The colour had drained from Thomas’s face. ‘Why did you not tell me of this before?’ he demanded.
Frances could no longer bear to look at him. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You carried so many burdens already that I did not wish to add to them.’
‘The word of one man is hardly enough to convince me, when everything else points to his being a self-seeking villain,’ Rutland interjected.
‘But that is not all,’ Frances said. ‘As she lay dying, the late Queen told me she had enlisted the help of someone to ensure that her son married a Catholic princess. She made me promise to do nothing to impede it, hinting that the person she had chosen for the task had been an enemy to me.’
This silenced them.
Eventually, Rutland said, ‘If what you say is true, then we are faced with a choice. Either we satisfy our honour and that of our families, or we allow Buckingham to do God’s work unhindered.’
‘If,’ Thomas emphasised. ‘Time will tell whether he serves God or the devil.’
‘He serves whichever master will fulfil his own ambitions,’ Frances retorted impatiently. ‘It is foolish to presume that everyone who acts for the Catholic cause is motivated by the same faith that we cherish.’
‘My lords.’
They swung around to see a groom of the King’s privy chamber standing by the doors. How long had he been there?
‘His Majesty requires your presence.’
The men exchanged a quick look before following the attendant into the crowded hall. Frances hesitated, then rushed after them.
‘Ah, my lord Rutland!’ the King shouted, as they approached the dais. ‘You are here at last. Why did you stay away for so long?’
‘Your Grace.’ The earl swept a deep bow.
‘And Tom. The sight of you always does me good.’
Frances smiled at the compliment to her husband. Before the rains had come, the King had spent a good deal of time hunting with him and, freed from Buckingham’s overbearing presence, he had come to appreciate Thomas’s quiet, steady nature once more. If only the duke would stay away for longer, James’s renewed affection for his master of the buckhounds might take firmer root. Already he had hinted at a grant of some lands.
The King was turning back to Rutland now. Frances strained to hear above the excited chatter that echoed around the hall.
‘I have summoned you back to Whitehall because I wish you to undertake a great service for me.’
The babble quietened as those standing close to the stage whispered to their neighbours that something of importance was about to be discussed. Before long, the hall had descended into silence.
‘My sweet boys have been absent for many weeks now,’ James went on. ‘Yet I have received word from my ambassador in Madrid that their negotiations with King Philip have foundered. There will be no Spanish marriage.’
This sparked a chorus of gasps and mutters around the room.
‘The duke refuses to comply with my wishes and return home. He insists that Philip will be persuaded. But I know better than my dear Steenie. The Spanish King’s word is not to be trusted. He has already played my daughter and her husband false, robbed them of their kingdom. I no longer wish to be allied to such a false friend.’
Thomas shot Frances a quick, sideways look. They both knew why Buckingham was proving so stubborn.
‘And so, Rutland, I wish you to journey to Madrid and bring back your errant son-in-law – the prince too.’
Frances saw the shock on Rutland’s face, but he swept another bow to disguise it.
‘I would willingly perform whatever you command, Your Grace,’ he vowed, ‘but I fear you have greater faith in my abilities than I. The duke is not a man to be easily persuaded.’
‘Then drag him back by force, God damn ye!’ James cried, with sudden passion, banging his fist so hard on the table that a goblet clattered to the floor. His young favourite, Arthur Brett, cowered in his chair. ‘I will not suffer such disobedience, even from one I have raised so high,’ the King continued. ‘You will remind him where his true loyalties lie.’
They may not lie where you think, Frances mused.
‘And you, Tom, will accompany Lord Rutland as far as Plymouth. You will both set out at first light.’
CHAPTER 52
9 October
The whole of London seemed ablaze. As soon as word had arrived that the prince and his entourage had landed safely at Plymouth, bonfires had been lit in celebration. The King had received the news while hunting at Theobalds Palace and had immediately ordered Thomas to make the long ride back to escort them.
A distant cheer could be heard along the Strand. Frances craned her neck to see above the crowds that thronged the streets, waiting to greet the King’s son and favourite. Anyone would think they were conquering heroes, she thought scornfully. As it was, their expedition had ended in ignominious failure and relations between England and Spain were worse than they had been before. Frances was eager to see her husband and hoped that Lord Rutland had endured the arduous journey without weakening his already fragile health.
‘There they are!’
The shout was soon echoed by a chorus of others. Frances saw a flash of scarlet and gold as Buckingham held his plumed hat aloft in acknowledgement of the cheers. He was riding ahead of the prince, she saw, with dismay. The failure of his expedition had done nothing to curb his overweening pride.
‘God save Your Grace!’
Charles, who was dressed more soberly, nodded his thanks. His pale skin was burnished by the Spanish sun, but his eyes were sunken and his shoulders hunched. As he drew closer, he looked to where Frances was standing. She thought she saw the faintest smile of recognition before a shout from the other side of the street drew his attention.
Rutland rode directly behind the prince. He seemed oblivious to the cheers of the crowds but kept his eyes fixed upon the horizon. Frances was shocked by how emaciated he had become. Her heart swelled as she saw her husband at the back of the cavalcade. It was almost a month since he had left for Theobalds and she had received only hurried messages from him since. He did not see her, but she kept her eyes on his retreating form as he gradually disappeared from view.
The people around her surged after the procession, hoping to catch another glimpse of the prince and the duke before they rode into the palace. Frances followed in their wake. She had no desire to see the King greet his favourite, showering him with the gifts he had bought to mark his return. When she reached the end of the wide street that led to Whitehall, a huge crowd was still gathered around Holbein Gate, even though the prince and his entourage had already passed under it and into the first courtyard. She turned instead towards the stables, hoping to see Thomas as he led the horses there while Buckingham basked in the attentions of his adoring royal master.
‘God’s teeth! What are you about, man?’
The cry rang out from the stable-yard as Frances approached. She stopped as she rounded the corner and saw the duke glowering at her husband, who was helping him untangle his boot from the stirrup. All of the smiles and graciousness with which he had received his hero’s welcome were gone. She wondered what could have put him in such a foul temper already.
‘Leave it!’ he commanded, kicking out at Thomas’s fingers. Frances saw her husband’s flicker of a smile as he turned to unsaddle the horse. She watched as Buckingham struggled to free his boot then, muttering another curse, took it off altogether and stamped his stockinged foot on the gravel. ‘Do not think I am blind to what you have done, Tyringham,’ he spat, grabbing Thomas roughly by the shoulders.