‘Frances.’ Softer, this time – the voice familiar. ‘Hush, my love. It was a dream, that is all. You are safe.’
She opened her eyes to see Thomas leaning over her, his eyes filled with concern. She blinked, fearing he was nothing more than a vision she had conjured in her sleep, then flung her arms around his neck and clung to him as if she would never let go.
‘I should leave you more often, if this is my greeting,’ he murmured into her hair, then planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘You feel hot,’ he said. ‘Is it a fever?’
‘No, no, I am quite well,’ she assured him, the ghastly image of Buckingham’s lifeless face fading now. The dream had been so real: Lady Vaux at her side, urging her on as she dripped the poison into his mouth. ‘I should not have laid the extra cover on the bed, only it was so cold in here when I returned from the banqueting hall.’
‘Mrs Knyvett should have made up the fire. She has become very neglectful in her duties again lately.’
Frances said nothing. They both knew the reason. Their old servant had been obliged to take on other work to make up for the diminishing wages she received from them.
‘I am so glad to see you, Thomas.’ Frances ran her fingers through the hair at his nape. ‘Did the King have good hunting?’
Her husband rose from the bed and began to undress. ‘Good enough,’ he replied, as he unlaced his doublet. ‘The prince joined us.’
Frances was surprised. The King had long since despaired of his son showing any inclination to share his beloved pastime.
‘Buckingham’s idea, apparently.’ They exchanged a look.
‘Perhaps he hoped to humiliate him,’ she mused, remembering the last time that the King and his son had ridden out together. James had soon lost patience with the prince’s obvious lack of skill in the saddle. Charles had returned to the palace, grim-faced, within the hour.
‘So I assumed.’ Her husband climbed in next to her and drew her into an embrace. His skin felt cool next to hers as she snuggled against him. ‘But he could not have been more solicitous towards him, slowing the pace of his own mount so that they could ride next to each other – even though that meant he hardly saw the King.’
‘How gracious.’ Her words dripped with sarcasm, but she felt uneasy. ‘How was the prince towards him?’
It was only a few short weeks since a furious row had erupted between the King’s son and his favourite. Buckingham had been walking with his royal master in Greenwich Park when the prince had turned a jet of water from one of the fountains on him as he passed, soaking him to the skin. James had furiously upbraided his son and Buckingham had stormed off in a rage. Frances wished she had been there to witness it. Although the whole court knew of his dislike of the marquess, for Charles to humiliate him in such a way was quite out of character. Perhaps he would not make such a weak ruler as his father supposed.
‘He seemed more astonished than pleased, but thanked Buckingham for his pains. The King berated the marquess for neglecting him, though. Their quarrel could be heard throughout Apethorpe, until Lord Fane ordered the pipers to strike up a tune.’
Frances had not visited the hall since she and Thomas had joined the royal party there eight years before. How different things might have been if Sir Anthony had not permitted the new attendant to serve the King at table. An image flitted before her of the scene she had witnessed in the hunting lodge shortly afterwards.
‘Are they reconciled?’ she asked.
‘Apparently so – at least, they shared a carriage back to London,’ he replied, turning to kiss her. ‘But let us have no more talk of that now.’
In the bright winter sunshine Frances slowed her pace and looked out across the river. It was the first fine day since the court had arrived in Greenwich, and the ground was still wet underfoot. Her soft leather soles were already sodden, though she had been walking for only a few minutes.
The Christmas celebrations had been more muted this year, James laid low with a heavy cold. He had kept to his chamber throughout most of the twelve days of feasting and revelry. Buckingham had held court in his absence, appearing in an array of magnificent costumes, each designed to draw every eye in the room. He had insisted upon being served on bended knee, choosing from a vast selection of dishes that were laid before him on gilded platters. At the feast of his namesake St Stephen, he had gone further still. There had been a shocked silence as he had lowered himself onto the King’s chair. His rival Baron Cranfield, lord high treasurer, had eventually voiced a protest and even Buckingham’s supporters had muttered their disapproval. Frances had caught the fleeting look on Prince Charles’s face before the marquess had made him smile with some jest. Buckingham should have a care, she thought. Already people were beginning to whisper that he was the alter rex – the other King.
With his royal master incapacitated, Thomas had snatched a brief visit to Tyringham to oversee the inventory of their belongings before they were transported to Longford. The boys had arrived there in time to celebrate Christmas with their grandmother and elder half-brother. The thought of how they would be spoiled lessened the pain of knowing they would never see their childhood home again – and of her continued separation from them. Thomas had promised that, as soon as the spring came, they would make the journey west to visit them.
Her eye was drawn to a movement on the river, where a solitary barge was making its way towards the palace. Although it was too far to see clearly, it didn’t seem laden with provisions – besides, there were more than enough victuals to sustain the court for the few days they had left here. Neither could she see more than one passenger – a man, sitting at the furthest end from the oarsman. Frances kept her eyes fixed upon him as the vessel drew closer.
At last it reached the landing stage a short distance ahead. The man stepped nimbly onto the platform and pressed a coin into the boatman’s hand. He was dressed entirely in black and his face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. Frances thought about moving back into the shadows, but she was too intrigued to find out who the newcomer was. He kept his head lowered as he walked towards her.
The cawing of a rook made him look up.
William Cecil.
He saw her and stopped. They stared at each other for a moment. In the ten years since Frances had seen him, he had gained in stature – physically, as well as by dint of his title. He must be in his early thirties now, she judged, and he seemed to have grown taller somehow. Perhaps that was because of the long riding boots he wore, or the high ruff around his neck. Frances remembered him as pale and clean-shaven, but his face now had a more weathered look and he had grown a beard in the fashionable style.
His face relaxed and he raised his hat in greeting, then continued to walk towards her. ‘Lady Frances. It is a pleasure to see you again.’
‘Lord Salisbury.’
‘The years have been kinder to you than to myself, I fear!’ He grinned. ‘Or perhaps it is being away from court for so long – it certainly dulls the mind. I find that these days my thoughts are filled with crops and militia.’
Frances knew of his appointment as Lord Lieutenant of Hertfordshire. She could not help wondering if it had been the King’s way of removing him from court. Although Salisbury’s father, her old adversary, had been the most powerful man in government and had groomed his son to succeed him, the younger Cecil had not won favour with the King. Even before Buckingham had risen to prominence, Salisbury had retreated to his father’s seat at Hatfield.