The Girl in the Glass Tower (24 page)

She smiled widely, showing her even teeth. ‘You remember.’

‘And you are a poet now?’

‘I am. Of sorts.’ She seemed suddenly self-conscious, her voice shrinking. ‘I try to shape my thoughts and scribble them down. I was lucky enough to have more of an education than I might have had.’ She pulled a fold of paper from her sleeve and handed it to me. ‘It’s a poem I wrote for you. I hope you don’t think it an imposition.’

I read it silently. It was short, a mere two verses and not particularly good, not when you have heard the alchemical verse of Donne with its intricate rhythms and singular figures, words that combine to touch profoundly and haunt the passages of your mind for ever. Donne it may not have been, but I liked her spirit; for a woman such as her to take up a pen showed mettle.

‘This,’ I said, reading a line out loud, ‘“Rare Phoenix, whose fair feathers are your own.” This is me.’ I was thinking of something I had written myself in those dark days at Hardwick:
I must shape my own coat according to my cloth, but it will not be after the fashion of this world, God willing, but fit for me.

I felt somehow penetrated, as if she had looked inside my soul, and was deeply touched by that mediocre little poem, which still lies in my bag of treasures. ‘I am most grateful to you, Mistress Lanyer.’ My thanks seemed woefully inadequate, given the effect those few words had had on me. ‘I should like …’ I clammed up and a silence fell. ‘I have written a little poetry myself and wonder if I might send you some for your opinion.’ And then I wanted to take the words back, for how could I show my work to this woman I barely knew, when my whole inner world was bared in it?

‘It would be a great honour, My Lady. It is difficult to share one’s work, like going naked.’ She looked at me cautiously, as if I might find the expression vulgar.

But I nodded saying, ‘Exactly so.’

‘If I may, I too, would like to send you something I’ve been attempting. It is a vindication of Eve – the ideas I’ve been talking of. But it is very rough – quite unformed.’

I felt an instant like-mindedness, as if we were stars that belonged in the same constellation; it was a feeling reminiscent of my friendship with Starkey. I found myself wondering if Mistress Lanyer too could be capable of suicide and was horrified by the way my thoughts had turned. Of course not, I reassured myself, not the fiery smiling woman before me:
I could have torn the bishop’s head off
.

‘I should like very much to see your work.’

I imagined us; two women with a common aim to express ourselves in words, and had a sense of belonging to something meaningful, however tenuous. I thought of those I had been fond of aside from family: Starkey, Bridget, Dodderidge, they were all my servants in one way or another, all in my pay, and had no choice but to care for me.

‘I have always thought of you as greatly misunderstood,’ she added.

Before I had the chance to ask her what she meant, she was hustled along by the countess, who wanted her for an errand.

‘You really have no right to approach the Lady Arbella, like that.’ She spoke loud enough for me to hear.

‘No, no, it’s quite all right,’ I said, but they were already bustling off down the corridor.

Sometimes an event occurs that throws the world off-kilter to such an extent that it is possible for everyone to recall with crystal clarity the time and place they first heard of it.

It happened in the month I reached thirty. I remember being with Queen Anna at Denmark House. Her privy chamber had a view across the gardens to the Thames and the light that day, from a low November sun, cast long shadows, rendering everything unfamiliar. It tumbled in through the window, gilding the women scattered about the room, but the places it didn’t reach were impenetrably dark. Ruff was sleeping at my feet, twitching in a dream. Just behind me Lady Rich was talking quietly to Jane Drummond about what she planned to wear for the opening of Parliament on the following day.

I wasn’t really listening as I was writing feverishly, attempting to compose a few verses to send to Mistress Lanyer. We had been in frequent correspondence in the weeks since our encounter at Oxford, an exchange that was intensely stimulating and had invested me with a newfound optimism and purpose.

I think now about Mistress Lanyer, here where I have ended up, unfolding the ragged leaf on which she wrote that poem, reading her faded words, and emotion jostles me.

The tranquillity in the privy chamber was disturbed with the sudden arrival of a messenger rushing in at the head of a consignment of guards. His hands were shaking slightly as he removed his cap and got on his knees before the Queen. He was pale and slick with perspiration – it was clear to all of us that he was not delivering any ordinary correspondence.

His fear was contagious; all the women in the chamber stopped what they were doing. A cluster of girls at the window clutched at each other; Lady Rich flicked her gaze about, alert as a cat; Jane Drummond began to bite her nails; and the colour fell away from the Queen’s cheeks. Only Lucy Bedford seemed oblivious.

‘It’s your go,’ she said brightly, pointing to the chessboard. Lady Rich stretched out a hand and touched her arm with a small shake of the head.

‘Speak,’ the Queen said to the fellow.

‘Your Highness, I hope you will forgive me, for it is not good news that I bring.’

‘I will not blame the messenger, if that is what concerns you.’

I was wondering if the King was dead, as I supposed others were, for what else, save an invasion, could have given the fellow such a grave aspect.

