Buckingham had seemed more reluctant to stay behind than the prince had calculated, and his sullenness had wrought tears from his royal master, who was loath to do anything that grieved his favourite. But Frances was convinced that it had all been for show. For as long as the Marquis de Châteauneuf remained at Whitehall, the duke would not wish to be far away.
‘The court will be depleted, it is true, but you rarely seek company here these days,’ her husband reasoned, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I am sure Lord Bacon would be delighted to receive you. It is many weeks since you have seen him.’
Frances said nothing. She did not wish to entangle herself in more lies.
‘You are sure all is well, my love?’ Thomas said, holding her at arm’s-length so that he could study her face. ‘You have been very quiet for the past couple of days. Is it George? His last letter can have given you no cause for anxiety. He seems to have forgotten all about the court . . . the duke too.’
‘No, it is not that – it is not anything,’ she said brightly. ‘I am tired, that is all. Perhaps you will persuade the King to grant you a leave of absence so that we may visit our boys, once . . .’ Once all this is over. ‘. . . once the spring has come.’ she finished.
‘I should like that very much,’ her husband replied, with a smile. ‘Let us pray that this visit sates his appetite for hunting – for a time at least. Now, I must go and make ready, or there will be no hunting at all.’ He kissed her warmly on the lips.
‘Thomas,’ she said quickly, reaching for his hand as he made for the door. He turned to her, his smile faltering as he saw her expression. ‘I love you.’
‘And I you – more than ever,’ he replied, kissing her once more.
As the door closed behind him, Frances wondered if she would ever set eyes upon her husband again.
CHAPTER 59
25 February
‘Draw on the sail,’ the boatman commanded. ‘The sluice gates are hard by.’
It seemed an age until they had passed through the gates and into the calmer waters of Calais harbour. Frances sucked in a deep breath and felt the nausea recede at last. She stole a glance at the prince’s servant. John Felton was a sullen, taciturn man, and had barely spoken two words to her since their first meeting at Rochester. They had ridden from there to Dover in silence. It was as well, Frances mused. The less he knew of her, the better. But she would have liked to know more about him – to find out how he had earned Charles’s trust. Admirable qualities must lie hidden behind his surly manner, she supposed. He was certainly physically impressive – broad-shouldered and taller than any man she had met. In that respect, at least, she felt reassured by his presence.
They had reached the landing stage now and Frances waited impatiently while the boatman secured the vessel. She was so glad to step onto the solid wooden platform that she almost forgot the heavy apprehension at what lay ahead. Drawing her hood over her face, she took the arm that Felton proffered, wondering vaguely if anyone would question that they were man and wife, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground as he led her away from the harbour.
It was only a short ride to Guînes, but the familiar motion of the horse and the chill air of the early morning left Frances feeling more refreshed. Felton slowed his mount to a trot as a large stone tower came into view ahead. Drawing closer, Frances could hear the slow tolling of the abbey bell. Her heart skipped a beat. Was Lady Ruthven even now making her way to matins? Or had Châteauneuf ’s agent already taken her – the jewels too? She tried to quieten her thoughts as they rode towards the ancient stone gatehouse of the abbey, which lay just in front of the city walls. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to shake off the creeping sensation that they were being watched, even though the only sign of life was the faint glow of a fire through the window of the gatehouse. Felton said something in French to the aged custodian, who gazed quizzically at them before nodding them through.
Once inside the courtyard, while her companion tethered the horses, Frances studied the high stone walls that surrounded them. On the upper floor, there was a series of narrow oblong windows – the dormitories, Frances supposed. She wondered if Queen Anne’s old attendant was watching from one. A loud creak drew her attention to the heavy iron gates at the entrance to the main abbey buildings. A solemn lady swathed in long black robes and a large hood stepped silently into the courtyard. Felton removed his hat and gave a stiff bow, then proceeded to address the woman so quietly that Frances only caught the occasional word – ‘une femme . . . la Royne . . . Angleterre.’ Now and again, the abbess glanced in her direction, but her expression remained inscrutable. Finally, she nodded and slipped back through the gates, pulling them closed behind her. Frances and her companion were left standing in the courtyard for so many minutes that she began to fear it was a trap. She imagined the marquis’s men skulking in the shadows of the cloister, waiting to pounce.
Frances jerked her head towards a small movement in one of the chambers above. She stared as a shutter was closed – so quickly that it made her wonder if she had imagined it. But Felton was looking in the same direction. After several more minutes, the abbess reappeared at the gates. Her gaze rested upon Frances, and she motioned for her to enter. Felton made to follow, but the woman told him to remain in the courtyard. He looked in alarm at Frances, who hesitated, then gave a slight nod.
As she followed the abbess along a dark corridor, she inhaled the smell of damp stone and incense, drawing some small comfort from it, though her nerves were strung as tightly as the ropes of a truckle bed. Every time they passed a doorway or recess, her skin prickled with fear. At the end, the woman led her up a steep flight of spiral stairs. Frances clung tightly to the rope that had been strung along the cold stone wall to her left, her soles slipping now and again on the steps worn smooth by centuries of use.
Another gloomy corridor lay at the top of the stairs. As they walked slowly along it, Frances could see the dark outline of a crucifix on each of the doors. The woman stopped outside the chamber that lay at the furthest end and knocked quietly three times. The door was opened a crack. After a few moments more, the abbess pushed it just wide enough for her to enter. Casting an anxious glance at her, Frances uttered a silent prayer and walked inside.
‘You have travelled a long way to see me, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances stared. In her simple grey habit, the late Queen’s favourite was barely recognisable. Not even a strand of light red hair showed under her tightly bound wimple, and her face was devoid of the white paste that had marked her out as a lady of status.
‘Please.’ Lady Ruthven gestured towards a low wooden stool opposite her own.
‘I come on behalf of His Grace, the Prince of Wales.’ Her voice sounded hoarse.
‘So I understand. How did he know where to find me?’
‘You are in danger, Lady Ruthven. The Marquis de Châteauneuf knows you reside here.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ the older woman replied calmly. ‘It is exactly as I intended.’
This was so unexpected that Frances was at a loss as to how to respond.
‘So long as I am here, His Excellency will believe that my late mistress’s jewels are too – or, at least, that I can lead his spies to them.’