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

The boy had found the solution at last. James did not want to know who had drafted the letter. It was enough that it was perfectly done. Robert had found the one to work in the shadows.

The Prince of Wales was holding Court at the Palace of Oatlands. He liked to stay at this palace with his sister, Elizabeth, and together they entertained a Court which was different from that of their parents.

Henry had the reputation of being a sober young man; he could not endure the practical jokes which were a feature of his father’s Court. Not that James cared for them; but his favorites played them with such gusto, and because he liked to see them enjoying themselves he joined in the fun. Henry’s ideal was to have a Court where serious matters were discussed and there was no practical joking. He wanted very much to bring Sir Walter Raleigh from prison; he was sometimes a little angry with his friend who often gave the impression that he did not regret his captivity; how otherwise, he asked, could he devote the necessary time to his history of the world which he wanted to dedicate to the Prince of Wales?

There was so much that was wrong with the King’s Court, Henry told himself and Elizabeth.

“And now they want to make a Catholic marriage for me,” he complained. “I’ll not endure it. Did you know that our father has taken Carr for his secretary and I receive letters from the fellow?”

“I did not think he was literate enough to write a letter.”

“He is. And flowery epistles they are.”

“There are qualities we did not suspect in the fellow then.”

“I dislike him and all his breed.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I couldn’t stop myself laughing when you hit him on the back with your tennis racquet.”

Henry laughed with her. “I was overcome by a desire to murder him.”

“Yet he seemed to bear no malice.”

“Who can say what goes on behind that handsome face of his?”

“Well, let us forget him, Henry, and think of the ball we are giving tonight. Young Lady Essex pleaded so earnestly for an invitation that I gave her one.”

Henry turned away to look out of the window; he did not want his sister to see that he had flushed. “She is very young … too young,” he mumbled.

“Oh no, Henry. She is sixteen.”

“And married,” went on Henry. “Where is her husband?”

“It was one of those child marriages. They have not yet set up house together,” Elizabeth smiled. “And by the look of the girl I should say that it was time they did.”

“And what experience have you of such matters?”

“Dear Henry, there are some things that are so obvious that it is not necessary to have experience to recognize them.” Elizabeth went on to talk of Arabella. She was sorry for her kinswoman; so was Henry. If he were King, he thought, he would not allow himself to be disturbed by other claims to the throne. His father’s claim was so much more sound and he was sure the people had no intention of setting up Arabella. It was his father’s terror of plots that made him so nervous.

He said so to Elizabeth; but he was not really thinking of his father and Arabella. He was wondering whether he would dance with Lady Essex that day.

The royal pleasure house of Oatlands was not far from the banks of the Thames. It was built round two quadrangles and three enclosures and its gardens were magnificent. When Frances had passed the machicolated gatehouse and looked at the angle turrets and huge bay windows she had made up her mind that in this mansion the Prince of Wales should become her lover.

Jennet was with her; she had selected this girl for her most intimate maid. She might have found others more servile, but Jennet’s insolence—which was always veiled, and only rarely shown even then—appealed to Frances. That girl had a knowledge of matters which Frances felt might be useful to her some time. There was a bond between them. To Jennet she talked more freely than to anyone else. She was certain that Jennet would keep her secrets. Frances often had a feeling that if Jennet had been born in her stratum of society she would have been very like her, and had she been born in Jennet’s she would have been another such as she.

The maid knew for instance of Frances’s hopes concerning the Prince of Wales. She was not in the least shocked that a young girl, married to one man who had never been her husband, should seek to become the mistress of another. Jennet gave the impression that she was there to administer to her mistress’s pleasure and that whatever Frances desired was reasonable and natural.

While the maid helped her dress for the ball, Frances glanced critically at her own reflection in the mirror. Jennet, her eyes lowered, assured her mistress that never had she looked so well.

“How old do I look, Jennet?”

“All of eighteen, my lady.”

Jennet would not have said so had it not been true. Frances had matured early.

“And my gown?”

“Most becoming. There’ll not be another lady to compare with you.”

“How I wish that they had never married me to Essex.”

“You would not have been a Countess then, my lady.”

“No, but that would not have mattered. I should still be my father’s daughter and of a rank to be welcomed at