The Girl in the Glass Tower (6 page)

‘For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,’ I said, catching
a glance of approval from Grandmother. ‘Nothing can befall us with all these armed men.’

Margaret’s usually milky complexion had taken on the transparency of whey. ‘Help her, will you?’ I said to Essex, fearing she was about to faint. He tucked his gun inside his doublet and scooped her up.

My heart was thumping, not because I was scared but from the thrill of danger, making me aware of every last crevice of my body, as if it had been turned inside out. I found myself imagining what it might be like to wield a pistol, what would it feel like to have the ability to protect myself in such a way. It made me understand the Queen’s practised skill at archery and I wondered if she was equally adept with a firearm.

Once inside, we were conveyed to Aunt Mary’s rooms. Essex was ordering the guardsmen to make sure all the doors were properly protected.

‘Would you kindly enlighten us as to what is happening?’ asked Grandmother in her most imperious tone.

‘There appears to be a threat posed to Her Majesty and your granddaughter, My Lady. Specifically what, I do not know.’

‘Well, no harm can come to her in here,’ said Uncle Henry, before calling for wine. Grandmother glared at him. ‘We might as well amuse ourselves if we’re going to be cooped up for a while. Who’ll play me a wager at dice?’ He settled himself on to a stool by the table in the window. ‘Sister? Arbella?’

Essex eyed me from beneath his dark curls, making my belly feel loose, and sidled over, saying, ‘You can still count me as your champion, My Lady,’ before making for the door.

Grandmother watched him with a slanted look and Aunt Mary said, ‘Give our best wishes to
Lady Essex
,’ rolling her eyes and muttering the word ‘irredeemable’, as the earl left the room.

‘Keep away from that one,’ said Grandmother once the door had shut behind him. ‘Now he’s wed, he’s of no use to us.’

I wanted to ask what she meant by that but she made it clear that the topic was closed by turning to one of the pages with a list of orders.

The following day we headed back to Derbyshire in an unwieldy, slow-moving train, with triple the usual guard. Strangely, I was more disgruntled than afraid. I was made to travel curtained in the coach with Grandmother and Margaret rather than on horseback, and had to watch through a crack in the hangings as Dorcas was led on a halter by Dodderidge. It was just past Whitsun, the best time of year, when the trees wear their spring blossom, the birds are in full song and the sun caresses everything gently. But all that was frustratingly obscured; the birdsong smothered by the grumbling roll of wheels; the fresh hope-filled light filtered to us in frustrating slivers and the blossom barely visible. I had the sense, as our party lumbered north, that a heavy drape was being drawn around my life.

Grandmother, Margaret and I sat close together, bolstered by cushions against the rocking of our vehicle. She laid a stiff, gloved hand on my skirts. ‘I will do all in my power to ensure you are safe, my jewel.’ I imagined myself closed in a velvet-lined box, with an indented shape that exactly fitted my body. My head lolled and jigged and my mind turned inevitably to Essex, silly girl that I was, but the forbidden had such an allure – it was ever thus for me. I don’t know what I thought would happen to his wife were my dreams realized, and I’m not sure I ever allowed my thoughts to go as far as what it might mean to desire marriage; knowing he was my champion was enough.

A letter had arrived as we were leaving, and I’d thought he
might have written to me, but it was imprinted with Cecil’s seal and addressed to Grandmother. She had turned her back to read it and stiffened visibly about the shoulders. When the motion of the coach lulled her to sleep, I plucked it carefully from her purse, feeling sure that if anyone had the full picture of my situation it was surely Cecil. I had come to realize, even young and green as I was then, that Cecil knew everything.

Most esteemed Dowager Countess,

Alas I must report to you of an intrigue of profound seriousness, which has put the safety of Lady Arbella under great risk. The Questioning of a Jesuit rat whom my men pulled from a hole lately, has revealed a complex and dangerous plot involving the abduction of your granddaughter to the Continent, where there is a plan afoot to there mount an invasion intended to overcome Her Majesty and replace her on the throne with Lady Arbella. There is some sense abroad that, given her tender years, she might be malleable to be bent to their faith and married to one of theirs.

