The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

by Jean Plaidy

  Even now Overbury shivered, thinking of being conveyed down the river to the Tower, those gray walls closing about him, the damp smell of slimy walls, the clank of keys in a warder’s hands, the sound of steps on a stone stair.

  Robert understood; he laid a hand on his arm. “The Queen was angry with you once, Tom,” he said.

  “With you too; but she could not harm you.”

  “Nor did I allow her to harm you for long.”

  Thomas’s eyes were narrowed. “You were my good friend as always. As much when you were at the King’s right hand as when you were a mere page in the household of the Earl of Dunbar. Do you remember?”

  “I often think of those Edinburgh days.”

  “It was a good day for me when my father decided to send me on a visit to Edinburgh with his chief clerk as my guardian. But for that … we should not have met.”

  “We should have met later at Court.”

  “There would not have been the same bond between us, Robert. Then we were two humble youths; now you are humble no longer.”

  “Nor are you, Sir Thomas.”

  “Humble compared with Sir Robert.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret. I am soon to be created Viscount Rochester.”

  “There is no end to the titles and wealth which will one day be yours.”

  “I trust you are going to stay in London now, Tom.”

  “Providing the Queen does not see fit to banish me.”

  “Why should she?”

  “Perhaps because Sir Robert Carr … or Viscount Rochester … continues to be my friend. Let me tell you this, I would be ready to risk the one for the sake of the other.”

  Robert clasped his friend’s hand and said: “We shall always be friends, I trust. Did I not soon bring about your release from the Tower?”

  “And arranged that I should be sent to the Low Countries an exile.”

  “It was the only way, Tom. The King does not flout the Queen too openly. But you see, you did not remain long in the Low Countries.”

  “A year seems an age to an exile.”

  “Exile no longer. Do you still write excellent poetry?”

  “I write poetry, though whether it be excellent or not, as the author it is not for me to say. But I’ll tell you this: Ben Jonson has told me that he admires my work, and since I admire his, that is a compliment.”

  “The Queen insists that Ben Jonson be called when she wants poetry for a pageant.”

  “He’s a rare fellow—Ben Jonson.”

  “Not too rare, I trust, Tom. I mean I hope there are others who admire your work.”

  “I am writing some sketches which I’m calling Characters. I’ll show them to you. I think they will amuse you.”

  “You will be famous one day, Tom. I am sure of it. You have a great gift. You need a patron … someone who will help you make the best of your talents.”

  “A patron? Who?”

  “Tom, you have seen me rising. I shall go much farther. Those who come with me will rise too.”

  “What are you suggesting, Robert?”

  “I need a secretary—someone who has a gift for words, hard work, and who is shrewd and loyal. I know you well and I know that you possess these gifts. Tom, throw in your lot with mine. I am traveling upwards … you can come with me.”

  Overbury stared at his friend. He was fond of Robert. He trusted him. Attach himself to the brightest star at Court, the petted boy who only had to whisper his desires in the King’s ear for them to be readily granted?

  He was an ambitious man but he had never thought such an opportunity possible.

  The music could scarcely be heard above the talk in the crowded ballroom.

  The dance went on; the Queen was among the dancers, while the King sat looking on with Robert Carr beside him.

  The Prince of Wales was dancing with one of the River Nymphs; he had noticed her in the ballet and thought her by far the most beautiful of them all. He was surprised at his interest, for girls had not greatly attracted him until now. This girl was different. She was so vital, so young; her lovely eyes which seemed determined to miss nothing betrayed her innocence; he was sure this was her first visit to Court.

  Their hands touched.

  “I liked the dance of the nymphs,” he told her.

  “I noticed how you watched.”

  “Did you? You seemed so intent on the dance.”

  “It was all in honor of the Prince of Wales and I was so anxious to please him.”

  “Will it give you pleasure if I tell you that you did?”

  “The greatest pleasure.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “I fancy I have seen you before at Court, and yet this is your first appearance here. I find that strange. It seems as though …”

  “As though we were meant to meet, Your Highness.”

  “Just so.”

  “I am surprised that Your Highness noticed me. There are so many girls….”

  “I suppose so, but I have never noticed them before. I hope you will be often at Court.”

  “I intend to be there whenever I can.”

  “We must arrange it. I shall hold my own Court at Oatlands or Nonesuch, and perhaps Hampton or Richmond. You must come there.”

  “Your Highness, how that would delight me!”

  He put her hand to his lips and kissed it. Several people noticed the gesture for there would always be some to watch the Prince of Wales and comment on his actions.

  “Tell me your name,” he said.

  “It is Frances.”

  “Frances,” he repeated tenderly.

  “Countess of Essex,” she went on.

  He looked startled. “Now I remember where I saw you before.”

  She smiled. “It was at my wedding.”

  But Henry’s expression had lost its gaiety. “You were married to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. So … you are a wife.”

  “A wife and not a wife,” she answered. “After the ceremony my husband went abroad. I have not seen him since. Our parents considered us too young to live as man and wife.”

