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

“He is too sure, my lord. He will discover that one day.”

“Perhaps sooner than he believes possible, Your Majesty?”

“What did you discover, my lord?”

“The King asked his name.”

Anne nodded.

“Moreover,” went on Pembroke, “he insisted on its being supplied to him.”

“And the name?”

“George Villiers.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Your Majesty, it occurred to me as I watched the play that you might conceivably hear a great deal of that name.”

“What plans are you hatching, Pembroke?”

“If we could replace Somerset with our man …”

Anne’s eyes were gleaming. What a glorious revenge that would be on Somerset!

“And you think it possible?” she asked quickly. “You know how he dotes on that man.”

“I think that with grooming we might do something. This boy Villiers struck me as being one of the few who might in time oust Somerset from his place.”

“Is he so handsome?”

“He reminds me of that head of St. Stephen—the Italian model, Your Majesty will remember.”

“Here in Whitehall—I know it well. Is he as beautiful as that?”

“I think Your Majesty will agree with me that he is when you see him.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Bring him to Court, train him in the way he should go and, when the time is ripe, persuade Your Majesty to present him to the King.”

Anne started to laugh. She picked up one of the dogs and held it against her neck.

“Replace one pretty by another!” she said. “Well, providing my lord Somerset loses his arrogance, that will please me. Keep an eye on this Villiers, my lord; and bring him to me. I should like to see him for myself.”

After the visit to Cambridge, Frances felt a little better; it always did her good to get away from London, for in London there was too much to remind her. It was hardly likely that she would be followed to Cambridge by some impecunious person who would assure her of all he or she had done to help the Countess to her present state. So at Cambridge she had tried to forget her fears and had joined with her mother and sisters in the gaiety of the occasion; and feeling so much better she began to review her situation with less nervousness. Why should she be afraid of these people who were after all so humble! If she could tell Robert, their importunings could be stopped tomorrow; but of course she could not tell Robert.

But there was one whom she could tell; her great-uncle Northampton. He would understand, old rogue that he was; and he would tell her what to do.

Having returned to London she decided to visit her great-uncle in his house at Charing Cross.

When she arrived she was told that the Earl was in the Houses of Parliament where she knew stormy debates were taking place at this time, for many of the ministers still clung to their determination to drive the Scottish favorites back beyond the Border. Northampton was putting up a great fight against them. He had no intention of allowing Robert to be sent out of London, since his fortune and that of the Howards was bound up in Robert Carr. Frances felt calm only to think of that. There was a power about her great-uncle which was invincible.

“He will be coming by barge, my lady,” one of the servants told her. “You will see him arrive ere long.”

Frances said she would go into the garden and watch for his arrival.

The hot June sun shone on the flowery pyramids of loose strife on the river bank and it was pleasant to listen to the lap of oars in the water as the boats passed along. Frances felt more at peace than she had for a long time. How foolish she had been to worry; how stupid to give way to these people who made so many demands! Why had she not thought of asking for her great-uncle’s help before this? He would know what to do.

She had strolled down to the river’s edge and seeing his barge, hurried to the privy stairs to greet him.

But what had happened? They were carrying him; his face was so white that he did not look like himself at all.

“What happened?” she cried. “Is my Lord ill?”

They did not answer her; they were intent on carrying Northampton ashore.

They said he was dying, but Frances did not believe it; she dared not believe it. She was becoming hysterical at the thought because she had made up her mind that he alone could help her.

She knew that he had a wennish tumor in his thigh; but so many elderly people suffered from such things. Now it seemed it had grown so large and was giving such pain that when he had collapsed in the House he had decided to have an operation. Felton, his surgeon, was coming to Charging Cross at once to perform it, because it was