I got up without thinking and, tucking Ruff into the crook of my elbow, crossed the chamber to stand behind the Queen. She looked back at me with a brief smile, as if to say she was glad of my support. I began to calculate what the King’s death might mean for me personally. I suspected I would fare better once Prince Henry Frederick was on the throne, for we had built up an affinity in my time at court. He professed to be fond of his ‘dear English coz’ and said to me once, ‘When I have it in my power I will settle an estate on you, Coz, so you will have a place that is yours. It seems to me that is what you lack.’ He didn’t think me a threat as his father did.

But, though astute beyond his years, the Prince was still a mere boy of eleven and perhaps all in that chamber on that day were wondering what might become of England with a boy-king on the throne.

‘A truly heinous plot has been uncovered. Catholic
insurrection on a grand scale’ – the Queen expelled a small involuntary wince as he said this – ‘with violent intention.’

Lucy Bedford gasped.

Queen Anna crossed herself. I judged the gesture inappropriate, given the circumstances.

‘I have come with orders from the Earl of Salisbury to ensure your safety.’ He nudged his head back towards the guards lined up behind him. Had I not known the circumstances it would have appeared to be an arrest.

‘Salisbury?’ said the Queen, as if unsure whom he meant, which was unsurprising given that Cecil had only recently had that title bestowed on him. ‘Oh, you mean Cecil. And what of my sons and the King?’ She rubbed her belly, as if thinking of her children had reminded her of the one she was incubating.

‘The King and the Princes are well guarded.’

‘And the Princess Elizabeth?’

‘I beg you do not fret about the Princess’s safety.’ He could not look at her as he said this. I supposed he had no idea about the child’s well-being, given she was far away in the Midlands. The man was clearly out of his depth.

Queen Anna turned to me, stricken. ‘I should never have sanctioned her being raised in such a distant place. It is a barbaric custom to separate children from their mothers. In Denmark it would never happen. Coombe Abbey; I barely even know where it is.’

‘It is next to Coventry,’ said someone.

I heard Lady Rich whisper to Jane Drummond, ‘I’d wager Catesby’s behind this business.’

The Queen’s distress was eroding her composure and I thought for a moment she might begin to weep; but she was made of sterner stuff than I thought and regained her self-possession to ask the fellow, ‘What do you propose to do with us here?’

‘An investigation is taking place and I am instructed to ensure that no one enters or leaves Denmark House, until all is safe.’

‘So we are prisoners?’ Queen Anna wore a slight sardonic smile at the corner of her mouth, as she watched the fellow squirm, but her worry was apparent in the way she picked at the lace edging on her glove until it came right away.

She must have been wondering, as I was, why this unknown young man had been put in charge of her security. But then if the emergency was as bad as it seemed all the others must have been needed elsewhere. That thought turned me cold.

‘No, madam … it is to ensure your safety … it is a time of cri—

‘Fret not,’ she interrupted, causing his face to redden. ‘We will do your bidding, but tell me, what is the threat, exactly?’

‘I am not party to that information, Your Highness. I know only that it is grave and that I have been charged with ensuring your safety.’ He paused but the Queen said nothing, only picked up the little knight from the chessboard and worried at it with her fingers. ‘Your Highness, I also have instructions to protect the Lady Arbella and was told I would find her with you.’

He looked around and clearly had no idea which of the women in the room I was.

I wanted to ask what he meant by ‘protect’; was it for my safety or something else? Had I been cast into another conspiracy without my knowledge? The fragile optimism I had felt only minutes before began to fragment and the peaceful vista of my future seemed, in the space of a few minutes, thrown into turbulence.

One of the Queen’s dogs had begun to yap repeatedly.

‘Will someone get that animal under control,’ snapped Lady Rich. A maid picked the puppy up and walked to the far end of the chamber.

‘The Lady Arbella; what danger is
she
in?’ Queen Anna patted the seat beside her for me to take – a gesture of unity.

‘I only follow orders, Your Highness.’

‘For how long do you anticipate the danger will last?’ asked the Queen quite nonchalantly, as if inquiring about the length of a play or an evening’s entertainment. She seemed to have curbed her earlier distress, or had found a way to hide it well, at least.

‘I regret to say that all is unclear at this stage.’

‘Well, you’d better get on with your business. Tell your men to be as discreet as possible. I don’t want the young girls alarmed.’ I was thinking it was far too late for that, for all the girls looked terrified.

He glanced briefly my way before instructing the armed men to disperse about the room.

I wondered if he could see my fear or if I hid it as well as the Queen.

‘I see at least a dozen men at the gates,’ said Lady Rich from the window. ‘Are they yours?’

‘All the entrances and exits are sealed,’ he replied.

Lady Rich seemed, of all of us, in her element. I remembered hearing of her famous courage when she’d withstood the siege at Essex House and felt glad she was amongst our number that day.

Queen Anna had begun to pray, moving her lips in silence and clicking the beads of her rosary between her fingers. When she was done she leaned towards my ear, saying, ‘This will change everything.’ She stopped a moment then added, ‘If we get through it.’

