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

DR. FORMAN

Riding from Dover to London the thoughts of Robert Devereux were pleasant. It was good to be home after so long an absence and he was very much looking forward to seeing his wife who was now at Court; but, he promised himself, they would not remain long there. He and Frances would soon be riding northward. He was certain that she would be as delighted with Chartley Castle as he had always been.

He had never craved for the Court life. No doubt this was because he could never really escape from the ghost of his father. The first Earl of Essex—Robert Devereux like himself—had been too famous a man, beloved of the Queen, as great a favorite with her as this man Robert Carr was with her successor; and then, still young, he had lost his head. It was too colorful a life to be forgotten; and to be the son of such a man meant that wherever he went people recalled his father.

No, it would be Chartley for him and his young wife. He would teach her to love the place as he did. She would enjoy being the first lady of the district; and how the people would love her!

He had thought of her steadily during his absence; he remembered how she had smiled at their wedding; how they had danced together; how her eyes had sparkled. Dear little Frances! It was not his proud prejudice which had assured him that she was the loveliest girl at Court.

They were very different, he knew. Perhaps that was why she attracted him so much. He was too serious for his age. Being some ten years old when his father had gone to the scaffold had left a mark on him. He still remembered those years which followed his father’s death when poverty loomed over himself and his family. His two brothers had died when they were young; but he and his little sisters, Frances and Dorothy, had often wondered what would become of them.

Then fortune had changed. The King saw fit to restore his estates; and, more than that, took a special interest in one whose father he believed had been treated badly by Queen Elizabeth. Not only had his estates been restored to him, but he was given a wife—a young lady of rank and outstanding charm.

He could not wait to see her again, and as he drew nearer to London he gave himself up to pleasant imaginings of their reunion.

In an ante-room in the Palace of Whitehall Robert Devereux waited.

He had seen Frances’s father, the Earl of Suffolk, who had sent for her.

“I’ll swear,” said the Earl, “that you would prefer to be alone together.”

Robert admitted that this was so, and at any moment now she would appear.

Then she was there—framed in the doorway—certainly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, dressed in becoming blue, her golden curls loose about her shoulders.

“Frances!” he cried and went to her so quickly that he had not time to notice the sullen set of her lips.

He took her hands in his; then he dropped them that he might cup her face in his hands; he kissed her lips. Hers were very unresponsive.

Dear pure child, he thought, momentarily exultant, but almost immediately he asked himself whether she was as glad to see him as he was to see her.

“I am home at last.”

“So it seems, my lord.”

“Oh, Frances, how you have grown! Why, when I went away you were only a child. Are you pleased to see me? I have been longing for this day. Do not think that, although I have been away from you, I have not thought of you constantly. Have you thought of me?”

“I have thought of you,” said Frances; and it was true; she had thought of him with growing regret and repugnance; and his presence did nothing to diminish these emotions.

“I see,” he went on, “that you are shy of me. Dear little wife, there is nothing to fear.”

She turned away from him and, with sick disappointment in his heart, he sought to cajole her.

“Why, Frances, you are young as yet and—”

She shook herself free of the arm which he had placed about her.

“Please let me alone,” she said quietly but with determination. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

“Have your parents not talked to you …?”

“I do not want to listen to my parents. I only want to be left alone.”

He stared at her blankly; then he smiled tenderly.

“Of course, this is a shock to you. You are so young. I forget how young. You did not want to leave your parents, your family … but you will grow accustomed to the idea. After all, we are married, Frances.”

The words were like the strokes of doom in her ears.

She was married; and there was no escape.

But hope came with his next words. “The last thing I want is to make you unhappy, Frances. You need time to get used to me … and the idea of marriage. Have no fear. I do not want to hurry. We have all our lives before us.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was quiet and grateful.

Time. If she had time she might think of something she could do to escape this cruel fate.

She was truly frightened; so much so that she gave way to tears.

Jennet tried to calm her; her mistress’s tears alarmed her.

