ordered that he does not know who attends him. He spoke to one of his grooms as if he were the King of Spain the other night.’
‘That may be so, Your Grace, but I will be seen by other eyes than the King’s,’ Frances reasoned.
‘Not if we make haste,’ Charles countered. ‘The marquess will not rise for two hours at least – his devotion to my father does not run so deep that he will leave his bed earlier than is his custom,’ he added, with a sneer. ‘I have grown familiar with his habits this past week. There will be few others in attendance at this hour, and those who are can be trusted. They love me more than their master’s favourite.’ His eyes were imploring. ‘I beg you, my lady. You will be rewarded for your pains – in this life or the next.’
Frances thought of Buckingham, his lips curled into a smile as he watched her fall to the ground clutching her stomach, her child bleeding away. ‘I will do as you ask, Your Grace.’
The heat in the chamber was so stifling that Frances could hardly breathe. Little wonder the King was so faint. She instructed one of the grooms who stood by his bed to open the windows. The boy’s eyes flitted to the prince, who nodded his assent.
Frances breathed in a lungful of the cool dawn air. ‘Now douse the fires.’
The groom did as she said – straight away this time. There was a sharp hiss as he poured the contents of a large ewer over the flames, and Frances blinked away the smoke that stung her eyes. James gave a low moan as she approached the bed. Thomas had been right. Even in the dim light of the chamber, she could see that he was as pale as death. She placed her fingers lightly on his neck and waited. After a few moments, she felt a faint, fluttering pulse.
‘They are gone – all gone,’ he cried out, grasping her wrist.
Frances stepped back in alarm and cast a quick glance at Charles, who gave a slight shake of his head as if warning her not to speak.
‘Who has taken my treasure?’
The King’s voice made her turn back to the bed. His eyes were still closed but tears were now streaming down his cheeks. Frances waited until his breathing had slowed, then moved to examine him more closely. His skin was burning and his breath had the fusty stench of decay. Now and then, his brow creased and he gave a low groan, as if something pained him. Gently, Frances probed his neck, but there was no trace of swelling. Although his arms were covered with angry red sores, she recognised them as the marks left by the leeches the physicians had applied. Pushing down her scorn, she drew back the thick coverlet and almost gagged at the acrid stench. The King’s linen shift had ridden up so that it only just covered his groin. Beneath it, Frances could see that the sheets were stained a brownish-yellow. She motioned for the groom to bring her a candle, then placed a handkerchief to her mouth and leaned closer. There were darker flecks among the stain. Holding the flame as close as she dared, she realised with alarm that it was blood.
Quickly, she set the candle on the table next to the bed. Then, as gently as she could, she slid her hand under the King’s back. He gave a loud moan and rolled onto his side. Frances heard the groom’s intake of breath as she lifted James’s shift above his waist. As she had expected, there was a small swelling on one side of his back.
‘When did His Majesty last pass water?’ she asked the groom.
‘Some two days hence – and then with difficulty,’ he replied. ‘I did not know that he had . . . that the sheets were soiled. I will order new ones.’
He had almost reached the door when Frances stopped him.
‘There is no time for that now. The King needs fresh water. I’ll wager he has hardly taken a drop since falling into a delirium.’ The look on his face told her that she was right. ‘Bring some vinegar too, some garlic and salt. And a small quantity of saxifrage – the kitchens should have it,’ she added quickly, noting his confusion.
‘Make haste!’ the prince urged, as he hesitated. The boy scurried away. Then, more quietly: ‘What ails him?’
‘There is a contagion in