The Girl in the Glass Tower (23 page)

‘Ah, Lady Arbella, I am glad to encounter you alone; there was something I wanted to discuss …’ he paused and cleared
his throat slightly, ‘of a personal nature.’ He moved into one of the window alcoves, waiting for me to follow.

My first thought was to make an excuse, as my rooms beckoned, but curiosity got the better of me. ‘Of a personal nature?’

‘Yes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I intend to impress upon His Majesty the need to increase your allowance. I cannot promise you a particular outcome but I think we can persuade him to squeeze a little more from the coffers for his cousin.’

‘I am grateful to you.’
But why
, I wanted to ask,
do you seek to help me?
Perhaps he thought I’d be of use to him one day.

As if reading my mind he replied, ‘I have always taken your part, since the old Queen’s days. You know that, don’t you? I have always been fond of your dear grandmother and, quite naturally, that fondness extends to you.’

I nodded, dipping my head as if to obediently lap up his endearments but was thinking:
You have no inkling that I used to read all your correspondence with Grandmother, that I know of your betrayal
.

‘Have you settled in well – into the Queen’s household?’ He tugged his sleeves smartly to smooth out the wrinkles.

‘Quite well.’

‘Perhaps, then, you might be of the mind to put word my way if you find anything amiss.’

Is he canvassing for me to spy on the Queen’s women for him
, I thought. That would explain his apparent favour. ‘I don’t know that I have the observant qualities required for espionage –’

‘Goodness me,’ he interrupted, ‘you didn’t think … I merely suggested that you report to me any problems you encounter, so, as an old family friend, I might come to your aid.’ Like Grandmother, he never smiled, but he tilted his head a little and offered me a benign expression.

‘Ah … well, thank you.’ I bade him goodnight and went on my way to my rooms, wondering what our conversation had really been about and wishing I’d had the courage to ask him outright, if it was indeed he who was standing in the way of any potential marriage plans.

‘My Freddie will make a wonderful king one day,’ Queen Anna whispered to me. We were listening to Prince Henry Frederick give a speech of thanks to his hosts at Magdalen College, where he was being admitted as a member – the reason for the court’s invasion of Oxford.

‘I believe he will.’ I had become quite used to telling people what they wished to hear, for that was the way at court, but in that case my reply was honest. I watched the boy, wondering if his mother secretly wished he shared her faith but the heir to the throne, even at the tender age of eleven, was resolutely Protestant. I had had the opportunity on a number of occasions to make the acquaintance of my young cousin and found him delightful company. He had a love of poetry that his father thought frivolous and was a generous, active boy, keen on the martial arts, often to be seen fencing in the palace courtyard.

The words he spoke on that occasion, eloquent and littered with classical references, must have been penned by another but he invested them with nuance, as a seasoned orator might have. Standing straight, he looked out to his audience with a directness of gaze that made each of us feel addressed personally, emphasizing his words with his hands as if he were playing an invisible harp. Not once did he refer to the paper he held. Henry Frederick had a presence far beyond his years. His companions paled beside him. When I think of the Prince now I wonder why I wasn’t beset with envy, for after all he was everything I might have been: a boy, the heir. I did occasionally imagine being him, inhabiting his body – physically we were not unalike, both lean and angular
with kinship stitched through our looks; had we swapped clothes I might have passed for him in a dim light.

‘That is Will Seymour,’ said Aunt Mary, pointing to the group of young men around the Prince, ‘the brother of … you know.’

‘Which is he?’

‘With the pheasant feather.’

I looked, but at least four wore pheasant feathers – there was a fashion for them that year – and though I was curious about the Seymours, I didn’t want to seem overly interested, even to Aunt Mary. ‘They all look the same to me.’ That made her laugh but I didn’t know why. ‘And what about Edward,’ I added, suddenly curious to see the man I might have wed, ‘is
he
there?’

‘I can’t see him. He married, you know. Anne Sackville. I think Hertford pushed him into it quickly to avoid any further –’ she stopped.

‘Any further trouble with me.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why should I care? He was not mine to lose. I never even saw a picture of him.’ Though I had barely thought of Edward Seymour since I arrived at court, I had the sense of another door closing and I was reminded that even after two years in the royal entourage a suitable match for me had not materialized.

Once the speeches were done with, we milled about, waiting to dine, and I discussed with Aunt Mary how I might find a way back into Grandmother’s favour. I had been given leave to visit Hardwick in the spring of that year and had been coolly received. If truth be told I had found myself missing the calm of my old home. It was an irony, I was aware, but the madness of court was relentless and I was wearing thin with it.