“He wants me to go to the country, Jennet. The country! I shall die of melancholy. You know how I hate the country. It is better to be dead than live there. I won’t go to the country. What can I do? What can I do?”

Jennet was thoughtful; then she said quietly: “There are ways.”

“What ways? What?”

“You remember how I procured a powder for you which made you irresistible to my Lord Rochester?”

“Yes, Jennet.”

“Well, mayhap I could procure a powder which would make my Lord Essex so loathe you that he would wish to be rid of you.”

“Do it, Jennet. Do it without delay.”

“It is not as easy as that.”

“You mean it would cost money. You know I can find money. I have my jewels. I will give anything to escape from Essex.”

“You are married to him and escape will be difficult. It may well be that even if he loathes you he will still make you live as his wife. If he took you to Chartley, loathing you, you would be very little less unhappy than if he loved you.”

Frances paced up and down the apartment. Then she cried suddenly: “I will see my Robert. I will tell him of my predicament. He is the most powerful man at Court. He will know what to do.”

Robert Carr embraced her with tenderness. His emotions were more engaged than he had believed possible. Frances’s vitality was incomparable; she was a passionate mistress; and he would be really sorry to lose her.

On this day she was clearly disturbed.

“Oh, Robert,” she cried, “you must know what has happened to me. I am desolate. But I know that you will save me. You are all powerful. No one would dare disobey you.”

“Do be calm,” he implored, “and tell me all about it.”

“My husband is home and he wants to take me away from Court … to the country.”

“But it is natural that he should.”

“Natural!” she stormed. “Why should he not stay at Court? Why should he want to bury me in the country … even if he does himself?”

“It is usual for wives to live with their husbands.”

“Robert, you can stand there so calmly … !”

“My dear Frances, ours has been a charming friendship.”

“A charming friendship! Is that all it is to you?”

“How I wish it could be more. But you are not free.”

She threw herself against him; she gripped his arms and stared into his face. “Robert, if I were free, would you marry me?”

“My dearest Frances, you are not free.”

She stamped her foot. “If I were, I said. If I were.”

“Ah, if they had not married you to Essex, how different everything would be.”

“Then you would marry me?”

Marry a daughter of the Howard family, one of the first in the country—rich, influential? Certainly he would. He had hesitated over Anne Clifford; but he would not over Frances Howard.

“Of course I would marry you,” he said truthfully.

“My dearest. My love!” she cried in ecstasy.

“You have forgotten something, my dear. You are not free to marry, having already a husband.”

“I shall never forget what you have just said, Robert. Never.”

“I shall always remember you.”

“You talk as though we are saying goodbye.”

A look of pained surprise crossed his handsome face. “Alas, but we are,” he said.

“Robert, I shall never say goodbye to you. I shall never give up hope. You can prevent my going to the country. You can ask the King to command that we stay here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That would be most unwise.”

“Unwise! What has wisdom to do with love like ours.”

“Ah,” he sighed. “You are right. We have been unwise. And I fear the consequences if you remained at Court. What when your husband discovered that we were lovers?”

“Let him discover.”

Robert moved away from her. She was being rather ridiculous. While James had no objection to a love affair he would not be pleased by scandal. James disliked the sort of scandal that could easily arise if Essex discovered he had been forestalled. It could do endless harm. No, the affair was over. He was regretful, but he knew he would grow less so as the days passed. She had been a charming mistress and he had been far from indifferent. In fact, he could sincerely say that he had never cared for a woman as he had cared for her; but that did not imply that he was the victim of a grand passion.

Frances was staring at him in horror. She had sensed the shallowness of his feelings compared with her own, and she was desolate.

He was ready to say goodbye. Perhaps he was eager to do so. He did not want trouble with Essex.

It was early next morning when two soberly dressed women, both wearing hoods pulled well over their faces, rode along the river bank toward the village of Hammersmith.

Jennet had said: “It will be well for us to avoid the crowded streets which can be noisy.”

“I would not wish to be recognized,” her mistress agreed.

