Thomas smiled weakly. ‘That may be true. But it seems that, in His Majesty’s eyes, everyone associated with Villiers is as faultless as the wretch himself. He has even managed to advance his brothers, though they are strangers at court.’
‘The King’s obsessions burn brightly but are soon extinguished,’ Frances reminded him. ‘Many believed that Somerset was unassailable, yet he now clings to favour with his fingertips.’
Her husband fetched a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted. Frances rose to her feet and held out her hand. ‘Come to bed, my love,’ she said gently. ‘The King can spare you for one evening – he has company enough to divert him.’
Thomas seemed uncertain, but then his shoulders sagged with relief. ‘You are right. And I must be up early tomorrow for the hunt.’ He stood and drew her to him, kissing her deeply. ‘But do not think to sleep just yet.’
CHAPTER 7
6 September
‘Well played, Your Grace!’
The Earl of Pembroke’s voice rang out across the bowling green. William Herbert was a small, stocky man with a high forehead and a dark, pointed beard. His small, beady eyes flitted from the King to his favourite, who was standing close by. Behind them, Somerset was a brooding presence.
Thomas stepped forward to take his turn. He looked more rested than he had when his wife had first arrived at court and had slept much better with her at his side. Although he still insisted that she must return to Tyringham at the earliest opportunity, he could not disguise how much comfort he drew from her presence. Frances watched as he drew the ball back with a steady arm, then released it so that it rolled, straight and true, down the centre of the green. There was a soft tap as it clipped the edge of the jack, followed by polite applause.
‘Your husband is greatly skilled, Lady Frances,’ observed her companion.
‘I wonder that yours does not play, madam.’
The Countess of Somerset formed her pretty mouth into a smile and rested her hands lightly upon her swollen belly. ‘He enjoys observing how the game will play out.’
Frances knew she was no longer talking of bowls. She decided it was safer to change the subject, given their proximity to Villiers and his friends. ‘I must congratulate you. When do you expect your confinement to begin?’
The countess flinched at ‘confinement’, but she soon recovered herself. It was her first child – perhaps she was anxious. ‘Next month, if my physician has it right,’ she replied. ‘My husband has ordered Sherborne to be made ready.’
Raleigh’s beloved castle, Frances remembered. James had bestowed it upon his new favourite a few years earlier. She wondered if he would allow Somerset to retain it once he had been ousted from court, as seemed more likely with every day that passed. They lapsed into silence and Frances pretended to focus on the game. Villiers was taking his turn now. She saw James’s eyes roving over his lithe body as he bent to pick up the ball. Without warning, he sent a blistering shot down the green. There was a loud crack as the balls were scattered in all directions.
‘Bravo, Steenie!’ the King cried, then strode forward to embrace the young man.
Frances had soon heard about the affectionate name James had bestowed upon Villiers. It was derived from St Stephen, who had the face of an angel. She and her companion watched as the King kissed his favourite on both cheeks, then whispered something in his ear. Sir George assumed a shocked expression, his long fingers pressed to his mouth, before they both collapsed with laughter.
‘Our game is at an end,’ the King declared. ‘We will retire to our chambers for a time.’
The assembled company made their obeisance as he took Villiers’s arm and began to walk slowly from the green. Frances waited, head bowed, for them to pass.
‘Ah, Lady Frances, I heard ye had returned.’
Her scalp prickled at the King’s voice. ‘Yes, Your Grace – for a time at least.’
James eyed her closely. ‘I hope you will not distract your husband from his duties, as wives are wont to do.’ He shot a sideways glance at the countess. ‘I mean to hunt as much as possible before the onset of winter.’
‘My wife will soon return to Tyringham, Your Grace,’ Thomas said.
‘I wonder that you came at all, Lady Frances.’ Villiers’s voice was smooth as silk. She turned cold eyes to him. ‘Your new son can be only a few months old and they are so vulnerable to sickness in their first year, are they not? I thank God that my own dear mother was more solicitous of my welfare.’
Frances saw her husband bristle and knew that Villiers was baiting him. ‘I thank you for your concern, Sir George,’ she said, before Thomas could respond, taking care to keep her voice light, ‘particularly when there must be so many more pressing matters to occupy your thoughts.’
His smile became fixed as he stared down at her.
‘Come, Steenie, I need my rest,’ James grumbled impatiently.
It was as if a spell had been broken. At once, his favourite swept a deep bow, then proffered his arm for his master to lean upon. Frances gave a quick smile of reassurance to her husband as he passed, but she could see the anger still blazing in his eyes. Thomas had always been mild-mannered but Villiers had a knack of goading him, as he did his other rivals, finding out their weaknesses and scratching at them as he would a sore that had scabbed. As she watched his slender figure retreat from view, she resolved to find out what his weakness was.
A great company had assembled for the feast that evening. Frances was grateful that she was seated towards the back of the hall. Few others there felt the same, she knew. The tables closest to the dais were crowded with courtiers – her husband among them – but her own had several empty places. James was notoriously unwelcoming to the spouses of his close attendants. Thomas had taken it as an insult that his wife had not been assigned a place next to his, but Frances had soothed him with the assurance that she would be more comfortable at a distance from the King – and his favourite.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded as the King and his entourage entered the hall, Prince Charles among them. It was the first time Frances had seen James’s younger son and heir since her arrival at court. He would turn fifteen next month. His limbs had grown straighter and he had lost the awkward gait his elder brother had delighted in mocking throughout their childhood. Though he would never be tall, and his delicate features gave him an air of fragility, he bore himself with a quiet dignity that formed a sharp – and welcome – contrast to his father.
‘May I?’
Frances had been so focused upon the prince that she had not noticed the arrival of the finely dressed gentleman who stood before her now. There was something familiar about him, though she did not think they had ever met.
‘Of course,’ she said, gesturing for him to sit down.
He gave an elegant bow. ‘Sir Francis Bacon, my lady.’
Frances could hardly believe that the greatest philosopher and scientist of the age was standing before her. She had read numerous of his books and had spent so many hours poring over The Interpretation of Nature that she felt as if the author was a close friend. Remembering her manners, she rose quickly from her seat and bobbed an awkward curtsy. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Sir Francis,’ she said warmly. ‘I am a great admirer of your works.’