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

by Jean Plaidy

  The Prince being aware of this implored his doctors not to let his mother, father, his sister, Elizabeth, or his brother, Charles, come near him.

  He lay on his bed, not being quite sure where he was.

  There were times when he believed he was dancing with Frances Howard, and others when he was sailing the high seas with Sir Walter.

  The Queen walked up and down her apartment clasping and unclasping her hands while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “This is not possible,” she cried. “My Henry! He was always such a bonny boy. This cannot be true. He will recover.”

  Nobody answered her. No one believed the Prince could recover, but no one dared tell her this.

  “When he was a baby,” she said, “he was taken away from me. I, his mother, was not allowed to nurse my own son. It was the same with them all. And now … this!”

  But for all her grief she made no attempt to go to him. It would upset him, she assured herself; and she was terrified of contagion. Yet within her a battle was raging. She wanted so much to go to him; it was meet and fitting that his mother should be at his bedside. But if she should catch this fever … if it should run through the Palace … She must not be foolish; she must stay away from her beloved son. This was yet another sorrow to be borne.

  She called one of her women to her.

  “Send to Sir Walter Raleigh in the Bloody Tower. Tell him of the Prince’s need. He is a clever man. Let him give him some of his elixir of life. That will save him.”

  Then she threw herself on to her bed and wept.

  But she felt better. He was wise, her Henry, and he had always declared that Sir Walter Raleigh was the greatest Englishman alive—not only a fine sailor, but a scientist of immense power.

  Sir Walter loved the Prince. He would not fail now.

  When Sir Walter heard the news he was horrified. He had feared for some time that the Prince was ailing; but it was a great shock to learn that this well set-up young man was now close to death, the victim not only of a wasting disease but a virulent fever.

  But Sir Walter was a man of vision. He had always believed that whatever he undertook would be successful. In the past he had seemed to be right and it was only when his great misfortune overtook him, and he lost his freedom, that he had doubted the truth of his doctrine.

  Even so, optimism had prevailed and sometimes he wondered whether he had been made a prisoner that he might write history instead of making it, that he might preserve life with his scientific discoveries rather than take it in rash adventures.

  He therefore believed that he had the nostrum which would cure the Prince; and in all confidence he went at once to the hut at the end of the Walk and brought it back.

  Before he dispatched the messenger he wrote a hasty note.

  “This will cure all mortal malady, except poison.”

  The good news spread through the Palace and City. The Prince had regained sufficient consciousness to know that the draught he was given came from his good friend, Sir Walter Raleigh, and so confident of his friend’s powers was he that he seemed to recover.

  Crowds gathered outside St. James’s Palace; they filled the streets from the Palace to Somerset House, and some knelt to pray for the life of the young man whom they all admired, respected and loved.

  There were other cases of fever in the City; people were stricken, became delirious and in a few days died.

  The Queen had left for Somerset House to be away from contagion; she was inconsolable; longing to be at her son’s bedside, yet fearing to be.

  When the news came that Henry had recovered a little after taking the nostrum she fell on her knees and thanked God.

  The King came to her with Elizabeth and Charles. They were all weeping bitterly and to Elizabeth it seemed unbelievable that, now she was to have a husband whom she could love, she was in danger of losing the brother who had until now held first place in her affections.

  “Raleigh’s nostrum is working the miracle,” cried Anne. “Our son will live and we have that man to thank for it. You must reward him with his freedom. I shall never be able to thank him enough.”

  James was silent. He was not so optimistic as the Queen; he knew that Henry had revived temporarily, but he believed they should wait awhile before allowing themselves to hope.

  “Why do you not speak?” demanded Anne. “Raleigh says that the mixture will cure everything except poison. Why do you cease to rejoice? Do you believe that our son has been poisoned?”

  “Dinna excite yourself so, my dear,” begged James. “This is a sad time for us. Let us meet it with calmness.”

  But how could Anne be calm? If her son recovered she would be mad with joy; if he died she would be demented.

  There were loud lamentations in the streets.

  The news was out. About twelve o’clock on the night of the 5th of November, Prince Henry died.

  The 5th of November! A significant date in the history of the life of the royal family. A few years earlier, on this very day, the plot to blow up the King and Parliament had been discovered.

  In the streets the Catholics were declaring that this was a judgment on the persecutions which had followed the revelation of the Gunpowder Plot. There were riots and fighting in the streets, because there was always the mob which was ready for trouble at any opportunity. But the chief sound that filled the streets that night was that of weeping for the death of the most popular Prince of his House, the young man who had seemed so full of promise and who one day, the people had hoped, would be their King.

  When the news was brought to the Queen she could not take it in for some time. She refused to believe it.

  But at last she was forced to accept it, and the only way she could curb her great grief was in rage and recriminations.

  “Raleigh said it would cure all but poison. Poison! Someone has poisoned my son. Who could have done such a foul thing to one who was beloved by all? What enemies had he among righteous men? None. But he had his enemies. What about Robert Carr whom he always hated? What of that sly shadow of his, Overbury? I always hated Overbury. I do not trust Overbury. He has poisoned my son at the request of Carr. I will prove it. There shall be an autopsy. And if poison is found I shall not rest until I have brought those men to justice.”

