The Girl in the Glass Tower by Elizabeth Fremantle

Arbella’s hand as a makeweight in her foreign policy.’
    It was true there had been a number of matches proposed for me, none of which, thank goodness, had come to fruition. I still assumed Essex would come for me, though why I believed that or even desired it I have no idea. Perhaps it was because I was sixteen, an age that brought with it such feelings of confusion and contradiction, making me at once abhor the idea of marriage and all that came with it yet harbour a secret desire for a man like Essex whom I had met only once.
    Cecil had taken the end of his cape and was rubbing vigorously, fabric to fabric, at a small smear of dirt on his sleeve. I never saw Cecil wear anything but black and he was an odd-looking man, small and tidy though rather crookbacked and birdlike, with thin legs. He unsettled me, despite the fact that, according to Grandmother, he was a powerful friend to my cause. Even
Cecil
had touted himself once as apotential husband for me. ‘So crooked Cecil sees himself wearing the crown matrimonial, does he?’ Grandmother had said of it, clearly amused by the suggestion, for Cecil may have been the son of England’s foremost statesman and Grandmother’s greatest ally, but he lacked good enough blood for Lady Arbella Stuart.
    It was my first visit back to court since the rout of the Spanish fleet. I’d been excited about it, felt I was on the brink of something, had an idea in my head about fulfilling my destiny, but as we were filing in to be presented to the Queen, I’d noticed some of the women firing glances my way and whispering. I thought I heard someone hiss, ‘
Noli me tangere
,’ and was immediately catapulted back to that earlier, humiliating episode. Within hours I was wishing myself back in Derbyshire, where I could easily escape Grandmother’s strict regime with daily rides into the hills. I had developed a bond with Dorcas that was unbreakable. My maid Margaret thought me daft for my love of that horse but Dorcas had become my friend and my confessor, and when I was with her out on the heath, with the wind in my face and the thunder of hooves the only sound, I felt invested with a supernatural power, as if I were a divine, sexless Artemis harnessing the forces of nature. It was a seductive feeling.
    I continued listening: ‘You can’t disagree,’ said Grandmother to Cecil. ‘You know what the Queen is like. She’s been manoeuvring pieces on the European chessboard for near on thirty-five years. She knows exactly what she’s doing with all these marriage negotiations.’ From the corner of my eye I saw her flick a hand in my direction.
    I took aim. The bowstring was taut beneath my finger and it took all my strength to pull back. I lined my eye down the shaft of the arrow and released. It whistled as it took flight in a high curve and met the outer edge of the target.
    ‘I’m out of practice,’ I said, turning to Aunt Mary, tuggingat the waist of my dress. ‘This gown is too tight. I cannot move properly.’ I’d had a whole new wardrobe made for court, which necessitated stillness and straightness, for the minute I slumped even slightly, hidden bones would dig at me, despite the spareness of my body, despite the hunger pangs I had learned to love as evidence of my ability to control the secret ministrations of my body. Margaret had begun to grow plump, fleshy mounds overspilling her dress. I saw it as a sign of weakness.
    ‘I can adjust it for you,’ said Margaret. ‘Loosen your laces a little.’ Her expression was sweet and guileless and I wondered what she must have thought of court and all the hard people there.
    ‘I’m blaming my dress but I am a bad shot really.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aunt Mary, looking at me across her own bow with a half-smile. The feather in her hat was broken, its end dangling. I reached forward and plucked it off, handing it to her. With Aunt Mary nothing ever seemed to stay in its right place, always a glove missing, or a fan