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?”

“I often think of those Edinburgh days.”

“It was a good day for me when my father decided to send me on a visit to Edinburgh with his chief clerk as my guardian. But for that … we should not have met.”

“We should have met later at Court.”

“There would not have been the same bond between us, Robert. Then we were two humble youths; now you are humble no longer.”

“Nor are you, Sir Thomas.”

“Humble compared with Sir Robert.”

“I’ll tell you a secret. I am soon to be created Viscount Rochester.”

“There is no end to the titles and wealth which will one day be yours.”

“I trust you are going to stay in London now, Tom.”

“Providing the Queen does not see fit to banish me.”

“Why should she?”

“Perhaps because Sir Robert Carr … or Viscount Rochester … continues to be my friend. Let me tell you this, I would be ready to risk the one for the sake of the other.”

Robert clasped his friend’s hand and said: “We shall always be friends, I trust. Did I not soon bring about your release from the Tower?”

“And arranged that I should be sent to the Low Countries an exile.”

“It was the only way, Tom. The King does not flout the Queen too openly. But you see, you did not remain long in the Low Countries.”

“A year seems an age to an exile.”

“Exile no longer. Do you still write excellent poetry?”

“I write poetry, though whether it be excellent or not, as the author it is not for me to say. But I’ll tell you this: Ben Jonson has told me that he admires my work, and since I admire his, that is a compliment.”

“The Queen insists that Ben Jonson be called when she wants poetry for a pageant.”

“He’s a rare fellow—Ben Jonson.”

“Not too rare, I trust, Tom. I mean I hope there are others who admire your work.”

“I am writing some sketches which I’m calling Characters. I’ll show them to you. I think they will amuse you.”

“You will be famous one day, Tom. I am sure of it. You have a great gift. You need a patron … someone who will help you make the best of your talents.”

“A patron? Who?”

“Tom, you have seen me rising. I shall go much farther. Those who come with me will rise too.”

“What are you suggesting, Robert?”

“I need a secretary—someone who has a gift for words, hard work, and who is shrewd and loyal. I know you well and I know that you possess these gifts. Tom, throw in your lot with mine. I am traveling upwards … you can come with me.”

Overbury stared at his friend. He was fond of Robert. He trusted him. Attach himself to the brightest star at Court, the petted boy who only had to whisper his desires in the King’s ear for them to be readily granted?

He was an ambitious man but he had never thought such an opportunity possible.

The music could scarcely be heard above the talk in the crowded ballroom.