Dread crept into me; I didn’t want to think about not getting through it. ‘It will doubtless make life difficult for some.’ I didn’t say that it would be particularly so for her because of her faith. She didn’t need reminding. ‘Now we have our treaty with Spain the English Catholics – I mean those who –’

‘Disaffection breeds discontent.’ She’d interrupted me before I had a chance to explain that I didn’t include her with those English Catholics, that I meant the fanatics, but I supposed she knew it. ‘Tolerance would never have been enough for the zealous.’

‘Without their dream of a Spanish invasion, it was inevitable they’d eventually try and take things into their own hands.’ I hadn’t really considered it until then, the level of Catholic alienation. None of us had, except perhaps Cecil, who considered everything always; he made it his business.

She looked at me then, with disarming directness. ‘I know you think me shallow but I am not.’ She spoke quietly so as not to be overheard. I thought about contradicting her out of politeness, but stopped myself, for it was true, I
did
think her shallow, though I didn’t dislike her for it. ‘It is like this: if I am seen to be frothy-headed then I am no threat to anyone. It keeps me safe.’

‘And your faith? If you wish to be safe then surely …’

‘I did not choose my faith. My faith chose me.’

I saw her differently on that day, still and straight and pale as a statue, she appeared utterly resilient and self-assured, so unlike me with my rigid exterior, a thin shell concealing a friable inner world.

‘And faith, in a woman,’ she continued. ‘Ha! They always believe you will change with the wind. Have you not suffered from that impression yourself?’

I supposed she meant those who didn’t know me believing I could be moulded into a Catholic queen at their bidding.

‘Yes,’ she added, ‘we women are always assumed to be inconstant.’

The following morning, in the wake of a fitful night, news began to seep out. There was to be no opening of Parliament, we were told – a piece of information that sent
speculation spinning out of control. Letters arrived and whispers began to move like a toxic gas through the corridors of Denmark House, replacing our previous dread with an invisible undercurrent of disquiet. Even the imperturbable Queen Anna seemed uneasy, for the truth of what had been uncovered was unimaginable in its potential for devastation. It made our tranquil world a dangerous place.

A man had been apprehended in the undercroft of Westminster Hall with enough gunpowder to explode the entire building. Each account gave a differing number of barrels: 30; 37; 65; 100; more … The quantity didn’t matter, what mattered was that it was enough to have blown us all to high heaven – Parliament, the King, the Prince, all of England’s nobles including us women under guard in the privy chamber at Denmark House, who only the day before had been blithely wondering what jewels they would wear for the opening ceremony. We would all have been there – each and every one of us.

That the violence had been thwarted somehow didn’t make it less distressing. The fact that such an undreamed-of scheme had existed, been plotted out, for months, for years perhaps, meant that the threat of such a thing would hang over us in perpetuity. Our innocence was lost. The narrowly averted catastrophe was too great, too terrifying to envision, and we all sat around like wraiths in a state of shock, waiting for the next piece of information.

It emerged that the apprehended man was one John Johnson, but he was holding out, refusing to name his co-conspirators.

‘He must lack imagination,’ remarked Lady Rich, ‘to have not come up with a more convincing alias. No wonder he has been caught.’ True to her reputation, Lady Rich appeared untouched by the fear that had infected us all with the jitters,
had us jumping at the slightest sound. ‘Once he’s been racked we shall discover his real identity, I wouldn’t doubt.’

My own apprehension continued to simmer and I couldn’t help but think back to Cobham and Ralegh’s plot, wondering if that nameless man would blurt out
my
name on the rack and it would emerge I had unwittingly been placed at the heart of a treason once more. It was not something I dared articulate, not there in the Queen’s chambers, where trust was such a rare commodity.

Lady Rich was right; in the end it came out that the fellow who had been apprehended and was being interrogated in the Tower was named Fawkes. He’d held out for a few days, but there was not a man alive that could stay silent for ever in that place. She was right about Catesby, too, and names of the plotters emerged one by one: a Tresham; a Digby; a pair of Wrights; a Percy.

‘Which Percy?’ one of the younger maids had cried. ‘I beg you, tell me it is not George.’ Her eyes churned in distress and her friends had to hold her up. It later transpired that it was a Thomas Percy, which induced a prolonged discussion about which Thomas Percy.

I imagined those men being hunted down, hounds sniffing out their trail, and hauled from priest holes or shot dead making their escape. The word ‘treason’ was on everyone’s lips and the atmosphere was subdued as we awaited each new thread of information. I read my volume of Plato, seeking comfort in its pages, remembering those long-ago conversations about Socrates with dear Starkey. It was an irony, I supposed, that those discussions had all focused on my eventual rise to the throne – what unassailable belief we had had then.

I noticed that all the rosaries and crucifixes had been spirited away at some point – into pockets, under dresses – and there was no Mass on that first day, or not one I was aware
of. Conversations were whispered and everyone had their theory. I wondered if any of them knew more than they were letting on.

Queen Anna whiled away the hours quietly playing rounds of primero with Lucy Bedford and Jane Drummond. In the late afternoon another letter arrived, Lucy Bedford the recipient. It was from her husband, who was out hunting down the plotters. No one sought to question how, given the gates were sealed, so many letters were finding their way into Denmark House.