Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex
They had covered his body with a pall of velvet on which lay a white cross and by the light of candles, his gentlemen took turns to watch over him through the night.
They talked of him in whispers while they watched. It was awe inspiring that one who such a short time ago had been a power in the land was now no more.
In her apartments Frances wept and Robert tried to comfort her.
“You must not weep so, my love,” he said. “He was a great man, but old; and death is something we must all come to.”
But what could Robert know? He believed she wept for love of the old man; he could not guess that fear of facing the future without his help terrified her.
Frances was angry with herself. What had happened to her? She had always been bold, going after what she wanted and caring nothing for the consequences. Why should she be so afraid because a man had died in the Tower?
She was feeling stronger and her old vitality was returning to her. She would continue to pay these people but she would let them know that if they attempted to get more than what she considered their dues she would find some means of making them sorry.
Robert was too meek. He did not seize his opportunities. James was so devoted to him that he could have anything he wanted; he was foolish not to take advantage of that. The Queen was insolent to him and to her. There was no reason why they should submit to that. Robert really had no notion of his power. It was up to her to guide him.
At night when they lay together after lovemaking she would talk to him of all he might do, all she expected him to do.
“James may be the King but you could command him, Robert. You are the uncrowned King of England and I am the uncrowned Queen.”
Robert was so delighted to see her coming out of her depression that he was ready to agree. She was continually urging him to act this way and that. Sometimes she would insist that he did not keep an appointment with the King. What did it matter? She asked. James would forgive him.
James always did—although he was a little reproachful.
“It’s not like ye, Robbie,” was all he said sadly.
And Robert began to realize that Frances was right. He was the real ruler of England because James would always do what he wanted.
“Now that my uncle is dead,” said Frances, “you should be the Warden of the Cinque Ports.”
“The wardenship has not been offered to me.”
“Then ask for it.”
He did and it was his.
“What of the Privy Seal?”
“I already hold high posts.”
“The Seal should be yours. Ask for it.”
So he asked and it was his.
James was bewildered. What was happening to his sweet Robbie. His manner was changing; he was a little truculent; and he had never been so before. He asked that he should be Chamberlain, and his father-in-law, Suffolk, Treasurer.
James complied with these requests but he was growing more and more uneasy. For the first time he doubted Robert’s unselfish devotion.
In his residence of Baynard’s Castle on the north bank of the Thames below St. Paul’s, the Earl of Pembroke called a meeting of his friends.
Pembroke had selected these men carefully and they had one emotion in common: they all felt they owed a special grudge to Somerset and there was not one of them who would not have been delighted to see him fall.
“Since the death of Northampton,” said Pembroke when they were all assembled, “Somerset has become more powerful than ever.”
“Warden of the Cinque Ports,” agreed Sir Thomas Lake, “and now the Privy Seal and the Chamberlainship. What next, I wonder.”
“The crown,” joked several of the others simultaneously.
“Why should he want that?” asked Lake bitterly. “It is all but his already; the only drawback is that he cannot wear it.”
“It is no use grumbling together,” insisted Pembroke. “We should act. And it is for this reason that I have asked you to come here this day.”
“Pray tell us what you have in mind,” begged Lake.
“George Villiers,” answered Pembroke. “I have seen the King watching him and I think the moment has come for us to do something about it.”
“Your plan is to substitute this Villiers for Somerset?”
“Exactly. We would coach him; he would be our man. He would work for us in the way Somerset has worked for the Howards.”
“These favorites are apt to become overbearing once they are secure in the King’s favor.”
“Somerset worked well for the Howards.”
“But he has changed lately; have you noticed?”
“I have,” agreed Pembroke. “And that is in our favor. He is becoming arrogant. On one or two occasions I have seen a distinct lack of respect in his manner to the King. This gives me hope.”
“Somerset’s a fool. One would have thought he would have realized that he kept his place through his gentle good nature. If Northampton were alive he would warn him.”
“Or Overbury.”
