‘I would be glad if the Queen would accompany her husband sometimes,’ the older woman went on, ‘but it seems she prefers to remain in London.’
It was true. For most of the years that Frances had served at court, Anne had lived in a separate household at Greenwich. She had claimed the air was more beneficial to her health than that of Whitehall or St James’s, but her recent move to Denmark House on the Strand exposed this as a lie. It was hardly a secret that she could not bear her husband’s company – or he hers.
‘The King was ever best when furthest from the Queen,’ she whispered.
‘You have the luck of the devil, Thomas!’
Both women turned to the King, who was staring in mock-horror at Frances’s husband.
‘If you did not keep my hounds in such good order, I would have you whipped,’ he added, with a grin, as he handed Thomas a large pile of coins.
‘Another game, Your Grace?’
‘And let you further deplete my treasury? No, Tom, we will have no more sport this evening. Besides,’ he added, casting a glance over his shoulder, ‘I am tired after the day’s hunting so will seek my bed.’
The other men around the table rose as the King prepared to depart. Somerset was at his side, as if fearful that Villiers would forget his position and offer to accompany their master. As he reached the door, James turned and addressed Thomas again. ‘I have a mind to visit my hounds tomorrow morning, before we set out for the hunt. Bring some of the venison from tonight’s supper. Oswyn will enjoy feasting on that.’
Thomas bowed his assent. The affection that James lavished on his buckhounds – Oswyn in particular – had always surprised Frances. Thomas would often tell her of the latest gift he had bestowed upon them, from bejewelled gold collars to the choicest morsels from the royal kitchens. They were better served than even his closest attendants.
Frances watched as the King shuffled out of the room, Somerset half a pace behind. Thomas held out his hand for her to accompany him. She was glad to retire. Though it was still early, she felt unusually tired.
‘Goodnight, Sir Anthony, Lady Grace,’ Thomas said, as he and Frances made their obeisance.
Villiers was still standing by the door. He made the slightest of bows as they passed, his eyes glittering in the gloom.
The sun was already high by the time Frances awoke the next morning. She twisted towards her husband’s side of the bed but knew he would have risen early for the hunt and to accompany his master on the visit to the hounds that preceded it. It would be many hours yet before they returned. Perhaps she would go for a ride herself today, she mused, as she summoned the will to lift her head from the soft down pillow. She had not yet explored all of the parkland – her excursion to the hunting lodge had deterred her from venturing further than the formal gardens surrounding the house. But she would be returning to Tyringham Hall in two days’ time, as soon as the King and his entourage left for Nottingham, so she should make the most of the opportunity. The thought of being parted from Thomas again made her heart contract. Now, more than ever, she longed to be with him – their son, too.
Raising herself onto her elbows, she experienced a wave of nausea and hurried to the ewer. When at last the retching had subsided, she sank onto the bed, exhausted. She had been right, then. She had only missed one of her courses, so it was early for the sickness to begin. Perhaps this child would prove even lustier than John, who had wriggled and kicked inside her belly for many weeks before the birth. Gingerly, she edged herself back into bed, fearful in case this small movement sparked a fresh onslaught.
Frances did not know how long she had been sleeping when she was awoken by the sound of the door latch lifting. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she peered at her husband. Her smile of welcome faded as she saw his agitation.
‘Is the hunt over already?’ she ventured.
He did not answer but came to sit next to her on the bed.
‘Oswyn is dead,’ he said, without preamble.
Frances sat upright. ‘The King’s favourite hound?’
Thomas nodded miserably, then put his head into his hands.
‘We had only ridden out as far as Fotheringhay when I noticed he was lagging behind the rest of the pack, though he always outstrips them with ease. By the time I had dismounted, he had collapsed. It was then that he began to vomit. Soon, he was coughing up blood. I tried to calm him, but he was panting so fast and his eyes were wild with terror.’ Frances reached out to touch his arm, and he raised grief-stricken eyes to hers. ‘The poor beast died in torment, and there was nothing I could do to help.’
Frances knew he loved the hounds as much as his master did. ‘It was not your fault, Thomas,’ she said gently, taking both of his hands in hers.
‘The King turned back as soon as he realised Oswyn was missing,’ he continued. ‘I will never forget the look on his face when he saw him lying dead in my arms. It was as if his own son had been taken from him.’
Frances mused that Prince Henry’s death had caused the King a good deal less grief than the loss of one of his cherished hounds. ‘What do you think was the cause?’ she asked.
Thomas shook his head. ‘I cannot think. He was in good spirits when the King and I visited the stables this morning. I took him the venison, as requested.’
‘Perhaps it was too rich for him to stomach?’ Frances suggested.
‘He has had it many times before.’
She fell silent. They had eaten the same meat last night. Even if it had turned bad so quickly, it would not have caused such violent symptoms: the hound would have had a brief bout of sickness and recovered. As she held her husband’s gaze, she saw that he knew it too.
Oswyn had been poisoned.
CHAPTER 5
23 August
‘You are sure that you are well enough for the journey?’
Frances smiled at her husband’s concern. He had asked her the same question a dozen times since they had awoken that morning. ‘Quite sure,’ she replied firmly. ‘Travelling by carriage has always made me nauseous, so I will hardly notice the difference.’ She kissed him. ‘I have more cause to worry about you,’ she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. He held her hand there for a moment before pressing his lips to the palm. ‘I wish you could come home with me. Are you sure you cannot petition the King for a few weeks’ leave? You could attend him again when he returns to court next month.’
Thomas gave a heavy sigh and drew her into his arms, holding her tightly. ‘You know that is my dearest wish,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘But I cannot ask it of His Grace so soon after—’ He stopped abruptly.
Frances felt a jolt of anxiety for him. The King had been in a dark mood since Oswyn’s death and the atmosphere at Apethorpe was strained. Even the Mildmays’ lavish hospitality had failed to raise his spirits, and he had eschewed the feasting and entertainments, retreating to his private apartments with just a few favoured attendants. Thomas had not been among them.
George Villiers had, though. Frances did not know why she was so disturbed by it. He was merely the latest in a long line of young men to bask in the King’s fleeting favour. Somerset had far more cause to feel uneasy than she did. But she had seen how Villiers eyed those he regarded as rivals – her husband among them. She had her suspicions, too, that it was he who had poisoned the King’s favourite buckhound. What better way to sever James’s trust in the man who cared for them? She had not yet voiced her fears to Thomas – her years at court had taught her that matters were not always as they first appeared. She wished that she might go with her husband now so that she could continue to observe the new favourite at close range. At the same time, she could not but feel relieved to be escaping James and his entourage.