by Jean Plaidy
She was restless and unhappy but less so than she had been at Chartley.
And at last Essex agreed that they should return to Court.
THE ENEMIES
The marriage of the Princess Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine had been delayed on account of the mourning for the Prince of Wales. Henry had died in November and the wedding did not take place until February, which meant that the Elector and his retinue had to be housed and entertained during that period at a great cost to the royal exchequer. James reckoned that his daughter’s marriage had cost him almost a hundred thousand pounds.
His courtiers had vied with each other to be the most splendidly attired at Court, and James had insisted that his dear Robbie should shine more brightly than any because that was only due to his beauty. Therefore he lavished costly jewels on his favorite; and while his affection was strongest for Robert Carr, he did not forget his other lads, who were handsome enough to show off fine clothes and jewels.
There was the Queen who, although she was prostrate with grief and in any case was not pleased with the marriage of her daughter, still must be expensively clad; and the cost of her wardrobe was only a little less than the six thousand pounds which had been spent on Elizabeth’s wedding clothes and trousseau.
As for James himself, he must remember that he was the King and in the presence of foreigners should make a good show; he was ready to do this as long as his garments were as well padded as they were bejeweled and he was not expected to wash.
So Elizabeth was married in Whitehall Chapel and looked beautiful in her white dress, her golden hair falling about her shoulders, with a crown of pearls and diamonds set on her head. She was led to the chapel by Charles—now growing handsome and with the new dignity upon him of being heir to the throne—and Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton. The Queen had wept quietly while the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the ceremony; and James knew that she was thinking of losing her daughter to a foreigner as she had lost her son to death.
The celebrations which followed the wedding must necessarily be somewhat subdued because although it was three months since Henry’s death he could not be easily forgotten.
It was Robert Carr who suggested that the farewell banquet should be held at his own castle at Rochester; and the King, delighted to see his dear Robbie host to the Court, gladly agreed.
The last farewells had been said and Elizabeth had sailed away from England to her new home, while the Court returned to Rochester Castle to be entertained a few days longer by Viscount Rochester before returning to Whitehall.
The castle which stood on the banks of the Medway was a splendid example of Norman architecture; it had clearly been built as a fortress, situated as it was on a hill with its principal tower offering views of the country and river. Robert Carr was proud to possess it, for it had been the scene of many a historic occasion since it had been built in the year 1088 by the Norman monk Gundulph, who had been Bishop of Rochester and a celebrated architect. It was an ideal place in which to house the Court and that he could do so was an indication of how quickly he had risen since the death of Salisbury.
Robert was being dressed by his servants in his own apartments when the man whom he had come to regard as one of his greatest friends and supporters asked to be admitted.
This was Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, who had assiduously courted the favorite since he had realized the firmness of his hold on the King’s affections.
“Ah,” cried the wily old statesman, “I disturb you.”
“Nay,” cried Robert. “I am all but ready.”
By God, thought Northampton, he is a handsome fellow; and he looks as fresh and young as he did the day he rode into the tiltyard and so cleverly fell from his horse.
“Pray be seated,” said Robert. “I shall be ready to go to the banqueting hall in five minutes or so.”
“Then we will go together,” said Northampton.
It was well to be seen with the favorite; it reminded his enemies that he had friends in the right quarter. Robert, good-natured and easy going, never bothered to ask himself why a haughty Howard should be so anxious for his friendship and when Overbury said: “Why, Henry Howard would not speak to you tomorrow if you lost the King’s favor!” Robert replied: “Why should he?” and left it at that, which meant that while Northampton offered his friendship, Robert Carr was ready to accept it.
Robert dismissed his servants, which was only courteous because he guessed that Northampton did not wish them to overhear their conversation, and since they were both ministers of eminence it was certain that some state matter would be discussed between them sooner or later. Since he had become a Privy Councillor Robert had been aware of the need to watch his tongue before servants.
When they were alone Northampton asked Robert if he knew whether a certain gentleman had been called upon to sign the Oath of Supremacy.
As Robert was able to assure him that this man had not been asked to do so, Northampton was relieved. It was pleasant to be able to ask such a question privately. Northampton was a little worried because he, being a secret Catholic, had no wish to be asked to sign the Oath; and he feared that if the man in question had had such a demand made to him, the invitation to sign might well be extended to himself, Northampton.
The signing of this Oath was a scheme which James had thought up when he was so short of money. It was his plan to force Catholics to sign it and if they refused, to subject them to heavy fines or imprisonment. As the Pope had ordered Catholics not to sign the Oath because it contained sentences which were derogatory to the Catholic Faith, to have signed it would have been a denial of faith. Many Catholics had refused and consequently lost their possessions, which was exactly what James had hoped, since it was to raise money that he had thought of the plan.
Robert had not cared for this scheme because he thought it was wrong to penalize people on account of their religion, and would have preferred to see Catholics living in peace beside Protestants.