  “But he will return,” said the Prince.

  “I know not when. I care not when.”

  “I care,” said Henry almost coldly. “I should conduct you to your guardian.”

  “Oh … please not—”

  “It is better so,” he answered.

  Frances could have wept with disappointment. He had noticed her; more than that he was attracted by her; and because she was married he wanted to end their friendship before it had begun.

  It was true. The Prince of Wales was prim and prudish. He implied that while he was ready to be the friend of a young girl, he was not eager to cause scandal on account of a married woman.

  Who would have thought that she would have found such prudery at Court? And in the Prince of Wales!

  Frances was not one to accept defeat. In that moment she knew she wanted a lover; and that lover must be the Prince of Wales.

  THE PRINCE OF WALES TAKES A MISTRESS

  The King was alarmed and no one but Robert Carr could pacify him. James paced up and down the apartment while Robert sat helplessly watching him. At every sound James started: he could never get out of his mind the treachery of the Gowrie and Gunpowder plots.

  “You see, Robbie,” he said, “I have enemies. They’re all over the Court; and I know not where to look for them. When I think of how the Ruthvens laid their snare for me … and how I walked into it, I marvel that I came out alive.”

  “There is some Providence watching over Your Majesty.”

  “Providence is fickle, Robbie. Guarding you one day and turning its back the next. I’d liefer rely on my head than my luck. And Providence is another name for the last.”

  “Your Majesty is unduly alarmed. You acted with your usual shrewd sense; Arabella Stuart can no longer be a threat.”

  “Can she not, Robbie? Can she not? There’s many a man in this
city that would like to see me back across the Border … or under the sod. There’s many looking for a Queen to put on the throne. They like to be ruled by a woman. Have ye never heard them talk of my predecessor? Ye’d think she was God Almighty to hear some of them. These English like to be ruled by a woman; the Scots would have none of my mother, but the English worshipped their Queen. How should I know that they’re not drinking their secret toasts to Queen Arabella?”

  “Your Majesty is the true King of Scotland and England, and Prince Henry the true heir.”

  “Aye, lad. That’s true. And Henry will have many to support him. Have you noticed how they flock to his Court and desert the King’s? I wonder they don’t shout for King Henry in the streets. That boy will bury me alive if I don’t take care.”

  “They acclaim him as the Prince of Wales.”

  “And they look to the time when he’ll be King. Dinna seek to draw the mask over my eyes, Robbie. I know.”

  “But that is not to want Arabella.”

  “The people like to plot. To the young, life is more worthwhile when they’re risking it. Arabella is as good an excuse for a rebellion as any other. And now she has disobeyed me. In spite of my forbidding her, she has married William Seymour—himself not without some claim.”

  “And Your Majesty has acted with promptitude, by committing her to the care of Parry, and her husband to the Tower.”

  “Yes, yes, boy, but I like it not. The lady has become a martyr. And a romantic one at that. Before this marriage she was a woman not young enough to arouse the chivalric zeal of other young people. The Lady Arabella Stuart at Court was welcome. I like not this marriage. What if there should be issue?”

  “Your Majesty has sought to make that impossible by separating the pair.”

  “You try to comfort your old gossip. And you do, Robbie. Now let me look at that letter to the Prince which you’ve drafted. I fear he is not going to like my suggestions, but we must find a wife for him soon; and I do not see why we should not, in Spain or in France.”

  “It would be an excellent step, Your Majesty, for how much easier it is to make peace between countries when they are joined by royal marriages.”

  “That’s true enough, Robbie. The letter, boy.”

  James read the letter and a smile of pleasure crossed his face.

  “Neatly put, Robbie, neatly put. Why, bless you, boy, if there’s not something of the scribe in you after all. Poet, I’d say. That’s succinct and to the point. I can see you’ve learned your lessons. Ye’re going to be useful to me, Robbie.”

  James did not ask the obvious question, because he would have already known the answer; and Robert would have given it because he was not a liar.

  The boy had found the solution at last. James did not want to know who had drafted the letter. It was enough that it was perfectly done. Robert had found the one to work in the shadows.

  The Prince of Wales was holding Court at the Palace of Oatlands. He liked to stay at this palace with his sister, Elizabeth, and together they entertained a Court which was different from that of their parents.

  Henry had the reputation of being a sober young man; he could not endure the practical jokes which were a feature of his father’s Court. Not that James cared for them; but his favorites played them with such gusto, and because he liked to see them enjoying themselves he joined in the fun. Henry’s ideal was to have a Court where serious matters were discussed and there was no practical joking. He wanted very much to bring Sir Walter Raleigh from prison; he was sometimes a little angry with his friend who often gave the impression that he did not regret his captivity; how otherwise, he asked, could he devote the necessary time to his history of the world which he wanted to dedicate to the Prince of Wales?

  There was so much that was wrong with the King’s Court, Henry told himself and Elizabeth.

