Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower - The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

“Go on!” commanded Frances. “Fall in love with me because I’m so beautiful. That’s what you mean, is it not? I wonder what my bridegroom will think of me. He is only fourteen and the marriage is not going to be consummated yet. I have heard them talk of it. They talk of nothing else. I am to go to Court, be married and then sent back here … back to my lesson books, they say, until I am of an age to share my husband’s bed. I want to tell them that I am of an age now.”

“Perhaps it is better to wait.”

“I hate waiting. I won’t wait. I might wait until I’m no longer beautiful.”

“You’ll always be beautiful.”

“Of course I shall. I shall make sure that I stay beautiful as long as I live.”

“Everyone tries to do that, Mistress.”

Frances was thoughtful. Her own mother was beautiful still, although not as she must have been in her youth. Perhaps it was the fine clothes and jewels she wore that dazzled the eyes.

“I know of a way to stay beautiful,” said a quiet voice, and there was silence, for it belonged to the one who had recently been slapped.

Frances turned to her, her face alight with interest. “How, Jennet,” she demanded, and all the venom was gone from her; she spoke as though there had been no friction between them.

“By spells and potions,” said Jennet.

“Do they really keep people beautiful?” asked Frances.

“They do everything. There are love philtres to win the love of those who are indifferent. There are potions to destroy those who stand in your way. It’s called trafficking with the devil.”

“How I should love to traffic with the devil!” cried Frances, delighted because she was shocking them all so much.

“It’s the way to get what you want … if you’re bold enough,” said Jennet.

“I would be bold enough,” declared Frances.

The next weeks passed quickly for Frances. She was constantly being measured for the clothes she would need for her wedding, and when she saw the jewels which she was to wear she declared she had never been so happy in her life.

She knew that when the wedding had taken place she must return to the country, but she was not going to think about that.

In a few weeks’ time she would set out for London in the company of her parents, taking her elaborate wardrobe with her; she would see that Court of which she had heard so much; she would actually live at it until the ceremony was over. She wondered whether she could persuade her parents to allow her to remain in London. It was a pity that Great-Uncle was there to make their decisions for them. He would most certainly not agree.

But Frances was one to live in the present without giving much thought to the future. She was going to Court; let that suffice.

Her mother was as excited as she was. Lady Suffolk loved pageantry, and this wedding was going to be one of the great Court occasions.

“You see, my daughter, the King is eager for it. And he and the Queen and Prince Henry will all honor you with their presence.”

There were dances to be learned. What joy! Frances loved to dance. There were curtsies to be practiced. There was advice on a hundred points.

“You’ll do well,” her mother told her, “as long as you are not over-saucy. That might amuse the King, but the Queen and the Prince wouldn’t like it. It is more important that you please the Queen and the Prince than the King. And I doubt not that you will.”

“I have heard, Mother, that girls do not please the King.”

“That is something to keep in the mind and not on the tongue.”

Frances allowed the tip of her tongue to appear between her perfect teeth.

“Great-Uncle Northampton has already warned me,” she said.

“Remember it,” admonished her mother.

How she enjoyed those days! The gaiety, the color, the excitement. What an exhilarating place was London, and what fun it was to ride through the streets and see the women curtsy and the men doff their hats as she passed.

Many of them recognized her, and all seemed to be aware that she was to be married. She sat her palfrey demurely and, with her long hair falling round her shoulders, was a charming sight.

“God bless the little bride!” the people cried.

The bridegroom was somewhat disappointing. She was not sure why. Robert Devereux was a handsome enough boy. But although he was two years older than she was, he seemed younger.

“He has not the incomparable looks of his father,” people said; and others retorted: “Look where they led him.”

But all was well now. The Essex wealth and estates had been returned to young Robert, and James the King was eager to honor him.

The youth of the bridal pair enchanted everyone.

“Of course they are too young as yet….”

“But what an alliance!”

“It’s as well to make it when they’re young, for marriage at twelve and fourteen is as binding as at any other time.”

Binding, pondered Frances. She was bound to this shy boy!

They sat side by side at the wedding feast; he scarcely spoke, but she chattered away; and if she was disappointed in him, he was not with her. He thought his bride all that a bride should be.

She explained to him that the man who had written the masque which was now being performed, and who was taking the principal part in it, was Ben Jonson, the leading dramatist and actor who had been engaged for their pleasure.

“Look at the dancers!” she cried. “And is the scenery not wonderful? Did you know that Inigo Jones made the scenery?”

Robert said that he had heard it was so; and there were not two better artists in the Kingdom than Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones.

Frances clasped her hands together and stared ahead of her at Hymen, who was bringing forward his bride; dancers were springing from the great globe which Jonson was turning; and never had Frances seen such an array of jewels, never such dancing that was both wild and graceful.

“Oh what a wonderful wedding this is!” she cried.

“I am so happy because you are,” Robert told her.

“We shall dance together when the masque is over.”

“I do not dance well,” Robert told her.

“I do. I dance beautifully, and people will look at me, not you.”

“Yes,” said Robert humbly, “I suppose they will.”

“Soon we must speak to the King and Queen,” she told him. “Are you afraid?”

“A little.”

“I am not. I long to speak to them.”

She stared enrapt at the table at which the Royal Family were sitting, and as she did so Prince Henry looked in her direction, and for a few seconds they gazed at each other.

Frances felt suddenly angry.

In the privacy of home the Howards always said that the only family good enough to mate with was the Royal family.

Frances believed it. That boy seated on the right hand of his father, so handsome in a rather ethereal way, was the one who should have been her husband.

If Frances Howard had been married that day to the heir to the throne she would have been completely happy.

Did she want to be Queen then? Was that her ambition? But she had not thought of that until this moment.

There was something about that boy which appealed to her. She thought: If he were my husband I should insist that I was old enough to be truly married.

Yet he might have been slightly younger than she was. He was aware of her though, she was sure of it.