‘Very well, I think,’ Frances replied, ‘though I rarely see them now.’ She decided to change the subject. ‘I fear that I will soon need to loosen my stays. It is little wonder that your confectionery is celebrated throughout the kingdom.’
The older woman chuckled. ‘I have long since despaired of my figure,’ she said, patting her generous hips. ‘But I use sugar in my remedies, too. It can be most effective.’
‘Oh?’ Frances knew that they should not speak of such things but she was intrigued.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Grace replied, warming to her theme, ‘and many other things besides – seeds, roots, nuts, spices . . . as well as the herbs here, of course. One of my balms contains over a hundred ingredients,’ she added proudly. ‘I write down all of my recipes, with notes for their application. I should be glad to show them to you. It is rare that anyone takes such an interest. My husband calls me his wise woman.’
Frances stopped walking and stared at her companion. ‘Are you not afraid? Such practices have been deemed witchcraft since King James took the throne.’
Lady Grace smiled. ‘His Majesty enjoys our hospitality too much to cut it off at its source,’ she remarked wryly. ‘He is so fond of my confectionery that I am obliged to send him regular supplies whenever he is away from Apethorpe.’
Frances bit back a scornful remark at the King’s hypocrisy. After a pause, they resumed their stroll through the garden.
‘I hope the King has had good hunting today,’ Lady Grace said. ‘It will put him in a favourable humour for this evening’s feast.’
‘They will soon return,’ Frances replied. She had noticed the lengthening shadows. ‘I have a mind to walk in the parkland before this evening – to sharpen my appetite,’ she added, with a grin.
‘Of course, my dear,’ her hostess replied. ‘You will forgive me if I do not accompany you, but I must attend to the kitchens.’
Frances walked towards the gate on the north side of the herb garden, shielding her eyes against the sun as she decided which path to take. On the rise of the hill that lay to the east of the hall, she could see the outline of a hunting lodge. It was too small to be the one she had heard Sir Anthony speak of having commissioned the previous year, so she hoped it was no longer in use. Solitude was a rare luxury at court gatherings. There would be fine views of the estate from there, too, and she could rest in its shade before returning to her chamber to make shift for the feast.
Frances quickened her pace as she went up the hillside. By the time she reached the small circular clearing that lay in front of the lodge, she was obliged to rest for a few moments. The views were as spectacular as she had envisaged. The hall seemed to shimmer in the late-afternoon light, and she was struck by the symmetry of the gardens that surrounded it. The air was cooler there, and Frances closed her eyes as a breeze blew across the exposed skin of her face and neck.
Turning towards the lodge, she noticed that the door was ajar. She pushed it open and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the small entrance hall, which had no windows. It was deliciously cool inside and she breathed in the comforting smell of damp stone. A noise from the floor above made her start. She waited, straining her ears to listen, but all was quiet.
She made her way up the spiral stairs, gripping the iron rail that ran along the cold stone wall. With every step she took, she feared a rat would scurry out from the shadows, but her soft leather soles disturbed only the years of dust that had formed on the steps.
As she reached the top, she heard another sound – like a faint moan. Her heart began to thrum in her chest. It was easy to imagine an ancient tower such as this being haunted by some restless ghost. Then she chided herself. It was probably nothing more than the breeze rushing down the chimney into the fireplace.
Once her breathing had slowed, she edged towards the light that showed around the door on the left of the landing. She opened it and stood on the threshold, blinking against the brightness that streamed in through the window. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared, at first unable to comprehend the scene that was being played out in front of her.
The King was lying on the heavy oak table that stretched the length of the room. He was wearing only a linen shirt, his doublet and breeches discarded on the floor. His legs dangled over one end of the table, and a man was kneeling between them, his head rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he stroked James’s thighs.
Frances felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. She stood stock still, struggling to breathe. The King gave another moan and the man raised his head to smile at him, exposing the shock of his arousal, before lowering his mouth once more.
As if suddenly released from an enchantment, Frances backed hurriedly out of the room, willing her feet to make no sound on the dusty floorboards. Back on the landing, her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she feared it could be heard. But, after a long moment, the King cried out. As she padded quickly down the stairs, the sound of the other man’s silken laughter echoed around the walls.
George Villiers.
CHAPTER 4
21 August
‘Ha!’ James exclaimed, as the dice clattered to a halt. ‘I have it again. Surrender your fortune, Somerset.’
Frances peered over Lady Grace’s shoulder and saw Somerset give a resigned grin, pushing the remainder of his coins towards the King. His mouth dropped as Villiers stepped forward and refilled his master’s glass. The young man paused for just a moment too long after performing this task, the flagon suspended in his slender fingers. Frances saw James’s eyes rest upon them and he inhaled deeply, as if trying to catch his lover’s scent. She knew that her husband had seen it too. He had been shocked, but not surprised, when she had told him what she had witnessed in the hunting lodge a few days before. ‘We must keep our counsel,’ he had urged.
Frances knew he was right. The secret would be out soon enough anyway. The King was doing little to disguise his growing infatuation.
‘That will be all, Villiers.’
Somerset’s voice, sharp as flint, sliced through the heavy silence. Still his rival did not move. Only when the King gave a reluctant nod did he bow and step back into the shadows.
‘Come, Thomas,’ James said. ‘It is just you and I now.’
Frances took a sip of claret and forced her attention back to her companion. ‘You will be glad to have your house to yourselves again,’ she said quietly. ‘My husband tells me that the King plans to depart for Nottingham before the week is out.’
Lady Grace smiled. ‘We are greatly honoured by his visits, of course.’ She continued in a low voice: ‘Though they do place a burden on our estate – and those of our neighbours. Sir Anthony has been obliged to offer recompense for the damage wreaked upon their crops by His Grace’s incessant hunting.’
Frances shot a quick look in the King’s direction, but he was too intent upon his game to heed their conversation. She knew it was the same wherever James stayed – Thomas had often spoken of it. He had tried to persuade his master to lay out his own funds as a means of securing goodwill, but to no avail. This king had ever been careless of his subjects’ welfare, she reflected.