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

by Jean Plaidy

  They were still in exile when Raleigh returned from his ill-fated journey and when, soon after, he laid his head on the block in Old Palace Yard. And when Frances heard that her father and mother had been summoned to the Star Chamber and there sentenced to a term in the Tower for embezzlement, she was not deeply moved. That life now seemed so far away.

  When Queen Anne died of dropsy, no one was surprised. She was in her forty-sixth year and had been ailing for some time; a certain Dr. Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood and confirmed this by his experiments; a comet appeared in the sky to cause great consternation and speculation but even this could not interest Frances.

  Sometimes Robert thought wistfully of the old days; he wondered whether there would be a Spanish marriage for Charles after all, or whether that sly Gondomar would have worked in vain. It would have been good to be there in the thick of intrigue.

  He pictured himself with the King, proudly bringing forward a girl who was growing to be as beautiful as her mother, yet with a different kind of beauty.

  “My daughter, Your Majesty.”

  He could almost see James’s emotional smile, almost hear his tender voice: “So ye’ve a lass now, eh, Robbie. And a bonny one!”

  He would have asked for favors for her. He wished he could have given her great wealth and titles. But what did she want with them? She had her horses to ride—and she was already a good horsewoman; she had her father to be her companion. She did not ask for more, so why should he?

  It was not often that they spoke to each other; they avoided each other’s eyes. They both wanted to forget and they were a constant reminder to each other.

  But one day she could not restrain herself. “My lord Buckingham I hear is going to Spain with the Prince.”

  “Is it so then?”

  “My lord Buckingham—that upstart Villiers. A Duke no less!”

  Robert shrugged his shoulders. But he pictured the scene at Court so well; James, grown older now, but no less affectionate, he was sure; and at his feet the handsome man, seated on the stool once occupied by himself.

  “They say there is no end to the honors that man has taken to himself.”

  “It may well be.”

  “You do not care?”

  “I am past caring.”

  “I am not then. And never shall be.”

  “That is a tragedy for you.”

  She turned on him angrily; his calmness maddened her, the knowledge that he had been able to build a life for himself out of these ruins, while she had failed, was more than she could bear.

  “It might never have happened. You could have persuaded James. You should have been more subtle … a little more like his newest friend, my Lord Buckingham.”

  “And you, Madam,” he retorted, “should never have stained your hands with the blood of my friend.”

  She turned away and ran to her bedchamber where she locked herself in and wept until she believed she had no tears left. Tears of rage and frustration.

  “Better would it have been if they had taken me to Tyburn,” she cried. “Better if they had hanged me by the neck as they did poor Anne Turner. Anything would have been more desirable than this life of mine.”

  After that they avoided each other. It was better so.

  In one of his favorite palaces—Theobald’s in the parish of Cheshunt—the King lay dying.

  James had no illusions; he knew this was the end. He was in his fifty-ninth year and had been a king for almost the whole of his life: James VI of Scotland since he was little more than a baby and his mother’s enemies had insisted that she abdicate in his favor; James I of England for the last twenty-three years.

  “A goodly span,” he murmured, “and when a man suffers from a tertian ague and gout it is time he said goodbye to earthly pleasures. Perhaps I have been over-fond of my wine, but it is no bad thing to be over-fond of the things life has to offer.”

  It was characteristic of him that he wondered what posterity would think of him. The British Solomon! How much had his wisdom profited his country? Would they remember him as a wise ruler, or the King who had gone in terror of the assassin’s knife since the Gowrie and Gunpowder Plots? Would they remember him as the King who was excessively fond of his favorites?

  Steenie had not always been a comfort. He had grown arrogant like the rest. Steenie would look after himself. He was already a friend of Charles and they had jaunted to Spain together when Charles went to woo the Infanta. And Charles was affianced now to Henrietta Maria the daughter of Henry IV of France and sister of the reigning King Louis XIII. It would be a Catholic marriage for Charles which might cause trouble; there could clearly be no more persecution of recusants with a Catholic Queen on the throne. But that was Charles’s affair—no longer his.

  It was strange to think of the end. No more hunting, no more golf, no more laughter at the pranks of Steenie and the rest; no longer would he sign to a handsome young man to give him his arm to lean on.

  The old life was passing.

  And as he thought back over the years there was one whom he could not forget, and had never forgotten. Often during the years he had longed to recall him. Yet how could he recall a man who had been condemned for murder?

  “Robbie was no murderer,” he told himself, as he had often during the hours of the night when he had awakened from some vague dream of the past, haunted by a handsome affectionate young man. “I’ll bring him back. He shall have his estates back.”

  But by light of day he would say: “I canna do it. It would serve no good purpose. How could Robert take up his old place now?”

  It was nearly ten years since he had seen Robert, and that was a long time for a King to remember. And for all those years Robert had remained virtually a prisoner.

  There was one thing he would do before he died. Robert should have a full pardon. His estates should be returned to him. As for the woman—she must have her freedom. He could not keep one prisoner and not the other.

