of the former favourite and his wife, who still languished in the Tower.
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder towards the palace. ‘I should go back now. My father will soon be here.’
Frances nodded but could not speak. She raised the princess’s hand to her lips and held it there for a moment, then swept a deep curtsy and walked slowly away.
Frances closed her eyes as she breathed in the heady scent of lavender. The kitchen gardens at Whitehall were enclosed by a high wall, which trapped the fragile warmth of the early-spring sunshine. The weather had continued fine for the three days since Elizabeth’s departure and she was grateful for it. She had arranged with Lady Katherine that if the rain stayed away tomorrow, too, they would bring the young lord for a short stroll in the palace gardens. He still tired easily, but the air and exercise would do him good.
Her husband had left for the hunt that morning. The King’s mood had darkened after bidding his daughter farewell at Greenwich, so Thomas had suggested they ride out to Esher while the weather held. For once, Buckingham had proved reluctant to join his royal master. His petulance over the Lambe affair still lingered, even though he had at last persuaded the King to release him from the Tower. Frances was glad that the old man had shown enough discretion not to return to court. But she doubted he would stay away for long.
Her breathing slowed as she leaned back against the stone wall behind the bench, taking care to wrap her skirts around the herbs she had gathered, lest they blow away while she slept. She could not help but smile at the thought that the King had not only permitted a woman he had once arrested for witchcraft to treat Lord Rutland’s son but that he had placed his own plants at her disposal. How much had changed in a few short years.
The scent of rosemary carried on the breeze. It reminded Frances of her mother’s garden at Longford. She allowed her mind to wander as she imagined herself there, stretched out on the grass between the flowerbeds, the tiny blades tickling her arms as she dozed. Then the image faded and the familiar sadness returned. It was almost two years since she had last visited, and although her mother had been as faithful a correspondent as ever, her letters had provided only a fleeting consolation for the pain of separation. How George must have grown since she had last seen him. He would be fourteen this July – a man already.
‘Frances!’
Her eyes flew open and she looked around her, not certain if she had been dreaming. But then she saw Kate hastening along the path that led from the privy gardens. As her friend drew closer, Frances saw that her eyes were wide with panic.
‘You must come quickly – please,’ she gasped. ‘It’s my brother – he has sickened.’
Frances leaped to her feet, the herbs scattering around her. There was no time to gather them up now – Kate was already running back down the path. She hastened after her.
‘What has happened?’ she asked, breathless, when she had caught up with her. The boy had seemed well when she had left him last night and had settled easily, delighted at the promise of a walk the following day.
‘I do not know,’ her friend panted, as they passed under the archway of the courtyard. ‘He slept well and was cheerful upon waking but complained of a stomach ache soon after he had taken the tincture you prepared last night. The pain grew quickly worse and he started to vomit.’
Frances’s blood ran cold. She did not ask more but picked up her pace and sped through the seemingly endless succession of corridors until they reached Lord Rutland’s apartment. An acrid smell wafted from it as soon as Kate flung open the door. Frances followed her into the bedchamber, heart pounding.
‘My boy. My poor boy.’
Lord Rutland turned stricken eyes to her. His son was cradled in his arms. As Frances stepped forward she saw that the boy’s lips were already tinged with blue. His quick, rasping breaths echoed around the chamber. She stared for a moment longer, then, quickly, she ran to the dresser and pulled out her casket of herbs. With trembling fingers, she poured a large handful of mustard seeds into her mortar and began to grind them to a powder, then splashed water into the mixture so that