  “And now they want to make a Catholic marriage for me,” he complained. “I’ll not endure it. Did you know that our father has taken Carr for his secretary and I receive letters from the fellow?”

  “I did not think he was literate enough to write a letter.”

  “He is. And flowery epistles they are.”

  “There are qualities we did not suspect in the fellow then.”

  “I dislike him and all his breed.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I couldn’t stop myself laughing when you hit him on the back with your tennis racquet.”

  Henry laughed with her. “I was overcome by a desire to murder him.”

  “Yet he seemed to bear no malice.”

  “Who can say what goes on behind that handsome face of his?”

  “Well, let us forget him, Henry, and think of the ball we are giving tonight. Young Lady Essex pleaded so earnestly for an invitation that I gave her one.”

  Henry turned away to look out of the window; he did not want his sister to see that he had flushed. “She is very young … too young,” he mumbled.

  “Oh no, Henry. She is sixteen.”

  “And married,” went on Henry. “Where is her husband?”

  “It was one of those child marriages. They have not yet set up house together,” Elizabeth smiled. “And by the look of the girl I should say that it was time they did.”

  “And what experience have you of such matters?”

  “Dear Henry, there are some things that are so obvious that it is not necessary to have experience to recognize them.” Elizabeth went on to talk of Arabella. She was sorry for her kinswoman; so was Henry. If he were King, he thought, he would not allow himself to be disturbed by other claims to the throne. His father’s claim was so much more sound and he was sure the people had no intention of setting up Arabella. It was his father’s terror of plots that made him so nervous.

  He said so to Elizabeth; but he was not really thinking of his father and Arabella. He was wondering whether he would dance with Lady Essex that day.

  The royal pleasure house of Oatlands was not far from the banks of the Thames. It was built round two quadrangles and three enclosures and its gardens were magnificent. When Frances had passed the machicolated gatehouse and looked at the angle turrets and huge bay windows she had made up her mind that in this mansion the Prince of Wales should become her lover.

  Jennet was with her; she had selected this girl for her most intimate maid. She might have found others more servile, but Jennet’s insolence—which was always veiled, and only rarely shown even then—appealed to Frances. That girl had a knowledge of matters which Frances felt might be useful to her some time. There was a bond between them. To Jennet she talked more freely than to anyone else. She was certain that Jennet would keep her secrets. Frances often had a feeling that if Jennet had been born in her stratum of society she would have been very like her, and had she been born in Jennet’s she would have been another such as she.

  The maid knew for instance of Frances’s hopes concerning the Prince of Wales. She was not in the least shocked that a young girl, married to one man who had never been her husband, should seek to become the mistress of another. Jennet gave the impression that she was there to administer to her mistress’s pleasure and that whatever Frances desired was reasonable and natural.

  While the maid helped her dress for the ball, Frances glanced critically at her own reflection in the mirror. Jennet, her eyes lowered, assured her mistress that never had she looked so well.

  “How old do I look, Jennet?”

  “All of eighteen, my lady.”

  Jennet would not have said so had it not been true. Frances had matured early.

  “And my gown?”

  “Most becoming. There’ll not be another lady to compare with you.”

  “How I wish that they had never married me to Essex.”

  “You would not have been a Countess then, my lady.”

  “No, but that would not have mattered. I should still be my father’s daughter and of a rank to be welcomed at the Prince’s Court.”

  “You are older than he is, my lady.”
/>   “Oh no.”

  “I did not mean in years.”

  “I understand you.”

  “And, being older, should lead the way.”

  “He is not like the others, Jennet. He is a very good young man. He is anxious not to do anything of which he could be ashamed.”

  Jennet gave a short laugh. “When the good fall into temptation they fall more deeply.”

  “Sometimes I feel he will never fall into temptation.”

  “There are ways, my lady.”

  “What ways?”

  “I know how to procure a love potion which is certain to work.”

  Frances’s heart began to beat a little faster.

  Then she looked at her own radiant image. She was so certain of her charms that she could not believe they would fail.

  If they did, she would begin to think seriously of Jennet’s philtres.

  There was less ceremony at Oatlands than at St. James’s or Hampton Court, and almost everyone there soon learned that the Prince, who had never before been interested in women, was attracted by the young Countess of Essex; so when she lured him from the dance into the gardens, no one followed them, believing that it was the Prince’s wish that they should be alone.

  Frances, who knew instinctively when and how to act in such matters, was certain that if she was to become the Prince’s mistress she must induce him to overcome his scruples before he became fully aware of the potency of her allure. Once he realized how eager she was he would set up such a barrier between them that his seduction would be impossible.

  Although they were both virgins, Frances was ready to lead the way; moreover, she was determined to do so.

  Walking between the flower beds made mysterious by summer moonlight, she pressed closer to him. He hesitated and would have returned to the palace but she put her arm through his and told him how happy she was to be at Court, and particularly to be a member of the Prince’s Court.