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

THE WEDDING

Overbury dead!

Frances was dizzy with glee. But what of the divorce? Oh, if it were only possible to give the old Archbishop a clyster.

She heard from Robert and her great-uncle that but for the Archbishop of Canterbury they would have the divorce by now. It seemed the old fool had a conscience and even the fear of the King’s displeasure could not make him offend that.

Why, in God’s name, if two people wanted to divorce each other, couldn’t they? demanded Frances. What had it to do with old men who had finished with life and could not understand the passions of the young?

The King, eager to have the matter done with, because it was causing too much talk throughout and beyond the Court, sent for his Archbishop and asked how the cause was going?

George Abbot looked grave.

“It is a cause for which I have little liking, Your Majesty,” he said.

James looked impatient. “Why, man, we all find ourselves facing distasteful problems at times. Then the best advice is to do the work with all speed and have the matter done with.”

“Your Majesty, this is not a matter which can be settled with a yea or a nay, and it grieves me that you should reproach me for listening to my conscience.”

“What grief can there be to your conscience if the Lady Frances is no longer the wife of the Earl of Essex?”

“It is no concern of mine, Your Majesty, whether the Lady Frances be the wife of the Earl of Essex or another. But I cannot give a verdict which I do not believe to be just. That is my problem, Sire. I am fifty-one and have never yet muffled my conscience when called upon to do my duty. It grieves me that I must displease Your Majesty and it is a matter of desolation that this verdict should be of importance to you. But if I said yea when I meant nay, then you might say that a man who did not serve his conscience could not be trusted to serve his King.”

James saw that the Archbishop was deeply moved and his sense of justice forced him to admit that the priest was right.

But what a pother to make about the matter! And Robert would not be happy until he had his bride; the Howards were also eager for the match.

Nevertheless he laid a gentle hand on the Archbishop’s arm.

“You’re an honest man, I know well. But it is my wish that the Lady Frances should be divorced from the Earl of Essex.”

The Archbishop was on his knees. This was indeed a trial of strength. If he fell from royal favor through this matter, then fall he must. A man of God must obey his conscience.

He felt strengthened when he rose; he knew exactly what he would say to the Commission when it assembled. He was going to show those men that there was no true reason why this marriage should be severed except that two people—one a woman belonging to a family of influence, the other a favorite of the King—desired to marry. If this divorce were granted it would be a blow to marriage throughout the country. It would never be forgotten; women would be accusing their husbands of impotency when they sought to marry someone else. Everything that he, as a man of the Church, had ever believed in, cried out against it.

He could feel the power of his eloquence. He was certain that he could sway those men the way in which they must go; even those who had received favors from the King, and those who were promised more, must surely reject them for the sake of their immortal souls.

He knew he could count on five honest men, and these were led by the Bishop of London. No matter what the consequences to themselves they would vote as they thought right. But the remaining seven? He was not sure of them—though he knew that some of them had already taken their bribes.

With great confidence he awaited the arrival of the Commissioners at Lambeth. He was well prepared for he was certain he had been inspired. He would work on them with the zest and fire of truth; he would make them see the sin they were committing by selling for wealth and honors their right to decide.

When they were all assembled he rose to speak, but before he could do so a messenger from the King arrived and said he had a command from His Majesty.

“Pray tell us this,” said the Archbishop.

“That, my lord, you spend no further time in talking one with another. It is His Majesty’s command that you give the verdict and that alone.”

The Archbishop felt deflated. The brilliant speech he had prepared would never be uttered. He saw that the men who he suspected were going to vote in favor of the divorce were delighted; they were eager to have done with the business and retire, their favors earned.

One could not disobey the command of the King. The vote was taken.

Five against the divorce; seven in favor of it.

“A majority!” cried Northampton when he heard the news. “At last we are triumphant!”

Frances received the news with rapture.

Overbury dead! Herself no longer the wife of Essex and free to marry the man she loved!

Everything that she had longed for, schemed for, was hers.

“I am the happiest woman in the world,” she told Jennet.

James was thankful that that unsavory matter was at an end. Now let it be forgotten. Let Robert marry as soon as he liked; and let everyone forget that Frances Howard had ever been Frances Essex.

There were other troubles. It was a sorry thing to see tradesmen calling at the palace and threatening the servants that they would deliver nothing more until their bills were paid. Small wonder that people compared this Stuart with the Tudors. Imagine anyone asking Henry VIII or Elizabeth to settle a bill!

