The Girl in the Glass Tower (27 page)

From upstairs at Richmond there was a clear view of the roof of Sheen and, thinking of the glorious solitude of the riverside walk, I had the idea to head that way in the hope of surprising the marchioness with a visit. I initially considered riding there on Dorcas, but was concerned I might attract too much attention, so a walk it would be. Since the business of the Powder Treason none of us went anywhere unaccompanied. It was for our safety, or so we were told – it was a familiar refrain.

I said in the Queen’s privy chamber that I’d walk with Bridget and no questions were asked so I slipped through the back corridors, where it was less likely I’d arouse suspicion. Richmond Palace had been planned with little logic and I lost my bearings almost instantly, taking a wrong turn and ending up exiting by an unfamiliar door that led out to the ponds where some lads were fishing.

I stood and watched them for a while as they scooped their nets through the water, lifting them out, wriggling and dripping with their silvery cargo. A large flat stone served as the place of execution and the means: a sharp thwack on the head with a baton – a brutal dispatch for something so bursting with life. Those fish would be served up at supper, dry and spongy, sticking to the roof of my mouth, leaving a stench on my fingers.

Despite my distaste, I found myself fascinated by the violence and was trying to build an idea about the scene into something I could commit to paper. The wriggling fish, stilled with a stroke, made me think of Philomel’s tongue – it was a metaphor I felt sure I could employ in one way or
another. After some time I became aware of a young man standing a short distance from me. I didn’t recognize him; court was filled with men such as he, beautifully dressed in white stockings and tailored worsted with a jaunty hat and a lace collar.

‘It is a pitiless scene,’ he said.

I was surprised, as I believed men, particularly young ones, to be immune to violence, but I didn’t reply, just nodded, and Ruff became agitated, impatient for his walk, so I moved on. He made a little bow and removed that jaunty hat with an overblown flourish that forced me to smother a smile as I walked away towards the river.

Coming out from the shadow of the building, the beauty of the gardens struck me; it was one of those days in early spring that seems newly minted, everything bright and budding and full of promise, the air alive with birdsong. I let Ruff run loose, stopping a moment as I arrived at the riverbank to watch the water slide lazily by. A small boat floated past, its pilot supine, his cap over his face, his dog a sentry at the bow. Seeing Ruff on the bank set him off barking. Ruff responded, making mayhem of tranquillity. The racket didn’t raise the oarsman and I wondered momentarily if he might be dead, but he flicked a hand to swipe away some invisible irritation as he glided on past us.

I thought of Bridget, how distressed she would be if she knew I had wandered off unaccompanied. She lived in fear of ‘unexpected events’, or that was how she usually put it. She had become suspicious, hiding the rosary that she once wore proudly like a badge, and worried about small things, checking behind the hangings for eavesdroppers and treating any unfamiliar servant who entered my rooms with caution.

Spreading my arms, I took a deep breath; the water smelled clean at Richmond, so unlike the fetid stench of the Thames at Whitehall, where the dense press of the city and its waste
spilled over into the flow. I once saw a dead body, bloated, floating face down; I gazed at it, quite forlorn, until it drifted out of sight. The thought made me shiver and I wondered if there were hidden eyes on me, there on the riverbank, making sure I was not stepping out of line. If I allowed myself to ponder too deeply on it, I would have understood, as I do now, that my blood had cursed me to live out my days under secret scrutiny – there was no escape.

Despite the glorious day, and the sight of a mother duck parading her string of ducklings across my path, my mood sank to melancholy as I envisaged time stretching unbearably away into the future. Grandmother had lived for eighty years. The thought was heavy, like a stone lodged in my gut.

Another boat passed, the oarsman waving and calling out a greeting, saying something about the fine weather. I waved back. There was a woman with him, clutching a posy of wild blooms; I supposed them to be lovers, feeling inexplicable jealousy coming from nowhere to prod at me. It gave me the idea to pick flowers for the marchioness and I stooped to tear up some narcissi that were growing in the verge, tying them carefully with a long strand of grass, knowing she would appreciate the simplicity.