I advise you to spirit yourselves away under guard to one of your Derbyshire houses – Wingfield is a place well fortified, I believe. Was the Scottish Queen not held securely there on many an occasion? Keep your granddaughter safely, watch her, do not let her walk alone, only in sight of the house, and I counsel strongly, never beyond the walls; guard her chambers and vet all your staff and visitors for traitors. One can never know when there is a Judas in one’s midst, so take the utmost care with strangers. You have my and my esteemed father’s wholehearted and thorough support in this. We cannot allow Lady Arbella’s claim to be sullied.

We must be mindful of the future and, I assure you, I intend to do all I must to ensure that the Queen’s good will towards your granddaughter is maintained; but she is reluctant, as ever, to make her intentions regarding her successor fully clear with an official
declaration, though she has, as you are well aware, insinuated Lady Arbella’s suitability on many occasions.

Without such a pronouncement we must maintain the utmost vigilance. I hardly need to tell you there are others who would see themselves in her place, not least her cousin, James of Scotland, though I fail to see how a Scot might circumvent that old decree omitting foreigners from the English throne. However, nothing is impossible.

My eyes are everywhere.

I cannot impress upon you enough the seriousness of this threat, my dear Dowager Countess, and insist you destroy this missive. We must not let this wicked attempt to abduct your girl prevail, nor any other.

R. C. On the thirtieth day of May, in the year of Our Lord 1592

It seemed as if Cecil, with his talk of kidnapping and insurgency, were discussing a person I didn’t know, someone far removed from myself, teetering on a knife edge, surrounded by silent threat. But it was I, and beneath the placid surface of my life there was – and always had been, I realized – an unseen turbulence which had revealed itself only in the events of the previous day.

‘I should like to learn how to fire a pistol,’ I said, when Grandmother had been jolted awake by a pothole and the letter had been stealthily returned to her purse.

‘Whatever will you think of next? Perhaps you’d like to go and fight the Catholics in Flanders?’

I imagined the weight of the thing in my hand, feeling all its explosive possibility, how it would kick back at me on firing like an angry pony, how it would smell of burning and gunpowder and potency.

It was on the final day of our journey, several hours on from Wollaton Hall, where we’d spent the night, that our coach
lurched to an abrupt halt, throwing us violently back in our seats. There was a loud volley of shouting, the words indistinct, and the unmistakable scrape of weapons being unsheathed. Grandmother looked at me. I had never seen fear in her eyes before but there it was, the same fear that was flailing about suddenly in my own belly. Margaret’s face had turned grey and she was gripping the edge of the seat with a white-knuckled fist. Someone called out, ‘What is your business?’

‘You are both my maids,’ whispered Grandmother, still looking at me. ‘If they ask, you are called Mary Temple.’

I nodded, repeating, ‘Mary Temple.’

‘Take these off.’ She indicated my jewellery. I unclasped my necklace and pulled off my rings, handing them to her. She stuffed them down behind the upholstery and urged, ‘Your gloves and ruff too. The lace is too fine for a servant.’ Margaret, with visibly shaking hands, helped me remove the ruff and crushed it into a ball, stuffing it under the cushions. I noticed Grandmother pull Cecil’s letter from her purse and slide it under the seat.

There was more shouting outside and a shot was fired, making us jump; Margaret screamed and a horse squealed. I was sure it was Dorcas. Grandmother had her hand tightly round my upper arm and her eyes were shut, her mouth moving. She was praying. Through the crack in the curtains I saw that the guards had crowded close round us. All I could think of was Dorcas, out there, petrified.

‘What are your intentions?’ I recognized Dodderidge’s voice. ‘Declare yourselves.’

There was a response. ‘What did he say?’ asked Grandmother, but neither of us had heard.

Someone dismounted and Dodderidge’s head appeared round the door. ‘They are after valuables, that is all.’

‘I wouldn’t trust what they say. This is the valuable they’ll
be wanting.’ She nodded towards me. ‘How many are there?’

‘Only three,’ he replied.