James had little royal dignity; he was too ready to laugh at himself and see the other person’s point of view. All the same, having tradesmen demanding payment of bills was something he could not tolerate.

He told Robert about it. “A sorry state of affairs, Robbie. And here am I wanting to give ye the grandest wedding the Court has ever seen!”

“Your Majesty must not think of me. You have already been over generous.”

“You’ve had nothing more than you deserve, lad. You look sad. And you about to be a bridegroom!”

“I am sad because of Your Majesty’s plight.”

“Why, bless you, boy, old Dad has been in difficulties before. We’ll think of a way.”

Robert did think of a way. He gave twenty-five thousand pounds to the treasury.

When James heard of this he wept with emotion.

“The dear lovely laddie,” he kept saying. “God bless his bonny face.”

He knew of a way to reward his lad.

“Robbie,” he said one day, “it seems Viscount Rochester is a title hardly worthy of you.”

“I am grateful for receiving it at Your Majesty’s hands.”

“I know that, lad. But I’d like to see you on a level with the best. You are, of course; but I want them to have to recognize it too. Ye’re going to be an Earl.”

“Your Majesty!”

“My wedding present to you and the lady.”

“Your Majesty, how can I …? What can I …?”

“Ye deserve it, boy.”

Robert’s eyes were bright with excitement. How pleased Frances would be!

A few days later James created him Earl of Somerset.

Frances was being dressed by her women. She had chosen white for her wedding gown and she wore diamonds; with her golden hair about her shoulders, she had never looked as beautiful as she did on that day.

She refused to think of the dead body of Sir Thomas Overbury, but it was significant that she had to admonish herself on this point. Why should she think of a man who was dead? What was he to her now?

“Oh, my lady,” cried one of the maids, “there could never have been such a beautiful bride.”

Jennet was settling the white ruff about her neck, her eyes downcast.

“Just as a bride should be,” went on the garrulous maid. “White for innocence, they say.”

Frances turned sharply to look at the maid; had she caught a glance passing between her and one of the others? Were they whispering about her in corners?

She had to suppress an impulse to slap the girl’s face.

She must be watchful.

She turned to Jennet; Jennet’s eyes were still lowered. Was that a smile she saw curving her lips?

They wouldn’t dare, she assured herself. She was over-wrought. But was this how it was going to be in future? Must she be watchful, furtive; must she always be asking: How much do they know?

Frances was led into the chapel at Whitehall by her great-uncle Northampton and the Duke of Saxony, who was visiting England.

This wedding was attracting as much attention and almost as much pageantry as that of the Princess Elizabeth. The King had expressed his desire that no expense should be spared; Whitehall was to be the setting; and the Banqueting Hall was festooned and decorated with a brilliance rivaling that displayed for the wedding of the King’s daughter.

Robert Carr’s desire for a wife had in no way diminished the King’s affection; and now that the favorite had his earldom it seemed that he could climb no farther. His task in future would be to hold his place at the very heights of power.

Chief advisor and favorite of the King, joined through marriage to the most powerful family in the land—it seemed that at last he was secure.

Frances could not help thinking when the Bishop of Bath and Wells married her to Robert, of that occasion when the same man had married her, in the same place, to another Robert. She dismissed the memory as hastily as she could; she need never again think of Robert Devereux. It must be as though they had never met. He could now go his way and she hers.

She must be happy. Here was Robert smiling beside her; and there was no doubt of his satisfaction. He was respectably married; no more secret meetings, no more furtive messages.

No more fear—only ecstasy.

In the Banqueting Hall was a scene of great magnificence. The King, Queen and Prince of Wales had taken their seats, and beside the King sat the bridegroom and beside the bridegroom his wife.

A curtain was drawn back to display a scene of such fantasy that all those watching gasped with astonishment. Above was an impression of cleverly painted clouds, and below this, a sea on which boats appeared to move as though with the wind. On either side of the seascape were promontories, rocks and woods. Now the dancers came forward, each significantly garbed to indicate a certain quality. First came the villains: Error, Rumor, Curiosity; these were followed by Harmony and Destiny, the latter represented by three beautiful girls. Then there were Water and Fire, the Earth and Eternity, followed by the Continents—Africa, Asia and America. The costumes were brilliant in color and planned to give a clue to the watchers as to what their wearers represented before they sang their songs of explanation.

