by Jean Plaidy
It was pleasant riding through the City, and the journey always delighted him. He was proud of this country which one day, he believed, he would rule. He was determined to bring great good to it; his head was full of a hundred notions; that was why one of his greatest pleasures was to talk with his dear friend—the man whom he admired perhaps above all others. “Men such as he made England great,” he told his sister, Elizabeth, and his eyes would be full of dreams when he spoke. “When he talks to me, he shows me the world. He ought to have a fine ship of which he is captain. Would that I could accompany him on his voyages of discovery. But, alas, I am a boy and he is a prisoner. None but my father would keep such a bird in a cage.”
Along the banks of the Thames stood the gabled, tall-chimneyed houses of the rich, with their pleasant gardens running down to the water. He felt daring, riding out almost alone; but he was determined never to be a coward; he would never have his garments padded against the assassin’s dagger, he told himself. Better to die than remind everyone who looked at him how much he feared death.
When he was King he would give encouragement to bold seamen, and if they disagreed with him on state policy he would shrug aside such a disagreement. He would never restrict his adventurers.
He smiled as he looked ahead to where the great fortress, palace and prison, dominated the landscape.
Many a man had passed into its precincts with the sense of doom in his heart. There on Tower Hill many and adventurer had taken his last look on the world; the grass of Tower Green was stained with the blood of Queens.
Yet he thrilled to look at it—the gray walls with their air of impregnability, the bastion and ballium, the casemates, the open leads, the strong stone walls, the battlemented towers. There was one particular tower he sought—for there his friend was imprisoned at this time—the Bloody Tower.
Henry felt a shudder of distaste as he entered the gate; the guards, who knew him well, saluted, well aware whither he was bound. He had their sympathy; there were many in London who were not pleased to be ruled by the man from Scotland; but Henry seemed no foreigner; clearly he defied his father, in as much as he had made a friend of one of his father’s prisoners.
Henry passed through to the Inner Ward. The wall which bounded this was crowned by twelve mural towers. Now the original fortress lay before him, with its ditch under the ballium wall. Here was the Keep, the Royal Apartments, and the Church of St. Peter ad Vincula among other impressive buildings.
Entering the Bloody Tower Henry climbed the staircase to an upper chamber in which, near a small window a man was seated at a table writing busily. For some seconds he did not notice the Prince. Henry watched him, and his anger was almost like a physical pain; he always felt thus when he called on his friend.
The man looked up. His was one of the handsomest faces Henry had ever seen. Not handsome as men such as Robert Carr were. There was strength in the prisoner’s face; arrogance perhaps, something which implied that years of imprisonment could not quell his proud spirit.
“My Prince,” he said; and rose from the table. He walked rather stiffly. The damp cold of the Tower was notorious for seeping into the bones and ruining them.
That such a man should suffer so! fumed Henry inwardly.
“I have come again,” he said.
“And none more welcome.”
“How is the stiffness today?”
“It persists. But I believe I am more fortunate than some. You know I have my three servants to look after me.”
“And your wife?”
“She is at Sherborne Castle with the children.”
Henry was about to speak; but he could not bring himself to do so. He had unpleasant news, but he must break it gently.
He took the arm of the man and led him to the table. How tall he was, how splendid still, though he was past fifty; his face was bronzed with tropical sun, for this was a great traveler; even now as a prisoner he was fastidious in his dress, and there were jewels in his jacket which must be worth a large sum. His hair was well curled; Henry knew that it was the task of one of his servants to attend to this every morning early before his visitors arrived; for Sir Walter Raleigh was visited by the great and famous even though he was a prisoner in the Tower.
“How goes the ship which you are making for me?” asked Henry.
Sir Walter smiled. “Come and see it. She’s a beauty. Would to God I could have her copied full size and set sail in her.”
“And would to God I could go with you. Perhaps some day …”
Ah, thought Henry, if I were King, my first duty and pleasure would be to free this man from prison.
“Life is full of chances,” Raleigh told him. “Who shall say where you and I will be, a year, a week, a day from now?”
“I promise you—” began Henry impetuously.
But Raleigh laid a hand on his arm: “Make no rash promises, Your Highness. For think how sad you would be if you were unable to honor them.”
Here in the upper chamber of the tower, Raleigh had come to adopt an avuncular attitude toward the Prince. He looked forward to his visits; he admired this boy as much as he despised his father; when he talked to him and reminded himself that this could be the future King of England he ceased to fret for the days of his glory when a woman had sat on the throne, a woman who had become a victim of his charm and had shown him the way to fame and fortune.
He led Henry to the model of the ship, and for half an hour they talked of ships. Raleigh was a man who had been richly endowed; few had ever possessed such gifts and in such variety. He was a poet, an historian, a brilliant statesman as well as an inspired sailor, with a flair for oratory. When he talked of the sea his words were golden; his eyes glowed for a few minutes and Henry could delude himself that the model he held in his hands was sailing the seas and he and Raleigh commanded her.
