Kate’s face was hidden, but Frances sensed her hesitate. Then, slowly, she opened the door so that Frances might enter. The room was lavishly furnished and almost as large as the King’s presence chamber. The walls were lined with rich tapestries and paintings – mostly of Buckingham and his family, Frances noticed – and two huge windows at the far end looked out over the palace tiltyard. Little Mary was sitting on a rug by the fireplace and clutched a handful of brightly coloured ribbons. She beamed when she saw her mother’s visitor. Frances drew a lace kerchief from her pocket and gave it to the little girl. Mary’s smile widened as she traced the outline of the embroidered peacock with her chubby fingers.
‘Why are you here, Lady Tyringham?’ Kate’s tone was clipped, her eyes cold.
‘I was concerned for you, after your husband’s arrest. It must have been a shock—’
‘So you came to crow.’
‘No!’ Frances cried in dismay. Then, more softly: ‘My regard for you has not changed, Kate, whatever you think of me. I have only ever wanted to be a friend to you.’
The young woman looked down at her hands, but said nothing.
‘I have done nothing to harm you or your poor brother,’ Frances persisted. She stopped short of saying that the boy had died at other hands than hers. ‘For the sake of everything we once were to each other, you must believe me.’
‘It is your husband’s fault – he provoked him,’ Kate retorted, looking up at her in anger now. ‘The marquess would never have drawn his sword in the King’s presence otherwise. He is the subject of great envy and malice.’
Frances pushed down her anger. ‘Thomas sought only to settle a quarrel that had arisen between the marquess and Lord Cranfield,’ she replied firmly. ‘Your husband’s temper has grown ever shorter of late.’
Kate opened her mouth to protest but Frances could see that she knew the truth of her words. No doubt she had suffered the effects of Buckingham’s moods herself. ‘Have you received any word from him?’ Frances asked.
Kate shook her head. All the anger seemed to have left her now and she looked utterly wretched. ‘Mary and I will be ruined if—’ She broke off, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Our fortune will be forfeit to the King, and my father will hardly receive me – not after my disgrace.’
‘Your disgrace?’ Frances repeated, incredulous. ‘You cannot think he blames you for what happened that night? I made sure he knew the truth before you were married.’
‘He has not spoken to me of it – in fact, he has barely spoken to me of anything. I have not seen or heard from him since Mary’s birth.’
Frances was saddened but not surprised. Lord Rutland had become a stranger to her too. Her letters to Belvoir had gone unanswered. Perhaps he could not bear to be reminded of the court – of all that his family had suffered there. She moved to sit next to her friend. ‘Your father loves you deeply, Kate. If he knew what you endure —’
‘He must never know!’ she cried, so suddenly that Mary dropped the kerchief and stared at her mother, chin quivering. Frances smiled down at her and picked up one of the ribbons. The child watched, mesmerised, as she wound it between her fingers then tied it into a neat bow and held it out to her. Kate shot Frances a grateful look as her daughter took it with a smile and resumed her play. ‘No good could come of it,’ she continued, more quietly this time. ‘He sought to avenge my misfortune once before and might do so again. I could not bear to see him brought low before the marquess – or worse. He is no match for my husband.’
‘Once, perhaps. But now?’
Kate’s eyes were clouded with apprehension – and, Frances thought, hope. She opened her mouth to speak, but the door burst open and they turned to see Buckingham standing before them. Frances saw her own dismay reflected in her friend’s face. Neither moved as the marquess looked from one to the other, his mouth curling into its accustomed smirk.
‘Well, this is a fine greeting for a husband whom you had given up for dead.’
Kate rose quickly to her feet and swept a deep curtsy. ‘My lord.’
Frances remained seated as he strolled into the room. ‘Lady Tyringham,’ he drawled, coming to stop in front of her. ‘I hope you have not been filling my wife’s head with nonsense. She has been so biddable since she broke off your friendship.’
‘I should go, my lady,’ Frances said, rising briskly.
‘So soon?’ Buckingham’s eyes flashed fire, though his voice was soft as velvet. ‘Will you not stay and entertain me a while? I can hope for little conversation from my wife.’
‘Good day, my lady,’ Frances said, ignoring him.
‘Ah, well, at least you may save me the trouble of telling your husband myself.’
She turned to him sharply. Buckingham’s grin widened.
‘He is to have a new master while I am away. Lord Cranfield has kindly agreed to oversee His Majesty’s stables, arrange the hunts,’ he continued airily.
‘Where are you going?’ Kate asked.
Her husband continued to stare at Frances, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Spain.’
Frances thought back to her conversation with Salisbury.
‘The prince and I are going to treat for his marriage to the infanta,’ he continued. ‘He proposed the expedition himself, after so graciously persuading the King to order my release. It seems his father will refuse him nothing, these days.’
Frances reeled. Charles had secured Buckingham’s release? The prince had shown nothing but disdain for his father’s favourite, yet now he had not only saved his life but chosen him as a trusted companion for a voyage to Spain. Frances had heard it whispered lately that the marquess practised witchcraft to bend the King to his desires. Perhaps he had also used it on his son. She had all but disregarded the plan of which Salisbury had told her, convinced that the prince would never be persuaded to travel to Spain with a man he so obviously distrusted.
‘When will you leave?’
Buckingham turned to his wife. ‘I have only just returned to your side, yet you are eager to see me go again?’ he purred, pinching her chin between his fingers. ‘A week – two at most. Now, Lady Tyringham,’ he said, ‘if you will excuse us, I must make up for lost time.’
CHAPTER 50
23 May
The King took another grape from the bowl and glared at the young man who nervously plucked at the strings of the lute.
‘His Majesty is in an ill humour again this evening,’ Frances heard a diner remark.
‘Aye, and will be until his wife returns,’ muttered his companion. There was a murmur of suppressed laughter.
Frances knew they spoke the truth. Any hopes she had cherished that Buckingham’s hold over James would be diminished by his spell in the Tower had soon been dashed. Her husband had felt the effects of his royal master’s increasingly irascible behaviour. Ever since the departure of his favourite and the prince two months before, he had veered from gloomy introspection to petulant outbursts. Only when a messenger had arrived with news of them – or, better still, a letter from Buckingham – had his spirits lifted. Indeed, he had been so transported with joy when he had first heard from him that he had declared his intention to make him a duke. This was no mere impulse: Thomas had seen the letters patent that had been drawn up the following day.