When I’d arrived at Hardwick, the dogs I had fed under
the table for all those years had given me a rumbustious welcome at the door, jumping up at my skirts, eager eyes filled with delight to encounter their old benefactor. They’d followed me up the staircase to Grandmother’s withdrawing room. Nothing had changed, as if time stood still there. Mister Reason reading by the window, a brace of cousins playing cards, the chaplain warming himself by the fire talking quietly to Joan, a couple of women concentrating on a length of embroidery by the window. Grandmother was needlessly criticizing their stitching and one of the women, I could see, was on the brink of tears.

‘I find it strange that you should be so eager to return when you spent such great effort to be gone from here,’ was her opening gambit to me. To be honest, I’d missed her. They say that prisoners can grow fond of their jailers and perhaps that was it, but she
was
my grandmother and we had been in each other’s company daily for many years; the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. She appeared very elderly, which shocked me, for she had always given the impression of being hard and fast, unchangeable, like a range of mountains or an ancient cathedral. She had been unwell too, and had a hacking cough.

‘The King has promised me a patent of nobility to bestow on whom I choose.’ My cousin had indulged me a little. I supposed Cecil was behind it, coming good on his word, for my allowance had been marginally increased too. It helped pay my household and kept my wardrobe fit for court. Aside from Cecil’s influence, I wondered if those favours were because, at some profound level, my cousin felt a modicum of guilt for having taken my throne. Of course that was fantasy on my part, he can never once have questioned his right to be king.

‘A patent of nobility. For a barony, I sup—’ Her words were choked by a fit of coughing.

‘I intend to offer it to Uncle William.’ I passed her a cup of spiced wine, which she sipped slowly as the fit abated.

‘Good,’ was her answer. There was nothing in her expression that demonstrated pleasure towards me, though I scrutinized her for signs. ‘Baron Cavendish of Hardwick.’

‘It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?’ I felt like the rejected puppy trying to gain a shred of affection from its owner.

‘Glad to see you are making your presence at court count.’

I had stayed only a few days, thankfully not in my old bedchamber but in one of the grand state bedrooms upstairs, where the wind whipped and rattled at the windowpanes, keeping me awake through the nights. I left Hardwick exhausted and didn’t relish the idea of returning.

Dinner was announced, and the Prince’s party filed past. Aunt Mary fiddled with her crucifix. I couldn’t accustom myself to the new Catholic tolerance and always felt the need to tell her to tuck it away out of sight in her bodice for fear it might put her in harm’s way. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, continuing the conversation about Grandmother. ‘I think once you are out of her fold there is no returning. Think of Henry.’

‘I suppose you are right.’ I didn’t much want to think of Uncle Henry, had tried to avoid him as far as I could, since that thwarted escape when he had shown his true colours. ‘And how is Grandmother with Gilbert these days?’ I added.

‘She maintains he still owes her money. Whether he does or not, he cannot pay, our expenses are far too great. And she doesn’t need it. She’s richer than all of us put together.’ I could see from her expression that I’d opened an old sore. ‘It’s time for Mass.’ She seemed glad of a new topic. ‘I wish you’d join us.’

Queen Anna held Mass in her chambers, which all the Catholic ladies attended – seemingly more of them by the day.

‘You know me,’ I said.

She whispered, ‘We’ll make a true believer of you yet.’ She said it all the time. It was meant as a joke, or so I thought then.

She was making to go but a question was pressing at me: ‘Mary …’

‘What is it? You look perturbed.’

‘It’s just. I don’t know. You and Bridget …’ My words were tangling up. ‘To what extent were you … were you …’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘What part did you play in Uncle Henry’s plan to wed me off … the Catholic business … you know?’

‘Sweeting!’ Her eyes looked tender and I let her take my hand, which she stroked softly. ‘Know this, dearest one; I sought to help you wed only so you would be free. The rest was my brother’s wild scheme. I would
never
choose to endanger you. Not
you
, you are close as a daughter to me.’ Those eyes had begun to well up and I regretted mentioning it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should never have harboured even the smallest doubt.’

‘No, I’m glad you said something.’ She dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. ‘It’s no wonder you don’t know who to trust, since so many seem to want to use you for their own ends.’

‘You must go, or you will miss the service.’

She tucked her handkerchief away in her sleeve, made an attempt to tame her wild hair and primped her ruff that had begun to wilt. ‘Oh dear, I am a mess.’ I noticed, too, that there was a gem absent from her necklace, like a missing tooth, but said nothing, not wanting to perturb her further. She pinched some colour into her cheeks. ‘There, I shall have to do.’

As she left she said, ‘Bless you, dear Belle.’

The rest of us went to the service at Christ Church, where we had to listen to the bishop’s interminable sermon. It was
an indictment of Eve, or ‘the wicked temptress of Eden’, as he called her, seeming not to want to defile himself by uttering her name.

