Frances saw another figure approaching from the gatehouse. He was tall and slim, and walked with an easy grace that belied his years. It took her a moment to recognise Sir Anthony Mildmay. It had been many years since she had seen the handsome courtier who had been a great favourite with the old Queen. His absence from court since James’s accession suggested that his hopes for further advancement had been disappointed.
‘Sir Anthony,’ Thomas said, with a bow, as his wife curtsied.
‘Welcome to Apethorpe. And Lady Frances,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you after all these years.’
Frances could not but admire his gallantry. She doubted he had any recollection of the shy young girl who had accompanied her mother to court in the later years of Elizabeth’s reign.
‘Tell me, how does the marchioness fare? I see you have inherited her beauty.’
Frances smiled. ‘My mother is in excellent health, thank you, Sir Anthony.’
‘How is His Majesty enjoying Northamptonshire?’ Thomas asked, diverting their host’s attention from his wife.
Frances sensed the older man’s hesitation, but his smile never wavered.
‘Very well – though he will welcome you. His buckhounds have grown quite unruly of late.’
Thomas grinned. ‘We shall soon tire them out on the hunt. I hear the woodlands of your estate are unsurpassed in these parts.’
Sir Anthony inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘I am sure the King will find even greater diversion with your arrival – and that of some other attendants,’ he replied. ‘Sir John Graham has secured a place for a new protégé. Let us hope he does not serve the King ill at this evening’s banquet or it will put him out of humour.’
Frances exchanged a glance with her husband and saw her surprise mirrored in his face. Sir John guarded his position in the privy chamber jealously and was not known to encourage potential rivals.
‘Well now,’ Sir Anthony said briskly, ‘I must not keep you from your chambers. You will be tired after your journey.’ He motioned to the page, who was standing a few paces behind him, then bowed his farewell.
Frances looked out across the neatly appointed privy gardens that stretched across the expanse of the south front. The heady scents from the orangery that lay below came to her on the breeze. She looked forward to tasting some of its bounty. Sir Anthony was famed for the delicacies that were served at his banquets – they had certainly won favour with the old Queen.
‘Will you not come to bed, Frances?’ Thomas whispered, as he nuzzled the back of her neck.
Still gazing out of the window, she felt him begin to unlace her gown, his fingers working slowly at first, then with growing impatience. When at last her stays hung loose, he eased them from her shoulders and untied her heavy skirts, which rustled to the floor. Savouring the touch of his hands as they snaked from her back around to her belly, she drew in a breath as they moved downwards, caressing the inside of her thighs through the soft linen of her shift.
She turned to face him, kissing him hungrily as her fingers worked at the laces of his hose. When he had pulled off his doublet, she lifted his shirt over his head and ran her hands along the contours of his chest, relishing the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. He bent to kiss her again, but she led him towards the large mahogany chest that lay at the end of the bed and pushed him down onto it.
Taking a step away from him, she slowly, deliberately, drew up her shift, gradually revealing her nakedness. Seeing his eyes fill with longing as they roved over her body stoked her own desire. Unable to withhold any longer, she moved to sit astride him. Slowly, she began to move, her hips pressing against Thomas’s until they matched her rhythm. A bead of sweat trickled down her back as she felt the delicious, rising tension deep inside her, crying out as the waves of pleasure pulsated through her. The muscles of her husband’s back grew taut, then he gave a deep shudder and sank down against her, his damp forehead pressing into her neck.
They remained like that for several minutes, caressing each other’s cooling skin as their breathing slowed.
‘I think the King was right all along, Frances,’ Thomas said, his eyes glinting. ‘You must be a witch. How else can you have such power over me?’
She kissed his forehead, which tasted salty. ‘Then you shall be forever cursed, husband,’ she said.
CHAPTER 2
4 August
‘Come, my love,’ Thomas urged. ‘We are late enough already.’
Frances looped her arm through his and together they weaved their way through the clusters of guests in the hall. Even though the windows had been flung open, the air was already stifling. Not for the first time, Frances regretted the fashion for tightly laced dresses in brocade silk and other heavy fabrics. Already, she longed for the hour when she and her husband could retire to their chamber and divest themselves of their finery. But Sir Anthony was renowned for his hospitality: the feasting and entertainment would continue long into the night.
The minstrels struck up a lively flourish and the courtiers fanned out on either side of the room in preparation for the dance. Frances was thankful they had started with a sedate pavane, for the heat was sapping her energy.
They had performed only a few steps when the music came to an abrupt halt and everyone turned at the rapping of a staff on the flagstones. As it echoed into silence, Frances heard the slow shuffle of footsteps.
‘His Majesty the King!’
There was a rustle of skirts as the assembled company made a deep obeisance. Frances was aware of holding her breath and had to remind herself that she had no reason to feel uneasy. Her husband had become one of the King’s most regular companions since she had last been in his presence. But her apprehension came of years spent under his suspicious gaze, the threat of arrest for witchcraft or treason always present. She thought back to her ordeal in the Tower and shuddered. Time had not lessened the terror. It was as if she were being tortured anew whenever she allowed her thoughts to stray to that terrible night, the witch-pricker’s blade piercing her flesh as the King looked on, impervious to her screams.
Now there was a scraping of chairs and a heavy sigh as James sat down. Frances was shocked to see the change in him. His hair was almost entirely white, which made his jowly face appear all the ruddier. Only his thin beard and moustache showed the red hair that had been his most distinguishing feature. As he reached for his glass she saw that his knuckles were swollen and his fingers misshapen, like the gnarled old branches of an oak tree. He took a long swig, then set the vessel roughly on the table.
‘Play on!’ he shouted.
The musicians took up their instruments at once and the murmur of chatter in the hall soon grew louder. A line of guests eager to be presented to the King had already formed in front of the dais. Frances glanced at her husband, who smiled his reassurance. It seemed an age until they, too, were standing before James – though Frances wished it had been longer. She swept a deep curtsy.
‘Ah, Sir Thomas!’ James cried, with genuine warmth. ‘Y’are back at last and I am glad of it. My hounds have grown restless wi’out ye.’
‘Forgive my having stayed at Tyringham for longer than I planned, Your Majesty.’ Frances kept her gaze downcast as her husband spoke. ‘I had much business to attend to there.’