  Those who heard of the ravings of the Queen did not hesitate to speak of her suspicions. Soon they were being whispered, not only in the Palace but throughout the City.

  Even when the autopsy revealed that Prince Henry had died from natural causes, the rumor still persisted that he had been poisoned; and the names of Robert Carr and Overbury were mentioned in this connection. It was said that the Prince had hated his father’s favorite and had stood in the way of his promotion to even greater honors. Carr had a reason for wishing him out of the way; and it was known that Overbury was Carr’s creature.

  James, who had shown greater courage than the Queen during the Prince’s illness and had been at his bedside even though warned of the contagious nature of his illness, scorned these suggestions; and bade Robert put them from his mind.

  “Why, lad,” he said, “’twas ever the same. A prominent person dies and the word Poison is bandied from mouth to mouth. The autopsy shows the cause of death and in time all will come to accept it.”

  Robert was grateful for the King’s sympathy but he was uneasy. It was unpleasant to be suspected of murder.

  One evening the guards at St. James’s were disturbed by the figure of a naked man; he was tall and fair, and in the dim light had a look of the Prince.

  “I am the ghost of the Prince of Wales,” cried the naked one. “I have come from the grave to ask for justice. Bring my murderers to the scaffold. It is where they belong.”

  Some of the guards fled in terror, but two, bolder than the rest, approached the man and saw that he was not the Prince of Wales.

  They hustled him into the porter’s lodge and there demanded to know who he was.

  “The Prince of Wales,” he answer
ed. “Come from the grave for justice.”

  “This is a trick,” said one of the guards. “Someone has sent him to do this. We’ll find out who.”

  They then took a whip and proceeded to lash the fellow until he screamed in agony. But he persisted that he was the ghost of the Prince of Wales.

  Ghosts did not allow themselves to be beaten, the guards were sure. They tried to force him to confess he was a human being trying to trick them; but he persisted in his story, and they kept him there through the night, every now and then trying, as they said, to make him see reason and confess the truth.

  In the morning news of what had happened was carried to the Palace and brought to the ears of the King, and James himself went to the porter’s lodge to see the ‘ghost’ of Prince Henry.

  He frowned when he saw the marks of lashes on the naked body.

  “Why,” he said, “did ye no understand that the man is sick? He’s suffering from the same fever that carried off the Prince. He’s in need of doctors, not lashes.” He tried to soothe the man whose mind was clearly wandering. “Don’t ye fret, laddie. You’ll be taken care of.”

  He gave orders that the man should be cared for and inquiries made as to who he was.

  It was soon discovered that he was a student of Lincoln’s Inn who had left his bed, deposited his clothes in an open grave and wandered on to the Palace.

  On the King’s orders he was looked after in the porter’s lodge; and one evening when his nurses went to his bed, they found he had disappeared.

  It was presumed that he had wandered out of the lodge, perhaps in an effort to find his way back to the grave which he believed he had left.

  Some boatmen thought they saw him at the river’s edge and, as he was never seen again, it was believed that he had drowned himself in the Thames.

  The rumor of poison died down; but it was not entirely forgotten. Rather was it laid away to be brought out in the future when people were reminded of it.

  INTRIGUE AT CHARTLEY CASTLE

  When Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, traveling from Court with his reluctant bride, was within two or three miles of Chartley Castle he found that the people of the neighborhood had come out to welcome him. He acknowledged their greeting with bows and smiles and felt wretchedly uncomfortable when he saw their astonished looks directed toward the beautiful but sullen girl riding beside him.

  Frances stared straight ahead of her as though she did not see these people. She was not going to pretend that she was a happy bride.

  Her beauty must attract attention, for although it was a little marred by her thunderous looks it was no less remarkable.

  When they entered the old castle and found the servants lined up, waiting to pay homage, she walked past them and did not glance at one of them, so that it was clear to all that there was something very unusual about their master’s marriage.

  “The Countess is weary with the long journey,” said Essex. “Let her be shown her apartments without delay so that she may rest.”

  “I am not in the least weary,” retorted Frances. “While at Court I have been in the saddle for hours without feeling the slightest exhaustion. But let them show me my apartments.”

  A dignified manservant signed to two young women, both of whom hurried forward, curtsied afresh to the Countess and turning, made their way up the wide staircase.

  “Come, Jennet,” said Frances; and without another glance at her husband, followed the two serving girls.

  “What a draughty place this is,” complained Frances. “One might as well have lodgings in the Tower. They could not be more uncomfortable. Where are you taking me? Is it to the apartments occupied by the Queen of Scots, when she too was a prisoner here?”

  “I am not sure, my lady, where the Queen of Scots had her apartments,” said the elder of the servants.

  Frances shuddered. “Poor lady. How she must have suffered!”

  They had reached a corridor and were confronted by a spiral staircase. When they had mounted this they came to the apartments which had been prepared for the Earl and his Countess.