“My lady, are you sure—”

“That I want to come? Of course I want to come, you fool. Did we not decide that it was the only way?”

“Very well, my lady, but if we should be caught …”

“Oh, have done! I will take the blame. I will say that I forced you to take me. Indeed, how could it be otherwise? You could not force me to come, could you?”

Jennet appeared to be satisfied with that.

Her mistress would know how to take care of them both; perhaps she need not have worried about any evil that might have befallen them in the streets of London. Yet she had shivered to think of Lady Frances riding through the streets of the City, which were used by pick-pockets and prostitutes, or lewd men out for adventure. She saw that a curl had escaped from her mistress’s hood, and in any case a quick glance would give some idea of the beauty which there had been an attempt to hide.

But Frances had determined to come, and who could gainsay Frances when she made up her mind.

Jennet was relieved when they came to the outskirts of Hammersmith and in a short time were pulling up before a house.

They were ushered in by a maid whose sandy hair was plainly worn in a twist at the nape of her neck; there was a shawl about her shoulders; her tight bodice was topped by a linen collar and her skirts were full, though naturally she wore no farthingale.

“Madam is waiting for you,” she said in an awed whisper.

“Then take us to her at once,” commanded Jennet. “My lady does not like delay.”

A door was opened and Frances and Jennet stepped into a pleasant room. It was small by the standards to which Frances was accustomed, but she realized that it was comfortably furnished. The ceiling was ornamental and there were some good pictures on the walls. A woman who had been sitting by the window rose as they entered and came forward swiftly. She curtsied before Frances; then rising, took her hand and said: “Welcome, my lady.”

Then she nodded to Jennet and bade them sit down while she called for refreshment.

Wine was brought with little cakes which Frances, who had a good appetite, found delicious; but she was too excited to care much for eating or drinking, and was very eager to get to the business which had brought her here.

“Jennet has often talked of you, Mrs. Turner,” said Frances.

“I am honored,” answered the woman.

She was handsome, richly dressed and had an air of distinction, and although no longer young—she could have been some fifteen years older than Frances—she was still very attractive. It occurred to Frances that she would not have been out of place in some Court circles.

“Jennet has told you why we have come?”

“As far as possible, my lady,” Jennet answered.

“You yourself must tell me exactly what you want,” said Mrs. Turner. “I am sure we shall be able to procure it for you.”

Frances wasted no time. “I was married as a child, having no say in the matter. I did not live with my husband who went abroad. Now I have met a man whom I wish to marry, but my husband is insisting that I go with him to the country. I cannot do this. I will not do it. I want to be freed from my husband; and to make sure of keeping the love of the other.”

“Is my lady in danger of losing the love she wishes to keep?”

Frances said firmly: “Yes.”

Mrs. Turner took up a fan and fanned herself. She was thoughtful.

Then she said: “My lady, you were given a potion some while ago.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“And it was … effective.”

“It is for that reason that I am here now.”

Mrs. Turner laughed lightly. “I see we shall get on well. You speak your mind. I am forthright myself. I must tell you that I only dabble in these arts. I myself used a love potion once.”

“It was successful?”

“Most successful. I have been to Court. My husband was Dr. George Turner. The late Queen was very good to him and saw that he gained advancement. He had a considerable practice among her courtiers.”

“I thought this must be so,” said Frances, who found a kindred spirit in this woman and was liking her more every moment. She had expected to meet some witch-like creature, some drab who would give her what she asked and demand a high price for it. To find a cultured lady, who knew something of Court life, was an agreeable surprise and was making this meeting, which she had thought might be an ordeal, very pleasant.

“Oh yes, I have had a comfortable life. Dr. Turner was so clever. A kind husband too. Of course I was much younger than he was, and he understood.” She became a little arch. “It was then I needed the potion. I had fallen in love with a very gallant gentleman. You may have heard of him—Sir Arthur Manwaring. The potion I took worked as I wanted it to. I have three children by him now—such darlings. They are all here with me.”