He almost forgot the unpleasant news he had to give, for Raleigh must be prepared. Not yet, he told himself. Let us enjoy this hour together first.
And later the sailor became the historian and explained to Henry how he was progressing with the history of the world which he was writing; and when he talked of the Spaniards the fire of hatred shone from his eyes.
Henry knew something of political intrigue and he believed that it was largely due to Spain that his friend was a prisoner. Spain hated Sir Walter Raleigh and was uneasy while such a man was free to roam the seas. How different life in England had been under the Queen. Elizabeth had defied Spain; James, loathing the very thought of conflict, wished to placate that country. He wanted to be at peace, to read the books he loved, to pamper his young men; the only battles he enjoyed were verbal ones.
Men such as Raleigh were no longer Court favorites as they had been in the old Queen’s day.
James had known, even before Elizabeth’s death, that Raleigh was against his accession and had him marked down for an enemy. Raleigh had plenty of them in England; it was inevitable for one who had so enjoyed the Queen’s favor and at one time had been her leading man. He had risen to the peak of power; it was natural that many should long to see him fall to the depths of humiliation.
His great fault was his impetuosity, coupled with his arrogance. He had believed that he might do what others dared not. When he had seduced Bess Throgmorton he had lost the Queen’s favor, because she could not endure that he should pay attention to any woman but herself. And a scandal that had been, with Bess pregnant and that other Bess, the all-powerful Gloriana, sending for him and insisting that he right the wrong he had committed and make an honest woman of her namesake.
And his Bessie had been a good wife, always beside him in his misfortune. Their son Walter was a fine boy and little Carew had been born in the Tower, for Bess had her apartments there with him that she might look after him as she swore his servants could not; and there she planned indefatigably to bring about his release.
He told Henry now that he was fortunate … for a prisoner, as he led the way on to the walk along the wall, which
he was allowed to use in order to enjoy a little fresh air and exercise.
“How many prisoners enjoy such a privilege?” he asked. And Henry knew that he was eager to show him his new experiments in the hut at the end of the walk which he had been allowed to use for his scientific work.
Inside the hut was a bench on which were several substances in tubes and bottles.
“I’m working on an elixir of life,” he told the Prince. “If I perfect it, it may well be that people will be living many more years than they do at present.”
“You should have a fine mansion in which to work—not a hut,” said Henry.
“This serves its purpose. My remedies are becoming well known.”
“The Queen said that she had heard your balsam of Guiana was excellent.”
“I am honored. That balsam is much admired. Only yesterday the Countess of Beaumont, walking in the Tower, saw me on my walk and asked me to send her some.”
“Oh, you should be free. It is so wrong that my father should keep you here.”
“Hush! You speak treason. Why, my Prince, one little word can turn a free man into a prisoner. It is well to remember it. Tell me, what of the new beauty?”
“Carr?”
“I hear he is most handsome and struts about the Court in fine feathers.”
“He is most sumptuously clad now.”
“And the King delights in him. Well, the way seems smooth for him. A rich wife, I’ll warrant, who can bring him great estates and a great title…. Is aught wrong?”
“There is something I have to tell you, Sir Walter.”
“It disturbs you. Do not tell it.”
“But I must. I came to tell it.”
“And is it so bad then that it must be thrust aside?”
Henry nodded. “It is very bad. Walter, do you care very much for Sherborne Castle?”
Sir Walter had turned slightly pale though this was scarcely noticeable, so bronzed was he.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh. “Sherborne Castle? Why, that and my land about it is almost all I have left. I have consoled myself that if, by a royal whim, it should be decided that my turn has come to walk out to Tower Hill, Sherborne Castle and my lands will prevent my wife and sons from becoming beggars.”
Henry looked appealingly up at this man whom he so admired; then making a great effort he said: “My father had decided that Carr must have a great estate. He has offered him Sherborne Castle.”
Sir Walter did not speak; he went to the door of the hut and stood for some seconds on the Walk, staring at the gray walls and battlements.
Henry came out to stand beside him.
“If he had never come to Court, if there had not been an accident in the tiltyard—” Henry began.
Then Raleigh turned to smile at him.
“And if I had not been born, I should not be standing here now. Dear boy, do not say, If this and If that. Because that is life. I am robbed of my possessions. But remember this: I have already suffered a greater loss. My freedom. Yet I continue to live and work.”
Then they went together along the Walk, into the upper chamber of the Bloody Tower.
Never to either of them had it seemed so hopeless a prison.
THE CHILD BRIDE
Thomas Howard, Earl of Suffolk, had taken time off from Court to visit his country estates, and he had a very special reason for doing so. Thomas Howard, like most of the members of his family, was a very ambitious man; they regarded themselves as the leading family and secretly believed themselves to be as royal as the Tudors and Stuarts. In the past many of them had not hesitated to make this known—to their cost. Suffolk believed he had learned wisdom through the misfortunes of his ancestors; his own father had gone to the scaffold because he had plotted to marry Mary Queen of Scots, and with such an example in the family, Suffolk had no intention of acting so foolishly.
