The Girl in the Glass Tower (39 page)

Tap, tap, tap.
I continue to scrutinize myself for the answer to that and truly don’t know whether I was a woman seeking escape and freedom to live with her husband, or a woman with an altogether greater ambition. Both, perhaps; after all, a person cannot veer from the trajectory set at birth, can they? So many questions – I wonder if it is ever possible to know what someone, even oneself, truly thinks or believes; it is so easy to hide the truth in a dark corner of the heart.

Margaret was shivering, so I pulled my cloak around her and Bridget followed Crompton off the boat, returning a few minutes later with a jug of toddy and something to eat. I hesitated when she held out the food but took it when she said, ‘I’m not putting up with any of your not-eating nonsense, My Lady. You need your strength and we don’t know when we will have our next meal.’

There was no messenger, no sign of Will, by the time
the men returned laughing and singing, their spirits thankfully up again. We continued on for what seemed an interminable time, the little boat clinging to the coast, weaving to avoid sandbanks and sea grass, occasionally having to turn back to find a deeper channel through. The men’s high spirits were short-lived and they became restless. Had we not been in the wilderness, without the remotest sign of a village or even a house, they might well have deserted us.

The darkness was fading as I began to smell the sea, a wild, briny scent that reignited my optimism. Birdsong began to fill the air, not the familiar finches and pigeons but the strange cries of seabirds, birds I’d never seen before, with stilt legs and elongated beaks. The waterman began to point them out, naming them: the gannets, gulls and the waders, a colony of shags, a lone heron, a pair of egrets, a sudden flight of red-beaked terns twisting in unison up and up, opening the sleek span of their wings, flipping together, black heads disappearing, silvery plumage rendered invisible against the palest grey of dawn.

The sight of masts in the distance meant we were at Leigh, the final port in the estuary. I pictured it on the map, beside the scribbled sea-monster. There was some discussion with the waterman, provoked by another threat of mutiny from his men, but Crompton, still with no apparent agitation, managed eventually to persuade the men to continue, with the promise of a greatly increased reward. We moved on, out into the expanse of empty water; I had never laid eyes on the sea and the paintings I had seen of it failed to capture the sheer, flat, endless, muted, nothingness, the almost imperceptible edge where sky and water touched. I wondered how we would ever find our waiting boat, if it were still waiting, but eventually, an hour’s hard pull on, we saw the single mast and a flag bearing a yellow cross, our pre-arranged sign, dancing hopefully in the wind.

We drew up next to the anchored brig and a ladder was unrolled down the side. I unfolded my aching body and began to climb up that wavering rope ladder. My wig became caught, flapping manically and, clinging on with one hand, I pulled it away from my head, throwing it into the water below. My own hair flew up in the wind, freeing itself from its ties. One of the men tried to hook the wig with an oar but it had floated too far out. They must have all been wondering who was this woman dressed as a man whose escape they had rowed through the night to assist.

I climbed on up and at the top a pair of arms helped me up on to the deck.

‘
À votre service
,’ said the ship’s captain, a rotund, smiling man in satin who looked more like a Parisian blade than a seasoned smuggler. His eyes lingered a moment on my breeches and boots and then on my wild tangle of hair. ‘
Je m’appelle Capitaine Corvé. Soyez la bienvenu à bord mon modeste, petit vaisseau
…’ He continued on, not seeming to care whether he was being listened to or not, as Bridget and Margaret were heaved up to join me, followed by our luggage, winched up on ropes, and then eventually, having settled up with the waterman, Crompton swung himself up and over on to the deck.

I went aft, looking back up the estuary, hoping beyond hope for a sign of William; there was nothing but endless water, grey and empty save for the strange birds and distant banks of sand. As I watched, the drab seascape transformed, lit beautifully in the golden light of sunrise, and in it the two small dark shapes of our departing rowboats.

In that moment of contemplation, beckoned by the watery expanse, I forced myself to face the possibility that I might have to head for the Continent without Will. But his fist was gripped about my heart and, try as I might, I couldn’t prise those fingers open.
Your plan was bound to fail
, said that part of
me. Our luggage was being stowed and Corvé was shouting commands to the deckhands. It was only moments before he would order the anchor to be lifted. I prayed for time to slow and give Will a chance to catch us up but there was a leak in my resolve and despair was flooding through it.

