The Girl in the Glass Tower (32 page)

His hand clasped the place. ‘Thief!’

‘There are wise women who can make a man love a woman for ever, if they have a lock of his hair.’ I laughed.

‘You have no need of a spell for that.’ He laughed too. ‘I am already enchanted.’

The following few days at Chatsworth passed without event; William and I affected a façade of polite distance, finding moments of intimacy when backs were turned, a brief touch of hands, a stolen kiss in a dark chamber, a whispered promise, always accompanied by the part of me that watched, ready for things to go awry.

We were wrenched apart when my party left to take the waters at Buxton, though Doctor Moundford said I appeared to have regained my health miraculously without them. I was never better; it was the sense of a future I suppose, the possibility of freedom, and the knowledge that there was a person in the world who loved me for myself and not for my blood. The other me argued that the two were inseparable but I didn’t listen.

On from Buxton we visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Gilbert at Sheffield Castle, welcomed by the pealing of bells. I noticed there that most of the household was attending Catholic Mass, with the whole chapel taken over for it. Bridget went about with her rosary attached to her girdle for all to see, her fingers permanently agitating at it. I attended ordinary prayers
with Uncle Gilbert and a smattering of servants in one of the small chambers.

‘Do you not fear to attract the wrong kind of attention?’ I asked Aunt Mary of her Catholic Mass.

‘Nobody really cares any more what we do up here. At court I am more discreet, of course. But even the Queen is less cowed about her faith these days. Time is a great healer; it’s been four years.’

We were sitting in the window of one of the turret chambers and a shaft of light fell over her face, illuminating the lines, reminding me of her age. There was a carefree air about Aunt Mary that belied her years, but she was already in her middle fifties then.

‘Since the Powder Treason – four years already?’ I had the sudden sense that my life too was almost used up; though the thought of William, somewhere loving me, anchored time. But the other me felt, suddenly, hopelessly, far too old at thirty-three for a man who was thirteen years my junior. Had I become one of those lascivious older women, an object of ridicule, sung of in lewd ballads, who preys on young men? The thought horrified me. It was not like that, I reasoned. But I had witnessed the way my desire, when ignited, became monstrous, how it controlled me. Perhaps Grandmother had been right.

Aunt Mary pulled off her cap and set it aside, scratching her head. Her hair was almost entirely grey. ‘When will I persuade
you
to join us at Mass?’ She threw me a wry smile. I knew she didn’t require an answer but she always had to ask, I suppose, just in case I’d had a change of heart.

‘We all believe in the same God. That’s what matters to me,’ I replied, but I was remembering something the Scottish Queen said to me:
The Catholic faith is the true faith; it is the only path that leads to the Kingdom of Heaven
, and I was thinking of the Agnus Dei, cached away amongst my treasures, questioning whether I kept it in memory of my executed aunt or
because somewhere deep within me I believed in its intrinsic sacredness.

‘It’s not quite the same.’ She abruptly changed the topic. ‘How are you finding Hugh Crompton?’

‘An absolute blessing! He’s painstaking with my accounts.’ I began to thank her for the introduction and then, suddenly curious, asked, ‘He’s not a Catholic too, is he?’

She said, not as far as she knew.

Aunt Mary came with me to Wingfield, where the air was thick with ghosts. After which we travelled south, the hills eventually giving way to flatness as we approached Wrest Park. My mind revolved constantly around my future with Will and I allowed myself to imagine our shared life, designing its shape in my mind – an ordinary life. The even Bedfordshire landscape had a certain appeal; what it lacked in drama and surprises, it gained in steadiness and simplicity. It would be logical, I thought, to settle near Bessie, my closest cousin, on the route from Sheffield to London where Aunt Mary would often be passing.

Autumn was taking hold by the time we arrived at Wrest Park, the leaves crisping and falling, the air newly chilled. Everybody remarked on how well I looked. The trip had done me the world of good, they’d said. Little did they know. I relished in my secret.

Cousin Bessie had grown plump. She’d been lonely, she told me, confiding that though she’d had several pregnancies none had come to fruition. I saw that even the most perfect-seeming life has its hidden misery. She asked for gossip from my travels and from the Queen’s chambers. I fear I fell woefully short in relaying such stories but Bessie seemed satisfied with my company alone; perhaps she was lonely.