Queen Anne, who enjoyed such pageantry more than any other member of the royal family, watched intently, waiting for the moment when she would be called upon to play her little part, for she could never bear to be left out of these occasions; and when the three Destinies brought toward her a golden tree, she plucked a branch from it and presented it to one of the knights who came forward to kneel and receive it. This was the moment for a chorus to appear and break into song, extolling the virtues of the newly married pair.

Then from pillars of gold which had stood on each side of the big stage, maskers appeared; there were six of them and their garments glittered as they came before the royal party and the bride and bridegroom.

They began to dance, twisting, turning and leaping; and as they danced they sang:

“Let us now sing of Love’s Delight,

For he alone is Lord tonight.

Some friendship between man and man prefer,

But I the affection between man and wife.

“What good can be in life

Whereof no fruits appear

Set is that tree in ill hour

That yields neither fruit nor flower.

“How can man perpetual be

But in his own posterity.”

Everyone applauded this, even the King, who might have thought it a slur on his own nature but for the fact that his own son, tall, handsome, becoming as charming a prince as the brother who had died, was sitting there with himself and the Queen.

The curtain fell and when it rose again a scene of London and the Thames was displayed, with barges from which merry sailors alighted to perform their dances and sing their songs.

Frances watching all the pageantry which had been arranged for her delight, determined to thrust aside those niggling little worries which beset her. The future was going to be glorious. There would be no question of her living in the country with her new husband. It would be the gaiety of the Court all the time; and there would not be a woman more respected than the Countess of Somerset, for her husband was, in all but name, the ruler of England.

How happy I am! she thought; but it was necessary to keep reminding herself that she was.

Robert had no such qualms; he was in truth happy. The wretched divorce was over; he was truly married to the woman he loved, and James was behaving like a benign father who could not honor a beloved son enough.

It was true he had enemies, but that was inevitable. Many of these people gathered here tonight who had brought costly wedding presents would be ready and eager to turn against him tomorrow if he were to lose the King’s favor. That was human nature and something every man must be prepared for.

Northampton was his friend. He was sure of that. There was a family bond between them now, and it was good to have such a strong man for a friend. The presents he had given showed the world how much he approved of the wedding. The gold plate alone must have cost some fifteen hundred pounds; and the sword he had presented to Robert had a hilt and scabbard of pure gold. James’s gifts of course had excelled all others; the earldom was not universally recognized as a wedding present, so there had been ten thousand pounds’ worth of jewels from the King.

They were rich; they were powerful; they were in love. What could they lack?

There were some men though who made Robert uneasy. One of these was Sir Thomas Lake, an ambitious man who had been at Court in the time of Queen Elizabeth and had acted as secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. Lake had assiduously courted the new Earl of Somerset, and had given six beautiful candle sticks as a wedding present; but he was eagerly watching for advancement and Robert did not entirely trust his friendship.

There was Sir Ralph Winwood who had shown great deference but there he was in his plain garments, refusing to put on silks and brocades or fine jewels. He was a stern Puritan and wished all to know it; and his speech was as plain as his garments. For all that, he was an ambitious man; and on returning to England from service abroad had quickly seen that if a man would advance in England he must be a friend of the King’s favorite.

There was another who caused Robert to feel uneasy. This was Count Gondomar, the new Spanish ambassador, a very handsome gentleman, with attractive manners, always fastidiously attired, gallant in the extreme, but with a pair of alert black eyes which missed little.

Robert suspected that Gondomar had those eyes trained on him; and among the presents which arrived was a casket of jewels which he suspected to be worth at least three hundred pounds. The Count of Gondomar dearly wished, said the accompanying note, that his little gift would give pleasure to the bridegroom.

The sight of those jewels had startled Robert because he had heard it whispered that some ministers actually received bribes from Spain. That was something he would never do; and the more he looked at those jewels, the more uneasy he became, for it seemed to him that there might be more in the little casket than a wedding gift.

He had written at once to the Count to tell him that it was good of him to send such a handsome gift, but that he never accepted anything without first having obtained the King’s permission to do so.

Such a comment must have been very unusual to the Spanish ambassador who had so many good friends at the English Court. It meant that this Earl of Somerset was a most extraordinary man because he was not to be won by bribes.

When Robert told James of the incident the King had smiled tenderly.

