and every day seemed to bring a fresh rumour of some plot.
A cold wind blew along the cloister. She had hardly noticed it grow so dark since she had been standing there, lost in her thoughts. Quickly, she went inside and bolted the door. To distract herself from her rising agitation, she made a fire and tried to coax the meagre flames to life. The wood must have grown damp these past few weeks, she thought. When at last she was sure that the blaze would not die, she fetched a flagon of wine and poured herself a glass.
The minutes seemed to pass like hours as she waited, her ears straining for the sound of her husband’s footsteps. As the wine warmed her, her breathing slowed a little. Wasn’t this what she and Thomas – their fellow Catholics too – had wanted ever since James came to the throne? He had been a scourge on this kingdom, blighting his subjects’ lives with misery and fear while he lay steeped in sin. She thought of Buckingham, his face as he watched his master’s life slip away – his fortunes with it. He should have thought to cultivate the King’s successor earlier. She had seen him fawn over the prince at the various entertainments staged for the Count de Gondomar, but Charles had always seemed unmoved. She admired the young man even more for that. God willing, he would make a far more discerning king than his father.
Rapid footsteps jolted her from her thoughts. Frances leaped to her feet and ran to the door, sliding back the bolt with trembling fingers. Thomas stepped quickly inside. She said nothing but led him to the chairs by the fire and poured him some wine. He downed several gulps, then raised his eyes to hers.
‘Is he . . .?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I fear it cannot be long. He keeps lapsing into insensibility, and his skin has the pallor of a corpse.’
‘Has he a fever?’ Frances asked, forcing herself to consider the matter objectively.
‘I think not. He seemed rather cold than otherwise and was shivering violently, though every fire in the privy chamber had been lit. He was greatly troubled in mind, too, and kept ranting about the late Queen and the loss he had suffered.’
Frances was scornful. ‘How can he mourn one towards whom he showed such little regard in life?’
‘Her death did not seem to be the loss he was referring to,’ Thomas replied, ‘but his words were rambling and his mind so disordered that it was hard to make any sense of them.’
‘The marquess must be distraught.’
Thomas lifted the glass to his lips again and swallowed deeply before setting it down on the table. ‘He stands to profit by our master’s death, even more than by his reign. The King summoned us to witness his decree that upon his death Buckingham will assume the position of lord protector.’
Frances looked at him in confusion. ‘But the prince is old enough to rule alone.’ As she waited for Thomas to respond, she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.
‘That is of little consequence, it seems. The King has ensured that his son will be in even greater thrall to the marquess than he has been himself. Charles will be king in name only. All of his power will be vested in the lord protector.’
Frances sank back in her chair. ‘How can this be?’ she whispered. ‘Surely the privy council will not allow His Grace to ride roughshod over the laws of this kingdom – to say nothing of the prince himself.’
Her husband shook his head again, as if defeated. ‘Buckingham dominates the council, as he does the King. It seems he has been scheming for this since he first entered our royal master’s service. The terms of the decree have been set down and all of those present put their names to it.’
‘Even Lord Bacon?’ Frances asked, incredulous. Arch politician he might be, but she knew that his respect for the law exceeded his ambition.
‘He was not there. The King dispatched him on some business in France a few days ago.’
That would explain why she had not seen her friend at Queen Anne’s funeral. His absence had perturbed her but she had been too distracted by the events of that day to give it any further thought. The feasting and revelry that had followed the ceremony had made it seem more a cause for celebration than for grief.
‘We must prepare to