‘Ye’re sure ye will not accompany me, Steenie?’
Buckingham shook his head regretfully. ‘Please – do not ask again. It grieves me sorely that I am not yet strong enough, after my recent malady. The hours will be long until you return,’ he added, kissing his master’s hand, then raising it to his cheek.
Frances’s lips curled. If he’d suffered from anything, it was an excess of wine the night before. She watched as James brought his fingers to his lips and raised them to his favourite, then pulled on the reins and gave another grimace of pain as his horse broke into a trot. Thomas smiled briefly at her before following in his wake.
The courtiers were quick to disperse, and Frances heard mutterings against the duke as they passed. He would care little for their disapproval. The only thing that would pain him was if they ceased to talk of him at all. She had no desire to engage in idle gossip and waited until the yard was deserted. As the sun emerged briefly from behind the heavy clouds, Frances saw something shining on the cobbles. Realising it was the discarded stirrup, she stooped to pick it up. Poor Brett. He had learned all too quickly of how fickle the King’s favour could be. Well, he might have some small reward for his pains, she resolved, as she put the beautifully wrought silver into her pocket and made her way towards the palace. She would find an opportunity to give it back to him later.
As she reached the gateway to the outer courtyard, she hesitated. The thought of whiling away the hours in her husband’s apartment was hardly appealing, but it was too cold to meander around the privy gardens. Then an idea struck her. It had been many weeks since she had visited Lord Bacon and he avoided Whitehall, these days. A brisk walk to the Temple would revive her, and she could take him the thistle and feverfew tincture she had prepared against the ague that often afflicted him in winter.
A little over half an hour later, she was standing at the door of his humble lodgings. Her cheeks were flushed and her skin prickled as it cooled in the dank air of the dimly lit corridor. After a few moments, she heard the light tread of footsteps on the other side of the door – too rapid for her friend’s. She had just begun to wonder if he had at last found the means to employ a servant when a weasel-faced man emerged from the chamber beyond. He darted a furtive look at Frances before scurrying down the passage and out of sight. With mounting apprehension, she pushed open the door, which had been left ajar.
Bacon looked up from his writing desk, his quill suspended over the paper. ‘You must truly be a witch, for barely had I written your name than you appear before me.’ Although there was humour in his voice, Frances noted his pallor. She closed the door behind her.
‘Who was that man?’
He gestured for her to sit down. ‘When the King first ordered me to find the late Queen’s jewels, I employed a number of associates to help me in the task. That gentleman was one of them. I had not thought to see him again, but it seems he was more steadfast than I gave him credit for. He has just returned from France.’
Frances’s breathing quickened. ‘He has found the jewels?’ she whispered.
‘Not quite,’ Bacon replied, setting down the quill. ‘But he has discovered the whereabouts of Lady Ruthven.’ He glanced at the door, as if fearing they were overheard. ‘I have had various reports over the years,’ he continued, ‘that the lady has been sighted in Paris, Fontainebleau . . . even Rome. But it seems that all the while she has been living a day’s ride from where she began, in Guînes at the Abbaye du Saint-Benoit.’
Frances was silent, taking this in.
‘If this were all, I would be content to let the lady live out her days in peace,’ he went on, ‘but my agent is not the only one to have discovered her whereabouts. He became aware that someone else was watching the comings and goings of the Abbaye. A few discreet enquiries suggested that the other gentleman was in the pay of the Marquis de Châteauneuf.’
The French envoy. Frances thought back to the various receptions at which she had seen him, always with the Duke of Buckingham in close attendance.
‘There is more.’ Bacon’s words interrupted her racing thoughts. ‘A third gentleman arrived in Guînes, before my agent’s departure. He visited Châteauneuf’s agent at his lodgings and they were in conference for almost an hour. When he departed, my associate followed him to the port at Calais, where he boarded a small vessel bound for England. The crew were dressed in Buckingham’s livery.’
Frances stared. It was as she had suspected. Having been abandoned by the King of Spain, the duke had changed his allegiance to France.
‘What does he stand to gain from this?’ she asked.
Bacon spread his hands. ‘What he has always striven for. Riches and power. You can be sure that if Châteauneuf’s agent seizes the jewels, the duke will demand his share.’
‘In recompense for arranging the prince’s marriage to the French King’s sister?’
Bacon inclined his head. ‘An excellent bargain.’
So that was why Buckingham had declined to join the hunt. He and Châteauneuf had taken the opportunity to conspire in private, now that the jewels were almost within their grasp.
‘But what if His Majesty proves unwilling? Châteauneuf has been at court for almost five months now, yet still negotiations have not begun for an alliance.’
Her friend’s expression darkened. ‘Even before I left his service, I could see that the King was growing frail – in body as well as mind. Buckingham would not flinch from hastening his end, as he has others before him.’
Frances thought of Lord Rutland’s son lying lifeless in his father’s arms. Although she had not seen Dr Lambe since his appearance in the masque, she had little doubt that Buckingham might summon him at a moment’s notice. Or perhaps the duke had learned enough to prepare the poison himself this time.
‘There is still the prince . . .’ Frances began.
‘He is of noble heart but is no match for Buckingham,’ Bacon countered. ‘The duke would find the means to dominate him as he has his father.’
For several minutes, the only sound in the gloomy chamber was the hiss and gutter of the tallow candles in their sconces.
Frances’s voice cut across the silence. ‘Then I must find a way to warn Lady Ruthven before it is too late.’
CHAPTER 58
18 February
The prince sat back in the chair, his face ashen. For several moments, he said nothing. Frances began to fear that she had made the wrong choice in coming to him. Thomas would not return for hours yet and, desperate though she was to confide in her husband, she had not wanted to risk delaying. With mounting apprehension, she studied Charles’s expression. Had she miscalculated? Was the cordiality that seemed to exist between him and Buckingham more than the pretence she had assumed it was – on the prince’s part at least? If so, he might take her words as slander.
‘You are quite sure that the duke plans to murder my father, if this alliance does not come to pass?’ he asked.
Frances nodded. ‘I fear so, Your Grace. He will surely stop at nothing to seize what he considers his share of your mother’s jewels.’
His mouth twisted with distaste. ‘I’ll wager Châteauneuf’s master will not share in the spoils. The marquis is as grasping as my father’s favourite.’