CHAPTER 45
16 May
The late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, warming the stones of the old chapel, which were bare of paintings or tapestries. The only adornment was a simple gold cross set atop the small altar. The King must approve of such a sparse interior, Frances thought. He was seated next to the altar, so close to his favourite that he might have touched his white satin doublet. She had been surprised to learn that he would be attending the nuptials – even more so that he seemed to take great delight in them. Perhaps he judged that Lady Katherine posed no threat to his own hold over Buckingham. The marquess’s passions could hardly be sated by such a plain, timid little creature – or so she had heard someone whisper at dinner the previous night.
Frances glanced at her now and her heart contracted with sorrow. She had seen little of her since that dreadful night – the countess and her son had made sure of that. They had kept Kate a virtual prisoner at Chelsea and even her father had been admitted only once, to sign the marriage contract that he had had little choice but to agree to. Although the court had been scandalised by Lady Katherine’s transgression, Frances had made sure that Rutland knew the truth. It still pained her to recall his grief and fury, and she had been hard pressed to stop him seeking out Buckingham and running him through with his sword. The King had denied his request for a duel with his favourite, declaring that whatever their differences, they must be settled without bloodshed. But Frances knew that Kate’s father would not rest until he had avenged his daughter’s rape. He was standing at her side now, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes blazed as he stared at the man who was about to become his son-in-law.
There were just a handful of guests to witness the marriage at Lumley House, one of Buckingham’s more modest residences. That Frances and her husband were among them was the only concession Buckingham had made to his prospective wife. Although she hoped that her presence might bring some small comfort to Kate, Frances railed against her powerlessness to do anything but watch as her friend was bound to that devil.
‘. . . for the mutual society, help and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity . . .’
The Reverend Williams’s voice interrupted her thoughts. The young chaplain was clearly revelling in the moment, confident that it would bring him even greater riches from his patron Buckingham. His small eyes darted from the bride to the groom. A few days earlier, he had finally succeeded in persuading Kate to renounce the Roman Catholic faith. Frances had experienced a mixture of admiration and fear for her friend when she had openly declared herself a papist. Such a thing would have spelled death for any but the intended bride of the King’s great favourite. Kate’s refusal to relinquish her faith had been the only remaining impediment to the marriage, once her father had at last given way. Looking at her friend now, Frances shuddered to think what it had taken to make her submit.
Williams addressed Kate: ‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony?’
Frances saw her friend’s already pale face grow deathly and her hand trembled as it sought her father’s.
‘. . . Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him . . .’
Rutland grasped his daughter’s fingers so tightly that his knuckles showed white.
‘. . . And forsaking all other keep thee only to him, so long as you both shall live?’
Silence.
Frances held her breath. Next to her, Thomas edged a fraction closer so that his arm brushed against hers. Her eyes never left Kate. Though her friend’s face was turned from her, she could tell from the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders that Kate was struggling to master her emotions. The countess gave a loud cough, prompting. Frances rejoiced at the consternation that this act of defiance must have caused the older woman. Perhaps, after all, the bounties of the Rutland estate would be snatched away from her son at the last gasp.
Even as she thought it, Frances knew it was impossible. Buckingham had bullied, cajoled and schemed his way to this moment and would force the words from his bride’s lips if he had to – he had already done far worse.
‘Speak up, girl!’
Kate jumped at the King’s words, which echoed around the small chapel. Another pause. She turned to her father and gave a small nod. He stared at her for a moment before releasing his grip. His daughter looked back at the clergyman and straightened her shoulders.
‘I will.’
PART 3
1622
CHAPTER 46
12 January
‘It is a girl.’
Frances watched as her husband set down the note and gazed out over the parkland. His hair had become flecked with grey these past few months, his shoulders more hunched. It was as if their burdens weighed heavily upon his body, as well as his mind.
‘Does she have a name?’ She kept her voice light, but it pained her that she had not received the news from Kate’s own hand. Her friend was hardly at fault, though: Buckingham had kept his new wife a virtual prisoner at Wallingford House, the handsome new mansion close to St James’s Park he had purchased from a rival at a good deal less than it was worth. He now owned more than twenty properties in London, by Thomas’s reckoning, as well as the numerous country estates that the King had granted him.
Her husband looked back at the letter distractedly. ‘Mary.’
Named for the countess. Frances felt a stab of loathing for Buckingham’s domineering mother, who now held sway over the ladies at court as if she were queen consort. Even a young woman as biddable as Kate could not help but feel suffocated by her overbearing presence.
‘The marquess will be disappointed not to have a son and heir,’ she remarked.
Thomas smiled. ‘In that respect at least I am a good deal richer than he.’
Frances looked down at the baby sleeping in her arms. Samuel. Thomas had suggested the name to honour an uncle who had recently died, but Frances would always think of her beloved old mentor and priest at Longford, the Reverend Samuels. The infant mewed as she stroked the wisps of chestnut hair on his scalp. It had been a troublesome pregnancy. She had been afflicted by sickness from the sixth week and had been forced to retreat to Tyringham well before her confinement was due to begin. You cannot hope to have an easy time of it when you are so advanced in years for childbirth. The Countess of Buckingham’s remark stung all the more for the truth it carried. As she shifted uncomfortably against the pillows, Frances had to admit that she felt every fraction of her forty-two years. This child would be the last, she was sure. But she could not regret his arrival, even if it had pained her more than the others. He cried more lustily than they had, too, she thought wryly.
Thomas moved to sit next to her and reached out to take their newborn son from her arms. ‘A pocket Hercules,’ he whispered, gazing down adoringly at the tiny infant, who began to writhe and whimper. ‘I fancy you will lead your older brothers a merry dance one day.’ He bent to kiss Samuel’s forehead.
His expression grew suddenly grave.
‘Your steward had no better tidings?’ Frances asked.