The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

THE ENEMIES

The marriage of the Princess Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine had been delayed on account of the mourning for the Prince of Wales. Henry had died in November and the wedding did not take place until February, which meant that the Elector and his retinue had to be housed and entertained during that period at a great cost to the royal exchequer. James reckoned that his daughter’s marriage had cost him almost a hundred thousand pounds.

His courtiers had vied with each other to be the most splendidly attired at Court, and James had insisted that his dear Robbie should shine more brightly than any because that was only due to his beauty. Therefore he lavished costly jewels on his favorite; and while his affection was strongest for Robert Carr, he did not forget his other lads, who were handsome enough to show off fine clothes and jewels.

There was the Queen who, although she was prostrate with grief and in any case was not pleased with the marriage of her daughter, still must be expensively clad; and the cost of her wardrobe was only a little less than the six thousand pounds which had been spent on Elizabeth’s wedding clothes and trousseau.

As for James himself, he must remember that he was the King and in the presence of foreigners should make a good show; he was ready to do this as long as his garments were as well padded as they were bejeweled and he was not expected to wash.

So Elizabeth was married in Whitehall Chapel and looked beautiful in her white dress, her golden hair falling about her shoulders, with a crown of pearls and diamonds set on her head. She was led to the chapel by Charles—now growing handsome and with the new dignity upon him of being heir to the throne—and Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton. The Queen had wept quietly while the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the ceremony; and James knew that she was thinking of losing her daughter to a foreigner as she had lost her son to death.

The celebrations which followed the wedding must necessarily be somewhat subdued because although it was three months since Henry’s death he could not be easily forgotten.

It was Robert Carr who suggested that the farewell banquet should be held at his own castle at Rochester; and the King, delighted to see his dear Robbie host to the Court, gladly agreed.

The last farewells had been said and Elizabeth had sailed away from England to her new home, while the Court returned to Rochester Castle to be entertained a few days longer by Viscount Rochester before returning to Whitehall.

The castle which stood on the banks of the Medway was a splendid example of Norman architecture; it had clearly been built as a fortress, situated as it was on a hill with its principal tower offering views of the country and river. Robert Carr was proud to possess it, for it had been the scene of many a historic occasion since it had been built in the year 1088 by the Norman monk Gundulph, who had been Bishop of Rochester and a celebrated architect. It was an ideal place in which to house the Court and that he could do so was an indication of how quickly he had risen since the death of Salisbury.

Robert was being dressed by his servants in his own apartments when the man whom he had come to regard as one of his greatest friends and supporters asked to be admitted.

This was Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, who had assiduously courted the favorite since he had realized the firmness of his hold on the King’s affections.

“Ah,” cried the wily old statesman, “I disturb you.”

“Nay,” cried Robert. “I am all but ready.”

By God, thought Northampton, he is a handsome fellow; and he looks as fresh and young as he did the day he rode into the tiltyard and so cleverly fell from his horse.

“Pray be seated,” said Robert. “I shall be ready to go to the banqueting hall in five minutes or so.”

“Then we will go together,” said Northampton.

It was well to be seen with the favorite; it reminded his enemies that he had friends in the right quarter. Robert, good-natured and easy going, never bothered to ask himself why a haughty Howard should be so anxious for his friendship and when Overbury said: “Why, Henry Howard would not speak to you tomorrow if you lost the King’s favor!” Robert replied: “Why should he?” and left it at that, which meant that while Northampton offered his friendship, Robert Carr was ready to accept it.

Robert dismissed his servants, which was only courteous because he guessed that Northampton did not wish them to overhear their conversation, and since they were both ministers of eminence it was certain that some state matter would be discussed between them sooner or later. Since he had become a Privy Councillor Robert had been aware of the need to watch his tongue before servants.

When they were alone Northampton asked Robert if he knew whether a certain gentleman had been called upon to sign the Oath of Supremacy.