Frances looked a little startled and Mrs. Turner went on: “I tell you this, my dear, to let you know my secrets. You see, I shall have to know yours. And I have always believed that it is fair to share secrets. That is why I tell you … to let you know that whatever you wish to tell me, it is safe, locked in here.” She touched her silken bodice below the yellow ruff to indicate her heart.

“You are right,” said Frances. “I did feel a little chary of telling you all that I feel.”

“Then set aside your fears. Some turn their eyes upward and look pious because a handsome woman seeks a lover outside the marriage bond. I do not. I have done it all before you.”

“Can you help my lady, Mrs. Turner?” asked Jennet.

“I am sure I can.”

“Can you give me two potions? One to make my husband loathe me; the other to make my lover continue in such love for me that he cannot rest until I am his wife?”

Mrs. Turner was thoughtful. “It is not so easy to help a married lady to another marriage,” she said.

“But why not?”

“Because it is always a little more dangerous when there is an unwanted husband.”

“I do not understand.”

Jennet said quickly: “My lady does not wish to harm her husband.”

“Of course not. But the difficulties are there. I think in such a delicate situation I must call in the help of the wisest man in London.”

“Who is that?” demanded Frances.

“My father, Dr. Forman.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“You will soon. He gave me the little knowledge I have; but he is well known for his genius. When you have refreshed yourself I propose that we leave for his house. I have told him that he might expect us.”

Jennet glanced anxiously as Frances, but Anne Turner had so won her confidence that Frances was ready to go wherever she suggested.

In his Lambeth residence Dr. Simon Forman was waiting for his visitors.

The room in which he would receive them had been made ready; the Countess of Essex would be by no means the first highly born client he had welcomed here. Often ladies of the Court, having heard of his fame, came to beg favors of him; and he sold them dearly.

He rubbed his hands gleefully; it was pleasant to think that a member of the noble family of Howard was coming to consult him.

On the walls hung the skins of animals; there was a stuffed alligator on a bench, and ranged about it bottles of colored liquid. Painted on the walls were the signs of the Zodiac; and a chart of the heavens was propped up on the bench. Hangings were drawn across the one small window; and candles in sconces had been placed about the room.

Dr. Forman was pleased with this room; he considered that it had a desired effect on the applicant before the talk began.

He had a sharp, clever face; he had lived almost sixty years and a great many experiences had been packed into those years. He had always thirsted after knowledge; and it had become clear to him, at a very early age, that he was an extraordinary man. As a child he had been tormented by the strangest dreams; and he had quickly discovered that, by telling these dreams and putting a plausible construction on them, making a guess at what had a very good chance of happening to some of his acquaintances, he very soon earned a reputation for having supernatural knowledge. He decided to exploit this.

Simon Forman was born at Quidhampton in Wiltshire. His grandfather had been governor of Wilton Abbey but, with the suppression of the Monasteries, was robbed of that post and given inferior employment about the Park.

One of Simon’s early occupations was to compile a genealogical tree which, he insisted, revealed that the Formans were a family of some gentility and that several of his forbears had been knights.

His pride had been deeply wounded in his childhood, for poverty was humiliating to one who was certain that he possessed unusual powers. But he never lost sight of the need for education, and when William Riddout, an ex-cobbler turned clergyman who had fled from Salisbury on account of the plague, came to live near the Forman family, Simon was allowed to take lessons with him.

Simon’s father had the same respect for learning as his son, and had in fact imbued Simon with this desire to improve himself; and when it seemed that Riddout could teach him no more, Simon was sent to a free school in Salisbury.

He had suffered there under a master named Bowle, who had beaten him severely on more than one occasion, so under him Simon lost a little of his desire for learning; but he was a sharp lad and managed to elude whippings more successfully than his fellow students.

Simon was pleased when his father decided to take him from this school and put him into the care of a Canon of Salisbury Cathedral. This man, whose name was Minterne, lived very austerely, and life in his household was sheer misery. There was never enough to eat and in winter the cold was almost unbearable.