I asked her, in passing, if she knew of any houses nearby which might be suitable for me. My question felt weighted, no matter how light my tone. We were back to back, chopping
the dead heads from the rose bushes in the ladies’ bower. It was a place that reminded me of the gardens at Sheen, quite wild and overgrown, a contrast from the order of the formal planting at the front of the house, the yews clipped into complicated shapes, the trees espaliered into submission, an echo of the Hardwick gardens.

‘A house?’ said Bessie, turning to face me, a dead rose held aloft. ‘Do you have the means to buy a house?’ Bessie, being one of the relatives I owed, was only too aware of my financial woes.

‘Things might be about to change,’ I said.

‘You intend to wed and gain your inheritance!’ She was shrill with suppressed excitement, eyes wide and greedy for information.

‘No!’ I could feel the flush on my face.

‘You do!’

‘Don’t be silly, Bessie.’

‘It’s the Prince of Moldavia, isn’t it? I heard a rumour he was seeking your hand. Does the King know? Do you have his authority?’ She threw her hands up. ‘A wedding, how lovely it will be.’

‘Bessie, you’re getting carried away.’ I didn’t exactly want to deny it, for it seemed a convenient way, if the gossips fixed on the idea of the Prince of Moldavia, to ensure the attention remained away from Will Seymour. So, if I am entirely honest, I allowed her to believe erroneously.

Once back at court I discovered that my petitions prior to leaving had not fallen on fallow ground. My allowance was to be increased and a donation of plate had been made to me that would go to pay off some of my debts. But no soon as I had relieved myself of one debt, I had accrued another, for life at court continued to be an expense I could ill afford. But my frustrations were kept at bay with the thought of finally
coming into my patrimony and at long last I had the sense of a tangible future.

Will and I were rarely able to meet privately, though he had taken up residence in one of the Seymour houses in Canon Row and on a handful of occasions I had the chance to slip away to visit him there, where we would lie in each other’s arms, fully clothed, talking. I had to bring to bear all my powers of resistance to keep my wakened monster of desire in check, for Will insisted we wait until it was right in the eyes of God. It made me understand that his powers of self-discipline, though differently focused, were equal to mine. I often found myself seeking the areas of similarity in our characters to ward off my concerns about the gaping gulf in our years.

‘Does it matter to you that I am old?’ I asked him once. We were lying flat on the big tester bed at Canon Row, curtains tightly drawn around us and just the light of a single lamp to penetrate the dark of our private universe.

‘You are not old, Belle,’ he said.

‘But older.’

‘Not to me.
You
cannot be measured in years. Perhaps it is I who am too young. Not wise enough.’

The truth was that when we were together those thirteen years dwindled to nothing. I often wondered if it was I who lacked maturity – certainly I lacked experience – or if he was older than his years; perhaps it was a little of both.

We fell to silence and he seemed deep in thought, inaccessible to me in a way that felt unbearable. I wanted admission to every secret recess of him, even whilst knowing such a desire was futile. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘This is the bed where my father was conceived,’ was his reply.

‘Here?’ I could feel her watching me from behind her oval of glass.

‘They were wed in the next room.’

‘I have felt haunted by Katherine Grey,’ I said. ‘Wherever I go, she has left an imprint. I feel sometimes that she has woven herself through my life. My grandmother kept her picture beside her bed and that of Jane. She used to say it was there to remind her that even the best-laid plans can go awry.’

Silence fell once more; I looked up at the canopy, embroidered with birds, and imagined Katherine Grey lying in the arms of her husband, gazing up at the same scene half a century before.

I suppose it was inevitable, given the way gossip spreads, that I would eventually be hauled before the King to explain myself. I knew that talk of the Prince of Moldavia’s suit was running rife around Whitehall. Fate was playing into my hands and I sensed myself invincible then.

The King looked unwell; the skin on his face was raised and flaky, his eyes sunken and there was food in his beard that none of his bevy of slickly groomed men, who purported to adore him, had thought to comb out. A number of privy councillors had gathered; most appeared as if they’d rather be elsewhere. They pitied me, I saw it in their averted faces; they had no clue of my secret optimism.

