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.
When the news was brought to the Queen she could not take it in for some time. She refused to believe it.
But at last she was forced to accept it, and the only way she could curb her great grief was in rage and recriminations.
“Raleigh said it would cure all but poison. Poison! Someone has poisoned my son. Who could have done such a foul thing to one who was beloved by all? What enemies had he among righteous men? None. But he had his enemies. What about Robert Carr whom he always hated? What of that sly shadow of his, Overbury? I always hated Overbury. I do not trust Overbury. He has poisoned my son at the request of Carr. I will prove it. There shall be an autopsy. And if poison is found I shall not rest until I have brought those men to justice.”
Those who heard of the ravings of the Queen did not hesitate to speak of her suspicions. Soon they were being whispered, not only in the Palace but throughout the City.
Even when the autopsy revealed that Prince Henry had died from natural causes, the rumor still persisted that he had been poisoned; and the names of Robert Carr and Overbury were mentioned in this connection. It was said that the Prince had hated his father’s favorite and had stood in the way of his promotion to even greater honors. Carr had a reason for wishing him out of the way; and it was known that Overbury was Carr’s creature.
James, who had shown greater courage than the Queen during the Prince’s illness and had been at his bedside even though warned of the contagious nature of his illness, scorned these suggestions; and bade Robert put them from his mind.
“Why, lad,” he said, “’twas ever the same. A prominent person dies and the word Poison is bandied from mouth to mouth. The autopsy shows the cause of death and in time all will come to accept it.”
Robert was grateful for the King’s sympathy but he was uneasy. It was unpleasant to be suspected of murder.
One evening the guards at St. James’s were disturbed by the figure of a naked man; he was tall and fair, and in the dim light had a look of the Prince.
“I am the ghost of the Prince of Wales,” cried the naked one. “I have come from the grave to ask for justice. Bring my murderers to the scaffold. It is where they belong.”
Some of the guards fled in terror, but two, bolder than the rest, approached the man and saw that he was not the Prince of Wales.
They hustled him into the porter’s lodge and there demanded to know who he was.
“The Prince of Wales,” he answered. “Come from the grave for justice.”
“This is a trick,” said one of the guards. “Someone has sent him to do this. We’ll find out who.”
They then took a whip and proceeded to lash the fellow until he screamed in agony. But he persisted that he was the ghost of the Prince of Wales.
Ghosts did not allow themselves to be beaten, the guards were sure. They tried to force him to confess he was a human being trying to trick them; but he persisted in his story, and they kept him there through the night, every now and then trying, as they said, to make him see reason and confess the truth.
In the morning news of what had happened was carried to the Palace and brought to the ears of the King, and James himself went to the porter’s lodge to see the ‘ghost’ of Prince Henry.
He frowned when he saw the marks of lashes on the naked body.