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

Essex spent a great deal of time brooding over the situation; and he liked to escape from the castle and often walked for miles trying to think of some solution.

He could, of course, allow her to return to Court and leave her alone; that was what she wanted; and she was ready to be his good friend if he would agree to it. But he was stubborn on one point; she was his wife. Ever since their marriage he had dreamed of coming home to her, because he had carried with him, all the time he had been abroad, a memory of that lovely young girl to whom he had been married. Having built up an ideal of what their life together would be, he could not accept this situation. He would not give up his dream so easily.

As he walked alone, deep in thought, he heard a cry for help which came from the direction of a swiftly running river. He was sharply brought out of melancholy reverie and, turning toward the direction from which the cry had come, he recognized his steward, Wingfield.

“Wingfield,” he called. “What’s wrong?”

Before Wingfield could answer he saw for himself; a man was wading out of the river supporting a young woman whom he had clearly rescued.

The Earl ran to the scene and helped the two men take the woman—who was one of the servants—back to the castle.

It was an hour or so later when Essex summoned Wingfield, with the man who had rescued the girl, to his apartments.

Wingfield introduced this man as Arthur Wilson, whom he had invited to the castle for a short stay. Arthur Wilson immediately spoke up for himself.

“Having fallen on hard times, my lord, I seized this opportunity to enjoy the hospitality of Mr. Wingfield in exchange for certain services.”

“It is fortunate for that poor girl that you were here,” said the Earl; and noticing that Wilson was a man of education he invited him to drink a glass of wine with him.

When the wine had been brought and they were alone together, Wilson told the Earl something of his history.

“Every since I was taught to read and write, my lord,” said Wilson, “I have never stopped doing either. I was at one time clerk to Sir Henry Spiller in the Exchequer office, but I was dismissed.”

“For some offense?”

“The inability to remain on friendly terms with people in a superior position to my own, my lord.”

Essex laughed. He had taken a great liking to this man and he was particularly pleased to have been diverted from his own unpleasant thoughts.

“I thought,” went on Wilson, “that I could live by writing poetry. That was a fallacy.”

“You must show me some of your work.”

“If your lordship would be interested.”

“Tell me what happened when you left the Exchequer office.”

“I lived in London writing poetry until my money was almost at an end. Then fortunately Wingfield appeared and suggested a short respite here at Chartley.”

“I might offer you a permanent post here. If I did so, would you accept it?”

A faint color came into Wilson’s face. “My lord,” he murmured, “you are generous beyond my hopes.”

Friendship had been born in that moment.

Arthur Wilson quickly slipped into his place at Chartley. He was the Earl’s gentleman-in-waiting, which meant that he accompanied him on his rides round the estate, hunting or any other such expedition; thus he was constantly in the Earl’s company. In a very short time he had become his most confidential servant, and because it so concerned his master, Wilson took a great interest in his relationship with the Countess.

Being such a partisan of the Earl, he was highly critical of Frances. He did not share his master’s view of her innocence, and he determined to watch the situation very carefully, without letting anyone know he did so.

Every night when he retired to his apartment he wrote in his diary an account of the day’s happenings and the affairs of the Earl and his wife inevitably figured largely in this. He found himself writing glowing descriptions of the Earl’s extraordinary patience and goodness to this woman who was behaving so badly toward him. “The mild and courteous Earl is being tried too sorely,” he wrote.

He began to wonder what dark schemes that woman concocted in the apartment from which she rarely stirred. It was unnatural, unhealthy. There she lived with that woman she had brought with her—allowing only Elizabeth Raye and Catharine Dardenell into the apartment. What were they plotting? If it were harm to the Earl, Wilson was going to be there to prevent it.

He was watching.

“Catharine, my child,” said Frances, “what pretty hair you have.”

“You’ll make the creature vain, my lady,” said Elizabeth Raye. “She’s conceited enough since Will Carrick has had his eye on her.”

“So Will Carrick admires you, Catharine. I can understand that well.”

Catharine simpered. She could not understand why some of the servants were so suspicious of the Countess, when she had always been so gracious to her and Elizabeth. She was so interested in them; and she had more or