Canon Minterne did not believe in self-indulgence and would not have coal in the house, although he did permit a little wood to be used—but not for burning. “Exercise,” he told Simon, “brings more comfort to the body than sitting over fires. If you are cold, boy, do as I do. Take these faggots and carry them up to the top of the house at great speed. When you have reached the top, come down again; repeat this until you are warm. That is the way to enjoy comfort in cold weather.”

The boy had been sorry for himself during his stay in the Canon’s house; but he had to suffer greater misery than that of austere living when his father had died and his mother, harassed by poverty, declared that she had not patience with a boy wasting his time on learning, and Simon must earn his keep now.

What humiliation! He, Simon Forman, the possessor of special powers, to be apprenticed to a dealer of Salisbury; moreover one with a wife who thought it her right to lay about her husband’s apprentices with a stick when the mood took her. He had no intention of giving up his dream of becoming a scholar though, and found a means of doing this. Lodging in the house of his master was a schoolboy, and Simon cajoled this boy into teaching him by night all that he had learned by day.

When he considered himself sufficiently learned to teach others, he ran away from the merchant’s house and became a schoolmaster; he then had a stroke of luck. He made the acquaintance of two lighthearted young men who were studying at Oxford—or pretending to. They needed a servant. This gave Simon his opportunity. While looking after these young men, helping them in their courtship of a certain lady (they were both her suitors, which simplified matters) Simon was able to study at the university—a great asset for future use, even though circumstances prevented his attaining his degree.

He took several small posts at schools after that and, believing that there was more money and prestige to be won by using what he called his miraculous powers than by teaching, he decided to make a career for himself. He studied astrology and medicine and had certain success. It was inevitable though that some should consider him a quack, and he was brought to court to answer a charge of quackery.

When he was bound over on an injunction to cease his practices he went abroad for a while, and on his return set up as a doctor and astrologer in Lambeth. That was in the year 1583. There had been occasions when complaints were made against him, and he was imprisoned for a while; but his reputation was growing; and many wealthy people were coming to him and recommending him to their friends.

Although he was nearly sixty, he was as vital as he had been in his youth; he lived comfortably with several servants to attend to him. The females among them shared his bed whenever he had the fancy to invite them to, which was often—a fact which his wife had found necessary to accept. He was a man who had always been very fond of women—his clientele was largely made up of this sex—and it was a great pleasure to him to hear of their love affairs, their need to attract this lover, or rid themselves of that. He enjoyed a vicarious delight, of which they were not aware, as they sat in this darkened room and allowed him to peer into the secret places of their minds.

It was remembered in some of the poorer districts of London that during times of plague he had come where no other doctor had ventured, and that his remedies had saved many lives. So that he had his followers among the poor as well as the rich.

The authorities might despise him, and from time to time bring him before the justices. They might call him a charlatan and a quack with little knowledge of medicine. Simon would laugh.

“I look to the stars,” he retorted. “They tell me all I want to know about disease.”

He was vain and longed for the approbation of the world, and like most men of his trade he made long and frequent experiments in search of the philosopher’s stone; and because now and then his prophecies came true, like many of his kind and those who followed him, he remembered such occasions and conveniently forgot the many times he failed.

“I came to my present position the hard way,” he often told one of the maids whose young bodies kept him warm at night, “and that is the best way, my dear; for when a man has experienced hardship and opposition on his long climb upward he is ready for any contingency which presents itself.”

Now a rather intriguing contingency was about to present itself. Frances Howard, Countess of Essex, was on her way to see him.

Frances was overawed by the character of the room into which she was ushered. She was even more impressed by the man in his long black robes—decorated with colorful cabalistic signs—which gave a glimpse of blood-red lining as he moved toward her.

“Do not be afraid, my daughter,” he said.

“I am not afraid,” answered Frances.

“Call him ‘Father,’” whispered Anne Turner.

And strangely enough, so impressed was Frances that she did.

