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

Robert went to the King and angrily told him what had happened, showing him the summons.

James took it and shook his head sadly.

“Why, Robert,” he said, “this is an order from the Lord Chief Justice of England and must be obeyed.”

“But surely—”

“Nay, lad. If the Lord Chief Justice summoned me I must needs answer it.”

Robert was distressed because he had been counting on James’s help to release him from such an unpleasant undertaking, and seeing this a great fear came to James. He could not help wondering why, if Robert were entirely innocent, he should be so distressed.

He took him into his arms and kissed him tenderly.

“Come back soon, Robert,” he said. “I shall be waiting eagerly to welcome you. Sorely shall I miss you and you know my heart goes with you.”

Robert saw that it would be useless to plead with the King. He was summoned by the Lord Chief Justice and he must go.

James stared after him and there were tears in his eyes.

“Goodbye Robert,” he whispered. “Goodbye, my dear one. Something tells me I shall never more see your face.”

Frances waited for doom to touch her.

Those whom she had paid to help her were all in the hands of the law, and perhaps even at this moment confessions were being extorted. The story of Sir Thomas Overbury’s death would be surely unraveled. The attempt on the life of Essex might also be revealed for this was a prelude to the other.

Who would have thought such ill luck could come after all this time?

She had believed Sir Thomas Overbury long since dead and buried—in all respects. She had assured herself that in time even she would cease to dream of him.

And now everyone was talking of him; and the most insistent question of the day was: How did Thomas Overbury die?

What had happened to the life which was going to be so good? She could feel the child move within her—her and Robert’s, the heir to all their greatness, she had once thought. Would the child be the heir to all their sorrows? Would it go through life with the stigma on it: Your mother was a murderess?

Life was intolerable. Her servants were silent in her presence; how could she tell what they said of her when she was out of hearing? How could she know what was said to them of her?

Robert was no longer with her. He had been summoned to help the Lord Chief Justice in his inquiries.

One of her servants came in to her and told her that a messenger was below asking to deliver something into her hands.

She shivered. Every messenger nowadays filled her with fear.

“Bring him to me without delay,” she commanded.

He came, and after giving her a document, withdrew.

She guessed what it was when she saw the signatures. They were all members of the Commission set up to inquire into the death of Sir Thomas Overbury, and among them was the name of Sir Edward Coke.

She was required to keep to her house at Blackfriars if that was ready for her, or go to the house of Lord Knollys, near the Tiltyard. She might choose from either residence but when she had made her choice would be required to keep to her chamber without suffering the access of any person other than her necessary servants until she was acquainted with His Majesty’s pleasure.

This was what she had dreaded.

She was a prisoner.

As she paced up and down her chamber Frances could hear the bells ringing.

She was large with child now being in the seventh month of her pregnancy; and there were times when she wished she were dead. She would be allowed some respite until the child was born; that had been promised her, but when she had recovered from the birth it would be her turn.

Jennet was with her; sometimes she felt she could not bear to see the woman’s eyes fixed on her. They were no longer truculent. Jennet was as frightened as she was. It was clear that Jennet was wishing she had never taken her along to see Anne Turner.

“I wish those bells would stop,” she said.

“They are for Richard Weston,” answered Jennet.

“They sound joyous.”

“They are meant to be … because a poisoner has been discovered and sent to his death.”

“Be silent.”

“Did you expect London to mourn for Weston, my lady?”

Frances did not answer. She sat, her head bent, her fingers pulling at her gown.

“What did he say, I wonder, when they questioned him.”

“He was ever a coward, my lady.”

Frances was overcome by further shivering and Jennet brought her a shawl.

“Jennet,” said Frances, “go out and see his end, and come back and tell me all that happened.”

Jennet rose obediently. As she pushed her way through the crowd to Tyburn, she had convinced herself that she was not to blame. She had done nothing. There was no law against introducing one person to another; and if these people plotted murder together that was no concern of hers.

It was disconcerting to see a man one had known, riding in the cart, and Jennet wished she had not come. The people were all talking about Sir Thomas Overbury.

“I hear he only gave the stuff and was paid well for it.”

“By those that could afford to pay him.”

“Did you hear what he said? It was that he believed the big fish would be allowed to escape from the net while the little ones were brought to justice.”

“Oh, there’s more to this than we have heard. My Lord and Lady Somerset …”

“Somerset!”

“The King won’t have Somerset hurt….”

Jennet was almost swept off her feet, so great was the press.

She looked at the scaffold with the dangling rope. Weston was talking to the priest who rode with him in the cart; the moment had almost come, and the noose was about to be placed round his neck, when a group of galloping horsemen arrived on the scene.

There was a gasp of surprise among the watchers when it was seen that these were led by Sir John Lidcott, who was Sir Thomas Overbury’s brother-in-law.

The hangman paused and Sir John was heard to say: “Did you poison Sir Thomas Overbury?”

“You misjudge me,” answered Weston.

Sir John addressed the crowd. “This man is sheltering some great personages.”

But the hangman continued with his task, saying that he had his orders and Weston had received his sentence.

“The matter shall not rest here,” shouted Sir John. “This is but a beginning.”

The crowd was silent while Richard Weston was hanged.

Jennet made her way back to her mistress. She had little comfort to offer her.

It was indeed a beginning.

A month later Anne Turner was brought out from her prison, after having been found guilty, and condemned to be hanged. She looked very beautiful in her yellow starched ruff, the fashion and color she had always favored and which many had copied, that it was a silent crowd who watched her go to her death and scarcely one voice was raised to revile her.

But every woman who possessed a yellow ruff made up her mind that she would never wear it again; and the fashion Anne Turner had made died with her.

In the early stages of her cross examination she had done her best to shield Frances, but when she realized that the truth was known, when the letters which Frances had written to Forman were produced, when the waxen images were shown to her, she understood that there was no point in attempting to conceal that which had already been discovered.