The warm breeze whipped about her as she spurred the horse into a gallop. To either side, the heads of wheat drooped heavily in the scorched fields, but she kept her eyes fixed on the rise of the hill.
‘Frances!’
She heard her husband’s voice above the thundering hoofs, pulled on the reins and her horse slowed to a trot. The searing heat seemed to close in around her and the strands of hair that had escaped from her braid clung to her temples.
‘I had not expected you to be so eager to see His Majesty.’ Thomas smiled.
Frances gave a rueful grin. The undulating fields stretched out for miles, their golden hue interspersed with the dark lines of hedgerows and, in the distance, a thick mass of woodland. As she gazed towards the horizon, she made out a series of delicate spires and a glimmer of light reflecting off windows.
Apethorpe.
It had taken them two days to get there and would have been longer still if Thomas had not agreed that they could travel the last fifteen miles on horseback. Frances had been desperate to escape the suffocating confines of the carriage, which had rumbled and jolted along the cracked track that led north from Tyringham Hall. That was why she had urged her husband to let them ride: God knew she had no desire to reach their destination more quickly.
More than a year had passed since she had last set eyes upon the King. It had been one of the happiest times of her life, cosseted at Tyringham Hall with Thomas and their young son. With a pang, Frances thought of John, his arms outstretched and his eyes imploring as his nursemaid prised him from his mother’s embrace. I will return soon, my sweeting. Now, looking towards Sir Anthony Mildmay’s sprawling estate, her skin prickled with foreboding.
Thomas reached for her hand. His lips felt warm as he pressed them to her fingers. Frances stroked his cheek, his beard tickling her palm. She had been averse to the idea of his growing it, but she had to admit it suited him.
‘Must we stay for the full two weeks?’ she asked.
Thomas shrugged. ‘If His Majesty finds the hunting grounds to his taste. He tires more easily these days, though.’
‘I wonder he hunts at all, given how it pains him.’ She turned towards the woods. ‘I could harvest plenty of willow bark there, and Sir Anthony will have marjoram and rosemary in his herb garden. I could mix a salve that would reduce the swelling in his joints.’ She cast a sly glance at her husband and saw his mouth twitch.
‘You should not tease me, Frances,’ he chided. ‘The King may have been content to let you live in peace since his daughter left for the Rhine, but he is still eager to hunt down witches as well as stags.’
Frances experienced the familiar pang at the mention of her former mistress. Princess Elizabeth – or Electress Consort Palatine of the Rhine, as she must now think of her – had left for her new husband’s domain shortly after their wedding the previous February. Elizabeth had married Frederick out of misguided loyalty to her late brother, Prince Henry. He had swept aside her doubts about the young count’s suitability, caring little for his sister’s happiness in his pursuit of a Protestant alliance. Frances suspected that she would never have gone through with it but for Henry’s sudden death. Her marriage was a penance for trying to defy him. It pained Frances to think that Elizabeth had made such a sacrifice for one so unworthy.
Though the princess had begged Frances to go with her to the Rhine, promising to find positions for her husband and son George, she had declined. Elizabeth had assumed that her favourite attendant had not wished to risk such a long journey when the birth of her child was imminent, but there had been other reasons, too. Frances had known she could never relinquish Longford Castle, her beloved childhood home – not after everything she had almost lost for its sake. Neither could she leave her mother so far behind. Helena was settled at Longford now, having promised to care for it until her grandson came of age: George had stayed with her for much of the past year, delighting in his position as heir. Her mother’s last letter had told of how her grandson had presided over his first tenants’ meeting, conducting himself with an authority well beyond his eight