‘Tell me, how is the duke’s delightful mother?’ Bacon asked. ‘I no longer enjoy the good fortune of seeing her at court, and I can hardly hope that her delicate footsteps will ever be heard in Temple Church.’
Frances had had to endure several interminable evenings in the countess’s apartments at Whitehall. Clearly, the older woman deemed her worthy of interest – or suspicion – even though Kate was far away at Tyringham Hall. ‘Still as friendly as a viper. You should have a care, my lord. If she thought you could serve her or her precious son, she would insist you join her for supper too.’
‘Then I shall continue to be as insignificant as possible,’ he replied cheerfully. Though he was in jest, she knew he still smarted from his loss of favour. He was little suited for a life of quiet retirement, despite the hours it gave him for writing and study.
‘How is Lady Alice?’ she asked.
‘Well enough, I understand,’ he replied. ‘She has promised to visit, before winter is upon us.’
Frances felt a surge of pity for him. Bacon’s wife had been a virtual stranger to her husband since his fall from grace.
‘Now, tell me, my dear,’ he said, with forced jollity, ‘when are you going to give your husband another son? Five is not enough for any man.’
Frances grinned. ‘It is impertinent to ask a lady of my years such a question.’ She folded her hands over her flat stomach. The truth was that she longed for another child. Much as she loved her boys, a daughter would be such a blessing – one who would grow as close to her as she was to her mother. Now that she was in her forty-fourth year, though, it pained her to admit that she was unlikely to bear another child.
‘Nonsense!’ Bacon cried. ‘You are in your prime, my dear. I see how men look at you, even if you don’t. You are your mother’s daughter. The marchioness was such a beauty that even my head was turned,’ he added, with a playful wink.
They were approaching the landing stage at Whitehall now.
‘I hope you are ready to be bested, my lord,’ Frances said, as she gathered up her skirts. ‘I have yet to be beaten at bowls, though my husband has attempted it many times.’
‘Lady Tyringham!’
She had only just alighted from the barge when she saw a groom in the King’s livery rushing towards her.
‘His Majesty requires your presence at once. Please.’ He gestured for her to follow him.
With an anxious glance at her friend, she hastened after him.
‘Is it my husband?’ she asked, fearing that some accident had befallen him.
‘No, my lady, but you must make haste.’
Frances did not question the boy further as they raced through the outer courtyards of the palace but her mind was agitated. Was it the prince? Had he betrayed her – made a pact with Buckingham and exposed her as a Catholic? Or had the duke at last made good his threat to have her exposed as a witch? By the time they reached the King’s privy chamber, she was struggling to suppress her rising panic.
The groom rushed ahead and announced her arrival. A moment later, the King appeared. Frances hid her shock at his appearance. Tears were streaming down his face and his hair was dishevelled. He was clad only in a shirt and hose, as if he had just been roused from his bed.
‘Lady Tyringham, you are come!’ he cried, as he limped over and clasped her hands. His own felt cold and clammy, and the bitter aroma of sweat and stale wine filled Frances’s nostrils. Was he sick? She could think of no other reason why his attendants would have so neglected their master’s appearance. ‘It is poor Steenie – he is dying.’
It took Frances a moment to understand what he had said. Buckingham? Her heart soared. God had heeded her prayers at last. Already the King was leading her into the chamber beyond, sobbing as he did so. The windows had been shuttered and the only light came from the dying embers in the grate. At first, Frances could just make out a faint shadow on the bed, but as she edged closer she saw the duke, his naked chest exposed as he thrashed about.
‘Fetch me a candle,’ she ordered a fearful page standing at the back of the room. He jumped as if she had struck him and hurried off towards the fireplace. Buckingham gave a loud groan as she held the flame close to his face. His hair was damp, but his skin felt cool and dry to the touch and there was no other sign of fever. She set the candle on the table and forced herself to examine him calmly and methodically, as she would anyone else who had fallen sick. His heartbeat was strong and steady as she placed her ear to his chest, and his skin was clear of any rashes or sores.
‘Has he vomited?’ she asked, peeling back the covers to continue her examinations.
‘No, my lady,’ one of the attendants replied.
‘How long has he been like this?’
‘Some three hours or more.’ The King spoke this time. ‘He had not been here for long when we fell into a quarrel over— It was nothing,’ he babbled. ‘He turned to leave but fainted away before he had crossed the threshold. He has been senseless ever since, often crying out – from pain or delirium, I cannot tell.’
James was weeping again, his face in his hands. Stripped of his kingly finery, he had the appearance of a frail old man, his sunken chest rising and falling in jerks, his rickety legs ready to give way at any moment. Despite everything she and those she loved had suffered at his hands since he had come to the throne, she could not but feel pity.
A movement from the bed focused her attention back on the duke. She could have sworn that one of his eyes had been open a fraction, but both were clamped shut now. Nothing ailed him that a return to his master’s favour would not cure – and he had cleverly secured that. How she wished she could stop his breath with a draught of mandrake root or foxglove. She had both in the small casket she kept locked under the floorboards beneath her bed. It would be a fitting punishment for his deception. But even if the King did not accuse her of bewitching his beloved angel to death, God would never forgive her for such a sin. She must leave any retribution to Him alone.
‘You need have no fear, Your Grace,’ she said, rising from the bed. ‘The duke is in no danger. He fainted, that is all – perhaps it is the unseasonable heat. A little rest will set him to rights.’
The King’s face brightened, like that of a hungry child presented with a sweetmeat. ‘Thank you, Lady Tyringham,’ he croaked, swiping at his eyes. ‘I am more indebted to you than I can express.’
Frances bobbed a curtsy. ‘Make sure to give him some water when he wakes,’ she instructed one of the grooms. ‘Oh, and a large draught of woodbine – as much as you can find.’ She smiled to herself, though she knew she should be above such petty revenge. It was a small comfort to think that the duke would spend the rest of the day on the close stool.
‘How does the duke fare?’ Frances asked, as she handed her husband a glass of wine. It was with some satisfaction that she had learned he had been obliged to keep to his bed for the past two days.
‘Better for the King’s attentions.’ Thomas took a long draught. ‘But I fancy His Grace’s trust is not so blind as it was before Buckingham’s expedition to Spain. It seems his prolonged absence worked the opposite effect to the one he intended. The King learned that he could live without his favourite.’