Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex
A scribe? He needed more than a scribe. He needed someone on whom he could absolutely rely, someone who would be prepared to work for him in secret, someone who knew how to use words and had a sharp and clever brain. But surely such a person would want to seek honors for himself. Not if he had little hope of doing so. Moreover, how could an ambitious man hope to rise more easily than by doing service to Robert Carr, who could direct the King’s attention toward him?
Like James he was a little bored with the Queen and her dancing girls.
Then it was almost as though a prayer had been answered, for while the Queen and the River Nymphs were dancing their quadrille he caught sight of a man whom he had known a few years earlier and had not seen for some time.
They had been great friends. Thomas Overbury was a clever fellow, a poet, a graduate of Oxford; a very pleasant young man. Older than Robert, he would be about twenty-nine. What had been happening to Tom Overbury since they last met?
His fortunes had certainly not risen as Robert’s had. He was at the pageant, not exactly as a member of the Court but from somewhere on the fringe. He had been rather fond of Robert, amused at his lack of scholarship while, like the King, he recognized a shrewd brain and intelligence.
As soon as he could make an opportunity he would seek out Tom Overbury.
An opportunity came during the ball that followed the pageant.
The King, unwillingly, must partner the Queen in opening the ball, and Robert had his opportunity to slip away.
As he pushed his way through the crowds, he was met by ingratiating smiles.
“Sir Robert, I have a request to make—”
“Sir Robert, I humbly ask—”
To all he said: “Come and see me tomorrow. At this moment I am engaged on the King’s business.”
Unsure of himself, it was his policy never to make an enemy, however humble. That might have been one of the reasons why he remained first favorite for so long. James liked a man to be easy going and not stir up trouble.
He took Overbury by the elbow and said: “My friend, it is good to see you.”
Thomas Overbury’s thin clever face lit up with pleasure.
“Why, Robert,” he said, “it’s good to hear such an important man call me friend.”
Robert laughed; it was his habit to feign a modesty he did not feel. “Important?” he said. “Poor Robert Carr, whom you used to marvel at because he could just manage to spell his own name.”
“Life is more than a matter of spelling, it seems. Any scholar can spell. There’s a surfeit of scholars and only one Robert Carr.”
“I want to speak with you in private … for the sake of our old friendship.”
“Give the word, and I am at your command.”
“Now.”
“I am ready.”
“Then follow me. We must be quick, for the King will expect me to be at his side.”
Carr led the way to a small ante-room and, when they were there, he shut the door.
“Now, Tom,” said Carr, “tell me when you returned.”
“But a few weeks ago.”
“From the Low Countries, was it?”
Overbury nodded. “Whither, you will remember, I retired from Court in some disgrace.”
“I do remember.” Robert burst out laughing.
Overbury lifted his finger. “Do not expect me to join in your laughter, Robert. Remember it was laughter that led me into disgrace.”
They were both thinking of those days which immediately followed the accident in the tiltyard. Good-natured Robert had sought to help his old friend, and it had seemed that Thomas Overbury would bask in the sunshine of Robert’s success. The Queen, disliking Robert, disliked his friends; and although she could not harm Robert, he being so warmly protected by his benefactor, the same thing did not apply to his friends.
On one occasion Thomas Overbury—who had recently been given a knighthood at Robert’s request—had been walking in the gardens at Greenwich with Robert when Anne had noticed them from a window. She had remarked: “There goes Carr and his governor.” Neither Robert nor Overbury had heard the comment but, just at that moment, Overbury had laughed aloud at something his friend had said. Incensed, certain that he was laughing at her, Anne had declared she would not be insulted and had given orders that Overbury be sent to the Tower.
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.