As Robert was able to assure him that this man had not been asked to do so, Northampton was relieved. It was pleasant to be able to ask such a question privately. Northampton was a little worried because he, being a secret Catholic, had no wish to be asked to sign the Oath; and he feared that if the man in question had had such a demand made to him, the invitation to sign might well be extended to himself, Northampton.

The signing of this Oath was a scheme which James had thought up when he was so short of money. It was his plan to force Catholics to sign it and if they refused, to subject them to heavy fines or imprisonment. As the Pope had ordered Catholics not to sign the Oath because it contained sentences which were derogatory to the Catholic Faith, to have signed it would have been a denial of faith. Many Catholics had refused and consequently lost their possessions, which was exactly what James had hoped, since it was to raise money that he had thought of the plan.

Robert had not cared for this scheme because he thought it was wrong to penalize people on account of their religion, and would have preferred to see Catholics living in peace beside Protestants.

It was sometimes, however, his duty to write to Catholics ordering them to take the Oath, and this he did because he always obeyed the King; but he never brought a Catholic to the King’s notice, and did nothing, except when expressly ordered to do so by James, to enforce this unpleasant law.

At the same time he never implied to James that he disapproved of it. It was alien to his nature to offer criticism; he was well aware that if he did so James would demolish this in a moment with some tricky argument; and he knew that James continued to love his Robbie because he was never what the King called a cantankerous body.

Northampton was aware of this quality in Carr and he knew that he could safely ask for information about the penalizing of recusants. If he, Northampton, had been asked to sign the Oath, he supposed he would have signed it; his political career would always mean more to him than any religious faith; but he preferred not to have to make the decision; and thus it was very comforting to have a friend in Robert Carr.

Northampton decided that he was in no danger and went on:

“I have taken a liberty with your hospitality, and I trust you will not think I have presumed on your friendship.”

Robert smiled his charming smile and said: “My dear Northampton, it gives me pleasure that you should presume on my friendship. It shows that you are sure of it.”

“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.

The notion disappeared as quickly as it had come; Robert had never been one to analyze his feelings.

Tom laid down his pen and began to read.

In the letter were the longings of a lover, delicately yet fervently expressed. The poetic strain was there.

Frances would be astonished; yet she would be pleased.

Dr. Forman sat at one side of the table, Frances at the other. He leaned forward on his elbows and moved his expressive hands as he talked; and his eyes, bright with lecherous speculation, never left the beautiful eager face opposite him.

In the darkened room the candles flickered.

He was a witch, of course. Frances had guessed this. She believed that he had made his pact with the devil, and should the witch finders suddenly break into the room and examine him they would doubtless find the devil’s marks on his body.

She did not care. She knew only an unswerving desire.

She wanted Robert Carr to remain her faithful lover; she wanted to inspire in him a fanatic passion to match her own; and she wanted Essex out of the way.

It was for that reason that she made these dangerous journeys to Lambeth. For the sake of what she so urgently needed she was ready to dabble in witchcraft, although she knew that the cult of witchcraft was a crime; the King believed in the power of witches to do evil and he was anxious to drive them out of his kingdom. Death by strangulation or burning was the penalty. Never mind, Frances told herself; she was ready to run any risk for the sake of binding Carr to her irrevocably and ridding herself of her husband.

Forman’s voice was silky with insinuation.

“Dear lady, you must tell me all that happened … spare no detail. Tell me how fervent the lord is in his lovemaking.”

Frances hesitated; but she knew that she must obey this man, for it was only if she told him everything that he could help her.

So she talked and answered the questions which were thrust at her; she saw her interrogator lick his lips with pleasure as though he were partaking in the exercise himself. At first she was embarrassed; then she ceased to be so; she talked with eagerness, and it seemed to her that the special powers of this man enabled her to live again the ecstasy she had enjoyed.

When it was over, the doctor bade her rise; he placed his hands on her shoulders and she imagined some of his strength flowed into her. He waved his hands before her eyes and she dreamed once more that she was with Robert in some dark chamber.