Jennet remained standing by the door, her eyes wide with wonderment.

“Be seated,” said Simon Forman.

Frances sat in the chair which was offered her; and Simon placed a crystal ball in her hands. Then with long bony fingers he himself threw back her hood.

Her beauty was startling in this dark room. Even Simon was astonished. His tongue licked his lips. What kind of man is this who needs to be wooed by such a beauty? he asked himself.

His expert eye saw there was more than beauty to this girl. Fire, passion, desire … and all directed toward one who was not eager for it.

He could bless his daughter Anne for bringing her to him.

He rubbed his hands together. Now he was going to uncover a spicy strip of Court scandal. He would have the pleasure of brooding on that—and counting the money it would bring him. This one could be considerably milched, he doubted not, for she was young, inexperienced and very eager in her desires.

“My daughter,” he said, “tell me all as clearly as you can.”

So Frances once more told of the unfairness of her marriage, of her dislike for her husband, of her love of another; and how it was imperative to her happiness that she be rescued from a position which was intolerable to her.

“Can you help me … Father?” she asked.

He laughed lightly. “It does not seem to me to be an impossible task, Daughter. First, there is the young man whose affections are cooling. We can give you a potion to strengthen his ardor. His affections, you say, cooled when your husband returned. Shall we say he is a man who has a horror of being involved in scandal?”

“You could say that.”

“Well then, our first task should be to work on your husband. We must find a means of cooling his ardor. Then if he is less anxious for your company, your lover will be less afraid. That will make it easier for us to work on his feelings.”

Frances clasped her hands. “Oh, I am sure you are right.”

“Then we will first work on the husband. Can you arrange that a powder be slipped into his food without his knowing?”

Frances hesitated. “He is surrounded by his servants. But I might manage it.”

Simon nodded. “H’m. We will brood on this matter. It may be that we can use some influence to make you life less difficult. But our first step is to give you the powders. These are costly to prepare.”

“I know … I know. I am ready to pay.”

“Mrs. Turner has explained?”

“Yes.”

“And she is no longer a rich woman. She has given up much time and thought …”

“I am ready to pay you both whatever you ask.”

“You must forgive my insistence, Daughter. We must live while we retain our earthly guise. You know Mrs. Turner, my dear daughter; she will be your confidante. And when necessary she will bring you to me. It would not be wise for you to pay too many visits to me; but why should you not enjoy a friendship with Mrs. Turner? She is a lady, like yourself, although not of such high rank. You will have much in common.”

“Thank you,” said Frances gratefully.

Two little phials were given to her. “Put the contents of these into his food, and we will see what is the result. I would have you remember that we are dealing with a difficult problem. There may be no results at first; particularly as you may have some difficulty in administering the powders. But we will not despair. I promise you, my daughter, that in time you will have your desire. I repeat … in time.”

Frances went away satisfied. She had been greatly impressed by both Mrs. Turner and Dr. Forman.

When she had left, Simon wrote in his diary: “The Countess of Essex came today. She is desirous of ridding herself of her husband that she may marry a certain gentleman in a very high place at Court.”

Robert Devereux faced his father- and mother-in-law. He was pale and there was a determined line about his jaw.

“I believe I have been patient,” he said, “but I cannot remain so. Your daughter simply refuses to live with me as my wife. I must ask you to speak to her and to tell her that, although I have waited so long, I am not prepared to wait any longer.”

The Earl and the Countess exchanged glances.

This, implied the Earl, is what comes of allowing the girl to live at Court. She should have remained in the country until her husband came to claim her. Then she would have been willing enough to go away with him. Court life has turned her head.

The Countess shrugged her shoulders. She understood her daughter well, because they were so much alike. Frances was not born to live a quiet life in the country any more than she herself was; and she would have rebelled sooner or later. The pity was that it was sooner.

She herself was far too interested in her own exciting life to worry much about her daughter. Frances must, of course, live with the man she had married—until she could make some other arrangement. It was the duty of her parents to make her understand this.

