Frances, too, had thrived in the new reign. Her invitation to serve the Queen had been quick to arrive. She had been glad to accept, particularly as Kate had been offered a position too. Henrietta Maria was a pleasant, rather shy young woman, who had soon won favour with her new courtiers – Frances included. She had none of Queen Anne’s political guile or shrewdness, but perhaps that was as well, Frances thought. She had shown enough discernment to resist the Countess of Buckingham’s persistent flattery and deny her a position in her household. The countess had left for her Brooksby estate in high dudgeon.
Frances and Kate had enjoyed many hours sewing and conversing with their young mistress. When none of the other ladies were present, they would even hear mass in the Queen’s privy closet. Frances smiled to think of how this would have warmed Anne’s heart if she had known. Her dying wish had been fulfilled beyond anything she could have expected.
Thomas’s new duties were hardly onerous – certainly not enough to justify the salary, which was one of the most lucrative in the entire household. He had talked of buying a new estate, but his joy at reclaiming Tyringham Hall was still as fresh as it had been three years before, and there was nowhere else that he and Frances wished to spend their time when they were granted leave from court. Such occasions were frequent now. Secure in the King and Queen’s esteem, she and her husband spent more than half the year in Buckinghamshire. She delighted in seeing their sons grow. John was fifteen now, Robert only two years behind. Both had matured into fine young men, full of promise. At ten, William had lost his wilder tendencies, but his younger brother Samuel more than compensated for him in mischief.
A snuffling sound drew the women’s attention to the ornate cradle at the far end of the room. Frances watched as Kate padded across the room to gaze at her infant son with a rapt expression.
‘Hush, Georgie.’ She stroked his downy hair.
The boy was almost seven months old now. He had been conceived in violence, but slipped from his mother’s womb as mildly as a lamb. Frances had witnessed the profound change that his arrival had wrought in her friend. Kate now bore herself with greater confidence and seemed more resilient to her husband’s taunts and cruelty, which had hardly abated since she had given him a son and heir. Although she still doted upon her daughter, the pride she took in her firstborn son was obvious for all to see.
Frances’s smile faded as she thought of her own son George. He had returned to Cambridge straight after that terrible encounter in their apartment at Whitehall. It still made her heart contract with pain, though the wounds had begun to heal. She had not seen him for many months afterwards, and her letters had gone unanswered. She had resolved to visit him in Cambridge, but Thomas had advised against it, saying that he would go there first.
It had been the first step on the long road to reconciliation. George’s relationship with her husband had healed more quickly than with her. Still he could not bring himself to call Thomas ‘Papa’, but she hoped that would soon come. When at last she had seen him, there had been no recriminations, only pain, deep and visceral. He had hugged her fiercely when they had parted, but the next time they met he had been cold and distant. She prayed constantly that God would turn his pain into love, his anger into forgiveness.
‘I thank God poor Mal will no longer be burdened with our estates,’ Kate said, still gazing at the baby. ‘Such a thing is a curse for a woman – as I found. Sons are such a blessing, are they not?’
Frances began to reply but her throat closed over the words. Kate flushed a deeper red. ‘Forgive me, Fran. I . . .’ She moved to embrace her. ‘He will soon be restored to you,’ she whispered.
The King had promised to appoint George to his service as soon as his studies were at an end. She was more grateful for this than the many other bounties they had received at his hands. It signalled his complete disregard for what Buckingham had told him of her son’s father. Several times, she had heard Charles speak favourably of his former childhood companion. She knew this was for the benefit of the courtiers who might otherwise be inclined to listen to the duke’s slanders.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Kate went to answer it.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied as the King entered the room, closely followed by Thomas.
Frances exchanged a glance with her husband before she made her obeisance. He was grim-faced but his eyes seemed to exude something like triumph.
‘Please.’ The King gestured for the two women to be seated.
‘My lady duchess, I bring grave news,’ he began quietly. ‘A messenger has just arrived from Portsmouth. You must prepare yourself,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘The duke your husband has been murdered.’
Frances held herself perfectly still. She was vaguely aware that Thomas had come to stand behind her and felt the warmth of his hands on her shoulders. Kate was looking steadily up at the King, her fingers resting lightly on his outstretched hand.
‘Murdered?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
Slowly, Charles released her hand and drew up a chair close to hers. ‘Forgive me . . . Katherine. This is a terrible shock for you. Perhaps Lady Frances could bring something for your ease.’
‘No,’ Kate said firmly, before her friend could respond. Beneath her composure, Frances knew that, like herself, she was shaken to the core. Buckingham dead? It could not be true. He had blighted their lives for so many years that she had come to believe they would always be enslaved to him, that his was an evil even God could not vanquish. His declining fortunes in the new reign had only made him seem more deadly: Frances had known he would stop at nothing to regain his former dominance.
‘Tell me what happened, Your Grace.’
Kate’s words interrupted her racing thoughts.
The King took a breath. ‘The duke’s late expedition against France excited widespread opposition in this kingdom and left us with a war that we neither want nor can afford. It also made some dangerous enemies for your husband among my militia. It seems that one officer decided to act upon his grievance.’
Frances tried to swallow but it was as if she was being choked.
‘He was lying in wait for the duke when he left his lodgings this morning,’ he went on, his voice quiet but steady. ‘Your husband was stabbed in the heart before he could defend himself. He died a few moments later.’
Frances pictured Buckingham’s lifeless body slumped on the ground, his fine linen shirt steeped in blood. But it was soon replaced by an image of the duke as she had last seen him, mocking her and his wife with an ostentatious bow of farewell.
Kate ran her tongue along her lips, which were as pale and dry as stone. ‘Who was it?’
Frances saw the King dart a look at Thomas before replying.
‘John Felton.’
She had known the name before he spoke it. Kate’s brow creased for a moment, then recognition dawned.
‘The gentleman who was in attendance at Theobalds when . . .’ Her words trailed off. Frances knew that she, too, was replaying that scene in her mind, Buckingham’s dagger pressed to Felton’s throat, the look of disbelief on the officer’s face when his royal master let the duke walk free.
You must trust me in this.
Charles’s words came to her now.
I am not so foolish – or so forgiving – as you suppose.