On arriving at Sheen I was greeted first by the ornamental cherry. That gangly sapling, just planted on my last visit, had grown into a spreading tree, twenty feet tall with a sturdy trunk and in full glorious blossom. Rather than cheering me with its beauty, it taunted me, reminding me of my six years in limbo. The whispered slur
without mate and without estate
was ever present in my mind, but having reached my middle thirties, my hope of a mate was dwindling. In a sombre mood, I entered the garden from the side gate and saw the house was shuttered, appeared to be asleep. I knocked on the door and waited, pressing my ear up to the rough wooden
panel to see if I could hear movement inside. Eventually the old steward arrived to tell me the family was at Longford until Easter.

As I walked away my mood sank further; all the joy seemed to have been siphoned out of the air. The narcissi, so delightful only minutes before, seemed dejected and out of their natural setting. I threw them into the water, watching them separate, drift and catch the current, their yellow faces bobbing and whirling away.

They brought Ophelia to mind, sinking surrounded by flowers. When the play was performed at Whitehall that scene had provoked some tears among the ladies; perhaps they felt an affinity with the poor girl. Jane Drummond had offered me her handkerchief, not realizing that my sniffing was caused by a rheum rather than grief. I could not see why anyone would weep over a pretended death yet cheer at an execution but few shared my logic.

My feet felt heavy and my side began to burn, making me regret my sortie alone, as I had not long recovered from a bout of illness. Since I’d first been struck down at Hardwick it was as if the malady had never quite left, only hibernated, occasionally making itself known again. Aunt Mary had thankfully been in London and was able to care for me while the sickness twisted its path through my body, that familiar pain wrenching the sense out of me once more, those infernal harpies circling and pecking. The physicians nodded and mumbled with each other, confounded by my wine-coloured water, prescribing remedies nonetheless, and as I dragged myself back towards the palace I began to fear a relapse, feeling foolish for having gone out alone in my weakened condition.

My destination seemed ever more distant as I plodded forward; I stopped to rest on a bench. The chill of the stone seeped through the layers of my skirts and into my bones.
Ruff was nowhere to be seen. I called him half-heartedly, making a feeble whistle to no avail. Just as I was considering whether to return to Sheen in search of him, a figure appeared from nowhere with the dog tucked under his arm. He was in silhouette with the sun behind, but I recognized the outline of his jaunty hat.

‘I found this little fellow digging a hole in the knot garden and rescued him before the gardener struck him with his spade.’

Once he was closer I saw that his white stockings were stamped with muddy paw prints.

‘Your hose,’ I said, holding out my hands to take the dog. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘They will wash. What’s a pair of stockings when a life’s at stake? That gardener meant business.’ He placed Ruff on to the bench beside me.

‘Well, I am in your debt. That was a kind thing to do.’

‘I would’ve required a heart of stone not to intervene.’ He smiled widely, revealing a pair of prominent eye teeth that gave him an impish look. ‘But you seem pale. Are you ailing?’

‘I am just a little tired. I was unwell recently and the walk was too much. It was silly of me.’ I hated my own feebleness, wanted to feel strong and capable, but all my stores of strength were depleted. I found myself shivering.

‘You’re cold,’ he said, removing his cape and wrapping it about my shoulders. It smelled strongly of woodsmoke, as if he had stood downwind of a bonfire. ‘There. Do you mind if I sit beside you?’

His boldness was tempered by the fact that neither of us knew who the other was, though I supposed he must have been one of Prince Henry Frederick’s companions for he was young, only just a man, really. Had he known my position, he would never have asked such a thing.

He removed his hat, at least, and ran a hand through his
thick pale hair, smoothing it away from his eyes, which were sad and grey and quite at odds with that mischievous smile. His skin appeared so smooth I had to resist the urge to stretch out a hand and run my fingers over it just to find out what it felt like, and it occurred to me that he might be one of the beautiful fey boys that the King enjoyed for company.

‘It is a lovely spot here,’ he said.

I wanted to ask his name but knew that if I did I would have to reveal my own identity and force formality on us, when I was enjoying the simplicity of ordinariness.

A robin hopped on to the end of the bench; a bulbous body on legs so fine it seemed a miracle it could support its own weight. I raised a finger to my lips to shush but the movement sent it flitting away to hide in a nearby bush, where it hopped in and out in a nervous dance. The river glided by silently.

