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

“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.

DEATH OF A PRINCE

Robert Carr was relieved to see Frances leave the Court. He was more attracted by her than he had ever been by a woman before, and when he had said that, were there no impediments, he would have willingly married her, he was speaking the truth.

He would have liked to have a son to whom he could leave his fortune and give his name; and Frances had everything that he could look for in a wife—rank, wealth, an influential family and greater physical attraction than any other woman he knew.

But because she was so vehement in character, because she was already married to a very noble gentleman, he preferred to forget about her.

He was becoming more and more involved in the King’s affairs. It was amazing what a difference Thomas Overbury had made to his life. Not only did Tom deal with his correspondence, but he had a way of explaining difficult matters so that they were clear to Robert; he could also advise and make suggestions which Robert passed on to the King, to James’s delight.

There was no doubt that Tom was a brilliant man, and he was in his element, working in the background, knowing that he was having an influence on the affairs of the country. Whenever Robert was in any difficulty he went to Tom and explained it, and there was a firm bond of friendship between the two men.

Robert showered gifts on his friend. At first Tom protested. “What I do for you, Robert, I do out of friendship.” “What I give you, Tom, I give out of friendship,” replied Robert.

But when Tom began to see how his suggestions were accepted and Robert received the credit for them, he asked himself why he shouldn’t be rewarded. After all he earned everything he received. It was Robert who took the honors, and the King’s gifts, so why should Tom hesitate to pick up the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table? He earned them.

His attitude changed slightly. He was as devoted to Robert as ever; but he was beginning to look on him as his creature, a puppet, who danced to his tune.

It was an intoxicating thought that he, Tom Overbury, son of an obscure knight of Bourton-on-the-Hill in Gloucestershire, who had come to Court without any relations to help him along to fame and fortune, should now be an adviser to the King—for that was what he was, even though the King and others did not know it.