‘Arrêtez-vous!’ he called, steering his horse dangerously close to theirs. Her terror intensified as she recognised the marquis’s livery on the rider’s saddle. Felton did not seem to heed him as he spurred their horse on. But, burdened by two riders, its head was beginning to droop. A few seconds more and their assailant would overtake them.
As he drew level with them again, the man reached over and grasped the reins from Felton. What happened next was so fast that Frances only realised once it was over. The rider stared, openmouthed, then clutched his hand to his side. Frances watched in horror as blood seeped between his fingers. With a deft move, Felton took back the reins and slid the blade into its scabbard. The man looked down at his wound, his eyes rolled in their sockets and he slumped forward. As the reins went slack in his hand, his horse reared, jolting its rider off the saddle before bolting away. The man’s foot had become entangled in the stirrup so he was pulled along behind the horse, his lifeless body jerking up and down with each stride. Only when the animal leaped over a low hedge near woodland was the rider thrown free.
They had reached the city walls now, but Frances could not wrest her eyes from those dark woods. Felton drew in the reins as he followed her gaze. ‘He must make his peace with God now.’
CHAPTER 60
1 March
The chimneys of Hampton Court Palace were coming into view, the elaborately twisting brickwork silhouetted against the deep red sky. The sight made Frances spur on her horse once more. Her body was heavy with fatigue and every thud of its hoofs on the frozen turf made her bones ache anew.
They had ridden for three long days, pausing only to take their ease and bolt the simple food Felton procured from isolated farmsteads along the way. They had slept in the shelter of woodland – and, once, in the hayloft of a barn. Frances would never have believed how luxurious it would feel to bed down in the warmth of the hay, lulled to sleep by the snuffles and grunts of the animals below. Exhausted, she had slept as soundly as a child. It had only been during waking hours that the terror of what had happened outside Calais’s walls returned to her. The image of the marquis’s man lolling forward in his saddle, the trail of his blood, returned to her time and again. How long had it been before his battered, lifeless body had been discovered? As their tiny vessel had bobbed across the mercifully calm seas, every seagull’s cry had sounded like the call of an official sent to arrest them. She had uttered a prayer of thanks when they had arrived at Dover, but she knew that the danger was far from over.
Felton had directed that they should ride across the South Downs, keeping to small, often treacherous, woodland tracks rather than following the main road that led from Dover to London. It would take longer but Frances knew he was right. She thought of Buckingham and the marquis at Whitehall, waiting for word of the jewels. Pray God they would not discover Lady Ruthven’s flight until Frances and her companions had delivered them into the prince’s hands.
She had reached the wide avenue that led towards the western entrance to the palace. Slowing her horse to a trot, she looked behind for her companions. Lady Ruthven was some distance away. The ride had been harder upon her than anyone. Living in seclusion for more than five years had sapped her strength, and many times Frances had seen her slumped against the horse’s neck, Felton holding the reins of both horses so that they could keep going.
The letter of recommendation that the prince had given his servant was enough to secure their entry to the palace. Frances avoided the gatekeeper’s curious stare as they passed. She saw Lady Ruthven pull her hood further across her face. The clatter of their horses’ hoofs echoed across the huge, deserted courtyard beyond.
They mounted the stairs to the great hall. Stripped of the sumptuous Flemish tapestries that usually lined the walls, the close-packed tables and the dozens of braziers all aflame, the vast chamber seemed even more imposing. The rooms beyond were just as eerie, as if trapped in some enchantment. Lady Ruthven was leading the way now, and Frances quickened her pace to keep up. Veering left, they entered the gallery overlooking the chapel and descended the stairs that lay just beyond the Queen’s privy closet.
The scraping of a latch broke the heavy silence. Frances saw Felton’s hand fly to his scabbard. Pray God he would not have cause to spill blood in this place. A man dressed in priest’s robes walked slowly from a chamber next to the altar. Following Lady Ruthven’s lead, Frances moved to the altar rail and sank to her knees in prayer. Felton hesitated, then did the same.
The chaplain showed little surprise at their coming, but uttered a quiet prayer of blessing, resting his hand upon each of their bowed heads in turn as he did so.
‘Amen,’ Lady Ruthven whispered, then slowly raised hers to look at him. Frances saw recognition in his eyes. ‘Father Goodman.’
Queen Anne’s private chaplain. Frances wondered that she had not realised before. She had seen him only once, fleetingly, as he had attended his dying mistress. It was no secret that the King despised the ‘papist preacher’, and Frances had assumed that after Anne’s death he had either lived in obscurity or fled to the Continent, along with many other disaffected Catholics.
‘I had thought the tread of footsteps belonged to more travellers. They call here now and again, in search of nourishment – spiritual or otherwise.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘These are your friends, Lady Ruthven?’
Frances looked up at him now. Although he was still smiling, she saw that he was scrutinising her.
‘They are trusted friends, Father.’
He slowly inclined his head. ‘So the time has come. The King is . . .?’
‘No – at least, we pray not yet,’ Lady Ruthven replied. ‘But his life is in grave danger from those who would claim the late Queen’s treasure for their wicked ends. I must deliver it into the hands of the prince before it is too late.’
The chaplain glanced at her companions. ‘May we speak alone, Lady Ruthven?’
The older woman nodded to them both. Frances rose to her feet at once, but Felton made no move. ‘Please.’ Lady Ruthven laid her hand on his arm. ‘A few moments only.’ He stood and followed Frances out of the chapel, staring resentfully over his shoulder at Father Goodman.
Neither of them spoke as they waited in the gathering gloom. Frances shivered as a chill breeze whipped along the passage. It would be another cold night, but she knew they would not be able to rest on their way to Theobalds if the jewels were in their possession.
If.
Even though they had reached Hampton Court without discovery, the prospect of leaving with the prize they had risked so much to gain seemed somehow more distant than ever. Had Lady Ruthven tricked them? Or Father Goodman? Perhaps he had sold the jewels years ago, as soon as the Queen’s beloved servant had left Hampton Court.
Felton gave an impatient sigh and began to pace up and down. ‘What the devil is taking so long?’
At last, the door to the chapel opened and Lady Ruthven was on the threshold. ‘Come,’ she said quietly, beckoning them back in.
‘Do you have them?’ Felton demanded.
But Lady Ruthven had swept out of sight. Frances and her companion swiftly followed. She led them back to the altar, where the chaplain was waiting. Frances’s eyes darted to a casket that had been placed in the centre of the altar cloth.