PART 1
1614
CHAPTER 1
4 August
The warm breeze whipped about her as she spurred the horse into a gallop. To either side, the heads of wheat drooped heavily in the scorched fields, but she kept her eyes fixed on the rise of the hill.
‘Frances!’
She heard her husband’s voice above the thundering hoofs, pulled on the reins and her horse slowed to a trot. The searing heat seemed to close in around her and the strands of hair that had escaped from her braid clung to her temples.
‘I had not expected you to be so eager to see His Majesty.’ Thomas smiled.
Frances gave a rueful grin. The undulating fields stretched out for miles, their golden hue interspersed with the dark lines of hedgerows and, in the distance, a thick mass of woodland. As she gazed towards the horizon, she made out a series of delicate spires and a glimmer of light reflecting off windows.
Apethorpe.
It had taken them two days to get there and would have been longer still if Thomas had not agreed that they could travel the last fifteen miles on horseback. Frances had been desperate to escape the suffocating confines of the carriage, which had rumbled and jolted along the cracked track that led north from Tyringham Hall. That was why she had urged her husband to let them ride: God knew she had no desire to reach their destination more quickly.
More than a year had passed since she had last set eyes upon the King. It had been one of the happiest times of her life, cosseted at Tyringham Hall with Thomas and their young son. With a pang, Frances thought of John, his arms outstretched and his eyes imploring as his nursemaid prised him from his mother’s embrace. I will return soon, my sweeting. Now, looking towards Sir Anthony Mildmay’s sprawling estate, her skin prickled with foreboding.
Thomas reached for her hand. His lips felt warm as he pressed them to her fingers. Frances stroked his cheek, his beard tickling her palm. She had been averse to the idea of his growing it, but she had to admit it suited him.
‘Must we stay for the full two weeks?’ she asked.
Thomas shrugged. ‘If His Majesty finds the hunting grounds to his taste. He tires more easily these days, though.’
‘I wonder he hunts at all, given how it pains him.’ She turned towards the woods. ‘I could harvest plenty of willow bark there, and Sir Anthony will have marjoram and rosemary in his herb garden. I could mix a salve that would reduce the swelling in his joints.’ She cast a sly glance at her husband and saw his mouth twitch.
‘You should not tease me, Frances,’ he chided. ‘The King may have been content to let you live in peace since his daughter left for the Rhine, but he is still eager to hunt down witches as well as stags.’
Frances experienced the familiar pang at the mention of her former mistress. Princess Elizabeth – or Electress Consort Palatine of the Rhine, as she must now think of her – had left for her new husband’s domain shortly after their wedding the previous February. Elizabeth had married Frederick out of misguided loyalty to her late brother, Prince Henry. He had swept aside her doubts about the young count’s suitability, caring little for his sister’s happiness in his pursuit of a Protestant alliance. Frances suspected that she would never have gone through with it but for Henry’s sudden death. Her marriage was a penance for trying to defy him. It pained Frances to think that Elizabeth had made such a sacrifice for one so unworthy.
Though the princess had begged Frances to go with her to the Rhine, promising to find positions for her husband and son George, she had declined. Elizabeth had assumed that her favourite attendant had not wished to risk such a long journey when the birth of her child was imminent, but there had been other reasons, too. Frances had known she could never relinquish Longford Castle, her beloved childhood home – not after everything she had almost lost for its sake. Neither could she leave her mother so far behind. Helena was settled at Longford now, having promised to care for it until her grandson came of age: George had stayed with her for much of the past year, delighting in his position as heir. Her mother’s last letter had told of how her grandson had presided over his first tenants’ meeting, conducting himself with an authority well beyond his eight years. Sir Richard Weston, Longford’s faithful chamberlain, would have ensured the business was dealt with, but she was as proud of George as his indulgent grandmother was.
Longford had not been the only place that had stopped her leaving England. Tyringham Hall had seemed almost a prison to her during the early years of her marriage. Then she had been so consumed by grief for George’s father that it had blinded her to the love Thomas bore her. He had married her for Tom’s sake, having assured his friend that he would take care of her if the Powder Treason failed. Frances had only narrowly escaped implication in it: the whole court had known of her friendship with Tom Wintour. Thomas had made great sacrifices on her behalf, yet she had repaid him with coldness, determined that theirs would be a marriage in name only. She had defied him, too, breaking her promise not to involve herself in the Catholic conspiracies that had swirled about James’s throne in the aftermath of the Powder Treason. It still frightened her to think how close she had come to losing everything.
‘Shall we walk the rest of the way?’
Lost in thought, Frances had hardly noticed that they had reached the end of the long path that swept down to the hall. She nodded. Watching her husband dismount, she noticed him wince as his right shoulder pressed against the horse’s flank. ‘You will not accompany the King on every hunt, will you?’ she asked, her brow furrowed. Though it had been three years since the riding accident that had almost claimed his life, she worried every time he set out for the hunt. She wished that the King would bestow the mastership of the buckhounds upon one of his younger favourites.
‘I had hoped my senses would return by now,’ Thomas said, rubbing the back of his head. The deep wound she had stitched was hidden, but she could still feel its smooth edges when she ran her fingers through his hair. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her deeply. ‘But the madness still has me in its grip,’ he murmured, his lips brushing her neck, ‘for I love you more than ever.’
Desire pooled in her stomach. His eyes closed as she coiled the hair at his nape around her fingers, pulling him closer for another kiss, her lips parting. She could feel his arousal as she pressed her hips to his, trailing her fingers down his spine.
The whinnying of her horse startled them and they sprang apart, breathless.
‘It is well that we have Hartshorn to remind us of our manners,’ Thomas said, patting the horse’s neck. ‘Though who will safeguard our respectability when we are in the privacy of our chambers, I am at a loss to say.’
Frances planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. ‘I hope we will soon be alone again,’ she whispered.
Taking Hartshorn’s reins, she led him slowly forward, Thomas and his horse at her side. As they neared the hall, the hedges that lined the path grew thicker. Frances breathed in the sharp tang of yew, relishing the shade it offered. A movement ahead caught her eye and she paused as a young groom hurried towards them.
‘Sir Thomas, my lady,’ the boy said, with a quick, awkward bow. ‘Please, allow me.’ He took the reins from them and led the horses towards the stables.