“Ah, Overbury. That fellow did all his work for him, if you ask me. Advised him too. Somerset without Northampton and Overbury … could be vulnerable.”
“And that,” said Pembroke, “is why we must act quickly. I have presented Mr. George Villiers with clothes in which he will not be ashamed to appear at Court. He was somewhat shabby and although he had good looks enough to make him outstanding in any company, in fine clothes he has the appearance of a young Greek god. The King is aware of him, but hesitates to show him favor because, although I am sure he is turning from Somerset, he turns slowly; and as you know he remains friendly toward those who have once been his favorites, even though others do supplant them.”
“He should be brought more to the King’s notice, this Villiers,” said Lake. “I will buy him a place as cupbearer to the King. What think you of that?”
“Excellent!” cried Pembroke. “That shall be the next step. And very soon I shall approach Her Majesty—who knows of our plan—and ask her to beg the King to give young Villiers a place as one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber.”
The conspirators were now certain that the heyday of the reigning favorite was coming to an end; and they were very gay when they took their leave of Pembroke and rode back to Whitehall.
As they came through Fleet Street, they passed several stalls on which traders had set up their merchandise. On one of these a painter had displayed his work and prominent among it was a picture of Robert Carr.
The party paused to look at it. It was a good likeness.
One of them turned to his groom.
“Take up a handful of mud,” he said, “and throw it at that picture.”
The groom looked amazed. “Did you mean that, sir?”
“I meant it. Do it, man.”
With a grin, the groom obeyed.
The painter who had been hovering close by, watching the party of Court gentlemen and hoping for a sale, stared in astonishment when he saw his best picture ruined.
He dashed out and cried: “Gentlemen, this is a poor joke.”
“We like not your subject,” said the man who had ordered the groom to throw the mud.
“It is my lord Somerset!” protested the painter. “What better subject in the kingdom?”
“You paint too well, my friend” was the answer. “We recognized the fellow at first glance. ’Tis the first of much mud which will be thrown at that man.”
“Having spoiled the picture you must pay for it.”
But the men were already spurring their horses and galloping on.
The artist shouted after them. “Think not you will escape with this. I know who you are. I shall complain to my lord Somerset. You’ll be sorry.”
Robert listened to the artist and as he did so anger flamed within him. He was becoming angry quite frequently now; he was nervous; his relationship with James had changed, and he was surprised at how readily his temper flared up.
He had noticed George Villiers about the Court and it seemed to him that many were trying to bring that young man to the King’s notice. He guessed why. He had studied Villiers closely and noticed the fine clear skin, the handsome features, the flush of youth; and that sent him to his own mirror. He had aged since the divorce; perhaps he had begun to age since he had first known Frances and the fact that he and she were deceiving her husband had given him so many misgivings; but he saw now that as far as looks were concerned he could not compare with this fresh young man.
It was too humiliating, because his spies brought him reports that Pembroke and Lake were at the head of this youth’s supporters, and he well knew how Pembroke and Lake felt about himself. So it was clear what they were trying to do.
This knowledge was perhaps at the very root of his touchiness. He wanted to prove that his power over James had not changed; that was why he allowed himself to lose his temper so often.
He found himself wishing that Overbury was alive and they were good friends again so that he could talk this matter over with someone of discernment and sympathy.
“Mud!” he exclaimed. “They threw mud at my picture.”
“Yes, my lord. And ’twas not boys’ play either. They were gentlemen of the Court and one of them commanded his groom to do this. The others were all with him though. I shouted after them that it was the best of my pictures, which was so, my lord, being copied from one I have seen of your lordship.”
“They knew it was of myself?”
“They said so, my lord. They said they did not like the subject, and this would be the first of much mud that would be slung at your lordship.”
Robert controlled his rage, rewarded the artist and tried to shrug the matter aside. It was natural that he should have enemies.
When Frances heard what had happened she was furious. She too was aware of George Villiers. She was determined that her husband was going to remain in his present position; he was to be the first gentleman of the Court and she the first lady. It would be ironical if after all she had gone through to achieve her present position, she should lose it to that nobody, George Villiers.
