Fallen Angel

A Novel

Tracy Borman

• Publisher: Atlantic Monthly Press
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780802157638
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Fiction
• Index: Literature

The gripping conclusion to the historical trilogy featuring Stuart-era healer Frances Gorges—from the author of The King's Witch and The Devil's Slave. Life has never been quiet for Frances Gorges at the court of King James, but after finding herself at the center of plots and conspiracies for many years both as an accused witch and a secret Catholic, by 1614 Frances hopes to distance herself from the decadence and ruthlessness of the aging and venal monarch. However, when a handsome stranger appears at a courtier's country estate, he immediately draws the wandering eyes of the King, throwing the established order of the court into upheaval. George Villiers is ambitious and violent, ready to take down whatever—and whoever—stands in his way, including Frances and her husband Sir Thomas Tyringham. New friends and old alliances—from Francis Bacon and Prince Charles to Sir Walter Raleigh—will offer Frances ways to resist the treachery of Villiers, but danger and Catholic plotting always lurks just around the corner, and sometimes from unexpected sources. With her meticulous eye for detail and evocative storytelling, Tracy Borman's The Fallen Angel is a riveting conclusion to her trilogy set during the first Stuart monarch's reign. Praise for The Devil's Slave "Gripping historical fiction with a daring character in Lady Frances."— New York Journal of Books Praise for The King's Witch
Named a Best Summer Debut by Library Journal "Vivid... Everything you would want to read in a novel, ranging from palatial royals and intrigues to betrayals to a love story."— Washington Book Review, "Essential Novels for This Summer"

PART 1

1614

CHAPTER 1

4 August

The warm breeze whipped about her as she spurred the horse into a gallop. To either side, the heads of wheat drooped heavily in the scorched fields, but she kept her eyes fixed on the rise of the hill.

‘Frances!’

She heard her husband’s voice above the thundering hoofs, pulled on the reins and her horse slowed to a trot. The searing heat seemed to close in around her and the strands of hair that had escaped from her braid clung to her temples.

‘I had not expected you to be so eager to see His Majesty.’ Thomas smiled.

Frances gave a rueful grin. The undulating fields stretched out for miles, their golden hue interspersed with the dark lines of hedgerows and, in the distance, a thick mass of woodland. As she gazed towards the horizon, she made out a series of delicate spires and a glimmer of light reflecting off windows.

Apethorpe.

It had taken them two days to get there and would have been longer still if Thomas had not agreed that they could travel the last fifteen miles on horseback. Frances had been desperate to escape the suffocating confines of the carriage, which had rumbled and jolted along the cracked track that led north from Tyringham Hall. That was why she had urged her husband to let them ride: God knew she had no desire to reach their destination more quickly.

More than a year had passed since she had last set eyes upon the King. It had been one of the happiest times of her life, cosseted at Tyringham Hall with Thomas and their young son. With a pang, Frances thought of John, his arms outstretched and his eyes imploring as his nursemaid prised him from his mother’s embrace. I will return soon, my sweeting. Now, looking towards Sir Anthony Mildmay’s sprawling estate, her skin prickled with foreboding.

Thomas reached for her hand. His lips felt warm as he pressed them to her fingers. Frances stroked his cheek, his beard tickling her palm. She had been averse to the idea of his growing it, but she had to admit it suited him.

‘Must we stay for the full two weeks?’ she asked.

Thomas shrugged. ‘If His Majesty finds the hunting grounds to his taste. He tires more easily these days, though.’

‘I wonder he hunts at all, given how it pains him.’ She turned towards the woods. ‘I could harvest plenty of willow bark there, and Sir Anthony will have marjoram and rosemary in his herb garden. I could mix a salve that would reduce the swelling in his joints.’ She cast a sly glance at her husband and saw his mouth twitch.

‘You should not tease me, Frances,’ he chided. ‘The King may have been content to let you live in peace since his daughter left for the Rhine, but he is still eager to hunt down witches as well as stags.’

Frances experienced the familiar pang at the mention of her former mistress. Princess Elizabeth – or Electress Consort Palatine of the Rhine, as she must now think of her – had left for her new husband’s domain shortly after their wedding the previous February. Elizabeth had married Frederick out of misguided loyalty to her late brother, Prince Henry. He had swept aside her doubts about the young count’s suitability, caring little for his sister’s happiness in his pursuit of a Protestant alliance. Frances suspected that she would never have gone through with it but for Henry’s sudden death. Her marriage was a penance for trying to defy him. It pained Frances to think that Elizabeth had made such a sacrifice for one so unworthy.

