gaze to the floor and mouthed a silent prayer.
The King had decreed that the ceremony would take place in the Lady Chapel, among the tombs of his forebears. His own mother lay buried there, close to her cousin Elizabeth, who had ordered her death. James had ensured that Mary’s tomb was every bit as magnificent as her rival’s. It was a pity he had not shown such respect for her when she had been put to death, Frances thought.
The chaplain stepped forward. As he began to deliver the opening address, Frances’s gaze wandered to the stalls opposite those in which she and her husband were seated. Lord Rutland’s eyes were fixed upon his son’s coffin, which had been laid on an embroidered cloth of gold at the foot of the altar. Kate sat next to him. Frances saw how her hands trembled as she held her prayer book. Glancing along the row, she froze as she noticed Buckingham staring directly towards her. His eyes glittered in the gloom and she saw the flash of his white teeth as he smiled at her. She forced herself not to look away. Thomas tightened his grip on her hand, but when she turned to him, his eyes were full of fear.
The rain had stopped by the time they left the abbey and there was a deep chill in the air. One by one, the mourners paid their respects to Lord Rutland and his daughter, before slowly dispersing. Frances was about to address them when Buckingham stepped in front of her.
‘My lord,’ he swept an elaborate bow, ‘Lady Katherine.’
Frances saw Rutland stiffen.
‘Permit me to escort you back to the palace,’ Buckingham said, gesturing towards his carriage.
‘Thank you, but my daughter and I will walk. It is a fine evening.’ He took Kate’s hand, placed it on his arm, then made to move away.
‘Then I will accompany you. My mother can take the carriage alone – unless of course you wish to join her, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances opened her mouth to reply, but Rutland’s voice cut across her. ‘I do not need you to accompany us. Nor do I wish it.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Very well. I will bid you good evening, my lord, Lady Katherine.’ He bent to kiss her hand but she drew it quickly away.
‘God curse that devil,’ the earl muttered, under his breath, as they watched Buckingham stroll nonchalantly towards his mother’s carriage. ‘He murdered my poor boy, I am sure of it.’
‘Father—’
‘Peace, Katherine. I do not fear him, and I will be avenged for this.’
Thomas took a step forward. ‘My lord, your suspicions may be justified, but you would be wise not to voice them – at least, not until you have found something to base them upon.’
Rutland stared at him grimly. ‘Then I shall find it.’
‘There,’ Frances murmured, patting the horse’s neck. It dipped its head to drink from the trough in the stable-yard. It was the first time she had ridden out this year and, though the ground was still marshy in places, she had spurred the horse on to a breakneck speed, gasping in lungfuls of the chill morning air as her hair whipped about her. She still felt the rush of exhilaration.
Frances had longed to ride further, beyond the northern reaches of Hyde Park. She would have ridden all the way to Tyringham Hall if she could. The desire to see her sons was so overwhelming that it smote her like a blow. But to return there now would place them in danger. Accusations of witchcraft blighted the lives of families, too.
The horse had finished drinking, so she began to lead him back to the deserted stables. The King had ordered another hunt and Thomas had left before daybreak. The warmth of his embrace had lingered long after he had left their apartment. She knew that he would be anxious to return to her.
Frances had almost reached the stables when she heard brisk footsteps approaching.
‘You have returned at last – I have been pacing this yard for an hour or more,’ Lord Bacon complained.
Frances was used to him exaggerating but her smile vanished when she saw his grim expression.
‘What is it?’ Her eyes flicked to the leather pouch that was tucked under his arm.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘we cannot talk here.’
He took the reins from her. Sensing his discomfiture, the horse whinnied as he led it to the stables.
Frances’s agitation grew as they walked in silence to Bacon’s apartment. As soon as they were inside, her friend poured them both a glass of wine, then sank heavily into a chair opposite Frances. Still saying nothing, he drew a neatly bound set of papers from the pouch and handed them to her. The pages were covered with a small, neat script, and upon one was written a title in larger letters.
The Wonderful Discovery of the Witchcrafts of Margaret and Philippa Flower . . .
Frances froze, her hand suspended over it. ‘What is this?’
‘My lord Buckingham commissioned it. I wanted to tell you – to warn you – but he ordered me to take it to the printer without delay.’ He did not meet her eye.
Frances had seen such pamphlets before. They routinely appeared after a notable witchcraft trial, giving salacious details of the case, the heinous crimes of the accused. Always, there was a pact with the devil, the casting of spells, lives blighted by sorcery and wickedness. The narrative was so similar in each case that Frances had often wondered how her fellow courtiers could seize upon them with such eager anticipation, devouring their contents as if they had never read the like before. She had taken to avoiding the dining hall at such times, knowing it would be filled with animated chatter about the horrors that had been revealed.