  The rooms were luxuriously furnished, and from the windows was a view of the lovely Staffordshire countryside.

  Frances looked at the big bed and her eyes narrowed.

  She turned to the serving girls.

  “You had better tell me your names.”

  The elder, a girl of about twenty, said: “I am Elizabeth Raye, my lady.” She turned to her companion who appeared to be about sixteen. “And this is Catharine Dardenell. We have been selected to wait on you.”

  Frances surveyed them intently, trying to assess how loyal they would be to the Earl. It might well be that she would need them to perform special services for her. She decided to try to win their confidence.

  “I am sure you will do all you can to help me,” she said; and her face was transformed by the smile she gave them.

  They curtsied in a rather embarrassed fashion.

  “We shall do our best, my lady,” murmured Elizabeth Raye.

  “Go now and bring me food. I am hungry. Bring enough for my maid here, too.”

  “Yes, my lady. But a supper is being served in the great hall and the cooks have been planning for days what they would give my lord and lady on this day.”

  “I shall not eat in the great hall. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “When you bring the food, knock on the door. It will be opened to you, if the two of you come alone.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Go now, because I am hungry.”

  When they had gone, Frances turned to Jennet.

  “Take the key from the outside and lock the door from the inside.”

  “My lady …”

  “Do as I say.” Jennet obeyed.

  “Of one thing I am certain. He shall not come into this room.”

  “Do you think that you can hold out against him, here in his own castle?”

  “I must hold out against him.”

  Jennet shook her head.

  “You think he will force me? I have a dagger in this sheath. See, I wear it about my waist as some wear as pomander. I will kill him if there is any attempt at force.”

  “Have a care, my lady.”

  “Jennet, I am going to be very careful indeed.”

  The Earl rapped on the door.

  Frances went to it and called: “Who is there?”

  “It is I, your husband.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To see you. To ask if you are pleased with the apartment.”

  “I am as pleased as a prisoner can be with a prison as long as you do not share it with me.”

  “Do you understand, Frances, that there will be a great deal of scandal if you behave like this?”

  “Do you think I care for scandal?”

  “I care.”

  “Care all you wish.”

  “Frances, be reasonable. My father lived here before me. It is my family home.”

  “What of it?”

  “I am asking you not to cause a scandal.”

  “I’d be hard put to it to provide a greater scandal than your father did.”

  “Frances, let me come in, only to talk to you.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You are my wife.”

  “Alas!”

  “What have you against me?”

  “Everything.”

  “What have I done to deserve your contempt?”

  “Married me.”

  “Frances, be reasonable.”

  “I am ready to be. It is you who will not be. Leave me alone. Let me go back to Court. If you are so fond of your draughty castle stay and enjoy it. I would not attempt to tell you where you should be—as long as it is not with me.”

  “I shall not endure this state of affairs. You are my wife and my wife you shall be … in every way. Do you understand me?”

  “You make yourself coarsely clear.”

  “Let
me come in and talk.”

  “I repeat, there is nothing to be said.”

  He was silent. He sighed deeply and then said in a sad voice: “Perhaps by tomorrow you will have come to your senses.”

  She did not answer, but leaned against the door listening to his retreating footsteps.

  She went back to Jennet. “You talk of his forcing me. He never would. He has no spirit, that man. He’s as mild as milk. Oh, why did they marry me to such a one, when, if I were free …”

  Jennet shook her head and turned away.

  Frances caught her arm and gripped it so tightly that Jennet cried out.

  “What are you thinking, eh? Answer me at once.”

  “My lady, you’re hurting my arm.”

  “Speak then.”

  “I was thinking that you are not free, and my lord Rochester did not seem to be as desolate as you were when you left London.”

  Frances lifted her hand to strike the woman, but thought better of it. Her face crumpled suddenly and she said: “Jennet, I’m afraid that if I stay here too long, I shall lose him.”

  Jennet nodded.

  “You think so, do you?” burst out Frances. “What right have you to think? What do you know about it?”

  “I have seen, have I not, my lady? But why do you despair? You saw Dr. Forman and Mrs. Turner before you left Court.”

  A worried frown appeared on Frances’s brow. “I wish they were nearer, Jennet. I wish I could talk to them.”

  “You have the powders with you?”

  “Yes, but how administer them?”

  “It would have been easier if you had allowed him to live with you.”

  Frances shivered. “Never. If I did I believe that would be the end. My Lord Rochester would have finished with me then.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “He hinted it. Jennet, we’ve got to find a way. We’ve got to get out of here. I feel shut in … a prisoner. I was meant to be free. I can’t breathe here.”

  “We’ll have to see,” said Jennet.

  Essex almost wished that he had not returned to Chartley. Here it was much more difficult to keep secret the extraordinary state of his marital affairs. It was embarrassing for all his retainers to know that he was so distasteful to his wife that she refused to live with him as his wife. He was very young, being not much over twenty, and had had very little experience of women. Frances, two years his junior, was knowledgeable in comparison; she understood him while she bewildered him.