Though the princess had begged Frances to go with her to the Rhine, promising to find positions for her husband and son George, she had declined. Elizabeth had assumed that her favourite attendant had not wished to risk such a long journey when the birth of her child was imminent, but there had been other reasons, too. Frances had known she could never relinquish Longford Castle, her beloved childhood home – not after everything she had almost lost for its sake. Neither could she leave her mother so far behind. Helena was settled at Longford now, having promised to care for it until her grandson came of age: George had stayed with her for much of the past year, delighting in his position as heir. Her mother’s last letter had told of how her grandson had presided over his first tenants’ meeting, conducting himself with an authority well beyond his eight years. Sir Richard Weston, Longford’s faithful chamberlain, would have ensured the business was dealt with, but she was as proud of George as his indulgent grandmother was.

Longford had not been the only place that had stopped her leaving England. Tyringham Hall had seemed almost a prison to her during the early years of her marriage. Then she had been so consumed by grief for George’s father that it had blinded her to the love Thomas bore her. He had married her for Tom’s sake, having assured his friend that he would take care of her if the Powder Treason failed. Frances had only narrowly escaped implication in it: the whole court had known of her friendship with Tom Wintour. Thomas had made great sacrifices on her behalf, yet she had repaid him with coldness, determined that theirs would be a marriage in name only. She had defied him, too, breaking her promise not to involve herself in the Catholic conspiracies that had swirled about James’s throne in the aftermath of the Powder Treason. It still frightened her to think how close she had come to losing everything.

‘Shall we walk the rest of the way?’

Lost in thought, Frances had hardly noticed that they had reached the end of the long path that swept down to the hall. She nodded. Watching her husband dismount, she noticed him wince as his right shoulder pressed against the horse’s flank. ‘You will not accompany the King on every hunt, will you?’ she asked, her brow furrowed. Though it had been three years since the riding accident that had almost claimed his life, she worried every time he set out for the hunt. She wished that the King would bestow the mastership of the buckhounds upon one of his younger favourites.

‘I had hoped my senses would return by now,’ Thomas said, rubbing the back of his head. The deep wound she had stitched was hidden, but she could still feel its smooth edges when she ran her fingers through his hair. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her deeply. ‘But the madness still has me in its grip,’ he murmured, his lips brushing her neck, ‘for I love you more than ever.’

Desire pooled in her stomach. His eyes closed as she coiled the hair at his nape around her fingers, pulling him closer for another kiss, her lips parting. She could feel his arousal as she pressed her hips to his, trailing her fingers down his spine.

The whinnying of her horse startled them and they sprang apart, breathless.

‘It is well that we have Hartshorn to remind us of our manners,’ Thomas said, patting the horse’s neck. ‘Though who will safeguard our respectability when we are in the privacy of our chambers, I am at a loss to say.’

Frances planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. ‘I hope we will soon be alone again,’ she whispered.

Taking Hartshorn’s reins, she led him slowly forward, Thomas and his horse at her side. As they neared the hall, the hedges that lined the path grew thicker. Frances breathed in the sharp tang of yew, relishing the shade it offered. A movement ahead caught her eye and she paused as a young groom hurried towards them.

‘Sir Thomas, my lady,’ the boy said, with a quick, awkward bow. ‘Please, allow me.’ He took the reins from them and led the horses towards the stables.

Frances saw another figure approaching from the gatehouse. He was tall and slim, and walked with an easy grace that belied his years. It took her a moment to recognise Sir Anthony Mildmay. It had been many years since she had seen the handsome courtier who had been a great favourite with the old Queen. His absence from court since James’s accession suggested that his hopes for further advancement had been disappointed.

‘Sir Anthony,’ Thomas said, with a bow, as his wife curtsied.

‘Welcome to Apethorpe. And Lady Frances,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you after all these years.’

Frances could not but admire his gallantry. She doubted he had any recollection of the shy young girl who had accompanied her mother to court in the later years of Elizabeth’s reign.

‘Tell me, how does the marchioness fare? I see you have inherited her beauty.’

Frances smiled. ‘My mother is in excellent health, thank you, Sir Anthony.’

‘How is His Majesty enjoying Northamptonshire?’ Thomas asked, diverting their host’s attention from his wife.

Frances sensed the older man’s hesitation, but his smile never wavered.

‘Very well – though he will welcome you. His buckhounds have grown quite unruly of late.’