‘Three thieves wouldn’t attempt to overcome a train as well guarded as ours. There must be more to it. There may be others up ahead. Is there anything on them that reveals their faith?’

‘Not that I have been able to see.’

‘How is Dorcas?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you worry about her,’ he replied.

‘For goodness’ sake, this is not the time …’ Grandmother said over him.

There was a scuffle and another shot rang out, then further jostling and the sound of something slumping heavily to the ground, followed by horses turning and galloping off.

‘Oh God,’ I said, pressing a fist to my mouth, biting hard into my finger.

‘One is shot.’

‘Dead?’ asked Grandmother.

‘Looks to be the case.’

There was nothing on the dead man to suggest he was anything other than a common thief, no incriminating Catholic paraphernalia, but as Grandmother said, we couldn’t be entirely sure in what guise they might come. It all seemed so far-fetched; how could anyone think I might be taken and easily persuaded into a faith that was not mine, as if I were not a person in my own right? It was the first time I had a palpable understanding of the price of my royal blood and a true sense of the danger that came with it. It gave me a glimpse of what it might be like to be queen; a glimpse I would rather not have seen.

Margaret was in a terrible state, cowering in a corner of the carriage, and even the guards were jittery. They slung the corpse over poor Dorcas. I watched her skit and buck in
protest at her lifeless burden, as if she was spooked by his ghost, but Grandmother wouldn’t allow me to soothe her, deemed it too great a risk, as did Dodderidge. The body must have served as a warning to any others who might have threatened our convoy, for the rest of our journey was mercifully uneventful.

Ami and Mansfield stand opposite each other watching, motionless, as if on the brink of combat. His words ring in the silence:
There would not be space enough in hell if all adulterers were sent there
. The violation of his fingers on the soft parts of her body, just moments ago, has left an imprint of disgust and all she can think of is sluicing herself clean, washing off his smell and the disturbing sensation of his touch. She would give him a piece of her mind but knows that if she allows her temper free rein she will have lost the battle. Taking a deep slow breath, she draws in her willpower, resolving not to squander the fragile moral high ground she has gained.

A thankful interruption comes with a tap at the door. He shifts, head down, towards the hearth, turning his back to the entrance. She skirts round him to answer it, finding a boy on the stoop with a grubby face and filthy hands, proffering a letter. It is from Hal – news of his safe arrival, she hopes. The boy waits for a tip she can ill afford but she notices a line on the back by the seal:
Messenger paid
.

‘Go on, be off with you,’ she says, stuffing the letter into her apron pocket and stooping to pick out an apple from the basket nearby, tossing it to the boy, who grins and takes a bite. Goodwife Stringer stands watching, leaning against the jamb of her open front door.

‘I see you have a visitor,’ she says once the boy has gone.

There is something vaguely menacing in the woman’s tone that puts Ami on the defensive. ‘Only Mister Mansfield, come to settle an account.’

‘Is that so?’ the goodwife replies.

Instead of simply wishing the busybody good day and
closing her door, she says, ‘Of
course
it is so.’ Her voice comes out shrill.

The other woman merely raises her eyebrows and after a pause says, ‘Went to that hanging. What a thing it was. She mewled something awful on the scaffold, begging for mercy. You should have heard the howl as she died, her body twitching and shaking and all. They said it was the devil leaving her.’

‘Good God,’ says Ami involuntarily. ‘What a world we live in.’ She’d seen the so-called witch often at the market. Poor woman was just a widow who sold trinkets for good luck – she was harmless.

‘What a world indeed,’ the goodwife replies. ‘We must all be vigilant. There’s dark forces all round us.’

‘Yes, vigilant … yes.’ Ami is flustered. ‘Well, better be getting on.’

‘Don’t want to keep Mister Mansfield waiting.’

Ami doesn’t rise this time, just bids the woman a bland goodbye and closes the door to face the other threat within. But the sight of that grubby little messenger has caused an idea to percolate quietly in her mind.

‘You have several children, don’t you?’ she asks Mansfield.

He has his back to her and doesn’t turn. ‘What of it?’