  It must be his first concern to pardon Robert.

  The pardon was given; and the documents drawn up which would make Robert a rich man once more.

  But James had not known how little time there was left to him, and he died before he could sign those documents.

  But for Robert and Frances there was change at last: and that March of the year 1625 when James died in Theobald’s Palace, they were at liberty to go where they would. James’s last gift to them was freedom from each other.

  THE SOLACE

  The Earl of Somerset was no longer a young man; it was nearly thirty years since he had been found guilty of murder by his peers; yet there were times when it seemed even longer. Looking back, it appeared to him that he had been three people: an ambitious young man looking for a place at Court; the most powerful man in England; and a man who had learned to understand himself and life, and had contrived to make something worthwhile out of disaster.

  It astonished him often that the last phase of his life had been the happiest; was that the reward of a successful life? To have learned one’s lessons; to have come to an appreciation of the true blessings the world had to offer?

  He believed so; and when he was with his daughter—so like her mother and yet how different!—he was content.

  Yet even after he had received his full pardon, life had been uneasy.

  Frances had gone often to Court, but she had not been happy. She did not enjoy the glory under Charles and Henrietta Maria that she had known when James and Anne were on the throne. Who was this Frances Howard? was a constant question. Wife of the one-time favorite who had fallen from grace; daughter of the Earl of Suffolk and his Countess of whose reputation for fraud all were aware; great-niece of that old rogue Northampton who had died in time to save himself from scandal; and worst of all—a self-confessed murderess.

  She was angry; she was frustrated; she was melancholy; but she could not stay away from Whitehall.

  Back and forth to Court; growing older, sullen, always seeking what
could never be hers; resenting that growing love between her daughter and husband, who had found happiness together.

  There was no happiness for Frances. Fears had come with the gnawing pain which at first she ignored; but eventually it would not be ignored. More insistent it grew until it dominated her life.

  There were no more visits to Court; there was only pain that grew worse with every day.

  Sometimes she lay on her bed and screamed in her agony; sometimes she lost consciousness; at others she would wander in her mind and those who attended her would hear her say: “So you are there … mocking me? You are telling me you suffered such pains. Is this your revenge, Tom Overbury?”

  It was a relief when at last her pains were no more. She had lived thirty-nine turbulent years; and sixteen had elapsed since she had faced her judges.

  But when she was no longer there the memories began to fade. The days were happier; there was the girl nearly seventeen, a lovely blooming creature with a deep affection for the father who, because of their exile, had been closer to her than parents often were.

  He was poor by comparison with what he once had been, for his only possessions were now a house at Chiswick and a small income.

  “It is enough for our needs,” Anne told him; and he rejoiced in his daughter.

  He would have been completely happy if she could have remained in innocence, but there had been documents and books written about the case of Sir Thomas Overbury and it was inevitable that one day something of this nature must fall into Anne’s hands.

  He found her one day staring before her, the book having slipped to the floor; and, seeing the horror in her face, he knew what she had been reading.

  “My darling,” he said, “you must not let it grieve you.”

  “My mother … did that!”

  “She was young; she had been too indulged.”

  How explain Frances Howard to her daughter?

  He thanked God that Anne was a sensible girl. After the first shock, after they had talked together and he had told her the story as he had known it, she was able to put it out of her mind. He was innocent and her guilty mother was dead. It was because of what had happened that they lived here together away from the Court. It was past; no amount of grieving could change what had happened.

  He was glad that she knew because he had lived with the fear that one day she would meet someone who would tell her the story. It was better that she should hear it from him.

  She was growing into a very lovely woman, with the features of her mother, made more beautiful by the kindliness of her expression, the modesty of her manners and the virtue which shone from her. He knew that he should not let her remain shut away from the world. It would have been pleasant to keep her to himself for she asked no other life. But he loved her too well.

  He had one or two friends who had remained constant throughout his exile, and they helped Anne to see a little of society; but it was with reluctance that she left him to go on an occasional visit and she always returned to him with pleasure. It was during one of these visits that she met Lord William Russell; the attraction was mutual and immediate; and William, eldest son of the Earl of Bedford, was certain that the only wife he would have was Anne daughter of the disgraced Earl of Somerset and his notorious Countess.

  One could not expect life to go on in the same gentle groove for ever. Robert knew now that this was the end of his cherished companionship with his daughter; she would either marry Russell or if she did not, spend the rest of her life grieving for him. It certainly seemed that she would not have Russell for Bedford had angrily declared that there should be no marriage between his heir and the daughter of such parents.

  Bedford stormed about the Court and the old scandal was revived. Anne had lost her gaiety and that was more than Robert could bear; he knew that he would give everything he had to buy her her happiness, and would even be prepared never to see her again if that were necessary.