“Take the jewels, Robbie,” he said. “I know you to be beyond bribing. So you wrote to the Spaniard, eh? Well, well, it’ll be good for him to know there’s one honest man at Whitehall.”

So Robert accepted the jewels, but seeing the Count at the wedding festivities he remembered the incident.

He would have to go very carefully now that he no longer had Overbury to help him.

Frances was watching his perplexed looks and she whispered: “Does aught ail you, sweetheart?”

He smiled quickly. “Nay, I was thinking of poor Tom Overbury and it made me sad to remember how we parted and that I shall never see him again.”

A shiver ran through her.

This is our wedding day, she wanted to cry. We have won. We are together. Are we never to forget?

So they were together at last. Robert was happy.

“No longer now,” he said, “need we fear that we are being spied upon. We are legally married. This is how I always longed for it to be.”

“And I, my love,” she told him.

If he but knew how she had worked for this; how she had schemed and planned, first against Essex, then against Overbury!

She longed to tell him that he might understand something of the measure of her love for him. She wanted to cry: “This I have done for you.”

But she dared not tell him. He would be shocked beyond expression. Perhaps his feelings would change toward her if he knew.

No, she must enjoy this perfect night—for perfect it must be.

Yet when he made love to her she could not shut out of her mind those waxen figures—the naked woman with the hair that looked like real hair, lying on the minute couch with the naked model. She could almost smell the overpowering incense which had burned in Dr. Forman’s room.

And it was as though a mocking ghost was in that room. The ghost of Sir Thomas Overbury who, not so long before, had been murdered in the Tower of London.

But the next day she was the gay young bride. The Christmas festivities and those of the wedding took place at the same time, for the couple had been married on the 26th December. There followed a week of merrymaking, for the New Year was at hand and James would have the New Year celebrated with as great a show of masking and feasting as Christmas.

Frances was so proud sitting in the tiltyard on New Year’s Day—a member of the King’s party, which she would be now, for Robert was always near the King and in future she would always be near Robert.

“Never, never to part,” as she had told him.

All the noblest of the lords were tilting on that day; and they thought it an honor to wear the yellow and green colors of the Earl of Somerset or the white and mulberry of the House of Howard.

This is how it will be in future, thought Frances. Everywhere we go we shall be honored.

The Lord Mayor of London, at the King’s command, entertained the royal couple, and the people watched the processions as they rode through the street.

There was some murmuring in the crowds, and men and women joked together: If you’re tired of your husband, ladies, just complain that he’s impotent. You’ll be in noble company.

“Who is this Scotsman?” asked others. “Why should we be taxed to buy his jewels? It’s time the King grew out of lapdogs.”

But they enjoyed processions, and the young Countess of Somerset was a beautiful bride; she smiled and waved to the people in a friendly fashion and they forgot to be angry when they looked at her.

One of Frances’s presents was a handsome coach but neither she nor Robert had horses fine enough to draw it and could not procure them in time for the procession. As Sir Ralph Winwood was a connoisseur of horses and had some of the best in England in his stables, Robert asked him if he would lend them two pairs for this occasion.

Sir Ralph’s reply was to send the horses without delay. “So great a lady as the Countess of Somerset should not use borrowed horses,” he wrote, and he begged her to accept them as a gift.

Frances, delighted, showed the note to Robert, but he frowned.

“My love,” he said, “we must be careful from whom we accept gifts.”

“But he has so many horses and he wants to give them.”

“He wants a post at Court. The secretaryship, I believe. I cannot have him think that by giving you four fine horses he can buy my support.”

He immediately wrote a note of thanks to Winwood telling him that his wife could not accept such a costly gift; but Frances was so disappointed and Winwood so eager to make the present, that at last Robert relented; and Frances rode through the city in her fine coach drawn by four of the most magnificent horses ever seen.

And Sir Ralph Winwood, watching her, congratulated himself that he had done a very wise thing.

She should have been happy, for Robert was a tender husband; she loved his simplicity; and it seemed a marvelous thing to her that one who had been so long at Court should have retained an innocence.

He was so different from her. Was that why she loved him so passionately? Perhaps. For her love did not diminish with marriage; rather did it grow.

Yet she would sometimes wake at night, sweating with terror. How strange this was, when before she had not had a qualm of conscience! When she had been working toward her goal she had thought of one thing only—success. And now she had achieved it she was unable to forget the road she had come to reach it.