It was sometimes, however, his duty to write to Catholics ordering them to take the Oath, and this he did because he always obeyed the King; but he never brought a Catholic to the King’s notice, and did nothing, except when expressly ordered to do so by James, to enforce this unpleasant law.
At the same time he never implied to James that he disapproved of it. It was alien to his nature to offer criticism; he was well aware that if he did so James would demolish this in a moment with some tricky argument; and he knew that James continued to love his Robbie because he was never what the King called a cantankerous body.
Northampton was aware of this quality in Carr and he knew that he could safely ask for information about the penalizing of recusants. If he, Northampton, had been asked to sign the Oath, he supposed he would have signed it; his political career would always mean more to him than any religious faith; but he preferred not to have to make the decision; and thus it was very comforting to have a friend in Robert Carr.
Northampton decided that he was in no danger and went on:
“I have taken a liberty with your hospitality, and I trust you will not think I have presumed on your friendship.”
Robert smiled his charming smile and said: “My dear Northampton, it gives me pleasure that you should presume on my friendship. It shows that you are sure of it.”
“Thank you, my dear fellow. The fact is that some of my family have returned to Court unexpectedly. I said they might come to the Castle; they will have arrived by now.”
“Any member of your family is welcome.”
“Thank you, Robert. I guessed you would say that.”
“Who are these relatives? Do I know them?”
“I think you know my great-niece. She has been in the country with her husband for some time. Ha, I did not believe the country would suit Madam Frances for long.”
“I perceive,” said Robert, “that you are speaking of the Countess of Essex.”
“You are right. She is a young woman who likes to have
her own way. She implored me to allow her to come here. She could not wait until the Court reached Whitehall. She pleaded that she had been away too long.”
“Why, yes,” replied Robert mildly, “it must be some time since she was at Court.”
In the great hall she came near to him in the dance.
He had forgotten how beautiful she was. It was true that there was no other woman at Court to compare with her, and Robert felt excited merely to look at her. Their hands touched momentarily in the dance, and for a second she let her fingers curl about his.
“Welcome back to Court, Lady Essex.”
“It does me good to see you, Viscount Rochester.”
“Is the Earl of Essex at Court?”
“Alas, yes.”
Robert turned away to face another partner as the dance demanded. She was still as disturbing as ever.
She was ready for him when he faced her again.
“I must see you … alone.”
“When?”
“This night.”
“And the Earl?”
“I know not. I care not. He is no husband to me and never has been.”
“How was this?”
“Because I loved one other.”
“And this other?”
“He will tell me tonight whether he loves me.”
“Where?”
“In the lower apartments of Gundulph’s Tower. Those dark and gloomy storerooms where few people go.”
He was silent while she looked at him beseechingly.
He had missed her; he wanted to reopen their relationship. He had found during the period when she had been away that he could never forget her. There was a vitality about her which was irresistible. If she and the Earl led separate lives by mutual consent what harm was there?
That night when the Castle was quiet they met in those lower apartments of Gundulph’s Tower! and there they were lovers again.
In the house at Hammersmith Frances sat opposite Anne Turner and told of her anxieties.
“And you are still unsure of him?” asked Mrs. Turner.
Frances nodded. “Yet I believe he needs me more than he did. There is a change.”
“The good doctor has been working for that.”
“I know. But the lord is always aware of that other.” Her face darkened. “And he is never far away, always threatening. I would die rather than be carried back to the country.”
“My sweet lady, you must not talk of dying. Was it so difficult to do with the powders what the doctor suggested?”
“Quite impossible. I kept to my apartments because I could not bear him near me. There were two servants who were ready to do my bidding. I bribed them and they did their best. But he was surrounded by his servants; and there was a man, Wilson, who was too clever for us.”
Mrs. Turner nodded. “It is a sorry business with so many working against us!”
“What I fear is that if there are too many difficulties the lord will be ready to forego our love.”
“We must bind him so strongly that he cannot escape.”
“Is it possible to do that?”
“With the doctor everything is possible. I think that you should see him again … soon.”
“Then I will do so.”
“Let me tell him of your visit and he will name a day when he will see you. I will manage to get a message conveyed to you.”
“Dear Turner, what should I do without you!”
“Sweet friend, it is my pleasure to help you. I have learned a little from the doctor and I see that the one who is hovering between you and the lovely lord must be removed, because until he is, our efforts will be, to a great extent, frustrated.”
Frances clenched her hands together.
“Would to God I need never see his face again.”
“The doctor will help you.” Anne Turner leaned forward and touched Frances’s hand. “Never forget,” she repeated softly, “with the doctor all things are possible.”
At a table in the private apartments of my Lord Rochester, Thomas Overbury was sitting writing; there was a satisfied smile on his face, and no sound in the room but the scratch of his pen. Thomas read through what he had written and his smile grew smug. He was always delighted with his work.