The Earl said: “I will speak to Frances. She is young and, I am afraid, wayward.”

“Tell her,” said Devereux, “that I intend to leave for Chartley within the next few weeks and to take her with me.”

“I shall insist that she accompanies you,” answered his father-in-law. “Leave this to me.”

As soon as Devereux had left, the Earl sent for his daughter.

Frances stood before him, sullen and defiant.

“You must be mad,” burst out her mother, “to behave thus.”

“I know you are thinking of my tragic marriage….”

“Tragic marriage! With Essex! My dear child, he is an easy young man. If you liked you could have what you wanted from him.”

“There is only one thing I want from him … my freedom.”

The Earl spoke gently: “Look here, my child, you have not given your marriage a chance. You have been spoiled at Court. I would to God we had never allowed you to come.”

“I will not leave the Court with Essex.”

The Earl was aware of his wife’s eye on him, a little scornful; he then went to Frances and gripped her firmly by the arm.

“We have been over-gentle with you,” he said. “That was a mistake. There shall be no more mistakes. You are going to behave like a good wife to your husband. Make no mistake about it.”

“No one can make me,” cried Frances wildly.

“You are mistaken. I am your father and I can make you. I shall have you whipped if need be. I shall have you kept a prisoner in your apartment. I shall have you trussed, if necessary, and delivered to your husband.”

His mouth was grim. Frances knew that like most easy-going men he could be goaded into action; and on those rare occasions he could be stubbornly determined.

She was in despair.

When he left the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, Robert Devereux, feeling sick at heart and deeply depressed, wanted to escape from the restrictions of the palace. He came out into the fresh air and walked aimlessly, not seeing the river and the crowds, but Frances, the expression of loathing on her face; he contrasted the reality of his homecoming with what he had hoped for, and his melancholy increased.

He had made up his mind. He was not a man to act impulsively, but once he had decided on a course of action he was determined to take it.

When he had said that he intended to leave Court within a few weeks, he meant it; and when he said that Frances was coming with him, he meant that too.

He found himself close to St. Paul’s and, still not caring which way he went, he wandered into the main walk where all kinds of business was in progress. The noise was deafening but he did not heed it; several sharp eyes were on him, for he was obviously a gentleman of the Court; his clothes betrayed him. Two pick-pockets had their eyes on him and were closely observed by a third.

A marriage broker called to him as he passed: “Are you seeking me, sir?”

A pandar with two brazen girls, one on each arm, shouted: “Would you like a pretty wench to take home with you?”

At one pillar of the aisle a letter-writer was working for a client; a horse-dealer was at another; everywhere the prostitutes lurked.

Foolish of him to have come to Paul’s Walk at such a time. He realized it suddenly. He might as well have gone to the Royal Exchange gallery to be pestered by the stall holders and of course the prostitutes.

He was aware of the crowds pressing about him; the smell of their clothes and bodies was distasteful. A beggar came near to him and laid a hand on his; this beggar’s hand was hot and there were patches of scarlet color in his face.

“Pity the blind beggar, fine gentleman.”

He felt in his pocket for a coin and gave it to the man, and immediately he was besieged on all sides.

He despised himself. He could not manage to take a walk in the streets without trouble, so how could he hope to tame a wayward wife?

He gave more alms and crying, “Enough! Enough!” struggled out of the crowd. It was not until he was some distance from Paul’s Walk that he realized he had been robbed of his purse and the gold ornaments on his doublet.

The walk had done him little good. It had brought home to him his inadequacy. Moreover, there was a stiff feeling in his throat; his skin was prickling and his hands were as hot as those of the blind beggar.

Frances and Jennet were alone. Frances’s eyes were brilliant.

“It has happened, Jennet. This is Dr. Forman’s doing.”

“What, my lady?”

“The Earl of Essex is grievously sick of a fever.”

“Is that so?”

Frances clasped her hands together and raised her eyes to the ceiling ecstatically.

