‘Promise you will write as soon as you reach Tyringham,’ Thomas urged. ‘And give our boy his father’s blessing – and this kiss.’
Frances nodded, unable to speak. The pain of their parting did not lessen; if anything, it grew worse each time.
‘Sir Thomas!’
Somerset’s voice rang out across the courtyard. He had already mounted his horse and was waiting, his face set in a now familiar scowl, for the master of the buckhounds to take his place in the procession.
Thomas pressed his lips to hers once more, then walked briskly away. He climbed onto his horse, his mouth set in a grim line. A few moments later, Somerset gave the signal and the King’s carriage rumbled over the cobbles and out onto the gravelled path, the long cavalcade following close behind. She remained standing until her husband had disappeared from view, then went slowly towards her own carriage.
‘God keep him safe,’ she whispered, as the coachman cracked his whip and she lurched forward.
1615
CHAPTER 6
2 September
Frances breathed the scent of Michaelmas daisies that was carried on the warm breeze. Looking into the small copse, she could see their delicate purple petals nestled among the tangled stems and ferns. She remembered her father telling her that the tiny flower symbolised a farewell. As if sensing her sadness, her infant son began to snuffle and writhe in her arms. She bent to kiss the downy hair on his head, inhaling deeply. She wished to commit the sweet, milky smell of him to her memory, as much as his light blue eyes and wispy red hair.
Robert was five months old now. He had been born on Easter Day. ‘That child shall never know want, or care, or harm,’ the elderly midwife had pronounced, as she had placed the mewling baby at her breast. Frances knew the old saying about Easter babies was mere superstition – such as those who claimed that a baby born when the moon was rising would be a girl, or that a firstborn child would be protected from witchcraft. But gazing down at him now, she hoped it would prove true.
Thomas had arrived two days after the birth, exhausting several horses in his eagerness to meet his new son. It would have cost him dear to leave the court during the Easter festivities. He had struggled to regain the King’s favour since their return from last year’s summer progress. Though it was hardly Thomas’s fault, the death of James’s favourite hound lay like a canker between them.
Villiers had been quick to take advantage, as he had any other opportunity to discredit those close to the King. The precious few days that Thomas had spent at Tyringham with his wife and newborn son had been marred by the news that James had appointed Villiers a gentleman of the bedchamber, as well as bestowing on him a knighthood and an annual pension of a thousand pounds. Frances had no doubt that more promotions would follow. James was always generous to his favourites.
Somerset had had even more reason than her husband to feel aggrieved. His own title must have lost much of its lustre when he heard of Villiers’s rise. Thomas had written many times of how the rising antipathy between the two men now dominated the court. Somerset had succeeded in blocking his rival’s appointment to the bedchamber for several months, but there was nothing he could do to stem the tide of the King’s infatuation. Frances thought back to that day in the hunting lodge. James would want his new favourite close at hand, day and night.
Thomas had returned once more since Robert’s birth. Frances had been dismayed to see how haggard and careworn he had looked. At first, he had not wanted to speak of court matters, assuring her that his only desire was to spend time with her and their sons. But she had seen how the worries with which he was oppressed had followed him from Whitehall. He had been as loving towards her as he always was, and his delight in Robert and John had been undiminished. But he had often fallen silent, and she knew that he had slept only fitfully.
On the night before his departure he had unburdened himself. ‘Villiers will stop at nothing to destroy those he has marked as rivals, Frances,’ he had told her. ‘He means to have the King entirely to himself, and then he will rule the court.’
And the kingdom, Frances had thought. She knew that her husband was among those upon whom Villiers had set his sights; she knew, too, that he had gathered a powerful faction about him. The Earls of Pembroke, Montgomery and Bedford would have ransomed their own mothers to get Somerset out of the way, little seeing that the viper with whom he was replaced would likely turn and bite them.
With all her heart, she wished that her husband might resign his post and return to Tyringham Hall so that they could raise their growing family and live out their days in peace. But she knew that James would never allow it. He spent nearly all of his time hunting now, so his master of the buckhounds was more essential to him than ever. Despite Oswyn’s death, he knew Thomas was by far the most suited to the position. The hounds adored him even more than they did the King and would always do his bidding. James would no more wrest him from them than he would a suckling baby from its mother’s breast.
She thought of the fierceness of Thomas’s embrace as he had bade her farewell, his eyes dark with foreboding. Robert had grown fretful in his arms and even John had fallen silent, gazing up at his father with his little brow furrowed. That was two weeks ago now. She had been unable to settle to anything since, her thoughts too full of how her husband might be faring. He had written only once, and the letter had contained little news, apart from that of his safe arrival at Whitehall. How much else might he have said, if his desire to protect her from worry had not been so strong? It was that which had decided her. She must go to him.
‘Hush, sweeting,’ she soothed, as her little son began to cry.
The wet-nurse she had appointed was well respected in the area and had been recommended by a neighbour. Frances had already begun to bind her own breasts so that the milk would soon cease to flow. She knew that she had courted scandal by suckling the baby, as she had with John and George. Well-born ladies were not expected to do so, not least because it prevented their falling pregnant with another heir. But Frances had cared little for the idle gossip. People would soon find other matters to occupy their conversation at dinner.
She had not told Thomas that she would soon be joining him at court. She knew he would do everything he could to dissuade her, anxious to keep her away from the danger that surrounded him. But he needed her – of that she was certain. The thought strengthened her resolve as she gazed down at Robert. She prayed it would stay with her as she bade him and his brother farewell in the morning.
She had forgotten the noise. The endless clatter of hoofs on cobbles, the incessant cries of stallholders. The stench, too – so different from the fragrant woods that surrounded Tyringham Hall. It was a little over two years since she had last set foot in the city, but it felt like a lifetime.
As the carriage rumbled into the palace courtyard, she had to push away thoughts of her departure from Buckinghamshire two days earlier. But images of Robert’s chubby arms held out as his wet-nurse tried to comfort him, and of John clinging to her skirts as she made to climb the steps of the carriage, flooded back. The jolt as it reached an abrupt halt brought her back to the present. Wiping away her tears as the coachman opened the door, she stepped down onto the cobbles.