Dr. Forman drew back curtains in one dark corner of the room to disclose among the shadows what appeared to be the head of a horned goat; he repeated incantations and although Frances could not understand the words he used she believed in their powers.

At length the doctor turned to her. “What you ask shall be yours … in time,” he promised her.

She must visit him more frequently and in secrecy, he went on to explain. He wished to make images of the three characters in the drama. “The one of whom we wish to be rid; the one whose affections must increase; and the woman. This will be a costly matter.”

“All that you ask shall be given if you do this for me.”

The doctor bowed his head.

“I will set some of my servants to procure what you will need. They too must be paid for their services.”

“I understand.”

“Call me Father—your sweet father, because that is what I am to you, dear Daughter.”

“Yes, sweet Father,” answered Frances dutifully.

She was now receiving frequent letters from Robert. Their passion astonished her, and it was so poetically expressed that she read them until she knew them by heart.

“Only a lover could write thus,” she assured Jennet. “Do you know, he is changing. He is beginning to feel as deeply as I do. Oh yes, he has changed of late.”

“Does he seem more urgent in his passion?” asked Jennet.

“When we are together he is no more loving than he used to be, but it is his letters in which he betrays his true feelings. How beautiful they are! It is due to the doctor and dear Turner. They are making him dream of me, and my image is for ever in his thoughts.”

She thought of the wax images the doctor had made of the three of them. The figure of Essex had been pierced with pins that had been made hot in the flame of candles; and while this operation was in progress, the doctor in his black robe decorated by the cabalistic signs had muttered weird incantations. The figure of Robert had been dressed elaborately in satin and brocade, and that of Frances was naked. The doctor had asked that she serve as a model for it because it was essential that it should be perfect in every detail. She trusted him completely now; she looked upon him as her dear father so that after the first embarrassment she had posed while the image was made.

She remembered the ritual; the burning of incense which filled the room with aromatic odors and vapors. She remembered how the wax male figure had been undressed until it was as naked as that of the woman. The two figures were then put together on a minute couch and made to go through the motions of making love while fresh heated pins were thrust into the wax figure of Essex.

At first Frances had been repelled but gradually she had become elated by these spectacles she was forced to witness.

She believed in the black magic, for had she not noticed a change in her lover since she had begun to partake in it? There was fresh power in his pen, for only a lover could write the letters he was now writing to her; nor did he wait until there was need to write; the letters came frequently, accompanied by poems in praise of her beauty and the joy their lovemaking brought to him.

From an upper window of the house at Lambeth a woman watched Lady Essex ride away accompanied by her maid.

“Quality this time,” said the woman to herself with a smirk. “I will say this for Simon, he knows how to get hold of the right people.”

She left the window and going to the head of the stairs peered down. All was silence. Where was he now? In that room where he received his clients? Handling the lewd images. Trust him.

What a man!

Jane Forman laughed and wondered how she herself had come to marry him. She had been glad to; there was something about Simon which made him different from every other man she had known. He was a witch.

Once she said to him: “What if I were to betray you to the finders, Simon?”

And he had looked at her in a way which had made her blood run cold. She knew that if she were foolish enough to do that he would make sure she suffered for it. As if she would! What? When he could make such a comfortable living for them!

She reckoned she had been a good wife to him; she had never grumbled when he had seduced the maids. He had told her he needed a variety of women; it was the command of his master that he should have no virgins under his roof because they would have come between him and his work, bringing a purity into the house, and that was not good when one worked with the devil.

She might have argued that Simon had soon sent virginity flying from his house, so that he need not have worked so hard in his master’s cause. But one did not argue with Simon. One was thankful for the good living he made and accepted him, his mistresses and his illegitimate children, of whom that haughty Anne Turner was doubtless one.

The two of them were closeted together for hours at a time. Making plans, he told her, for the treatment of this new client who was the richest that had ever fallen into their hands.

She slowly descended the stairs and made her way to the door of the receiving chamber.

“Simon,” she said, “did you call?”

There was no answer, so cautiously she opened the door and looked in. The smell of incense lingered, but the curtains had been drawn back now to let in a little daylight and the candles were out.

