Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex
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.
It was only polite to say that he was happy to have her; and when he did so she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.
He withdrew it sharply.
“I have offended you?” she asked, her lovely eyes wide with horror.
“No … no. But it is best not to….”
“Not to?”
“To … to kiss my hand.”
“Would you prefer me to kiss your cheek, your lips?” she cried passionately.
Henry was startled and astonished by the tremendous excitement which was taking possession of him. He tried to analyze his feelings. “If you were not married …”
“But I have never known my husband.”
“You must keep yourself a virgin for him.”
“Is that Your Highness’s wish?”
Henry was silent. Then she threw herself against him and cried triumphantly. “It is not so. It is not so.” Then she took his hand and began to run with him; and as they ran such an excitement gripped him that he seemed like a different person from the sober young Prince who deplored the loose morals of his father’s Court.
She withdrew her hand and went on running; now he was pursuing her. She allowed him to catch her in a summer house; and she waited expectantly while he embraced her, listening to the sounds of music which came from the palace.
He was uncertain; but she was not.
Frances Howard had always known what she wanted, and she had wanted the Prince of Wales from the moment she had seen him on the day she had married Robert Devereux.
Jennet knew as soon as she was in the privacy of her own chamber.
Frances stood, her eyes brilliant, while Jennet relieved her of her gown and jewels.
“So, my lady,” said Jennet slyly, “we shall not have to ask my good friend Mrs. Turner to provide us with a love philtre?”
And soon certain knowledgeable members of the Court were telling themselves that the Prince was behaving like a normal young man.
He had a mistress—Frances, Countess of Essex.
Frances knew that she was meant to have a lover. She blossomed and became even more beautiful than before. She enjoyed intrigue and secret meetings. Moreover, it delighted her to be loved by the most important man at Court.
Henry had changed; he was gay and lighthearted, although there were occasional fits of remorse. But, he assured himself, why should he not indulge in a love affair, when this was considered natural conduct by almost everyone at Court? In any case, as soon as he saw Frances, any good resolutions he had made quickly disappeared and he gave himself up to pleasure.
He wished that he could have married Frances. Then he would have been completely happy. He confessed his dilemma to Sir Walter Raleigh who shrugged it aside as unimportant. No one would think the worse of him for having a love affair, he assured the Prince; and Henry at length forgot his qualms.
Those were exciting months. Never had Henry been so immersed in pleasure. To his Court flocked all the most brilliant of the courtiers, and James, watching, feigned a chagrin he did not feel. He was glad to see his son so popular, and if the boy was showing himself to be less of a puritan than before, that was all to the good. In the parks about Nonesuch Palace Henry rode and walked with Frances; they made love in the arbors; and the columns and pyramids, with their stone birds from whose bills streams of water flowed, made a perfect setting for their idyl. In the more stately St. James’s Palace they were together; and Richmond, where the Prince loved to hold Court, was yet another background for the lovers.
Those who watched them wondered how long this romance would last. Many of the young women planned to take Frances’s place in the Prince’s affections, for they were certain that soon he must tire of his young mistress, when he had all the Court to choose from.
But Henry remained faithful, and Frances was very sure of him.
She had taken the lead in their love affair and kept it. Often it seemed to her that Henry was a little young. Why, she asked herself, should I have to teach him everything?
He was a Prince—the Prince of Wales at that—yet he was really nothing but a boy.
How different it would be to have a man for a lover—someone mature, someone who did not follow everywhere she led but sought to dominate her. Henry never would of course, because Frances was determined to dominate; but it would be exciting if he tried.
Jennet, watching, knew before Frances did herself that her mistress was tiring of the Prince of Wales.
When Frances received a summons to sup with her great-uncle, the powerful Earl of Northampton, she was not very pleased. This meant that she would be obliged to absent herself from the Prince’s Court and, although she was less eager for his company than she had once been, she had no wish to sit down to supper with the friends of her great-uncle whom she suspected would be of his age, or at least that of her parents.
But she knew she dared not refuse such an invitation, for Northampton was accepted as the head of the family, and if she offended him he could prevail upon her parents to send her back to the country.
She was scowling as Jennet dressed her.
“My lady is black as thunder today,” remarked Jennet with a smirk.
“I am wondering whether my great-uncle has been hearing rumors.”
“Nay, my lady. My lord Northampton would not be displeased because the Prince of Wales is your friend.”
“It seems strange that he should want me at table with his dreary old men and women.”
“You’ll seem all the more beautiful in such a setting—providing you take that black scowl from your lovely face.”
Frances bared her teeth at the reflection in the mirror. “Shall I smile like this? Shall I mince and look coy?”
“My lady will suit her manners to the company, I doubt not.”
And Frances, wearing her simplest gown and scarcely any jewels, waited on her great-uncle; and when she was seated at the supper table she greatly wished that she had chosen something more becoming, because she found herself next to a man whom she had previously seen only at a distance, never having been considered of sufficient importance to have been brought to his notice.
She was instantly aware of her great-uncle’s deference to this man; how the company paused when he spoke; how his simplest jokes were loudly applauded; and how everyone at that table was trying to catch his eye.
How handsome he was! Frances could scarcely stop herself staring at him. Never had she seen such a profile; he wore his golden hair somewhat long; and his fair skin was becomingly bronzed; his expression was extremely pleasant but remote, and that remoteness was like a challenge to Frances. He sparkled as he moved, for costly gems decorated his jacket; and diamonds and rubies were set off to perfection on his beautiful white hands.
“My Lord Rochester, pray give us your opinion….”
“My Lord Rochester, you’ll be the death of me. I have rarely laughed so much….”
His kindly smile was bestowed right and left; on the sycophantic gentleman opposite; on the fawning lady on his left; on the wondering Frances on his right; and yet, thought Frances, he cares nothing for any of us.
And why should he, when he is, in some respects, the ruler of us all? For the King himself wishes to please him in every way, and if he puts a petition before James, it is granted; a word of advice from Robert Carr, my lord Rochester, and the King is ready to act.
There never was such a man! thought Frances. How irksome, how maddening that to him she was merely a young woman of the Court, of no more interest than any other.
