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

to Westminster?”

“You mean they are going to disturb the grave of Mary Queen of Scots?”

“That is what our father proposes. He does not care that his mother’s remains should be left in Peterborough. He wants to give them an honorable burial in Westminster.”

Elizabeth was silent; her expression had grown melancholy.

“What ails you?” asked Henry, coming over to her and putting his arm about her.

Looking up at him she thought he looked tired and strained.

“Henry,” she said, “you have been practicing too much in the tiltyard. You are tired.”

“It is good to feel tired.”

“I noticed that you have not looked well for some weeks.”

“It has been very hot. Why, what has come over you? Why are you suddenly sad?”

“I suppose it is the thought of what happened to our grandmother. In prison all those years and then taken into that hall at Fotheringay. How dared they, Henry? How dared they!”

“If Queen Elizabeth were alive you might ask her that.”

“I think our grandmother should be left in peace now.”

“Doubtless she would be pleased that our father wished to honor her.”

“But don’t you see, Henry, it’s unlucky to disturb the dead.”

“Nay, her spirit will rest in peace now that she knows her son mourns her truly.”

“It is all so long ago. Why disturb her now?”

Henry touched his sister’s cheek lightly. “I know what you’re thinking of—that old superstition.”

Elizabeth nodded. “A member of the dead person’s family must pay for disturbing a grave … pay with a life.”

Henry laughed. “My dear sister, what has come over you? It is a wedding we’re going to have in our family. Not a funeral.”

It was easy to make her laugh. She was about to become a bride; she believed that she was going to fall in love with her bridegroom and that she would not after all have to say an immediate farewell to her beloved brother.

Others were noticing a change in the Prince of Wales. He looked more ethereal than ever, and his face had lost a certain amount of flesh so that his Grecian profile looked more clearly defined. But there was a fresh color in his cheeks which gave an impression of health although he was beginning to cough so frequently that it was difficult to disguise this. He tried, it was true; and it was some time before anyone discovered that his kerchiefs were flecked with blood.

He did wonder why he could not shake off his cough. He tried to harden himself; he played tennis regularly and swam in the Thames after supper, which seemed invigorating; but at night he would sweat a great deal—and the cough persisted.

He was anxious that his sister Elizabeth and his mother should not know of this change in his condition, and he was particularly bright in their company; but often there would come into his mind Elizabeth’s fear when they had talked of the removal of Mary Queen of Scots from Peterborough to Westminster.

A life of a member of the family was the price that must be paid for tampering with the dead. It was quite ridiculous.

Everything seemed more colorful to Henry that summer. The sun seemed to shine more brightly; the flowers in the gardens were more brilliant; he often thought of Frances Howard whom he had loved and who had deceived him; and their relationship now seemed a wonderful experience. He wished that Frances would come back to Court. He was sorry for her, a prisoner in Chartley, for he knew that she had deeply resented being carried there by her husband. But perhaps she was in love with him by now. She was a fickle creature. It was well that she was in the country. If she were back he might be tempted to sin once more. He did not want that. He wanted to live these days with a zest and verve that was new to him. He wanted to enjoy each minute; not one of them should be wasted. He had that feeling.

He did not visit Sir Walter as often as he used to. Sometimes he would sail down the river and look toward the Bloody Tower. He did not want those keen sailor’s eyes to discover something which he would rather keep secret.

He did not wish to cast a backward look at what was rapidly overtaking him. He knew that one day it would be level with him; it would stretch out its cold arms and embrace him. There was no eluding that embrace. When it came he would be ready.

The Queen was unaware of her son’s condition because he made such an effort to conceal it that he had succeeded.

When she said, “And how is my beloved son this day?” he always answered: “In excellent health, as I trust to find my dear mother.”

She saw him flushed from riding and mistook the flush for health. He was a little thin, and she scolded him for this. He must eat more. It was a command from his mother.

He would sit and talk to her, tell her how he had scored in the tiltyard; and she would listen delightedly. He made a great effort to restrain his cough in her presence and often succeeded.

When he could not she would say: “I should have thought that friend of yours, Walter Raleigh, would have