heir had excited a great deal of gossip across the city. Rumours of poison had soon spread throughout the court and the King had ordered an investigation. Frances had told his officials about the corrupted tincture, but they had eyed her with scepticism, despite Lord Rutland’s insistence that the girl be found and questioned.
Frances knew it would not be long before their suspicions alighted upon her. Already, Buckingham had made a point of having her casket of herbs examined by the King’s apothecaries. It did not matter that they had declared nothing amiss: he would soon find another means to have her blamed for the boy’s death. Even though his royal master had appointed her to nurse Lord Rutland’s son back to health, she knew he would not flinch from having her arrested for witchcraft.
As soon as he had heard of the boy’s death, Thomas had urged her to leave for Tyringham. But she felt strangely detached from the matter. Perhaps the weight of grief and remorse with which she was burdened had obscured any feelings of fear for herself. Or perhaps she felt that she deserved to be punished for failing to protect him. As she trudged along, the cold rain seeping into her cloak and making little rivulets down her neck and spine, she realised she hardly cared.
James had ordered that the earl’s son should be honoured with the full ceremony of a burial at Westminster, as if royal blood had flowed through his veins. Was it a penance for appointing a no torious witch to attend his son? Frances had heard it whispered by two ladies as she had entered the gallery the previous afternoon. Their conversation had stopped when they had seen her approaching. The funeral had been arranged with such haste that it had excited more gossip. Frances herself had wondered at it – particularly given that, as master of the horse, Buckingham had taken charge of the proceedings.
Ahead, the procession was turning left past the ancient church of St Margaret. Frances caught a glimpse of Kate, her head bowed and a heavy black veil obscuring her face. She had been unable to assuage her friend’s grief in the two days since her little brother’s demise. The poor girl had wept for so many hours that Frances wondered she had any tears left. Kate blamed herself for administering the tincture, insisting that she should have known it was corrupted, despite Frances’s assurances that it would have taken a skilled herbalist to notice anything awry. Her wretchedness had been increased by Buckingham’s unwanted attentions. The unseemly haste with which he had renewed his courtship had shocked even Frances. She could see him now, walking directly behind Kate, his countenance as cheerful as if he were attending a masque. His mother was at his side, her arm looped over his.
They had reached the west door of the abbey. Frances could hear the haunting voices of the choir echoing through the high stone vaults as she entered the nave. She lowered her gaze to the floor and mouthed a silent prayer.
The King had decreed that the ceremony would take place in the Lady Chapel, among the tombs of his forebears. His own mother lay buried there, close to her cousin Elizabeth, who had ordered her death. James had ensured that Mary’s tomb was every bit as magnificent as her rival’s. It was a pity he had not shown such respect for her when she had been put to death, Frances thought.
The chaplain stepped forward. As he began to deliver the opening address, Frances’s gaze wandered to the stalls opposite those in which she and her husband were seated. Lord Rutland’s eyes were fixed upon his son’s coffin, which had been laid on an embroidered cloth of gold at the foot of the altar. Kate sat next to him. Frances saw how her hands trembled as she held her prayer book. Glancing along the row, she froze as she noticed Buckingham staring directly towards her. His eyes glittered in the gloom and she saw the flash of his white teeth as he smiled at her. She forced herself not to look away. Thomas tightened his grip on her hand, but when she turned to him, his eyes were full of fear.
The rain had stopped by the time they left the abbey and there was a deep chill in the air. One by one, the mourners paid their respects to Lord Rutland and his daughter, before slowly dispersing. Frances was