Excerpt From  
THE LAST KNIGHT

Frances lies weak and exhausted, the mire of after-birth swimming beneath her thighs. This child was the most difficult yet. The girl demanded escape, but her body was not yet prepared to let it go from her womb. The struggle between them lasted an entire day and well into the night.

The poor babe last year, the one Frances had not yet named, also came before its time but had left the world long before it came out, for it was grey, and no breath found. 

 Frances decided not to send for her doctor this time. He is a notorious gossip and she didn't want lies spread about Robert unnecessarily. But she is so weak she may have chosen wrongly. How could she bring another child into this crazed world Robert has created? Her mother suggested she name the baby Frances after herself and her father. Perhaps the child will thrive better given a Walsingham name.

Yesterday, Robert's steward Gelly came here to Barn Elms, unnaturally panicked and full of grief. Robert was arrested at Nonsuch Palace and shut away in York House. 

‘Your Lordship is suffering with the same Irish flux that killed his father, Lady Frances,’ said Gelly, his hat twisting round and round in his clenched hands and slow tears dropping from his cheeks. For a gruff soldier like Gelly to cry, she realized the gravity of what her husband has done. Gelly tumbled out his worries, one after the other.

‘Her Majesty doesn't believe Lord Robert is sick. She calls him 'The Great Pretender'. They will not let me serve him. Who will calm him? Who will clean him? Who will feed him? He won't touch any food unless I taste it first.’

Frances feels the first swell in her breast. The baby must be hungry. Her mother brings the swaddled infant to her, holding it out for her to take to her breast.

She looks away. ‘No, Mother. Let Sally feed her.’

Her mother frowns, protesting, ‘Sally has teats and milk, surely. She she's able to feed the baby. But Little Franny needs her mother, Frances. She will not thrive without you.’

Her daughter's eyes have opened and stare back at her in curious recognition, the fury and screams ended, puckered lips moving in and out, not yet understanding why they do so or where they must go to draw the milk, which spills from Frances' swollen teats pressing against her shift. She takes Franny to her breast, holding her fast, kissing her head. ‘We are the knights in the war now, aren't we, Franny?’ The baby sucks hungrily. ‘Mother, as soon as I am able, we must go to court. Order preparations for our return to Essex House. We must go to war as only women can do. Tell my dressmaker to sew a plain black mourning dress from humble fabric. 

Frances hands Franny to Sally and sits at the edge of the bed.

‘Whatever are you doing, Frances?’

‘Summoning strength.’