Cecil busied himself by lining his papers on the table, though they were already straight. Northampton pared his fingernails with a penknife; Uncle Gilbert, who looked strained, was drawing swirls in the margins of a book – he had warned me of this hearing; it was only Nottingham who offered an encouraging smile.

‘Salisbury,’ said the King, nodding in the direction of Cecil. ‘Start the proceedings, would you.’

Cecil stood, adjusting his cuffs so the frills lay evenly, and cleared his throat with a small cough. ‘My Lady, we are grateful that you considered attending –’

‘Get on with it, Salisbury,’ snapped the King. ‘It’s not as if she had any choice in the matter.’

‘My Lady, it has come to our notice that you have engaged in discussions with a foreign prince concerning your betrothal.’ Cecil continued to avoid my eye and I wondered, as I often had, if it disturbed him that he had betrayed me all those years ago. Perhaps he didn’t think of it as a betrayal; he didn’t seem the type to be inconvenienced by remorse, but I considered whether he ever thought of how things might have been had
I
been the one to sit on the throne instead of my cousin.

‘My Lord of Salisbury.’ I directed my gaze full on him, buoyed up by the knowledge that I was a step ahead of them all. ‘Who might this person be, with whom I am supposed to have engaged in marriage negotiations?’

The King’s breath was loud and wheezy.

‘It is the Prince of Moldavia. He seems to believe you have come to an agreement.’

‘The Prince of
where
?’ I said, raising a titter from some of the councillors.

‘Moldavia,’ interjected the King. ‘Have you been talking to his people?’

‘I have not, Your Majesty, and nor would I. If this
so-called
prince’ – I could tell from the King’s expression that, in spite of himself, he liked my scathing tone – ‘believes himself party to an arrangement with me, then he is sorely mistaken.’

‘The Venetian ambassador is of the mind –’

Nottingham interrupted Cecil: ‘The Venetian ambassador bases all his knowledge on hearsay.’ A ripple of agreement ran round the table and Uncle Gilbert gave me a small nod. I could not have planned it better.

‘Were I seeking a husband abroad, which I am not,’ I said, investing my voice with an imperious edge, not unlike that of Grandmother when she had the bit between her teeth, ‘one
could hardly blame me, given my present situation. How is it so often described? “Without mate and without estate.” Yes, I believe that’s what is whispered about me. You must have heard it, My Lord.’ I looked at Cecil, who mumbled something unintelligible. ‘It would seem reasonable, then, would it not, that, given no arrangements are being made on my behalf, I might wish to seek a mate and an estate.’

‘Cousin,’ said the King, ‘under no circumstances will I countenance a foreign bridegroom for you.’ His anger was visible in the flash of his eyes and the stiff set of his mouth. ‘If you seek such a match, you will feel the full force of my displeasure.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The law is clear: a princess of the blood cannot wed without royal agreement. You do
not
have my agreement.’ He pulled out a large handkerchief and dabbed it over his face. ‘I take it you understand?’

‘I do, Your Majesty. But I must say I have a strong inclination to wed.’ His anger couldn’t touch me, for I had my response ready and I knew well enough his low opinion of women. ‘Wisdom dictates that is unadvisable for a woman to remain a maid. A woman needs a husband to …’ I paused for effect. ‘To curb her.’

I noticed a ruffle of approbation pass through the councillors and Uncle Gilbert looked as if he might cheer. It made me think of something Mistress Lanyer had said once:
All men are of the mind that a woman left unmarried will tilt the world off its axis
.

‘Indeed it is true, My Lady,’ said Cecil, looking towards the King to see if he had overstepped the mark by responding first.

I knew I had won before my cousin spoke.

He lifted both hands in exasperation. ‘Take a husband in England, a loyal British subject, and let’s hear no more of it.’ He stopped to wipe his handkerchief over his forehead again. ‘And not a Catholic.’

‘Of my own choice, Your Majesty?’ I noticed the recording clerk had stopped writing.

I could sense a tension in the room and supposed they felt uncomfortable at the idea of a maid making her own choice of husband just as a widow might. It wasn’t the usual way of things. Mistress Lanyer would have liked it.

‘Yes, yes.’ The King had clearly had enough and was impatient to leave.