they had arrived at Dover, but she knew that the danger was far from over.
Felton had directed that they should ride across the South Downs, keeping to small, often treacherous, woodland tracks rather than following the main road that led from Dover to London. It would take longer but Frances knew he was right. She thought of Buckingham and the marquis at Whitehall, waiting for word of the jewels. Pray God they would not discover Lady Ruthven’s flight until Frances and her companions had delivered them into the prince’s hands.
She had reached the wide avenue that led towards the western entrance to the palace. Slowing her horse to a trot, she looked behind for her companions. Lady Ruthven was some distance away. The ride had been harder upon her than anyone. Living in seclusion for more than five years had sapped her strength, and many times Frances had seen her slumped against the horse’s neck, Felton holding the reins of both horses so that they could keep going.
The letter of recommendation that the prince had given his servant was enough to secure their entry to the palace. Frances avoided the gatekeeper’s curious stare as they passed. She saw Lady Ruthven pull her hood further across her face. The clatter of their horses’ hoofs echoed across the huge, deserted courtyard beyond.
They mounted the stairs to the great hall. Stripped of the sumptuous Flemish tapestries that usually lined the walls, the close-packed tables and the dozens of braziers all aflame, the vast chamber seemed even more imposing. The rooms beyond were just as eerie, as if trapped in some enchantment. Lady Ruthven was leading the way now, and Frances quickened her pace to keep up. Veering left, they entered the gallery overlooking the chapel and descended the stairs that lay just beyond the Queen’s privy closet.
The scraping of a latch broke the heavy silence. Frances saw Felton’s hand fly to his scabbard. Pray God he would not have cause to spill blood in this place. A man dressed in priest’s robes walked slowly from a chamber next to the altar. Following Lady Ruthven’s lead, Frances moved to the altar rail and sank to her knees in prayer. Felton hesitated, then did the same.
The chaplain showed little surprise at their coming, but uttered a quiet prayer of blessing, resting his hand upon each of their bowed heads in turn as he did so.
‘Amen,’ Lady Ruthven whispered, then slowly raised hers to look at him. Frances saw recognition in his eyes. ‘Father Goodman.’
Queen Anne’s private chaplain. Frances wondered that she had not realised before. She had seen him only once, fleetingly, as he had attended his dying mistress. It was no secret that the King despised the ‘papist preacher’, and Frances had assumed that after Anne’s death he had either lived in obscurity or fled to the Continent, along with many other disaffected Catholics.
‘I had thought the tread of footsteps belonged to more travellers. They call here now and again, in search of nourishment – spiritual or otherwise.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘These are your friends, Lady Ruthven?’
Frances looked up at him now. Although he was still smiling, she saw that he was scrutinising her.
‘They are trusted friends, Father.’
He slowly inclined his head. ‘So the time has come. The King is . . .?’
‘No – at least, we pray not yet,’ Lady Ruthven replied. ‘But his life is in grave danger from those who would claim the late Queen’s treasure for their wicked ends. I must deliver it into the hands of the prince before it is too late.’
The chaplain glanced at her companions. ‘May we speak alone, Lady Ruthven?’
The older woman nodded to them both. Frances rose to her feet at once, but Felton made no move. ‘Please.’ Lady Ruthven laid her hand on his arm. ‘A few moments only.’ He stood and followed Frances out of the chapel, staring resentfully over his shoulder at Father Goodman.
Neither of them spoke as they waited in the gathering gloom. Frances shivered as a chill breeze whipped along the passage. It would be another cold night, but she knew they would not be able to rest on their way to Theobalds if the jewels were in their possession.
If.
Even though they had reached Hampton Court without discovery, the prospect of leaving with the prize they had risked so much to gain seemed somehow more distant than ever. Had Lady Ruthven tricked them? Or Father Goodman? Perhaps he had sold the jewels years ago, as