‘It
is
tranquil.’ I found myself speaking at a whisper.

‘I come here for the peace,’ he said. ‘It is so busy in the Prince’s rooms, too many people, too much going on.’

So you are just like me
, I thought.

‘What are you reading?’ I asked, noticing a book in his hand.

‘Nothing adventurous. Just Plato. I find …’ He seemed to seek for something to say, running his fingers over the tooled leather binding. ‘I find Plato comforting,’ he dropped his voice, ‘often more so than the New Testament.’

‘I wouldn’t say that in public. You might be misunderstood.’ I berated myself inwardly for sounding so brusque when I’d meant to agree with him. But of course he’d made me think of Starkey.

A shadow of sadness must have passed over my face, for he said, ‘I’m sorry; I have upset you.’

‘No, no, it’s just that I was reminded of a dear friend. He also had a fondness for Plato.’

A hush fell over us – Starkey hovered – and I wondered, had I married very young and he were, say eighteen, to my thirty-three, if I might have had a son like this young man. He held me with those sad eyes, but I couldn’t meet his gaze, feeling unexpectedly awkward.

‘I’d better go back. They will be sending out a search party.’ There it was again, my ugly unbidden sarcasm.

‘Let me accompany you. You have not been well, you –’

‘No!’ My abruptness was deliberate then. All I wanted was to be away from this young man, with his slender hands and his love of Plato. ‘I am perfectly recovered now.’ I stood and walked off without a word, the dog following on obediently. Our encounter had been so anonymous it seemed apt to end it without fuss. Though I wanted to, I resisted looking back to have a final glimpse, to see whether he was watching me leave.

Queen Anna had gone from the privy chamber by the time I returned and there were only a few stragglers remaining. I was glad of it and went directly to my own rooms, where the reassuring scent of clean laundry pervaded. Bridget was folding sheets and Margaret was mending linens in the corner. Ruff ran in before me, snuffling round their skirts, wagging his tail.

‘Thank heavens,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve been beside myself with worry. I thought you might have been …’ She crossed herself, then said, ‘I shouldn’t do that, should I? Can’t help it, though.’

‘What’s the matter, Bridget?’

‘She found a hole behind the hangings. A listening hole.’ Margaret pointed to the wall behind the bed.

‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ said Bridget. ‘Didn’t want you worried. Anyway I bunged it with linen.’ She pulled back the hanging, revealing a small hole stuffed with cloth.

‘I expect it’s not been used in years.’ I tried to keep my
voice light. ‘And if anyone were listening they wouldn’t have much of interest to hear, would they?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Bridget was looking at me strangely. ‘What’s that you’re wearing?’

I only realized then that I had forgotten to return the young man’s cloak.

Bridget took it from me, inspecting it. ‘Fine fabric, well made, smells of woodsmoke,’ she said as if looking for clues in the wake of a murder. ‘Where on earth did it come from? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’d been trysting.’

Margaret looked over, unable to disguise her curiosity.

‘It’s nothing sinister. I was cold and a kind young man offered it to me.’

‘So much for solitude.’ Bridget smirked, mumbling, ‘A kind young man!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Bridget.’

‘I suppose he has a name so we can give it back to him?’

I shook my head. ‘He must have one but I don’t know it.’

‘You’ll set tongues wagging, taking the clothes off a man without even so much as knowing his name.’ She raised her eyebrows and exchanged a look of mock outrage with Margaret.

‘
You
can deliver it back to the Prince’s chambers if you like. That’s where he came from. And you can cast your eye over all the fellows there while you’re about it.’

She laughed out loud then. ‘They’re too young for me by a decade, the Prince’s gentlemen.’

‘Yes, he was very young. That’s true.’

She set the garment aside and continued with her folding, the spyhole apparently forgotten for the time being, chatting about Dodderidge, who was worried about his lame mare.

‘I hope it’s nothing serious. He loves that horse,’ I said, but truly I was hoping it wasn’t serious because if it was I would have to find a way to replace the creature. Dodderidge
couldn’t manage without a mount, not with all the toing and froing he did on my behalf.