Frances had discovered who the insulting men were. They were of the Pembroke party—those men who were supplying Villiers with new clothes, who had arranged for him to be the King’s cupbearer, who were bringing him to the King’s notice on every conceivable occasion.
“You cannot allow this insult to pass,” she stormed at Robert. “They must be shown that you are all-powerful. It would be the utmost folly to ignore this.”
“It is of no real importance to me, Frances.”
“Then it is to me,” she cried. “We must revenge ourselves, and in like manner, to let them know that we are aware who did this thing.”
“But how?”
“I have thought of a way. That young upstart will be at the royal table this very day. He will be mincing in the fine clothes which have been bought for him. Just as he is about to rise and serve the King’s wine, one of our men shall tip a dish of soup over him. It’s a just reward for what they did to your picture.”
“Well, that’s harmless enough,” agreed Robert.
Robert was seated on the right hand of the King and James seemed pleased because Robert was in a good humor. Though it was a sad thought that Robert should have become like other lads to whom he had given his affection—subject to tantrums.
The King’s eyes strayed to the young cupbearer who was seated some distance from him. A winsome lad, who might have been a model for the head of St. Stephen. His was a rare beauty, and it was difficult to keep one’s eyes from that face. But he must not anger Robert. Robert had become very observant and was apt to sulk if he looked too long at yonder lad.
He wanted to say: Look here, Robbie, it’s some years since you lay with a broken arm on the grass of the tiltyard and our friendship was born. There’ll never be another to take your place with me. But why, lad, cannot you be as you once were. Once there was not a sweeter tempered laddie in my kingdom. I want my lad Robbie back. If he will come I’d never as much as glance at yon boy if I thought it pained him.
James sensed that Robert too was very much aware of that young man who sat there nonchalantly, as though his beauty made him an equal of all men.
The accident happened suddenly. One of the King’s gentlemen, who had risen to serve him with soup, had to pass the spot where young Villiers was sitting. As he did so, he seemed to slip and tilting the dish forward slopped it over young Villiers’ coat and fine satin breeches.
Villiers stood up, his handsome face scarlet (none the less beautiful for that, James noticed) and did an alarming thing. He lifted his hand and boxed the ears of the gentleman server.
There were several seconds of silence. Robert was aware of Frances whose eyes had widened with delight. He knew what she was thinking. For any man to strike another in the presence of the King was a crime to be severely punished; and the punishment was that the right hand of the offender should be struck off.
Somerset stood up.
He knew that everyone was watching. The Queen, Pembroke, Lake and all those who supported this man believed that by one rash act he had ruined his chances—and their hopes—of supplanting Somerset.
“You young fool,” he said. “To behave thus in the presence of His Majesty will bring its own reward.”
Young Villiers had turned pale, now looking more like the statue of St. Stephen than ever. He knew what Somerset meant because there was not a man at Court who was unaware of the penalty for striking another in the presence of the King. Those watching saw his left hand close over his right as though he would protect it.
“Come here, young man,” said James.
Villiers stood before the King.
“You’re over-rash, lad,” James continued.
The clear young eyes looked straight into his. James could not meet them. They were as beautiful as Robert’s had been when he was as young as this one. James’s eyes rested on that right hand; it was well shaped and the fingers were long and tapering.
Mutilate that beautiful body, thought James. Never!
“A fine coat spoiled,” went on the King and his mouth turned up at the corner.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” murmured the young man.
“But coats, lad, can be replaced; hands cannot.”
He saw the terror in the boy’s face; and he was aware of Robert, smiling almost complacently beside him. In that moment he began to turn away from Robert.
“Well,” he said, “ye’re young and a newcomer to Court. Guard your temper, lad, and dinna let such a thing happen again in my sight.”
When the young man knelt before the King and lifted his beautiful face, James was deeply moved. “Get back to your place, boy,” he said. “And remember my words.”
There was a rustle throughout the Court; there were sly glances and whispered comments.