She shut the door quietly behind her and went to the table. There she stood looking round the room. She saw the large box on the bench and opening it, disclosed the wax figures.

She sniggered.

“What a fine gentleman!” she whispered. And there was the lady, with what looked like real hair. And what a figure!

She could imagine the tricks he got up to with them.

Still there was money in it—and they lived by it.

“Mustn’t be caught in here,” she whispered; then she opened the door, looked out, made sure she was unobserved and went quickly and quietly back upstairs.

Robert hurried into the apartment where Overbury sat at work.

“Tom,” he cried, “write me a letter quickly … a letter of regret.”

“To the lovely Countess?” said Overbury with a smile.

“Yes. I had promised to be with her this evening and the King had commanded me to attend him.”

“How inconvenient it sometimes is to be so popular!” murmured Overbury.

“And when it is finished will you take it to Hammersmith for me.”

“To Hammersmith?”

“Yes, I was to meet her there … at the house of a Mistress Turner. I cannot stay now, but you know the kind of things. Your letters delight her. Tell her that I am desolate … you know so well how to put it.”

Robert went off and Overbury returned to his table a little disgruntled. It was one thing to write the flowery epistles, but to be asked to deliver them like some page boy was a little humiliating. And Hammersmith! Mistress Anne Turner! He had heard of the name. He believed she was a connection of Dr. Forman the notorious swindler, who might even be a witch. The man had been in trouble once or twice and called upon to answer for his misdeeds. Surely the Countess of Essex was not involved with people like this!

However, there was nothing to do but write the letter and take it to the woman.

An hour later he was riding out to Hammersmith, but his mood had not improved as he journeyed there. Was it absurd for a man of his talents to be employed thus? It was said in some quarters that Rochester ruled the King and Overbury ruled Rochester; and in that case did not Overbury rule England?

He liked to hear such talk. But at the same time it made it doubly uncomfortable to be riding out as a messenger for illicit lovers.

A maid let him into the house and when he asked to see the Countess of Essex without delay, he was shown into a handsome room. He had not been there many seconds before the door was flung open and a voice cried: “Robert, my dearest …” and then stopped.

The Countess was wearing a low-cut gown which after the new fashion exposed her breasts; her long hair was loose; and there was a silver ruff about her neck.

Her expression grew cold as she looked at him.

“My lady, I bring you a letter from Viscount Rochester.”

She snatched it ungraciously.

“So he is not coming,” she said.

“The King commanded his presence.”

Her mouth was sullen and she looked like a child who, disappointed of a longed-for treat, turns her anger on the one who tells her she cannot have it for a while.

“Return to my lord,” she said, “and thank him for sending you. But you will be in need of refreshment. It shall be given to you in the kitchens.”

“I am in no need of refreshment, my lady, and I do not eat in kitchens. Perhaps I should have introduced myself. Sir Thomas Overbury at your service.”

“Yes, I know you to be a servant of my lord Rochester.”

She turned away, her manner insolent.

Hatred surged up in Overbury. The wanton slut! How dared she. So she had heard of him! Had she heard that he was the man who worked behind the scenes and that it was due to his services that Robert Carr had been able to hold his place with the King’s ministers? How dared she offer him such insolence!

She had gone and he was left standing there.

He did not remain; he went out to his horse and rode hard back to Court.

I shall not forget your insults to me, Lady Essex, he thought.

The September day had been warm and the windows were open to the garden as Jane Forman and her husband sat together while the maids served them with supper.

The doctor was in a mellow mood. The Countess had called that day and that event always pleased him.

Jane wondered how much money he was making from that deal and how long he would be able to keep it going. By surreptitious visits to his receiving room and peeps into the diary he kept—for she could read a little—she knew that the Countess was in love with Viscount Rochester whom all knew was one of the most famous men at Court, and that she wanted to be rid of her husband, the Earl of Essex. Jane knew only one way of getting rid of husbands; also that Simon did not care to sell poisons. He had been in trouble too many times to want more; and supplying poisons could bring him real trouble.