  William Russell was a determined young man who had no intention of giving up the woman he loved, and being a friend of the King soon enlisted his sympathy and that of the young Queen Henrietta Maria. It was difficult for Bedford to refuse a request from the King to be kind to the lovers, and at last he agreed, but on a condition which, knowing Robert’s poverty, he did not believe would be complied with.

  His son’s wife must have a dowry of twelve thousand pounds. That, he declared, was a reasonable suggestion when she was marrying into one of the most important families.

  Anne was desolate. “He knows it is impossible,” she mourned. “That is why he has set this condition.”

  Twelve thousand pounds! mused Robert. By selling everything he had perhaps he could raise that sum. It would mean he would live the rest of his life in poverty; but he was ready to buy Anne’s happiness on any terms.

  When the money was raised Bedford had no more excuses and so the Lady Anne Carr was married to Lord William Russell and although he knew that their intimate companionship was over, that was one of the happiest days of Robert’s life.

  He had had little possessions of his own for as long as he lived, which was for eight years after Anne’s marriage. They were happy years, for he was often with his daughter and he saw her the mistress of great estates and, what was more important, a happy wife and mother. Often when his grandchildren climbed on to his knee they would make the eternal plea: “Grandfather, tell me a story.”

  And he told them stories of the splendor of Courts and the exploits of knights; but there was one story he never told; and he trusted that by the time they heard it—which in course of time they must—they would see it as a tragedy of figures become shadowy with time, and that they would not judge too harshly the grandfather whom they had known in the days of their childhood.

  Bibliography

  A Detection of the Court and State of England during the Reigns of James I, Charles I, Charles II and James II, Roger Coke

  The History of Great Britain, being the Life of King James the First, Arthur Wilson

  James I, Charles Williams

  Lives of the Queens of England, Agnes Strickland

  The National and Domestic History of England, William Hickman Smith Aubrey

  British History, John Wade

  King’s Favourite, Philip Gibbs

  Her Majesty’s Tower, William Hepworth Dixon

  The Dictionary of National Biography, Edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee

  Abbeys, Castles and Ancient Halls of England and Wales, John Timbs and Alexander Gunn

  Political History of England 1603–1660, F. C. Montague

  History of England, James Anthony Froude

  History of England, John Lingard

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  THE LOVES OF

  CHARLES II

  In Bookstores Now

  It was late afternoon on a July day in the fourth year of the Great Rebellion. The sun was hot; the grass banks were brown; and the purple nettle-flowers and the petals of the woundwort were peppered with fine dust.

  A small party—two men and two women—trudged slowly along the road, looking neither to right nor to left, their eyes fixed on the ground. One of the women was a hunchback, and it was this deformed one who carried a sleeping child.

  Sweat ran down her face; she caught her breath as she saved herself from tripping over a stone and going headlong into one of the numerous potholes which were a feature of the road. She wiped the sweat from her face but did not lift her eyes from the ground.

  After a while she spoke. “How far from the inn, Tom?”

  “We’ll be there within the hour.”

  “There’s time before dark,” said the other woman. “Let’s stop for a rest. The boy’s heavy.”

  Tom nodded. “A few minutes will do no harm,” he said.

  The hunchback spoke again. “Only let us rest if you are sure there’s time, Tom. Don’t let the dark overtake us. There’ll be robbers on the road at twilight.”

  “There are four of us,
” answered Tom, “and we look too poor to rob. But Nell’s right. There’s time for a rest.”

  They sat on the bank. Nell took off her boots and grimaced at her swollen feet while the hunchback laid the child gently on the grass. The others would have helped, but she waved them aside; she seemed determined that none but herself should touch the child.

  “Here’s the best spot for you,” said Tom to the hunchback. “The bush makes a good support.” But the hunchback shook her head and looked at him with some reproach. He smiled and sat down at the spot he had chosen as the best. “We should be in Dover long before this time tomorrow,” he added.

  “Call me Nan,” said the hunchback.

  “Yes … Nan … I will.”

  “You must remember to call me Nan. It is short for Nanette. Ask my husband. Is that not so, Gaston?”

  “Yes … that is so. Nan … it is short for Nanette.”

  “And that is my name.”

  “Yes, Nan,” said Tom.

  “There is someone coming,” said Nell quickly.

  They were silent, listening to the sound of footsteps on the road. A man and a woman came into sight, and the hunchback’s eyes went to the sleeping child beside her; her right hand moved out and rested on its ragged clothes.

  The man and woman who were approaching carried bundles, and their dress proclaimed them to be of slightly higher social standing than the group on the bank. The man, who wore his hair cut short so that his pink and rather prominent ears could be seen, might have been a tradesman. The woman was plump and puffing with exertion; it was clear that she was finding the heat uncomfortable.

  “Here’s sensible people,” she was grumbling, “taking a rest by the roadside. I declare I’ll do the same, for my feet won’t carry me a step farther until I give them a short rest.”

  “Now come along, Kitty,” said the man. “If we’re to be in Tonbridge in time for the wagon there’s no time for dallying.”