Margaret must have sensed my distress, for she came alongside me and placed her arm about my shoulders. I didn’t flinch.

‘Do you think he’s been arrested?’ I couldn’t bear to think of my Will having the truth forced out of him.

‘Of course not!’ She didn’t believe it for she had tears running down her face and I wished, in that moment, more than anything, for a similar release.

Crompton stepped up, saying, ‘As we were late arriving we have to wait for the tide to turn. It will be at least two hours before we can weigh anchor.’

‘Two hours?’ A seed of hope planted itself in me, sprouting, blossoming. ‘Two more hours.’

‘Why don’t you go below and settle in? There is a cabin prepared down there, a bed. You could try and sleep a little.’ His voice was steady but his fingers betrayed him, tapping nervously.

Bridget and Margaret slept but I waited on deck, sensing the jitters building. Corvé pulled out a perspective glass from his doublet with a flourish, eyeing us all to see if we were impressed with his toy, and I was reminded for an instant of Uncle Henry. He scanned the horizon to no avail.

A little later Crompton asked for a man to be sent up the mast to look out. It dawned on me then that they weren’t seeking only my husband, but also those who might be in pursuit. Back in Barnet the household would be waking and my absence noted. I prayed Sir James would assume my imminent return, but eventually the truth would emerge, if it
hadn’t already. An indelible image fixed itself in my mind’s eye of Will being escorted to the Privy Council by a consignment of guards.

Crompton began to pace up and down the deck.

My gut twisted.

The wind whipped up, the brig rocked and bucked and a dark bank of boiling cloud became visible on the distant horizon.

‘Let’s pray that storm holds off,’ Crompton said, just as Corvé gave the order to weigh anchor. ‘Thank heavens,’ he muttered.

The boat was a sudden hive of activity as men climbed the masts to loose the sails and others pulled up the great chain, which fell clattering to the deck, followed, eventually, by the anchor, tangled with dripping weed. The sails smacked as they unfurled, ballooning out, and the brig began to shift, rapidly picking up speed.

‘We are away!’ Crompton, forgetting himself, slapped me on the back as if I were a comrade, but I couldn’t find a way to share his joy. I was rent in two, for the price of my freedom was the loss of my love.

The wind whipped my hair, snapping it about my face; an icy spray of brine smacked sharply over my skin and I held out my arms, letting my cloak fly out behind me, imagining wings to lift me up and away from my despair.

Ami was ready. The basket, with the suit and black wig folded out of sight beneath the linens, waited beside the back door. Alphonso was dead to the world upstairs in the bedchamber, and would be for some time if the drunken state of him on the previous night was any measure. Hal was sleeping too and she’d told the maid she had an early errand and to get him up and off to school without her.

She hadn’t been able to eat, was far too het up, and paced the hall back and forth as she waited for the bell to ring out for matins. Then she would leave, giving her enough time to get to the Tower before the laundry cart went through the gates. It was a drill she’d practised before. On the previous occasions she had enjoyed the subterfuge but on that day the stakes were higher.

She thought about Lady Arbella leaving from Barnet and imagined her reunited with Will Seymour at some place or other in Blackwall. Mister Crompton had been deliberately opaque about the plans. ‘If you only know what you need to know there will be less risk if you are …’ He looked at her. His eyes were appealing and gentle but his character was razor-sharp. He’d thought of everything, it seemed. He didn’t finish what he was saying but she knew he meant if she were hauled before the Privy Council to account for what happened.

She caught herself biting her nails, took a breath to calm her nerves and ran through the drill in her head. A banging started up, someone at the back door, desperate to gain entry, making her heart jump into her throat. Opening it she found a boy in a big apron covered in ink – the printer’s apprentice,
she was sure; he was puffing and wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve. He must have run all the way from Adling Hill.

‘Mistress Lanyer.’ He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

‘What is it?’ She was confused, for this boy, as far as she knew, had nothing to do with their plans.

‘Mister Simmes needs you at the print works. He says it is urgent.’

‘Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon.’ Relief washed through her. For a moment she’d thought things had gone awry.

‘He says he must see you this morning. There is a line he cannot read in one of your poems and the edition is meant to go out today.’

‘Then it must go out tomorrow. Run along and tell him I’ll be there later.’ She rummaged in her purse for a ha’penny to give him.

‘I’ve been told to say that if it isn’t done today it will be another three months before he’ll be able to get to it. He has a pile of other work, see, and all of it’s urgent.’