Thomas grinned. ‘We shall soon tire them out on the hunt. I hear the woodlands of your estate are unsurpassed in these parts.’

Sir Anthony inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘I am sure the King will find even greater diversion with your arrival – and that of some other attendants,’ he replied. ‘Sir John Graham has secured a place for a new protégé. Let us hope he does not serve the King ill at this evening’s banquet or it will put him out of humour.’

Frances exchanged a glance with her husband and saw her surprise mirrored in his face. Sir John guarded his position in the privy chamber jealously and was not known to encourage potential rivals.

‘Well now,’ Sir Anthony said briskly, ‘I must not keep you from your chambers. You will be tired after your journey.’ He motioned to the page, who was standing a few paces behind him, then bowed his farewell.

Frances looked out across the neatly appointed privy gardens that stretched across the expanse of the south front. The heady scents from the orangery that lay below came to her on the breeze. She looked forward to tasting some of its bounty. Sir Anthony was famed for the delicacies that were served at his banquets – they had certainly won favour with the old Queen.

‘Will you not come to bed, Frances?’ Thomas whispered, as he nuzzled the back of her neck.

Still gazing out of the window, she felt him begin to unlace her gown, his fingers working slowly at first, then with growing impatience. When at last her stays hung loose, he eased them from her shoulders and untied her heavy skirts, which rustled to the floor. Savouring the touch of his hands as they snaked from her back around to her belly, she drew in a breath as they moved downwards, caressing the inside of her thighs through the soft linen of her shift.

She turned to face him, kissing him hungrily as her fingers worked at the laces of his hose. When he had pulled off his doublet, she lifted his shirt over his head and ran her hands along the contours of his chest, relishing the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. He bent to kiss her again, but she led him towards the large mahogany chest that lay at the end of the bed and pushed him down onto it.

Taking a step away from him, she slowly, deliberately, drew up her shift, gradually revealing her nakedness. Seeing his eyes fill with longing as they roved over her body stoked her own desire. Unable to withhold any longer, she moved to sit astride him. Slowly, she began to move, her hips pressing against Thomas’s until they matched her rhythm. A bead of sweat trickled down her back as she felt the delicious, rising tension deep inside her, crying out as the waves of pleasure pulsated through her. The muscles of her husband’s back grew taut, then he gave a deep shudder and sank down against her, his damp forehead pressing into her neck.

They remained like that for several minutes, caressing each other’s cooling skin as their breathing slowed.

‘I think the King was right all along, Frances,’ Thomas said, his eyes glinting. ‘You must be a witch. How else can you have such power over me?’

She kissed his forehead, which tasted salty. ‘Then you shall be forever cursed, husband,’ she said.

CHAPTER 2

4 August

‘Come, my love,’ Thomas urged. ‘We are late enough already.’

Frances looped her arm through his and together they weaved their way through the clusters of guests in the hall. Even though the windows had been flung open, the air was already stifling. Not for the first time, Frances regretted the fashion for tightly laced dresses in brocade silk and other heavy fabrics. Already, she longed for the hour when she and her husband could retire to their chamber and divest themselves of their finery. But Sir Anthony was renowned for his hospitality: the feasting and entertainment would continue long into the night.

The minstrels struck up a lively flourish and the courtiers fanned out on either side of the room in preparation for the dance. Frances was thankful they had started with a sedate pavane, for the heat was sapping her energy.

They had performed only a few steps when the music came to an abrupt halt and everyone turned at the rapping of a staff on the flagstones. As it echoed into silence, Frances heard the slow shuffle of footsteps.

‘His Majesty the King!’

There was a rustle of skirts as the assembled company made a deep obeisance. Frances was aware of holding her breath and had to remind herself that she had no reason to feel uneasy. Her husband had become one of the King’s most regular companions since she had last been in his presence. But her apprehension came of years spent under his suspicious gaze, the threat of arrest for witchcraft or treason always present. She thought back to her ordeal in the Tower and shuddered. Time had not lessened the terror. It was as if she were being tortured anew whenever she allowed her thoughts to stray to that terrible night, the witch-pricker’s blade piercing her flesh as the King looked on, impervious to her screams.

Now there was a scraping of chairs and a heavy sigh as James sat down. Frances was shocked to see the change in him. ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Also by Tracy Borman
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• PART 1: 1614
• PART 2
• PART 3
• EPILOGUE: 23 August 1628
• Preview: Crown & Sceptre
• Acknowledgements
• Author’s Note