Ah, she thought, one of these days he’ll land up on a gibbet.

And that would not be so good for her, for life here in Lambeth was comfortable, even luxurious, and Jane liked her comforts.

She looked at him steadily, and as the light fell on his face she thought he had aged lately; that his pallor was more pronounced and he looked tired.

He had eaten well and was half dozing at the table; she had no idea therefore that he was aware of her scrutiny.

“Well, wife,” he said suddenly, “what are you thinking of?”

She sometimes believed that he could read her thoughts so she did not lie to him.

“Death,” she said simply.

“What of death?” he asked.

“I was wondering whether you or I would die first. Do you know? But of course you do. You have pre-knowledge of these things.”

“I shall die first,” he said quietly.

She leaned toward him and said quickly: “When?”

“Next Thursday,” he answered.

Jane leaped to her feet. “Thursday!” she cried. “The Thursday that is coming!”

He looked as startled as she did. “Eh?” he cried. “What did I say?”

“You said you would die on Thursday.”

He looked aghast, for he was shaken. He had spoken thoughtlessly, and the words had slipped out almost involuntarily. He was alarmed because on the rare occasions when he had foreseen the future it had happened in this way.

“Forget it,” he said.

But neither of them could.

He already looks older, thought Jane. A little more tired. A little closer to death. A little closer to Thursday.

On Wednesday Jane said jokingly: “Well, you only have one more day to live, Simon. I trust your affairs are in order.”

He laughed with her and she was relieved. He had been joking of course.

On Thursday he said he had business to do at Puddle Dock and took boat there. He was rowing steadily when the oars slipped from his hands and he fell forward.

When they brought his body home Jane could not believe it; although she had on occasions known him to prophesy events which had come true, other prophecies he had made had not, so she could never be sure; this she had not believed, so she was stunned and bewildered.

But when she had recovered a little from the shock she went into that room where he had received his clients. Evidently he himself had not believed the prophecy for he had made no effort to put his affairs in order.

I must destroy these things, said Jane as she took out the wax images, the powders and phials of liquid.

She set them out on the bench and went through the drawers of his private cabinet. There she found his diary and turning the pages read here and there.

It was fascinating, for there was an account of many an intrigue and love affair, and Simon had not hesitated to mention the names of the ladies and gentlemen concerned.

What a story this book could tell!

Jane looked at the more recent entries and read an account of the love affair between Lady Essex and Viscount Rochester with quotations of what Lady Essex had said and done in this room.

She shut the book and then discovered the letters. He had kept every one.

“Sweet Father,” she called him, and signed herself his loving daughter.

Jane made a big fire in the room and sorted out the letters and papers. Among them were spells, incantations and recipes for making certain potions.

Perhaps it was wrong to destroy these things; they might be useful.

So she turned her back on the fire and found a large box in which she placed the images, the recipes, the letters and the diary which gave such lurid accounts of Court intrigues and especially of the most recent involving Lady Essex and the King’s favorite.

“Such sad news!” wrote Mrs. Turner. “I beg of my good sweet lady to come to me without delay. We will console each other.”

At the earliest opportunity Frances went to Hammersmith and the two wept together.

“Everything was beginning to work well,” mourned Frances. “My lord was becoming more in love with me; his letters were wonderful; and I learned that he finds it easier to express himself with the pen than in his actions. I know it is all due to my dear father. What shall we do without him?”

“Do not despair, my dear friend. There are others—though perhaps lacking our father’s great skill. But they exist, and I shall find them.”

“Dearest Anne, what should I do without you?”

“There is no need to do without me. Knowing your need I have already been turning this matter over in my mind. My husband was a doctor, remember. That put me into touch with people who handle and understand drugs.”

Frances was thoughtful. Then she said slowly: “Although the lord had become more loving, that other is a source of great trouble to me. I would I were rid of him. I believe that if I were, the lord would love me even more, for I am aware that the other is never far from his mind. In the course of his state business he often has to write or converse with that other and he does so with the utmost courteousness. The lord is such that he feels uncomfortable at these times and is often a little cooler toward me afterward.”