Her mind churned over possible remedies. Her book had been with Valentine Simmes since October. It was June already and the bookseller Mister Bonian was supposed to have it the following week in his shop. He’d been pestering her, had orders he said. She had waited a decade for this – the publishing of her book, the culmination of a tortuous creative path and an answer to all those who doubted she’d do it. Only Lady Arbella never doubted her. Her husband thought her an aberration for wanting to publish a book.

‘If you tell me which line I will write it clearly for you to take back to him. That should do it.’ She was glad to have found a resolution, for the matins bell had started up. She hurriedly got out her writing things. ‘Come on, I’ve no time to waste. I have to be somewhere.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know which line it is. You really do need to return with me.’

There was no choice. She was calculating the time it would take to get to Adling Hill and then on to the Tower and thought it feasible. ‘Come on then.’ She threw on her cape, picked up the basket and was out into the back alley before the bells had stopped ringing. The boy trailed her as she marched at speed down Bishopsgate and across to Moorgate then dropped down towards St Paul’s. If she kept her pace up there would be plenty of time.

Valentine Simmes was in the door of his print works as she arrived, hot and in need of a drink. The place smelled oily with printers’ ink and the great beast of a press sat in the middle of the space.

She stopped his apology in its steps: ‘I am in a terrible rush, Mister Simmes, so if you could be quick with your query.’ The boy offered her a cup of small beer, which she swallowed back in one.

‘It is here in line eight hundred and three.’ Simmes had the place marked in the manuscript, opening it to show her. ‘Do you see there is a blot? I cannot make out if it says “prove” or “reprove”.’

‘Oh, it’s “prove”. It wouldn’t make sense as “reprove”.’ She tried to hide her annoyance at being dragged all the way there for something any idiot could have worked out for himself.

‘I thought as much,’ he said, ‘but wanted to be absolutely sure, for if it was wrong the sense would have been altered entirely and once in print, well, it is there for ever.’

She was suddenly grateful, thinking of her words immortalized, grateful for his meticulousness.

‘You must be very proud. It is a remarkable work … true subtlety of thought there. Greatly original.’

Her heart expanded. ‘Goodness, I don’t know about that.’
She was being disingenuous for she knew her work was better than most.

‘Your Description of Cookham. The emotion you convey, the sense of loss, is profound.’ He shuffled through a stack of papers, taking an age, finding a sheet from which he began to read aloud:

She was enjoying hearing her own words, was quite entranced, felt proud of her achievement and as he recited on, she quite forgot the time.

She raised her hand to stop him. The mention of Philomel had reminded her, with a jolt, of her urgent mission. ‘Now I really must be off, Mister Simmes.’

She was out again and running along behind Baynard’s Castle and on past Angel Lane and the bridge, where there was a bustle of people to be negotiated. A stitch, sharp as a blade, prodded her side and her lungs were fit to burst, forcing her to stop a moment to catch her breath. Newly girded, she continued on past St Magnus the Martyr and the fish market, attracting strange looks from passers-by, red-faced and staggering as she was, carrying her great basket of linens. But she didn’t care, for St Dunstan’s was to her left and she could see the entrance to the Tower and the laundry cart outside. Running faster now, she saw the great gates opening and the cart crossing the bridge over the moat, could hear
the rumble of the slats as it passed, could smell the rank stench of the water. And it was over and beyond the gates, which were closing. She ran on stopping only as the gates shut firmly, just as she reached them. Dropping the basket, she beat at the great broad planks with her fists, crying out for someone to open up until tears of frustration subsumed her.

Her head began to spin as the full realization of what had happened, of what she had done, came to her. The whole plan, organized to perfection by Mister Crompton, would collapse because one small cog had failed to make its turn. She thought of Will Seymour waiting for her within, counting on her, and not only him, but Lady Arbella also, who was at that moment galloping to Blackwall to rendezvous with her husband.

Ami had wanted nothing more than to play her part in bringing them together, to give them the happiness they deserved. Lady Arbella had been dished out such a mean ration of joy in her life and Ami had believed she might make a difference, but she had failed them both. It was sheer vanity that had caused her delay. If she hadn’t stopped to listen to Valentine Simmes reciting her words, indulging herself in hubris, she would have made it to the gates on time.

