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

“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.