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

their freedom was that they should reside only in places which the King would choose for them. These houses were Grays and Cowsham in Oxfordshire and they must not travel more than three miles’ radius of either.

Robert came to Frances’s cell to tell her the news.

“We are to leave the Tower. I have the King’s letter here.”

“Freedom at last!”

“Nay,” he said coldly, because his voice was always cold when he addressed her, “this is not freedom. Rather is it a change of prison. It is a concession because in these houses we shall not be treated as prisoners and shall have our own servants.” His face lit up with pleasure as he added: “We shall have our daughter with us.”

Frances’s joy turned to indignation. She had set her heart on returning to Court.

Yet it would be pleasant to leave the Tower and all the evil memories which she longed to thrust behind her.

“I always hated living in the country,” she said.

“Then you must perforce learn to like it,” retorted Robert.

He was less unhappy than she was. He hated his wife but there was someone whom he could love; and during the last years he had become devoted to his little daughter.

One day, thought Frances, was so like another, that she believed she would die of very boredom.

How tired she was of green fields! How she longed for a sight of Whitehall! She would dream that she was seated at the King’s table, that the minstrels were playing and the dance about to begin. Everyone was seeking her favors because not only was she the wife of Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, who held more sway over the King than any ever had, but she was the most beautiful woman at Court.

Then she would wake to the sound of wind sweeping over the meadows, or the song of the birds, and remember with bitterness that Whitehall was far away—and not only in mileage.

I shall die, she would say, if I never see Whitehall again.

Then she would weep into her pillows, or storm at her servants; hoping to find comfort from either action. But there was no comfort; there was only regret.

Each day she must live with a man who could not hide his feeling for her. He could never see her without remembering some evil deed from her past; he could never forget that he owed his downfall to her. His only happiness was to shut her from his thoughts.

For months they lived in wretchedness, dreading to be together, yet unable to avoid it; each day Robert’s loathing grew a little stronger; each day her anger against him grew more bitter.

But Robert found a way out of his despondency. Sometimes from her window, Frances would watch two figures in the paddock; a sturdy little girl and a tall, still handsome man. He was teaching her to ride. The child’s high laughter would come to her ears and sometimes Robert’s would mingle with it.

They were always together, those two.

Frances could find no such joy. She had never wanted children, only power, adulation and what she called love—but that did not include the love of a child.

She continued to fret while Robert learned to live for his daughter.

Occasionally news came from the world beyond them; it was like, thought Frances miserably, looking at a masque through a misty window; a masque in which one was barred from playing a part. This was no life; she was poised between living and dying.

Life was the Court where people jostled for power and wealth; but she was no longer of it; nor could she break through to it; she must live out the dreary years in a limbo, poised between vital life and a living death.

They were still in exile when Raleigh returned from his ill-fated journey and when, soon after, he laid his head on the block in Old Palace Yard. And when Frances heard that her father and mother had been summoned to the Star Chamber and there sentenced to a term in the Tower for embezzlement, she was not deeply moved. That life now seemed so far away.

When Queen Anne died of dropsy, no one was surprised. She was in her forty-sixth year and had been ailing for some time; a certain Dr. Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood and confirmed this by his experiments; a comet appeared in the sky to cause great consternation and speculation but even this could not interest Frances.

Sometimes Robert thought wistfully of the old days; he wondered whether there would be a Spanish marriage for Charles after all, or whether that sly Gondomar would have worked in vain. It would have been good to be there in the thick of intrigue.

He pictured himself with the King, proudly bringing forward a girl who was growing to be as beautiful as her mother, yet with a different kind of beauty.

“My daughter, Your Majesty.”

He could almost see James’s emotional smile, almost hear his tender voice: “So ye’ve a lass now, eh, Robbie. And a bonny one!”

He would have asked for favors for her. He wished he could have given her great wealth and titles. But what did she want with them? She had her horses to ride—and she was already a good horsewoman; she had her father to be her companion. She did not ask for more, so why should he?

It was not often that they spoke to each other; they avoided