James gave a derisive snort.
‘I have nae doubt. Are two bairns not enough for ye, Lady Frances?’
She raised her eyes to his and gave a tight smile.
‘I’ll wager there’ll soon be another in that small belly of yours – if there isn’t already,’ he persisted, oblivious to the discomfort of those around him. ‘I await news that my daughter has been brought abed again too. She was barely out of her wedding gown before her belly was swelling with the first.’
Frances hid her disgust that he should speak so of the princess.
‘I hear Prince Henry is thriving, Your Grace,’ Thomas cut in.
Frances had thrilled at the news that her former mistress had been safely delivered of a son at the beginning of the year. She hoped the count would be kind to her, given that she had fulfilled her duty as a royal wife so soon. Perhaps their marriage was happier than Frances had dared hope it would be when she had bade the princess farewell. She still remembered the young woman’s tear-stained face as she had clung to her.
James grunted. ‘So my ambassador tells me. Let’s hope he dunnae choke out his breath like his namesake.’
A shocked hush descended. It was known to all that the King had despised his late son and heir, but he had refrained from speaking ill of him since his demise – in public, at least.
There was a small cough. Glancing along the dais, Frances saw Robert Carr. She wondered that she had not noticed him before. He was never more than a few feet away from his master. Even his marriage to Lady Frances Howard at the end of the previous year had not interrupted the frequency – or, it was rumoured, the intimacy – of his attendance upon the King. His recent promotion to Earl of Somerset was testament to that.
‘Sir Anthony is desirous to know whether you are ready for the banquet to be served, Your Grace,’ he said, in the simpering tone she remembered.
‘Aye, tell him to get on wi’ it,’ James barked, with a dismissive wave.
Frances was grateful to take her place at one of the long tables that lined the walls. Soon, the attendants began to file in from the far end of the hall, laden with platters of sweetmeats, candied fruits and marchpane.
‘Lady Mildmay is famed for her confectionery,’ a gentleman opposite remarked, his eyes roving over the exquisitely crafted dishes that were being laid in front of them.
Frances glanced at the dais. Grace Mildmay was sitting next to her husband, Sir Anthony. She was about the same age as Helena, Frances judged, but her figure was much fuller. Her pale blue eyes were kind and intelligent, and she had a gentleness about her that made Frances warm to her at once. She hoped they might have the opportunity to become friends.
Just then, her attention was drawn to the arrival of another server, who had thrown open the door with such force that it thudded against the fireplace. Frances had never seen the young man before, and judging from the curious stares of her fellow diners, he was a newcomer at court. He was exceptionally tall and slender, with skin as delicate as porcelain. His dark blue eyes flitted about the room, and Frances saw the flicker of a smile on his lips as he looked towards the dais. She followed his gaze but James was too distracted by the array of sweet delicacies before him to notice. Next to him, Somerset was staring in the attendant’s direction with a mixture of surprise and consternation. Clearly, he had been unaware of his appointment. Frances knew that the King lived in daily fear of assassins and that every new arrival in his service had to be carefully scrutinised by his closest advisers before they were permitted to attend him. Perhaps this one had slipped through the net.
She sipped some spiced wine and raised her eyes again to the young man, who was slowly moving down the hall, a gilded flagon in one hand and an embroidered napkin in the other. The position of royal cupbearer was as highly sought as the other roles that involved attendance upon the King. Frances was wondering who his patron was when she recalled her conversation with Sir Anthony earlier that day. Sir John Graham must have some game in play.
‘Have you tried the apricots? I have never tasted sweeter.’ Thomas was offering the platter to her. She smiled her thanks and tried to focus on slicing the delicate flesh of the fruit. ‘Do you suppose that is Sir John’s new protégé?’ she whispered, as the cupbearer passed directly in front of where they were sitting.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed but he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘For a moment I thought I knew him, but I must have been mistaken.’ He glanced around the room. ‘I have not noticed any other newcomers, so I suppose this must be Sir John’s man.’
A loud clatter reverberated around the hall. Everyone turned to see the young man staring aghast at the dark red stain splattered on his white shirt. The flagon lay at his feet, the rest of its contents spreading over the marble tiles. Behind him, Frances noticed one of the other attendants smirking. She recognised him as the man who usually served the King his wine.
‘God’s wounds! You churl!’ the newcomer shouted, his face now even paler and his chest heaving with suppressed rage. The other man’s smile grew broader as he stared back at him.
The King was gazing at them both, open-mouthed. Somerset stood abruptly and was about to intervene when the young man strutted from the hall, slamming the door behind him.
A deathly hush descended. Somerset seemed unsure whether to go after him or stay and attend his sovereign.
‘Well, clean up the mess, man!’ he shouted at last, then gestured to the minstrels to resume their playing.
After a long pause, the guests resumed feasting, the hum of conversation more muted than before. Frances darted a glance towards the smirking man, who was soaking up the spilled wine with a napkin. He had just finished when the door at the far end of the hall was flung open again and the tall young man was back. He had changed his shirt and appeared as composed as when he had first entered. All eyes turned to him as he walked slowly down the centre of the hall. The man who had caused him to spill the wine was now standing bolt upright, his eyes fixed upon his adversary.
‘Thank you for taking care of the flagon for me, Carlton,’ the young man purred, his voice as smooth as silk, then wrested it from the attendant’s grasp.
Before the other man could reply, he swung back the vessel and brought it crashing against the side of his face. There was a sickening crack and Carlton slumped to the floor, his jaw broken. For a moment, nobody stirred. Then the King’s guards rushed forward to seize the young man, while Somerset ran about the hall barking instructions to whoever would listen. Thomas grasped Frances’s hand as they watched in dismay. Among the press of bodies, she could see a pool of blood where the spilled wine had been and heard the low keening of the man as he clutched the side of his face. At least he was still breathing, she thought.
‘Peace!’
The King’s voice rang out across the hall. His chair scraped loudly across the tiles as he rose to his feet, then limped down from the dais. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as he walked slowly towards the young man.
‘I have not seen you in my service before,’ he remarked. ‘What is your name?’
The man made as if to bow, but the guards on either side of him had his arms pinioned so tightly behind his back that he could not move.
‘George Villiers, Your Majesty,’ he said. He did not lower his eyes as convention dictated, but stared directly at his sovereign.