What had started this? Was it a look in the eyes of Jennet when she had spoken sharply to her? Was Jennet reminding her that she knew too much?

Jennet had always been a saucy girl; she had shown respect it was true, but there had often been a suggestion of mockery beneath it.

“Jennet,” she had said, “would you like this gown? I have scarce worn it and I think it would become you.”

Jennet had taken it with less gratitude than a maid should show to her mistress.

“I’ll swear you’ve never had such a gown,” said Frances.

“No, my lady.”

“Yet you do not seem surprised to possess it.”

“I know my lady is grateful to me. We have been through so much together … to reach this … happiness.”

Then Frances remembered the darkened room, the incense, the low almost caressing voice of Dr. Forman; and Jennet watching in the shadows.

She would like to rid herself of Jennet; but Jennet knew too much. She dared not.

She, Frances Howard, dared not rid herself of a servant!

It was small wonder that she sometimes awoke in fright.

“My lady, there is a female to see you.”

“A female? Ask what she wants. No … no … One moment. What sort of a female?”

The fear had touched her again. She must go carefully. There was so much to hide.

“A respectable looking female, my lady.”

“I will see her. Bring her to me.”

They brought her; and the door was shut on them leaving them alone together.

“My name is Mrs. Forman, my lady. You were a friend of my husband’s, the late Dr. Forman.”

“I think you are mistaken.”

“Oh no, my lady. You wrote to him often you remember. He called you his daughter and to you he was ‘Sweet Father.’”

“Who told you this?”

“He used to show me his letters. I have them still. You see I was his wife and I worked with him. That is why, now he is gone, I have fallen on evil times and I thought that as such a good friend of the doctor—”

The woman must not know that she was afraid. She smiled and said: “Why, if times are hard with you, you must allow me to help you.”

Give them money. It was easy. There was so much money.

“My lady,” said Dr. Franklin, “the potions I procured for you were very costly. My experiments demanded a lavish use of these. I neglected other clients to serve you and, my lady, I find I have lost two hundred pounds this year because of this.”

“Two hundred pounds this year?”

“Two hundred pounds a year, my lady, would satisfy me well, with a little extra for food and my boat hire.”

Franklin smiled at her, the lazy smile of power. These people were no longer humble as they had been. They had worked for her and as a result a man had died. That was something they could not forget.

How many more of them? she wondered. There was Mrs. Turner’s maid, Margaret, who had run many errands to find what the lady had needed; there was Mrs. Turner’s manservant, Stephen. They all wanted their little rewards—their silence money.

There was Mrs. Turner herself—not that she would do anything so vulgar as to ask for money. But they had been dear friends, had they not? That friendship must not cease because they had achieved success together.

“Sweetest lady,” said Anne Turner, “I’ll confess I am never happy away from your side. We worked well together did we not? It is foolish of me but I am almost sorry that we have successfully completed our task and I can no longer be of service to you.”

Mrs. Turner was therefore often a guest at the house of the Earl and Countess of Somerset and it was a great pleasure to her to be at Court again.

So, much as Frances tried to forget Sir Thomas Overbury, these people would not allow her to. It seemed that every day there was someone or some thing to remind her.

She became ill and Robert was anxious.

“What ails you, my love?” he asked her. “You seem nervous. Are you worried?”

“Nay, Robert,” she said. “I am well.”

“But you are not,” he told her tenderly. “You have changed. Others have noticed.”

“I think the long delay over the divorce was more upsetting than I realized. I so longed for it to be over.”

“Well now it is, and we can forget it.”

You may, she thought. But how can I?

She had thought it so simple to murder a man who stood in the way. But it seemed it was not.

Overbury haunted her. He would not let her forget. It was true she saw no ghost; but ghosts took many forms; they did not always have to materialize in order to make themselves felt.

Robert, alarmed for her health, took a house in Kensington for her, but as it did not improve there they went to Chesterfield Park; then Robert decided that she must see the King’s physician, and James himself insisted on this. He could not have his Robbie worried after all the trouble they had had to get him married.

So Robert bought a house in Isleworth, and the King’s doctor, Burgess, attended the Countess.

He could not understand what was undermining the Countess’s health, but he believed she would be well when the spring came.

That was a cold winter; the Thames itself was frozen and there was no escaping the bleak cold winds.