‘Your family must produce a quantity of dirty linen. I could take in your laundry, do your mending.’ She tries not to think about her lack of skill with a needle, reflecting on the irony that her privileged upbringing may have given her the means to produce a book of verse, recite tracts of philosophy in Latin, consider the meaning of life, but not to earn her a living.

‘Laundry, mending.’ He looks amused, as if she has told a joke. ‘What do you think my wife is for?’

‘But …’ She searches for a response, something to salvage this idea of hers, which is the only thing between her and a
descent into whoredom – the thought horrifies her – or selling her jewel, which is worse.

Her mind finally alights on a possibility: ‘A man like you, who is going up in the world’ – he turns; she has his attention now, can see his pride is engaged in the slight smile that ripples over his mouth – ‘might be well served in sending your laundry out. It would leave your wife …’ She lets her words hang, hoping he will fill in the blank with the idea that his wife might be more available for his own needs.

‘I suppose she
is
busy enough. We have six children and she is calving again.’ He pauses. ‘Very well, I shall bring you our laundry on Monday.’ With that he leaves, calling out, ‘Good day to you, Widow Lanyer,’ before the door bangs shut behind him.

Ami leans against the table and closes her eyes, remaining there motionless for some time before laughter catches in her, provoked by relief more than humour. She submits to it until she is heaving and wiping her eyes on her apron. Only then does she remember Hal’s letter in her pocket.

It is short and perfunctory, so unlike her demonstrative son, and outlines his news in a few short sentences. His final words explain the brevity of the rest:
Someone asked me if I was Lord Hunsdon’s bastard. I said I wasn’t, of course. Why might they have thought such a thing, Ma?

‘Oh God,’ she breathes, slumping on to the bench. Regret prods at her. She ought to have told him the truth long ago but she was tied into a lie that was not hers alone, it was her husband’s too and ensured their public respectability. She takes out her writing box, dipping a worn quill into the dregs of the ink, scribbling out a response:
I can’t think why, my love. Someone jealous of your good fortune, perhaps?
It strikes her, the way a lie must breed more lies, and shame creeps over her. The truth seems so complicated and shouldn’t come in a letter; she will tell him, but not now.

Beneath the slot for the inkbottle is a secret compartment. It holds a small portrait of Henry Hunsdon, wrapped in an old offcut of velvet from a dress she had years ago, in a time when velvet was what she wore all winter. The miniature was made for her by Nicholas Hilliard, one of the old Queen’s portrait painters. She fishes it out. Inspecting the familiar image, she is reminded of going with Henry to the artist’s studio at the top of a building off Cheapside and watching as the tiny likeness took shape. Hilliard had painted one of her too, for her lover. She wonders what became of it when he died. His widow destroyed it, she supposes.

Looking at the thick sludge of ink in the base of the bottle and the tatty state of her pens, she feels a sense of loss for those times of possibility, when she’d first begun to compose verses and inspiration was everywhere. Writing used to be a thrill that swept her up and carried her along. But that was the past.

Lady Arbella’s papers are calling. Despite the difficulty in deciphering the text, the story has begun to bewitch her, and though reading it pricks her guilt she feels compelled to return to those scrawled words, hoping they will offer absolution. If nothing else they provide a distraction from the thicket of woes that seems to have encroached upon her.

She’d thought she’d known Lady Arbella, or at least had a clear sense of who she was, but there is so much she didn’t know. She never spoke of her youthful obsession with Essex, nor the way she was irrevocably shaped by her grandmother’s rules, nor had she ever mentioned the all-pervading sense of danger that coloured her youth. But Lady Arbella was not a woman to talk of her past or of her feelings, and that was part of her enigma. Ami
had
known of her courage, for she saw it first hand, but what girl, when held up at gunpoint on the road, is more concerned with the welfare of her horse than her own safety?

As she reads and untangles, she begins to sense a curious new affinity with Lady Arbella, for although they may have always been separated by position, they were both women denied the destiny their upbringing and education promised. Until darkness falls, she picks her way on through the pages, eager to find the places where her own story intersects with this one, feeling sure that these scrawls will eventually offer up the answer she has been searching for.