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

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 given you some draught to cure that cough. He is supposed to be so clever.”

“I must ask him when I see him next.”

“Do so. I like not to hear it.”

If Anne had not been so concerned with the coming wedding she might have been more aware of Henry’s state. The match with the Elector Palatine, who was known as the Palsgrave in England, did not please her, for she thought the man not good enough for her daughter.

“I’d set my heart on her being Queen of Spain,” she grumbled. “Who is this Palsgrave?”

“I think it is an excellent match, dear Mother,” Henry told her. “It delights me.”

She smiled at him indulgently, and for his sake tried to hide her disappointment; but she could not manage this completely. When Elizabeth came to them she said: “So Goody Palsgrave comes calling on a Prince and Queen.”

“She looks very happy,” commented the Prince.

“Mayhap she has forgotten she was once a Princess. Come along, Goody; you must make a deeper curtsy now.”

But Elizabeth threw her arms about her mother and said: “Forgive me, dearest mother, but I think that good wife Mistress Palsgrave is going to be very happy.”

Queen Anne snorted; but Henry was laughing. And it made her very happy to have these beloved children with her.

It was October when Frederick V, the Elector Palatine, arrived in England. The streets of the capital were decorated to welcome him, and the people turned out in their hundreds to greet him.

He was immediately popular, being good-looking and eager to please; and Protestants throughout the country welcomed the union.

When Elizabeth met him she found him all that she had hoped he would be; and there was no doubt that he was as enchanted with her.

For once two people who had been elected to marry for political reasons had fallen in love on sight. It was a very happy state of affairs.

Even the Queen could not help being pleased, although she continued to mourn the loss of the Spanish crown.

Henry had been feeling steadily more ill, and was finding it increasingly difficult to hide this. But during the celebrations he determined to conceal his condition and he plunged into the celebrations with great zeal.

Elizabeth was in love and happy. He wanted her wedding to be something she would remember with pleasure for as long as she lived.

At the tennis tournament he was one of the champions, and everyone marveled at his skill. Being October the weather was cold, but he played in a silk shirt so as not to be hampered by too many clothes.

When the game was over he was very hot, but almost immediately began to shiver.

The next morning a fever had overtaken him and he was unable to rise from his bed.

The Prince was ill; the news spread through the City. His illness has culminated in a virulent fever which, his doctors were sure, was highly infectious.

The Prince being aware of this implored his doctors not to let his mother, father, his sister, Elizabeth, or his brother, Charles, come near him.

He lay on his bed, not being quite sure where he was.

There were times when he believed he was dancing with Frances Howard, and others when he was sailing the high seas with Sir Walter.

The Queen walked up and down her apartment clasping and unclasping her hands while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“This is not possible,” she cried. “My Henry! He was always such a bonny boy. This cannot be true. He will recover.”

Nobody answered her. No one believed the Prince could recover, but no one dared tell her this.

“When he was a baby,” she said, “he was taken away from me. I, his mother, was not allowed to nurse my own son. It was the same with them all. And now … this!”

But for all her grief she made no attempt to go to him. It would upset him, she assured herself; and she was terrified of contagion. Yet within her a battle was raging. She wanted so much to go to him; it was meet and fitting that his mother should be at his bedside. But if she should catch this fever … if it should run through the Palace … She must not be foolish; she must stay away from her beloved son. This was yet another sorrow to be borne.

She called one of her women to her.

“Send to Sir Walter Raleigh in the Bloody Tower. Tell him of the Prince’s need. He is a clever man. Let him give him some of his elixir of life. That will save him.”

Then she threw herself on to her bed and wept.

But she felt better. He was wise, her Henry, and he had always declared that Sir Walter Raleigh was the greatest Englishman alive—not only a fine sailor, but a scientist of immense power.

Sir Walter loved the Prince. He would not fail now.

When Sir Walter heard the news he was horrified. He had feared for some time that the Prince was ailing; but it was a great shock to learn that this well set-up young man was now close to death, the victim not only of a wasting disease but a virulent fever.

But Sir Walter was a man of vision. He had always believed that whatever he undertook would be successful. In the past he had seemed to be right and it was only when his great misfortune overtook him, and he lost his freedom, that he had doubted the truth of his doctrine.

Even so, optimism had prevailed and sometimes he wondered whether he had been made a prisoner that he might write history instead of making it, that he might preserve life with his scientific discoveries rather than take it in rash adventures.

He therefore believed that he had the nostrum which would cure the Prince; and in all confidence he went at once to the hut at the end of the Walk and brought it back.

Before he dispatched the messenger he wrote a hasty note.

“This will cure all mortal malady, except poison.”

The good news spread through the Palace and City. The Prince had regained sufficient consciousness to know that the draught he was given came from his good friend, Sir Walter Raleigh, and so confident of his friend’s powers was he that he seemed to recover.

Crowds gathered outside St. James’s Palace; they filled the streets from the Palace to Somerset House, and some knelt to pray for the life of the young man whom they all admired, respected and loved.

There were other cases of fever in the City; people were stricken, became delirious and in a few days died.

The Queen had left for Somerset House to be away from contagion; she was inconsolable; longing to be at her son’s bedside, yet fearing to be.

When the news came that Henry had recovered a little after taking the nostrum she fell on her knees and thanked God.

The King came to her with Elizabeth and Charles. They were all weeping bitterly and to Elizabeth it seemed unbelievable that, now she was to have a husband whom she could love, she was in danger of losing the brother who had until now held first place in her affections.

“Raleigh’s nostrum is working the miracle,” cried Anne. “Our son will live and we have that man to thank for it. You must reward him with his freedom. I shall never be able to thank him enough.”

James was silent. He was not so optimistic as the Queen; he knew that Henry had revived temporarily, but he believed they should wait awhile before allowing themselves to hope.

“Why do you not speak?” demanded Anne. “Raleigh says that the mixture will cure everything except poison. Why do you cease to rejoice? Do you believe that our son has been poisoned?”

“Dinna excite yourself so, my dear,” begged James. “This is a sad time for us. Let us meet it with calmness.”

But how could Anne be calm? If her son recovered she would be mad with joy; if he died she would be demented.

There were loud lamentations in the streets.

The news was out. About twelve o’clock on the night of the 5th of November, Prince Henry died.

The 5th of November! A significant date in the history of the life of the royal family. A few years earlier, on this very day, the plot to blow up the King and Parliament had been discovered.

In the streets the Catholics were declaring that this was a judgment on the persecutions which had followed the revelation of the Gunpowder Plot. There were riots and fighting in the streets, because there was always the mob which was ready for trouble at any opportunity. But the chief sound that filled the streets that night was that of weeping for the death of the most popular Prince of his House, the young man who had seemed so full of promise and who one day, the people had hoped, would be their King.