Seated at her feet were the river nymphs. Frances had placed herself in the most prominent position, and every now and then threw a glance in Prince Henry’s direction, for, she told herself, was it not all in honor of him, and should not every river nymph among them seek to please him?
The poem which was being recited explained what was happening.
Little Zephyr would now take presents from Tethys and present them to those for whom they were intended.
Gracefully he walked to the Queen, who handed him the trident she carried and whispered to him. Charles carried it to his father and bowed. James took it awkwardly; and Charles returned to his mother once more and received the sword, which was encrusted with precious gems and was said to be worth four thousand pounds, and a scarf which the Queen herself had embroidered. These were for her beloved son who was now the Prince of Wales.
The assembly applauded enthusiastically and little Charles held up his hand as he had been taught to do, to remind them that this was not all; he then returned to his mother and kneeling, implored her in a high, sweet voice, with only the slightest stammer, to come down from her throne and dance, for the Court’s enjoyment, with her river nymphs.
The Queen pretended to consider this while Charles, beckoning to his little naiads, took the floor and once more danced with his charming companions.
Then the Queen rose and the girls who had been ranged about her in the grotto fell into place about her. She led the way and they danced the stately quadrille which they had practiced together for many days.
Anne in her shell-helmet and her blue and silver gown looked ecstatic. She was completely happy. It seemed to her on that day that she had all that she desired. She herself the center of the dance; James looking on, a little bored but tolerant, understanding that it was necessary from time to time to have such pageants; her beloved eldest, now the Prince of Wales; her daughter a charming, docile girl; her youngest, over whose state she had shed many tears, now a normal boy, promising to be as handsome as his brother.
Oh, thought Anne, that this day might last forever!
Robert Carr, who was seated with the King, found his attention wandering from the dancing. He was turning over in his mind something which James had said to him recently. Why did he not find himself a clever scribe?
Easier said than done. Where could Robert find such a man? But how inviting was the suggestion. The King’s secretary! One of the most important of posts—particularly if a man enjoyed the King’s favor. It was only his lack of ability which was keeping him from reaching the top of his ambition. James was ready to bestow on him anything he wished; but how could even James give him a post which all those about him would know he was inadequate to fulfill?
A scribe? He needed more than a scribe. He needed someone on whom he could absolutely rely, someone who would be prepared to work for him in secret, someone who knew how to use words and had a sharp and clever brain. But surely such a person would want to seek honors for himself. Not if he had little hope of doing so. Moreover, how could an ambitious man hope to rise more easily than by doing service to Robert Carr, who could direct the King’s attention toward him?
Like James he was a little bored with the Queen and her dancing girls.
Then it was almost as though a prayer had been answered, for while the Queen and the River Nymphs were dancing their quadrille he caught sight of a man whom he had known a few years earlier and had not seen for some time.
They had been great friends. Thomas Overbury was a clever fellow, a poet, a graduate of Oxford; a very pleasant young man. Older than Robert, he would be about twenty-nine. What had been happening to Tom Overbury since they last met?
His fortunes had certainly not risen as Robert’s had. He was at the pageant, not exactly as a member of the Court but from somewhere on the fringe. He had been rather fond of Robert, amused at his lack of scholarship while, like the King, he recognized a shrewd brain and intelligence.
As soon as he could make an opportunity he would seek out Tom Overbury.
An opportunity came during the ball that followed the pageant.
The King, unwillingly, must partner the Queen in opening the ball, and Robert had his opportunity to slip away.
As he pushed his way through the crowds, he was met by ingratiating smiles.
“Sir Robert, I have a request to make—”
“Sir Robert, I humbly ask—”
To all he said: “Come and see me tomorrow. At this moment I am engaged on the King’s business.”
Unsure of himself, it was his policy never to make an enemy, however humble. That might have been one of the reasons why he remained first favorite for so long. James liked a man to be easy going and not stir up trouble.
He took Overbury by the elbow and said: “My friend, it is good to see you.”
Thomas Overbury’s thin clever face lit up with pleasure.
“Why, Robert,” he said, “it’s good to hear such an important man call me friend.”
Robert laughed; it was his habit to feign a modesty he did not feel. “Important?” he said. “Poor Robert Carr, whom you used to marvel at because he could just manage to spell his own name.”
“Life is more than a matter of spelling, it seems. Any scholar can spell. There’s a surfeit of scholars and only one Robert Carr.”
“I want to speak with you in private … for the sake of our old friendship.”
“Give the word, and I am at your command.”
“Now.”
“I am ready.”
“Then follow me. We must be quick, for the King will expect me to be at his side.”
Carr led the way to a small ante-room and, when they were there, he shut the door.
“Now, Tom,” said Carr, “tell me when you returned.”
“But a few weeks ago.”
“From the Low Countries, was it?”
Overbury nodded. “Whither, you will remember, I retired from Court in some disgrace.”
“I do remember.” Robert burst out laughing.
Overbury lifted his finger. “Do not expect me to join in your laughter, Robert. Remember it was laughter that led me into disgrace.”
They were both thinking of those days which immediately followed the accident in the tiltyard. Good-natured Robert had sought to help his old friend, and it had seemed that Thomas Overbury would bask in the sunshine of Robert’s success. The Queen, disliking Robert, disliked his friends; and although she could not harm Robert, he being so warmly protected by his benefactor, the same thing did not apply to his friends.
On one occasion Thomas Overbury—who had recently been given a knighthood at Robert’s request—had been walking in the gardens at Greenwich with Robert when Anne had noticed them from a window. She had remarked: “There goes Carr and his governor.” Neither Robert nor Overbury had heard the comment but, just at that moment, Overbury had laughed aloud at something his friend had said. Incensed, certain that he was laughing at her, Anne had declared she would not be insulted and had given orders that Overbury be sent to the Tower.
Even now Overbury shivered, thinking of being conveyed down the river to the Tower, those gray walls closing about him, the damp smell of slimy walls, the clank of keys in a warder’s hands, the sound of steps on a stone stair.
Robert understood; he laid a hand on his arm. “The Queen was angry with you once, Tom,” he said.
“With you too; but she could not harm you.”
“Nor did I allow her to harm you for long.”
Thomas’s eyes were narrowed. “You were my good friend as always. As much when you were at the King’s right hand as when you were a mere page in the household of the Earl of Dunbar. Do you remember?”