‘And you cannot?’ Frances whispered.
Lady Ruthven gave a low chuckle. ‘Well, I could – but it would involve as long a journey as you have just made.’
Frances looked at her in confusion. ‘But you fled with them after the Queen’s death. You were seen . . .’
‘People will convince themselves that their eyes have seen something that their heart believes. I left England at the same time that the jewels disappeared, so of course it was put about that I had taken them. I am sure that the story grew with the telling . . . that the locked casket I was seen carrying became a chest overflowing with rubies as big as apples and pearls that drooped on their chains. In fact, it contained nothing more than bread and cheese . . . a little malmsey too, God forgive me,’ she added, crossing herself.
‘So where are the jewels?’ Frances’s surprise made her blunt.
‘Her Grace was a lady of great wisdom and foresight. She knew that the King would attempt to take the treasure she had bequeathed to their son and fritter it away on vanities and favourites. She knew, too, that if the prince managed to keep hold of his inheritance, it could prove deadly – there were riches enough to tempt even the most loyal of her son’s attendants to turn traitor. So she determined to safeguard the jewels until such time as the prince had the power to use them for the good of our faith – in short, until he inherits the throne.’
Frances experienced a rush of affection for the late Queen, tinged with renewed grief at her passing. She had been a queen of secrets, outwitting those who sought to disempower her – her own husband above all. ‘And they are safe still?’ she asked quietly.
Lady Ruthven nodded. ‘My late mistress and I resolved upon a plan as she lay dying at Hampton Court. When the time came for her possessions to be moved from the palace after her death, her servants would discover that the jewels were missing and the hue and cry would be raised. I would flee the kingdom – making sure that I was seen boarding a ship bound for Calais – and let people come to the natural conclusion that I had stolen them. The Queen personally arranged my protection in France – she had many friends here,’ she added, her voice laced with pride. ‘I trusted her with my life – just as she trusted you with it many years before, Lady Tyringham.’
Frances nodded her acknowledgement.
‘Her Grace knew that her husband would send men to hunt me down, but that he would eventually relinquish the search. He has none of her steadfastness.’ Her lips pursed with disapproval. ‘I pledged to remain here until her son becomes king. Only then will I return and restore the jewels to him. Neither the Queen nor I had reckoned on his trying to recover them sooner.’
‘It is with good reason,’ Frances said, choosing her words carefully. ‘The King’s life depends upon it, Lady Ruthven.’ She saw the fleeting shock in the older woman’s eyes and pressed home her advantage. ‘There are those about His Majesty who are intent upon forging an alliance with France through a marriage between the prince and King Louis’s sister. They pretend to be acting to restore England to the Catholic faith, but their ambitions do not extend beyond their own aggrandisement, however it is attained.’
‘You mean the Duke of Buckingham, I presume. I am not as ignorant of worldly affairs as my sisters here.’
‘Yes, and he will stop at nothing to get what he desires. It seems the Marquis de Châteauneuf has promised him a share of the Queen’s jewels if he brings about this alliance. Only the King stands in his way – he is reluctant to see his son married to a Roman Catholic. But the duke has proven many times in the past that he will not suffer any impediment to his ambition.’
Lady Ruthven grew pale. ‘If what you say is true, Lady Tyringham, I cannot but think it is as the late Queen would have wished: her heretic husband removed from power and his kingdom restored to the true faith.’
‘But at what cost? England would be subject to the will of a greater tyrant than King James. Buckingham does the devil’s work, not God’s. It would not be long before he coveted the throne itself. And if the late Queen’s jewels fall into his hands, he will have the power to take it.’
‘There is no reason to suppose they will,’ Lady Ruthven persisted. ‘I have lived here unmolested by the marquis or his spies for five years. I am safe in God’s house.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Frances countered. ‘A trusted friend has received intelligence that the marquis’s agent will soon take you. Even if the jewels are not in your keeping, as you claim, he will wrest their whereabouts from you by whatever means.’
‘I will never tell,’ the older woman insisted, raising her chin in defiance, though her eyes betrayed her fear.
‘A person might confess to anything under torture – I have learned that to my cost,’ Frances said quietly, thinking back to that dark chamber in the Tower. ‘Can you take the risk?’ she added, holding her gaze. When the older woman made no reply, Frances decided to change tack. ‘Lady Ruthven, by restoring the jewels to Prince Charles now, you will still be honouring your promise to the late Queen. Even if the King is saved from Buckingham’s murderous schemes, he cannot draw breath for much longer. He is an old man and riddled with sickness. What difference will a few months make – less, perhaps?’
At length, the woman’s expression changed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But I will recover the jewels myself, as I pledged.’
‘Are they far from here?’ Frances asked, remembering Lady Ruthven’s earlier remark and fearing that by the time she had them and returned to England it would be too late.
Her companion gave a slow smile. ‘They never left Hampton Court.’
Darkness had fallen by the time Frances stole out of the Abbaye du Saint-Benoit with Lady Ruthven, both shrouded in heavy cloaks. Felton was waiting with the horses close to the gatehouse, but hidden from view, as arranged. Frances had urged that they set out as soon as her conference with Lady Ruthven was at an end, but he had insisted upon waiting until nightfall.
They picked their way across the fields at a slow canter, guided only by the pale light of the moon. Frances held her breath as they passed each dark copse, certain that one of Châteauneuf’s men lurked there. The sudden cawing of a rook made her cling more tightly to Felton’s waist. He spurred the horse to a gallop, Lady Ruthven following close behind. It was less than an hour’s ride to Calais, but every minute passed agonisingly slowly, the vast expanse of grassland that lay before them seeming to lengthen with every mile.
At last, the dark mass of the fortress came into view, its turreted keep gradually taking shape against the night sky. Frances drew heart from the glimmer of braziers that had been lit around the harbour. God willing, they would soon be aboard a boat that would carry them across the waters. She would gladly suffer any manner of seasickness to reach England’s shores again.
As they came within half a league of the city walls, Felton slowed his horse to a trot. ‘We must not draw undue attention,’ he muttered.
Frances knew the wisdom of this, but it wore her patience even more. They had travelled only a short distance further when a distant rumble carried on the breeze. She felt her companion stiffen.
‘Make haste!’ he called to Lady Ruthven, as he dug his heels into the horse’s sides. Frances saw her own panic reflected in the older woman’s eyes before she was distracted by the dark outline of a rider in pursuit. He was gaining on them. They were tantalisingly close to Calais but the thunder of hoofs was now deafening, and a few seconds later the rider drew up alongside them.