His wife, Catherine, was with him; she did not care for life in the country but she was ready enough to be there on this occasion.
They sat together in the gracious room with the mullioned windows overlooking the parklands; and the expression on their faces showed a certain smugness. This expression was visible on the face of their companion, another member of the Howard family—in fact one might say the head of the House. This was Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton.
Northampton, a man well advanced in years, for he was nearer seventy than sixty, was at this time one of the most powerful men in the country. He had been playing the intricate game of politics so long that he performed with great skill, and in spite of his age he had no intention of relinquishing one small part of his power if he could avoid it.
Being a secret Catholic he greatly desired to bring Catholicism back to England, and his plan for doing this was to arrange a marriage between Prince Henry and the Infanta of Spain. Never for one moment was he insensible of the danger of his position. He had seen his elder brother lose his head; that made him very careful of his own.
Now, at his nephew’s home, he was on a very different mission; a pleasant, domestic one; but everything in the life of the Earl of Northampton, as was the case with his nephew Suffolk and his wife, had some political implication.
Northampton was saying: “This marriage will prove advantageous to us all. James is in favor of it, and while the Scot is a lumbering boor of a fellow, one must not lose sight of the fact that he happens to wear the crown.”
“He is anxious to do honor to any relation of Essex. No doubt he feels remorse because his predecessor, after pampering that young man, allowed his enemies to lop off his head.”
“Oh, the old Queen had to surround herself with handsome men whom she imagined were in love with her, but there were never two she favored so much as Dudley and Essex. The boy is a pleasant youngster. The union will be good for us all.”
“I have met young Robert. He shows promise. My only regret is that the children are so young.”
“What is it—Fourteen the boy—and the girl?”
“Frances is twelve,” said Lady Suffolk.
“Well she can go back to her lessons while young Robert goes abroad to complete his education. There’ll be no question of the consummation yet. I should like to see the child. It is time she was told of her good fortune.”
“I will send for her.”
A few minutes later Frances Howard came into the room. Approaching the group she stopped some little distance from them and dropped a deep curtsy, daintily spreading her blue skirts as she did so. Her gown became her well, but she was so beautiful that nothing could have detracted from her looks. Her long golden hair fell in curls to her waist; her skin was delicate in texture and color; her blue eyes large and darkly lashed.
Northampton thought: This is not merely a pretty child. This is a beauty.
“Frances,” said her father, “your great-uncle has come from Court to bring you good news.”
Frances turned hopefully toward Northampton. There was nothing shy in her manner, a fact which half pleased, half annoyed Northampton.
“Come here, child,” he said.
She stood before him waiting while he peered into that oval face seeking some imperfection. He found none.
“How would you like to go to Court?”
“More than anything in the world,” she answered fervently, and her eyes sparkled.
“And what do you think they would want with a child like you at Court?”
“I do not know, Great-Uncle, but I am waiting to hear.”
Was she pert? He was not sure.
“Whether or not Frances Howard was at Court would give little concern, I’ll warrant.”
“Yet Frances Howard is to go to Court, Great-Uncle.”
“Your are fortunate to have a father, mother and great-uncle who have your welfare at heart.”
“Yes, Great-Uncle.”
“The fact is—we have a husband for you.”
“A husband … for me! Oh, where is he?”
“Do you think I carry husbands a
round in my pocket, child?”
“I have heard it said that the Earl of Northampton is capable of anything, sir.”
Yes, she was pert; but sharp of wit. What did she need—a place at Court, money lavished on her, or a whipping? He would discover, and whatever she deserved she should have.
Northampton saw that Lady Suffolk was trying not to smile. She should be careful. Her reputation was none too good. It was said that she took advantage of her husband’s Court posts and accepted bribes for certain services. The woman’s morals were not too sound either; and she spent a fortune on her clothes and jewels.
Northampton decided to ignore the girl’s comments, telling himself that perhaps he was inviting them.
“You are to have a wedding, child, at Court. The King himself is interested in your bridegroom and wishes to see an alliance between his House and ours.”
“May I know his name, sir?”
“Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.”
“An Earl. How old is he?”
“Your own age, child … or as near as makes no difference. Your mother tells me you are twelve. Robert is fourteen.”
“Fourteen and an Earl already!”
“His father has been dead some years.”
“His father lost his head, I believe,” said Frances. “I have heard of the Earl of Essex.”
“It is an accident which happens now and then in the best of families,” murmured Northampton.
“The better the family, the more frequently,” put in Lady Suffolk. “A fact, daughter, which we must all bear in mind.”
“I shall remember,” said Frances.
“I trust you will be grateful to your family for arranging such a good marriage for you,” went on Northampton.
“Is it such a good match?” the girl asked.
“Do you doubt it, Frances?” cried her mother.
“Well, Mother, I have always been taught that there is only one family good enough to mate with the Howards: the royal family.”
