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

Then she had cried bitterly: “Woe to the day I met my lady Somerset. My love for her and my respect for her greatness has brought me to this dog’s death.”

She died bravely, making a further confession on the scaffold; and her brother, who held a good post in the service of the Prince of Wales, waited in his coach and then took her body to St. Martins-in-the-Field that he might decently bury it.

The next to die was Sir Gervase Helwys. His crime was that he had known efforts were being made to poison Sir Thomas Overbury but had done nothing to stop the crime; in fact he had made of himself an accessory by allowing the murder to take place under his eyes.

He was followed by Franklin.

There was a little time left to her, Frances knew, because of the child she carried.

They would not bring a pregnant woman into the Court.

“There is only one thing I can do,” she told Jennet; “and that to die. I shall never survive the birth of my child.”

Jennet could not comfort her, she was too fearful for her own safety. Weston had been right when he had said that small mercy was shown to the little fish.

But everyone was waiting for the big fish to be caught in the net; and there was growing indignation throughout the country because four people had been hanged already for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury and the chief murderers had as yet not been brought to trial.

“What shall I do?” moaned Frances. “What can I do?”

On a dark December day her child was born.

Her women brought the baby to her and laid it in her arms.

“A little girl,” they told her.

She looked at the child and pity for her state was so great that the tears fell on to the child’s face.

“The child is born,” she said, “and I still live. Oh, what will become of me?”

She was in great despair because she knew now that soon she must be brought to justice.

It occurred to her then that if she named her daughter Anne the Queen might be pleased and would surely do something to help her namesake; and how could she best help this child than by showing a little comfort to her mother?

So the Lady Anne Carr was christened; but Queen Anne and all the Court ignored the event.

Frances now understood that there was to be no special treatment. She must face her judges.

THE TRIAL OF THE BIG FISH

W hen Jennet came to tell her that the guards were below, Frances began to weep quietly.

“They will separate me from my baby,” she said.

“The child will be well looked after,” Jennet assured her.

“They will take me to the Tower, Jennet.”

“My lord Somerset is already there, my lady.”

“What will become of us all?” moaned Frances.

Jennet thought of the dangling bodies of Weston, Anne Turner, Sir Gervase Helwys and Franklin, and she was silent.

Along the river from Blackfriars to the grim fortress. Never had it looked more forbidding. Under the portcullis; the impregnable walls closing about her.

Here they had brought Thomas Overbury. How had he felt when they brought him in? It had never occurred to her to wonder until now.

Thomas Overbury, who had been brought here for no crime, who had been sentenced to death not by a Court of law but by Frances, Countess of Somerset!

She was overcome by a chill fear.

What if they were to take her to the cell where he had died in agony? What if his ghost remained there to haunt her in the dead of night? He had haunted her since his death in one way; but what if he were to come to her when she was alone in her cold cell?

She began to scream: “Where are you taking me? You are taking me to Overbury’s cell. I won’t go there. I won’t.”

The guards exchanged glances, believing those to be the protests of a guilty woman; but she was so beautiful even in her grief, that they were sorry for her.

“My lady,” they said, “we are taking you to the apartments recently vacated by Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“Raleigh,” she repeated; and she thought of Prince Henry who had talked to her of that great adventurer and told her that he had often visited him in prison.

How life had changed for them all! Henry dead; Raleigh preparing to leave for Orinoco; she herself a prisoner about to stand her trial for murder.

She looked about the room over the portcullis; she sat at the table where Raleigh had worked and she buried her face in her hands.

What will become of me? she asked herself.

It was late May when Frances was brought from the Tower to Westminster Hall. Crowds had gathered in the streets because the case had aroused greater interest than any within living memory. The people were angry that the humbler prisoners should have been so promptly brought to justice while the Earl and Countess, who, it appeared, had been the authors of the crime, were allowed so far to go unpunished.

“Justice!” grumbled the mob. “Let us have justice.”

This was a State trial and all the trappings of ceremony must be observed. Many of the foremost lords led by the Lord Chancellor Ellesmore had been summoned to appear; everyone wanted to be at the trial; and many of the lesser nobility traveled up from the country for the express purpose of seeing the Countess of Somerset brought to justice.

The bells were chiming as the Lord Chancellor followed the six sergeants-at-arms, all carrying maces, into the hall. After him came all the dignitaries of the Court. The Lord High Steward and the peers of the realm. There was the Recorder, somberly clad in black; and Sir George More, the Lieutenant of the Tower, who had taken the place of the executed Helwys, was already at the Bar.

The Sergeant Crier demanded silence while the indictments were read; and when this was done he cried in a voice which could be heard all over the court: “Bring the prisoner to the Bar.”

The Lieutenant of the Tower disappeared for a few minutes and when he returned he brought Frances with him.

She was very pale and her lovely eyes betrayed her fear. She was dressed in black with a ruff and cuffs of finest lace; and as she stood at the Bar and raised her eyes toward the Lord High Steward she looked so exquisite that she might have stepped, exactly as she was, from a picture frame.

“My Lords,” began the Lord High Steward, “you are called here today to sit as peers of Frances, Countess of Somerset.”

A voice echoed through the Court: “Frances, Countess of Somerset, hold up your hand.”

Frances obeyed.

The accusation of murder was then read to her in detail and when it was finished the Clerk of the Crown cried in a resonant voice: “Frances, Countess of Somerset, what say you? Are you guilty of this felony and murder, or not guilty?”

Everyone in the hall was strained forward to hear her reply.

She gave it unfalteringly, because, knowing her letters to Forman and Anne Turner were in the hands of her judges, there was only one answer she could give.

“Guilty,” she answered.

The trial was not long. Because she had confessed her guilt, there was no need then to bring out those lewd wax figures, those revealing letters. But it did not matter; many of these people had already seen the images, heard the letters read.