Frances stared around her. The courtyard was the usual bustle of carriages arriving, wagons laden with provisions and servants hurrying to and fro. How happy she had been to leave this place, soon after Princess Elizabeth had embarked for the Palatine with her new husband. Thomas had been at her side, his hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. The memory quickened her steps now as she made her way to his apartment. She had heard the bells of St Martin’s strike four as the Holbein Gate had come into view. Her husband would soon return to make ready for the evening.
Just before she reached the end of the passage that led from the state rooms to the first set of courtiers’ lodgings, a noise made her pause. She listened. There it was again – a gasp, quickly suppressed. It came from a dark recess to her right. She waited another moment, glancing around her to make sure she was not being watched, then took a step towards it.
As she peered through the archway, she could see a faint glimmer of light at the far end of the recess. There must be another opening or a window just out of view. She knew she should continue on her way, ignore whatever clandestine tryst was taking place, but curiosity triumphed over discretion and she took another step forward. She heard the rustle of clothing and a man’s breath, quick and sharp. Slowly, she peered around the corner.
A thin shaft of light illuminated the young woman’s face, which was contorted with pain or pleasure – Frances could not tell which. Her skirts were raised around her waist and her legs were held apart by the man who stood between them, bucking against her like a rutting beast. Next to the girl was a groom Frances recognised from the King’s household. He was naked and his eyes were alight with desire. She watched, transfixed, as the older man leaned over and kissed him deeply, his fingers stroking his arousal. As the light caught his face she drew in a sharp breath. George Villiers.
His thrusting was rougher now, more urgent. The woman closed her eyes as he gave a shudder and cried out. Frances drew back and pressed herself against the wall, trying desperately to slow her breathing. As she padded silently from the recess, she heard Villiers give a low chuckle.
‘Now it is your turn, my young master.’
Frances ran the rest of the way to Thomas’s lodgings. As she lifted the latch and stepped over the threshold, she breathed in its familiar scent, hoping it would calm her. Though it was a warm autumn day, the room felt cold and she noticed a thick layer of dust on the fireplace, which added to the air of neglect. Mrs Knyvett had grown less attentive in her duties without her master’s wife to keep an eye on her, Frances thought. Well, she would soon set it to rights, she resolved, as she unfastened her cloak and crossed to the grate. As soon as she had coaxed the damp wood into flame, she would begin cleaning.
It was almost two hours before the rooms were arranged to Frances’s satisfaction. Polishing away the dust, sweeping the floors and putting fresh linens on the bed had helped to distract her from the rising anxiety that Thomas still had not returned. She had just decided to go and enquire after him when she heard the scraping of the door latch.
‘Frances!’
The surprise on his face was soon replaced by anxiety.
‘What has happened? Is it Robert? John?’
She rushed to embrace him. ‘All is well, my love,’ she murmured into his chest. ‘I came here for you – please, do not be angry. You would never have allowed it, but I could no longer abide to remain apart, knowing the dangers that surround you.’
‘Oh, Frances . . .’ He folded his arms around her, stooping to kiss her. ‘I cannot deny that my heart rejoices you are here, even though I should wish you safely back at home.’
Gently, she led him to the fireplace. As he sank down into one of the chairs she had set there, she fetched him a goblet of wine. His hand clasped hers as he took it.
‘How are my boys?’ he asked, after taking a long sip. His face brightened at the thought of them, but Frances was concerned to see the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes. She resolved to say nothing of what she had just witnessed in the cloister: no good could come of it. The King was more likely to punish whoever told him of it than believe his favourite to be capable of such debauchery.
‘Thriving,’ she replied, with a smile. ‘Robert still cries lustily whenever he is hungry – which is often. John is learning to show more patience towards his little brother, though he rails at him for chewing his toys.’
Thomas chuckled. ‘And what of George?’
Frances felt the familiar surge of pride at the thought of her eldest son. She had visited him at Longford two months earlier, arriving in time for his birthday. It was hard to believe he was nine already – although he had grown tall and slender since she had last seen him. ‘His appetite has quite exhausted our supplies,’ her mother had said, with a fond smile. George had the same restless energy as his late father and much resembled him. Tom would have been as proud as she was of the young man he had become.
‘My mother’s letter arrived last week. He is well, though as greatly spoiled by his grandmother as ever. He misses his papa.’
Thomas was the only father George had ever known – or would know, pray God. He had doted on the boy since the earliest days of their marriage. Frances still marvelled at the sacrifice Thomas had made in taking his dead friend’s lover as his wife, their bastard child as his too. She would never tell George the truth. It carried too much heartache – danger as well. The son of a notorious traitor would hardly thrive in these times.
‘I miss him too,’ her husband replied. ‘And I have missed you, Frances. Though it is only a little over two weeks since I left Buckinghamshire, I have yearned for you.’ He took her hand, pressing his lips to it. She saw his expression turn grave. ‘But I cannot let you stay. The court is even more dangerous now than it was at the time of the Powder Treason. There is endless sniping between the factions that gather about the throne, and their war of words will soon turn to bloodshed. Only yesterday, a servant of William Herbert challenged one of Somerset’s men to a duel. The hostility between them spreads like a contagion throughout the court.’
‘And the King does nothing to stop it?’ Frances asked.
Thomas’s mouth curled with derision. ‘He encourages it. He seems to find it as diverting as the cockfighting that has become such a regular pastime here.’
A weak king will always encourage division among those around him, Sir Walter Raleigh had once observed. She knew he was right. ‘What of Villiers?’
A muscle twitched in her husband’s jaw. ‘The King’s appetite for him grows ever greater. He no longer troubles to hide what passes between them. They have shared a bed since our visit to Farnham last month.’
Frances tried to hide her dismay.
‘Sir George had arranged for the progress to call at his mother’s house at Gotley the week before. It soon became apparent from whom he inherited his character. Mary Villiers is every bit as ambitious and ruthless as her son, but clever, too. She dissembled so skilfully that, by the time we took our leave, the King declared her a perfect model of motherhood.’
‘He has little enough to compare her with,’ Frances observed drily. ‘He hardly knew his own mother and did not trouble to observe his queen’s efforts in that regard.’