“He is dangerously ill. He has a raging fever. It came upon him suddenly. Oh, don’t you see, Jennet? This is the result of Dr. Forman’s work. I was not able to give Essex the powder, and Dr. Forman knew it. So he has been working his spells to help me.”

“I knew he would help you, my lady.”

“I don’t know how to thank him and dear Turner, and you, Jennet. Because soon I shall be free, and when I am, my Robert will not hesitate. He loves me but he could not risk a scandal. That is understandable. The King would be furious; and we dare not offend the King. Oh, Jennet, this is what I wanted. You see, until now I had thought that if only Essex would go away, cease to pester me, leave me at Court with my beloved, I should be happy.”

“And now my lady wants more.”

“Yes, Jennet, I want more. I no longer want to be married to Essex. And if he were dead, I shouldn’t be. And he is dying, Jennet. Soon I shall be free.”

Frances curtsied before the King.

James smiled at her kindly, though vaguely. That was as well for she could not keep her attention on him because beside him stood his favorite, the Viscount Rochester.

“Well, my dear,” James was saying, “we rejoice with you. A terrible tragedy has been averted. I am told that the worst of the fever is past. You must be a very happy woman.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” murmured Frances, and she thought: Happy! I must be the most unhappy woman at your Court.

Robert Carr’s benign smile, a replica of the King’s, only added to her unhappiness. It seemed as though he too were pleased because Essex was recovering from his fever, and that the good which could come to them through the death of Essex had not occurred to him.

She was in despair.

It would have been better if Essex had never caught the fever. Then she would not have glimpsed that glorious possibility; but that it should have come so near only to be snatched away was intolerable.

“And now we are going to lose you, Lady Essex,” went on the King. “I have talked with your husband and he tells me that as soon as he is quite recovered he is going to take you away from us.”

Speak, Robert! she wanted to cry. Tell him that I must not go.

“We shall miss Lady Essex, eh, Robbie?”

“We shall miss her, Your Majesty.”

“Well, my dear, your bonny smile will cheer old Chartley instead of Whitehall. Chartley needs your cheerful presence. It was one of the prisons in which they kept my mother. I think she did not hate it as much as some. You will come to Court again, I doubt not.”

Frances must pass on. She knew what was behind James’s words. This was a command to stop being a recalcitrant wife and obey her husband. She supposed that her father had told the King that she was refusing to leave Court with her husband.

James had spoken and there could be no disobeying the wish of the King.

Never would she forget that dreary journey to Chartley. They rode side by side, not speaking, two young people, their faces set into lines of determination—his to subdue her, hers never to be subdued.

She had ridden to Lambeth before she started on this journey north. It was her only comfort to remember what had taken place there.

“The spirits were not strong enough,” Dr. Forman had told her. “There were other forces at work against us. It takes time to bring about such a conclusion as we wish for. A little more time and the fever would have proved fatal.”

She had changed in the last weeks. Previously she had been a spoiled girl, anxious to have everything that she desired; she had not thought of death when she planned to rid herself of Essex. She only wanted him to go away and leave her in peace.

But he was so stubborn; and she had changed. She was now a woman who might not hesitate to kill if she had the opportunity.

Secreted about her person were certain powders which had been given her by Dr. Forman. Some were to be put in her husband’s food; others to be sprinkled on his clothing.

If she obeyed his instructions it should not be long before she achieved her heart’s desire.

She believed in Dr. Forman, but as she rode farther north her spirits quailed.

Every mile lengthened the distance between her and the Court, between her and Robert Carr. And was he thinking of her while she was absent? He had never loved her with the violence with which she had loved him. And now that she was away from him, suppose others sought to lure him from her with potions and philtres? They might easily do it while she was not there to fight them.

So she was melancholy and would have been even more so but for the thought of Dr. Forman and Mrs. Turner in London who would, they had assured her, continue to work for her, even though she was far away.

She saw her new home—a castle on an eminence in a fertile plain. She looked with distaste at the circular keep, at the round towers.

Chartley Castle—her prison.