Seated in a window seat, staring out on the palace grounds, was Robert, his handsome face set in thoughtful lines.
“Listen to this, Robert,” cried Thomas, and read out what he had written.
“Excellent … as always,” said Robert, when he had finished.
“Ah, my dear feallow, what would you do without me?”
“Bless you, Tom, where would either of us be without the other?”
Thomas was thoughtful for a second or so. “That’s true enough,” he said at length. But a doubt had entered his mind. In the Mermaid Club he dined with writers, among them Ben Jonson, and they treated him as one of them; there he could hold his own as a literary man; he was someone in his own right, not merely a ghost, a shadow of someone else. He imagined Robert Carr in such company. He would not know what they were talking about. Yet, without Robert, where would he be? What would his writing bring him in? Enough to starve in a garret?
He sighed and repeated: “It’s true enough.”
Robert did not notice the slight discontentment in his friend’s expression because he was occupied with a problem of his own.
“Tom,” he said, “here’s something else for you to do.”
Thomas waited expectantly, but Robert hesitated.
“I want you to write to a lady for me. Tell her I shall not be able to see her as I arranged. The King has commanded me to wait on him.”
Thomas took up his pen again.
“Shall I be very regretful? Is the lady becoming an encumbrance?”
“Oh no, no! Be most regretful. I would I could be with her. Say I am sorry.”
Overbury nodded. “Tell me what she looks like and I will write an ode to her beauty.”
Robert described her so accurately that Thomas said, “Could this paragon of beauty be the Countess of Essex?”
“Why, Tom, how did you guess?”
“You have made it clear to me. That is well. Now I know to whom I am writing I shall produce a finer specimen of my talents.”
“Fairest of the fair,” he wrote, “I am overcome by desolation….”
Robert watched him while his pen ran on without faltering. How clever to have such a gift of words! If he were only as clever as Overbury, he would be able to write his own letters, work out his own ideas, in fact he would be as clever as the late Salisbury. With brains and beauty he could have stood completely alone, sufficient unto himself.
He wondered why the thought had come to him at that moment as he watched his clever friend smiling over his work.
The notion disappeared as quickly as it had come; Robert had never been one to analyze his feelings.
Tom laid down his pen and began to read.
In the letter were the longings of a lover, delicately yet fervently expressed. The poetic strain was there.
Frances would be astonished; yet she would be pleased.
Dr. Forman sat at one side of the table, Frances at the other. He leaned forward on his elbows and moved his expressive hands as he talked; and his eyes, bright with lecherous speculation, never left the beautiful eager face opposite him.
In the darkened room the candles flickered.
He was a witch, of course. Frances had guessed this. She believed that he had made his pact with the devil, and should the witch finders suddenly break into the room and examine him they would doubtless find the devil’s marks on his body.
She did not care. She knew only an unswerving desire.
She wanted Robert Carr to remain her faithful lover; she wanted to inspire in him a fanatic passion to match her own; and she wanted Essex out of the way.
It was for that reason that she made these dangerous journeys to Lambeth. For the sake of what she so urgently needed she was ready to dabbl
e in witchcraft, although she knew that the cult of witchcraft was a crime; the King believed in the power of witches to do evil and he was anxious to drive them out of his kingdom. Death by strangulation or burning was the penalty. Never mind, Frances told herself; she was ready to run any risk for the sake of binding Carr to her irrevocably and ridding herself of her husband.
Forman’s voice was silky with insinuation.
“Dear lady, you must tell me all that happened … spare no detail. Tell me how fervent the lord is in his lovemaking.”
Frances hesitated; but she knew that she must obey this man, for it was only if she told him everything that he could help her.
So she talked and answered the questions which were thrust at her; she saw her interrogator lick his lips with pleasure as though he were partaking in the exercise himself. At first she was embarrassed; then she ceased to be so; she talked with eagerness, and it seemed to her that the special powers of this man enabled her to live again the ecstasy she had enjoyed.
When it was over, the doctor bade her rise; he placed his hands on her shoulders and she imagined some of his strength flowed into her. He waved his hands before her eyes and she dreamed once more that she was with Robert in some dark chamber.
Dr. Forman drew back curtains in one dark corner of the room to disclose among the shadows what appeared to be the head of a horned goat; he repeated incantations and although Frances could not understand the words he used she believed in their powers.
At length the doctor turned to her. “What you ask shall be yours … in time,” he promised her.
She must visit him more frequently and in secrecy, he went on to explain. He wished to make images of the three characters in the drama. “The one of whom we wish to be rid; the one whose affections must increase; and the woman. This will be a costly matter.”
“All that you ask shall be given if you do this for me.”
The doctor bowed his head.
“I will set some of my servants to procure what you will need. They too must be paid for their services.”
