Frances tore off another piece of the warm manchet loaf. The smell of the food that was spread out on the tables in front of the assembled courtiers had made her ravenous. Elation had sharpened her appetite, too. She had stolen quietly back into the palace a little over an hour earlier. The only person to notice her absence had been Thomas. She had expected his anger, but it had soon been supplanted by relief at her safe return. Together, they had prayed for Lord Rutland and his son, who she judged should soon be approaching Waltham Abbey. She did not imagine the earl would stop there to take his ease, as most travellers did.
‘They say the King’s daughter is likely to lose her crown.’
The mention of her former mistress jolted Frances back to the present.
‘Aye, her husband cannot withstand the emperor for long. His army is by far the mightier.’
Two months earlier, news had reached the court that Count Frederick had accepted the throne of Bohemia, in defiance of Emperor Ferdinand, whose territory it was by right. Frances knew Princess Elizabeth would exult in the title of queen and had rejoiced at it herself, little knowing how soon their new kingdom would be under threat. Now she felt cold with terror at the danger her beloved former mistress faced.
A crash at the end of the hall made everyone turn. One of the serving boys was staring, red-faced, at a pile of upturned dishes, their contents splattered over the flagstones. Next to him, Dr Lambe was flapping his arms and mumbling an apology. He made a show of trying to help the boy, a smile playing about his lips. His appearance at last night’s revels had been similarly dramatic, but instead of the clatter of plates, there had been the thundering of drums followed by a cloud of smoke. Like his patron, he seemed to thrive on the attention – good and bad.
Frances could see a mixture of interest and apprehension on the faces of her fellow diners as the old man moved between the tables in search of somewhere to sit. She shrank back and fixed her eyes upon the piece of bread in front of her. To her dismay, as Lambe drew closer, the courtier next to her rose to his feet and gestured for the old man to take his place.
‘Such trouble, such trouble,’ Lambe muttered, as he shuffled along the row.
Frances looked around, as if for some means of escape, but leaving now would draw attention. She could only hope that the people seated around her would engage the physician in conversation. Certainly, they were all eyeing him with undisguised curiosity.
‘Ah, my saviour of last night!’ he exclaimed, as he saw Frances. ‘What happy chance. It seems that God will always place you in my path when I have lost my way.’
‘Dr Lambe,’ she muttered, aware of the curious stares of the other diners.
‘Once more, you have the advantage,’ he remarked. Frances breathed the sharp tang of bergamot and violet as he lowered himself onto the bench. ‘For you know my name, and no doubt much more besides, yet I know you only by those beautiful eyes and that lustrous hair, which would make the brightest autumn leaves appear dull by comparison.’ He reached out as if to touch one of the tresses that lay over her shoulder, but his fingers stopped short of it. Frances kept as still as a statue, though inwardly every fibre of her being cringed from him.
‘Lady Frances Tyringham,’ she said curtly. Her instinctive fear of him had been replaced by a rising fury at his insolence. Neither did she have any patience for his play-acting. He knew her name well enough – Buckingham and his mother would have made sure of that.
‘Tyringham . . .’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I have heard the name somewhere . . .’
‘My husband is master of the buckhounds to His Majesty.’
‘Then you must spend little time together. The King shows greater passion for the hunt than for almost everything else.’ He let the emphasis hang in the air, making sure the other diners had noticed it. ‘Well now, Lady Tyringham,’ he continued, ‘how do you fill the many hours of solitude? There is only so much embroidery that even the most accomplished lady can do.’
Frances forced herself to take another mouthful of bread, even though she felt she might choke on it. As soon as she had finished, she would