Shame gushed into her as she slumped on a nearby wall, unable to face the potential consequences of her irresponsibility. But she refused to give up all hope. There was nothing else for it; she would have to return and go in with the late laundry cart. She would have to run down to Mister Rodney who was waiting with the horses in the yard behind the Guildhall and warn him of the delay.

Self-reproach formed into a sharp stone in her gut as she waited, through that June day, for the late cart and by the time she saw it lumbering along Tower Hill towards her she was sick with nerves.

‘It’s you today, is it?’ said the driver with a wink. ‘T’other one’s got a face as long as a yard of tripe.’

‘She’s a good laundress,’ said Ami, taking on her role, tempering her refined accent to meld in with his. ‘Can get ink spots out of anything.’ He was talking about Margey, who sometimes did laundry for her as well as the Tower’s inmates, and to whom she had several times paid a shilling for her silence to take her place with the Tower cart.

Once inside she made her way to Will Seymour’s rooms, up the steps beside the water gate. He pulled her in and slammed the door.

‘What in hell’s name kept you! You do see that if this whole thing falls apart the blame will be at your door.’ He was taking great care not to raise his voice but couldn’t disguise his rage. His protruding eye teeth, usually an attractive quirk, made him seem demonic, but her shame was greater than her fear.

‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. But it’s not too late.’ She unpacked his suit and the wig, helping him into them. They might have laughed had the circumstances been different, for the black beard was like some kind of animal and the suit cheap, ill-fitting. While he finished dressing, she pulled all the dirty linens off the bed and stuffed them into the basket.

Then they walked slowly down the steps and out on to the cobbles – a laundress and a bearded labourer – past a pair of guards, feeling their scrutiny, and towards the gates to wait for the cart to be loaded. The guards were talking. Blood rushed through her ears. One of them peeled away from his companion and ambled towards them. Her heart hammered. Did he suspect something? She didn’t dare look over at Will.

The guard walked right up to her, looking her over, fat and wheezing in the heat, peeping into the basket in her arms. She held her breath. He plucked at some of the linens.

‘What’s a’ – hot flowers of sweat blossomed in her armpits – ‘beauty like you doing laundry for such sinful inmates as inhabit this place?’

‘Got to keep the wolf from the door, aint I?’ Her voice was mercifully free from tremors.

He smiled. ‘Well, don’t work them lovely hands to the bone, will you?’

She found a smile for him and then, thankfully, the cart was loaded and they were ready to saunter out in plain sight.

As the gates closed behind them she whispered to Will, ‘Keep on going, round to the right towards the yard behind the Guildhall, where Mister Rodney is waiting.’

He turned before he left, and hissed, through that ridiculous beard, ‘If this fails, I will never forgive you.’ She still remembers the venom in his eyes, as toxic as her shame.

‘I will never forgive myself,’ she muttered to his departing back.

The following morning early a messenger came from Mister Rodney with a note that said:
Fortune is with us. The package is well on its way to France
.

Ami lights the lamp and sits herself down to read what she’s written, picturing Lady Arbella exultant on the foredeck of that French brig, a figurehead, in breeches, splashed with brine, her cloak billowing out behind her. Somewhere deep in the far reaches of her mind her heroine knows that Will too is on his way to France, can picture him on the deck of his own boat, looking out at the same expanse of water.

Ami wonders if this is not a fitting place to end her story – a place of promise, of triumph, of lovers on the brink of union. She wrestles with the idea.

She remembers theatrical denouements she has watched: the bloodbaths of tragedy, actors dripping in red matter, audiences open-mouthed in horror; the same players, on the
following night, spinning across the stage, dancing in celebration of a wedding, the crowd weeping with joy.

She can imagine Lady Arbella up there with them, the balcony of the stage serving as the prow of her ship, a fellow crouched below wafting a breeze her way to make her garments flutter. The audience wills her on. They have witnessed in the previous scene her husband’s escape from the Tower; they can already picture the fate-crossed lovers reunited, their eyes are welling with happy tears.

‘Onward to France, and liberty,’ she cries, thrusting her fist into the air, ‘where my dear husband waits for me.’

But is omission not as good as a lie? Was it not her aim to make a misunderstood woman understood, to give a voice to her silence, to hold up a mirror to a life? The imagination is a strong current that can pull you under. Goodwife Stringer has demonstrated lately the way an erroneous belief can lead a person to a place where truth is obliterated.

She takes up her pen and continues.