her breath but did not answer. After a few moments, she heard the latch being carefully lifted and Thomas padded into the room. His footsteps stopped at the end of the bed and he stood there for so long that she wondered if he had stolen silently away. Then at last she heard him walk over to the chest and there was a soft rustling as he changed into his nightshirt.
Frances continued to feign sleep as her husband climbed into their bed. She strained her ears to listen for his breathing becoming slower, deeper. But there was no sound as they lay there side by side, as still and silent as the carved stone figures of a tomb.
Frances glanced around the deserted courtyard. The torches that had blazed in the sconces the night before had long since burned out. She would have welcomed a little of their warmth now, as she drew up her hood against the early-morning chill. A cold, damp mist hung low about the cobblestones, almost obscuring them from view. Ellen used to tell her that such mists were the shadows of unquiet souls, wandering the earth in search of vengeance or forgiveness. Frances could almost believe such tales now as she waited in the stillness, as if suspended between this world and the next.
It was four years to the day since Tom had died. She had lain in bed last night, pretending to sleep as she listened for the distant chimes. Time had not lessened her grief, only numbed it. But it often broke out without warning, prompted by some small recollection, and would sear through her.
Was Tom seeking vengeance, she wondered. Certainly he had never repented of his crimes and had died with the words of the Roman Catholic creed on his lips, begging all those of the faith to pray for him. The king’s pamphleteers had seized upon this as a sign of his unrelenting wickedness, for which they declared he would suffer the eternal torments of Hell. Frances thrust the image from her mind. God would surely have claimed him for his own. It was Cecil and his heretic king who were damned, not those who had tried to blow them to the skies.
The mist grew thicker as she stood there, lost in thought, and the few tendrils of hair that were not hidden beneath her cloak felt damp against her face. She must make haste. The court would soon be stirring, and if her husband awoke to find her gone he would fear that she had betrayed him.
Keeping close to the easternmost wall, she made her way silently along the courtyard and through an archway that led into the privy garden. She could just make out the silhouettes of the brightly painted beasts that clung to a series of wooden poles speared into the ground. The mist had risen so high now that the panthers, leopards and griffins appeared to be floating among the clouds. Stepping carefully, Frances found one of the paths that led around the knot gardens, turning left at the corner of the first hedge. If she had judged correctly, she would soon pass by the magnificent sundial that King Henry had boasted could show the time in thirty different ways. There was little hope of it doing so now, she thought.
At length, she reached the long stone gallery that stretched across the southern side of the garden and ducked under the second of its ornate arches. Her old apartment lay directly above her. She glanced up, as if expecting to see the neatly appointed room that looked out over the Thames. She wondered who lived there now. Her place in the princess’s household would have been quickly filled. Though there were more positions for ladies at a court that boasted a queen consort and her daughter, the competition for them was hardly less fierce than it had been in the days of the old queen.
Reaching out, she felt the smooth, damp oak of the door that led into the small herb garden beyond. As her fingers closed over the iron handle, she hesitated. This garden had been her solace during her time in the princess’s service. She had spent many hours there, gathering herbs for her tinctures and salves, until Cecil had marked her for a witch and she had been obliged to employ greater discretion.
Slowly, she turned the handle. The sound of the latch scraping against the stone was deadened by the mist that had seeped into the passageway. Pausing on the threshold, she inhaled deeply to catch the familiar scent of myrtle or the sharp tang of rosemary. But there was only the same smell of damp stone that permeated the gallery behind her.
Frances took a step forward. In the small courtyard she could see the outline of the low box hedge that enclosed the garden. Crouching, she ran her fingers along the top and gave a low cry as one snagged on a sharp thorn.
As the mist was dispersed in the gathering light, she watched, with mounting dismay, as the features of her once-cherished garden gradually came into focus. The myrtle had been allowed to grow unchecked and was tangled with brambles. The neatly divided squares of turf it had once enclosed were now indistinguishable from each other, and the herbs she had tended so carefully were choked with weeds. The once bright green sprigs of thyme had withered into brown stalks, and as she reached out to touch the velvety leaves of sage that hung limply from the plant, they crumbled into dust.
Frances rose slowly to her feet. She felt exhausted as she gazed out across the long-neglected garden and wondered vaguely if anyone had set foot in it since she had last been there. Then, among the tangled weeds, she noticed a dark green sprig, its tiny leaves seeming to reach up towards the frail sunlight. Rosemary. She had come here to gather it, not for an ointment or potion – she knew better than to prepare such remedies so soon after arriving back at court – but for remembrance. She cast an anxious look at the sky, which was now the deep yellow of tansy. There was no longer time to walk to Westminster Palace as she had planned and lay a sprig of rosemary upon the place where Tom had died. But she would gather the herb nevertheless and keep it in the locket around her neck, close to her heart.
As she bent to pluck the delicate stem, a movement above caught her eye. She froze, heart thumping, and her eyes darted up to the windows that overlooked the garden. In the smallest, set in the southernmost wall, she thought she saw the pale skin of a woman’s face, but it retreated from view. Quickly, she pulled at the rosemary with more force than she had intended and the entire plant broke free, fragments of dry soil scattering from its delicate roots. She had destroyed the only herb to survive in the wrecked garden. Tears rose, and she angrily brushed them away. Absurd that she should weep for such a thing when the tears she had thought would flow freely for Tom today were still choked in her throat.
There were sounds of the court gradually coming to life now as she stood motionless in the garden, the rosemary in her hand. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out a linen kerchief and wrapped it around the plant, then hastened from the courtyard. As she closed the door behind her, she felt those eyes watching her still from the window of her old chamber.
‘We had almost given you up for lost, Frances,’ her husband gently chided as she hurried into their apartment. She had run all the way back from the garden, and her cheeks were flushed as she bowed her head in greeting.
‘Forgive me – I could not sleep so I decided to walk around the palace to remind myself of it and became rather lost.’
Thomas tore off another piece of bread and continued his breakfast. George, who was sitting next to him, was gobbling a thick slice of ham and hardly seemed to notice his mother’s arrival. Frances took a seat next to him. Suddenly hungry, she helped herself to the generous selection of dishes that were spread in front of them.
‘You are to be presented to His Majesty today,’ Thomas said, without looking up from his plate.
Frances’s heart skipped a beat. She had not expected it to be so soon – and on this day, of all days. Would James realise the significance? She had no doubt that
