I know ye’re a great reader, Lady Frances – ye certainly taught my daughter well enough – and I can give ye matter enough to hold your attention.’
Frances was at a loss. The king was not renowned for his literary tastes, and barely had patience for even the shortest plays during the entertainments at court.
‘I’m sure your husband, faithful subject that he is, has told you of the oath of allegiance that all those who have come to my court since the Powder Treason have been required to swear.’
Frances felt suddenly cold, despite the rising heat. Thomas had been obliged to take the oath when it had first been issued, shortly after they were married. In so doing, he had sworn his fealty to the king and denounced the Roman Catholic religion as heresy, punishable by death.
‘I will have no more of the damnable popish practices that almost led to my destruction!’ James shouted, slamming his fist on the arm of his throne with such force that the entire dais shuddered.
Frances heard her son gasp and she put her arm around him as he cowered against her.
‘The worst of those traitors went to their deaths on this very day, four years ago. I will never forget it – nor will their heretic associates. So perish all enemies of the king!’
An ominous silence followed. Thomas gave a small cough, prompting. Frances steadied her breathing before she spoke. ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ she said at last. ‘I shall be glad to declare my faithfulness.’
James grunted. ‘Even that troublesome woman has taken it,’ he muttered. ‘Arbella Stuart is a curse upon our name. I know she still hankers after my throne, for all her professed loyalty.’
Frances remembered the last time she had seen the haughty woman, at the christening of the king’s short-lived daughter, Mary, almost five years before. She wondered that she had not yet been married off to some low-ranking nobleman who could keep her out of trouble.
She was still forming a reply when James stood abruptly. ‘Well, now,’ he said, turning to his favourite again. ‘Before I leave for the hunt, let us have some other sport, Rabbie.’
Frances watched as the king gently stroked the young man’s chin and playfully tugged on his beard. He stepped down from the dais and walked out of the room without a backward glance, closely followed by the red-haired attendant. After a pause, one of the servants walked slowly to the doors through which the pair had left and drew them softly shut. Frances could hear muffled laughter and cries from the bedchamber beyond as she led her son out into the public rooms of the court.
‘Be careful, George,’ Frances called, as her son reached over the side of the boat to dip his fingers into the icy waters of the Thames. He sat back on the wooden plank that served as a seat and gazed in wonder at the huge expanse of water that stretched out on all sides. Though she had taken him sailing on the Great Ouse many times, he had never seen a river such as this, crowded with barges carrying courtiers, officials and goods back and forth between the palaces, small wherries bobbing in their wake.
They were nearing London Bridge now, with numerous buildings balanced precariously on top. George stared up, open-mouthed, as they passed under one of the archways that was surmounted by what looked like a fortress, seven storeys high and with a turret at each corner that rose to a sharp point. Frances smiled to see her son crouch, as if expecting the building to crash down upon them. Indeed, it seemed a wonder that the bridge had not yet collapsed under all the weight it carried.
She shielded her eyes against the sun as they rounded another bend in the river. The day had dawned bright and clear, the first such since their arrival at court. Seeing the city through her son’s eyes made her almost glad to be there, for all her anxiety about the task that lay ahead.
‘Look, Mama!’ George cried.
Frances turned in the direction that he was pointing. Her breath caught in her throat.
The Tower.
It was the first time she had set eyes upon it since the night she had visited Tom. She shivered at the memory of his cold, damp cell, the smell of decay clinging to its walls. She had thought to stop his breath with her tincture, to spare him the horrors of a traitor’s death. But he had refused, knowing that it would be discovered and she would be condemned as a witch.
‘Mama?’
‘That is the Tower, George. It was built by the first King William more than five hundred years ago.’
‘Where are the windows? It must be very dark in there.’
Frances nodded. ‘It was built for defence more than comfort. King William knew that his people wanted him to go back to Normandy and never return. See that great house there, on the other bank?’ she said, drawing her son’s gaze away. ‘That was built from the stones of Bermondsey Abbey, which was pulled down in King Henry’s time.’
To her relief, George was easily distracted and soon they were beyond sight of the Tower. It would not be long before they reached Greenwich. The queen’s letter had arrived the previous day. It had said little, beyond inviting Frances to attend her. She wondered if Anne herself had thought to write, or if she had been persuaded to it by one of Lady Vaux’s associates. Frances had heard nothing from the latter since arriving at court, though she had expected it daily.
The red-brick turrets of the gatehouse came into view as the river twisted eastwards again. Frances was obliged to hold onto the back of her son’s coat as he leaped from his seat. The oarsman grumbled as he tried to steady the boat, which swayed wildly from side to side. When he was able to row again, he did so with renewed vigour, eager no doubt to return to Whitehall, where there was a good deal more business to be had.
At length, they drew level with the landing stage and Frances stepped out, then turned to help her son from the boat. She pressed some coins into the oarsman’s hand and watched as he manoeuvred the boat back towards the city. George tugged on her hand.
‘Can we meet the queen now?’
Frances smiled and nodded, and they walked towards the two yeomen who were guarding the entrance to the first courtyard. A groom soon arrived to escort them through the deserted public rooms to Anne’s apartments.
‘Why doesn’t the queen live with the king, Mama?’ George asked, as they walked.
Frances saw the groom flinch at her son’s words, and lowered her voice to answer. ‘Her Majesty prefers the peace of Greenwich to the noise of Whitehall. Besides, the royal family is not like others. Even the children are sent to live in a palace of their own, away from their parents.’
George was clearly shocked. ‘Shall I be sent away?’ he asked, eyes wide.
Frances grinned. ‘Of course not. I would not allow it – and neither would your papa. But we must soon find a tutor for you here, or you will quite forget your letters.’
George scowled. Though he had only lately begun his studies, Frances judged