“It is one point on which I was not always in tune with our sweet departed father. He wished to work on the lovely lord; and he did so with success. But I always felt that we should rid ourselves of the other before we came to complete success.”

“Oh, to be rid of him!” sighed Frances.

“I have many friends in the City,” went on Mrs. Turner “There is a Dr. Savories whom I believed to be as clever as our dear father. I could consult him. He is expensive … even more so than our father; but we cannot hope to go on in quite the same way.”

“You must see this Dr. Savories.”

“I will. And there is a man named Gresham, who foretold the Gunpowder Plot in his almanack, and poor man, he suffered for it, because many accused him of being one of the conspirators. But this was not proved against him and was in fact true prophecy.”

“I know that you will do all in your power to help me, Anne.”

“You many trust me,” answered Mrs. Turner, “and together we will achieve what we set out to—even without our dear father’s help.”

Robert noticed the change in Overbury’s manner which had become cool and withdrawn. He asked what was wrong.

“Wrong?” cried Overbury. “What should be wrong? All goes well, does it not? The King is delighted with my work.”

“It seems to me, Tom, that you are not delighted.”

“Oh, I have grown accustomed to doing the work and seeing you get the praise.”

“If there is anything you wish for …”

“You are generous,” admitted Overbury. “You have never stinted me.”

“And should consider myself despicable if I did. I do not forget, Tom, all you have done for me.”

Overbury was mollified. He was a little under the spell of Robert’s charm. The handsome looks and the good-natured serenity were appealing. It was not Robert who had irritated him, Overbury reminded himself. It was that woman of his.

“I know. I know,” he said. Then: “Robert, can I speak frankly to you?”

“You know I always expect frankness from you.”

“I think you are making a great mistake in seeing so much of that woman.” Robert looked startled and a flush appeared in his cheeks, but Overbury hurried on: “There is something about her which is … evil. Be warned, Robert. What of Essex? You have made a cuckold of him. That would be most unpleasant if it were bruited about the Court.”

For the first time during their friendship Overbury saw Robert angry.

He said shortly: “You have helped me considerably in many ways, but I must ask you not to meddle in my private affairs.”

The two men faced each other; both were unusually pale now for the color had faded from Robert’s face as quickly as it had come. Then without another word Robert turned away and briskly left the apartment.

Fool! said Overbury when the door had shut. Does he not see where this is leading him? That woman will be the destruction of him.

Another and more unpleasant thought quickly followed: And of me. For never was one man’s fortune so bound up in another’s as was Tom Overbury’s with Robert Carr’s.

He paced up and down the apartment. Yet was it so? Many people guessed that the favorite’s sudden abilities could only mean that he possessed a ghost who worked in the shadows. Some knew that Overbury’s was the hand that wrote the letters, the brain which produced the brilliant suggestions. And if Robert Carr should fall from favor, having involved himself in a disgraceful scandal with the wife of Essex, none could blame Thomas Overbury. People might remember that he had been the brains behind the pretty fellow. That was a comforting thought.

Do I need Robert Carr as much as he needs me?

An exciting idea that, which went whirling round and round in his head.

He went to the Mermaid Club where he was always welcomed as the poet who was also the close friend of the most influential man at Court. It was natural that he should be flattered there for he was richer than most of the Club’s patrons and could entertain them with his wit and lively talk of the Court. He had always been cautious, though, never betraying how much he influenced Robert Carr.

But he was reckless that day, and having drunk freely, talked more loosely. With Frances’s insults rankling in his mind, with the curt words of his friend mingling with them, he asked himelf who had the more to lose, himself or Robert?

And there in the Mermaid Club he talked freely of his association with Robert Carr; and when it was said, “So the real ruler is Overbury!” he did not deny it.

But the next morning he considered the state of affairs more soberly and he was uneasy.