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

“You must not die … yet,” she cried.

But his breathing was becoming rapid and his eyes were glazed.

Now he did not see her at all. He was preparing to make his last journey to Dover.

They had covered his body with a pall of velvet on which lay a white cross and by the light of candles, his gentlemen took turns to watch over him through the night.

They talked of him in whispers while they watched. It was awe inspiring that one who such a short time ago had been a power in the land was now no more.

In her apartments Frances wept and Robert tried to comfort her.

“You must not weep so, my love,” he said. “He was a great man, but old; and death is something we must all come to.”

But what could Robert know? He believed she wept for love of the old man; he could not guess that fear of facing the future without his help terrified her.

Frances was angry with herself. What had happened to her? She had always been bold, going after what she wanted and caring nothing for the consequences. Why should she be so afraid because a man had died in the Tower?

She was feeling stronger and her old vitality was returning to her. She would continue to pay these people but she would let them know that if they attempted to get more than what she considered their dues she would find some means of making them sorry.

Robert was too meek. He did not seize his opportunities. James was so devoted to him that he could have anything he wanted; he was foolish not to take advantage of that. The Queen was insolent to him and to her. There was no reason why they should submit to that. Robert really had no notion of his power. It was up to her to guide him.

At night when they lay together after lovemaking she would talk to him of all he might do, all she expected him to do.

“James may be the King but you could command him, Robert. You are the uncrowned King of England and I am the uncrowned Queen.”

Robert was so delighted to see her coming out of her depression that he was ready to agree. She was continually urging him to act this way and that. Sometimes she would insist that he did not keep an appointment with the King. What did it matter? She asked. James would forgive him.

James always did—although he was a little reproachful.

“It’s not like ye, Robbie,” was all he said sadly.

And Robert began to realize that Frances was right. He was the real ruler of England because James would always do what he wanted.

“Now that my uncle is dead,” said Frances, “you should be the Warden of the Cinque Ports.”

“The wardenship has not been offered to me.”

“Then ask for it.”

He did and it was his.

“What of the Privy Seal?”

“I already hold high posts.”

“The Seal should be yours. Ask for it.”

So he asked and it was his.

James was bewildered. What was happening to his sweet Robbie. His manner was changing; he was a little truculent; and he had never been so before. He asked that he should be Chamberlain, and his father-in-law, Suffolk, Treasurer.

James complied with these requests but he was growing more and more uneasy. For the first time he doubted Robert’s unselfish devotion.

In his residence of Baynard’s Castle on the north bank of the Thames below St. Paul’s, the Earl of Pembroke called a meeting of his friends.

Pembroke had selected these men carefully and they had one emotion in common: they all felt they owed a special grudge to Somerset and there was not one of them who would not have been delighted to see him fall.

“Since the death of Northampton,” said Pembroke when they were all assembled, “Somerset has become more powerful than ever.”

“Warden of the Cinque Ports,” agreed Sir Thomas Lake, “and now the Privy Seal and the Chamberlainship. What next, I wonder.”

“The crown,” joked several of the others simultaneously.

“Why should he want that?” asked Lake bitterly. “It is all but his already; the only drawback is that he cannot wear it.”

“It is no use grumbling together,” insisted Pembroke. “We should act. And it is for this reason that I have asked you to come here this day.”

“Pray tell us what you have in mind,” begged Lake.

“George Villiers,” answered Pembroke. “I have seen the King watching him and I think the moment has come for us to do something about it.”

“Your plan is to substitute this Villiers for Somerset?”

“Exactly. We would coach him; he would be our man. He would work for us in the way Somerset has worked for the Howards.”

“These favorites are apt to become overbearing once they are secure in the King’s favor.”

“Somerset worked well for the Howards.”

“But he has changed lately; have you noticed?”

“I have,” agreed Pembroke. “And that is in our favor. He is becoming arrogant. On one or two occasions I have seen a distinct lack of respect in his manner to the King. This gives me hope.”

“Somerset’s a fool. One would have thought he would have realized that he kept his place through his gentle good nature. If Northampton were alive he would warn him.”

“Or Overbury.”

“Ah, Overbury. That fellow did all his work for him, if you ask me. Advised him too. Somerset without Northampton and Overbury … could be vulnerable.”

“And that,” said Pembroke, “is why we must act quickly. I have presented Mr. George Villiers with clothes in which he will not be ashamed to appear at Court. He was somewhat shabby and although he had good looks enough to make him outstanding in any company, in fine clothes he has the appearance of a young Greek god. The King is aware of him, but hesitates to show him favor because, although I am sure he is turning from Somerset, he turns slowly; and as you know he remains friendly toward those who have once been his favorites, even though others do supplant them.”

“He should be brought more to the King’s notice, this Villiers,” said Lake. “I will buy him a place as cupbearer to the King. What think you of that?”

“Excellent!” cried Pembroke. “That shall be the next step. And very soon I shall approach Her Majesty—who knows of our plan—and ask her to beg the King to give young Villiers a place as one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber.”

The conspirators were now certain that the heyday of the reigning favorite was coming to an end; and they were very gay when they took their leave of Pembroke and rode back to Whitehall.

As they came through Fleet Street, they passed several stalls on which traders had set up their merchandise. On one of these a painter had displayed his work and prominent among it was a picture of Robert Carr.

The party paused to look at it. It was a good likeness.

One of them turned to his groom.

“Take up a handful of mud,” he said, “and throw it at that picture.”

The groom looked amazed. “Did you mean that, sir?”

“I meant it. Do it, man.”

With a grin, the groom obeyed.

The painter who had been hovering close by, watching the party of Court gentlemen and hoping for a sale, stared in astonishment when he saw his best picture ruined.

He dashed out and cried: “Gentlemen, this is a poor joke.”