I drifted, wondering what had become of the King of Poland’s suit. In my mind the idea of marriage offered something to fantasize about, a hope to cling to, much in the manner I’d clung, with wilful ignorance, to the possibility of Essex as a saviour in my girlhood.

‘… she lured man into temptation, too weak to resist temptation herself …’ droned the bishop.

I had overheard Lucy Bedford say of me, ‘She is without mate and without estate, poor thing.’ I couldn’t bear the idea of having become a figure of pity. The Polish suit had not been mentioned again, or not to me at least. I had begun to fear that my cousin meant to use me as a diplomatic pawn, just as the old Queen had, and that I would be obliged to live my days out, an invisible woman in the purgatory of court.

‘… the fall of man, the pain of death, all the wickedness in the world can be laid at her door …’

I thought about those months spent with the marchioness, that glimpse of a happy life. In truth, I was envious of her in her easy world, for I was beginning to discover that I was not the sort to fit easily anywhere.

Later, in the women’s rooms, I sat apart, watching. The Queen and Lucy Bedford were playing cat’s cradle, giggling as the string tied itself into a web of knots, forcing them to abandon their game. The Queen absently stroked the younger woman’s hair; it was a commonplace act but still I couldn’t accustom myself to the physical intimacy of the women at court. Jane Drummond had, the previous week, hung an arm around my shoulder. I sat, paralysed, as if that arm were a blade so sharp any false movement would cut me. I took to sitting on my hands so as not to invite the holding of them.

I sat a little aside, as usual, and an unfamiliar woman
approached who appeared to be attached to the Countess of Cumberland’s party. Her dress was plain, in contrast to the embellished luxury of most amongst us, but she was smartly turned out and I supposed her one of the countess’s gentlewomen. She was not young but had an unusual kind of beauty, sculpted and dark, that transcended age and made me stare at her as she spoke. There was something familiar about her but I couldn’t think what it was. She greeted me with deference – ‘I have long been an admirer of yours, My Lady,’ head dipped reverentially – though omitting to tell me her name.

I assumed it was her hope that I would make a plea on her behalf to the King; it was usually the reason people sought to befriend me. I sound bitter. I
was
bitter, for my life, just when I thought it would dilate gloriously, had shrunk like a fruit left in the sun. I’d believed there was freedom awaiting me beyond the walls of Hardwick, but I’d been wrong.

Where have I seen you before?
I asked myself. The woman was gazing at me expectantly, as if I might come out with something interesting, but I could only think to ask her, ‘What did you make of the bishop’s sermon?’

‘You do not want to know, My Lady.’

I hadn’t the inclination to be drawn into a verbal game of courtly cat and mouse:
Oh no you don’t; oh but I do; I couldn’t possibly say
… But she interrupted my thoughts.

‘I could have torn the bishop’s head off.’ She made a wrenching action with her hand. ‘All that nonsense about “the wicked temptress”. I refuse to believe that Eve was solely responsible for the fall of man.’

I looked round to be sure we were not being listened to. ‘You would rewrite the Scriptures?’

‘No, not at all. It is a matter of interpretation.’

She had a fervour about her that garnered my fascination. I felt stimulated to be having such a conversation instead of
the usual banalities exchanged in the Queen’s rooms, the asinine games and the talk of romance. ‘Go on.’

‘I have given it all much thought.’ As she spoke she gesticulated earnestly. ‘Adam should have had the power to resist Eve and the serpent. It was
he
who was created first,
he
who had the greater affinity with his Maker, so why then did he listen to Eve and not to God?’

‘Are you saying that to believe in Eve as the perpetrator of man’s fall renders woman as the dominant sex?’

‘Exactly!’ Her dark eyes were shining. ‘And clearly that is not so. Look who takes charge in the world.’

The zeal she exuded was contagious; it buzzed about my head. ‘So Eve is innocent?’ I sounded doubtful.

‘Not quite, we are none of us without sin, but more innocent than man.’ She grabbed my sleeve then, saying, ‘I
knew
you would understand. No one else does.’ I must have looked horrified, staring at her hand, for she snatched it back sharply. ‘I beg your forgiveness, My Lady. You must think me presumptuous. I became carried away. I should not have clutched at you like that.’ She wore a look of authentic distress.

Then it came flooding back to me down the years, the girl reciting Ovid’s tale of Philomel and my horror, not at the chopping off of Philomel’s tongue but because my neighbour had grabbed my arm much as this woman had just done.

‘Who are you?’ I said.

‘I am Mistress Lanyer.’

‘The poet?’ I remembered Queen Anna talking of her.

She nodded. ‘I’m so terribly sorry –’

‘No, no,’ I interjected. ‘How were you to know that I turn to stone at the touch of a stranger?’

‘You make yourself sound like a character from Ovid.’

‘It
was
you, reading from Ovid … years ago … I interrupted, had to leave.’