The Girl in the Glass Tower Read Online Free PDF Page A

colic if she eats too much after a journey …’ I was babbling. When the horse dealer first brought Dorcas into the yard at Chatsworth and she sidled over to me, whickering and nudging her soft muzzle into my shoulder, I knew she was mine. They say you know instantly with a horse, like finding a kindred spirit. Grandmother had taken some convincing but had relented eventually on seeing how obliging the mare was with me, how at the slightest command she would do my bidding. Riding her was the closest I could imagine to flight.
    ‘Understood, My Lady,’ said the boy, who, I noticed, was tapping an impatient foot. It hadn’t occurred to me that he must have had a dozen other horses to see to and that the delay might bring him trouble. I hadn’t been raised to think of others’ needs and was blithely inconsiderate back then. I wrapped my arms about Dorcas’s broad black neck and rested my head against her, breathing in her scent, leather and sweat, closing my eyes for a moment before allowing the lad to lead her off towards the stables, feeling the wrench of her departure.
    Had I not been where I was I would have followed them. Grandmother had said I was too old to always be larking about in the stable block, that I needed taming and to learn how to comport myself like a lady. That meant being shut inside most of the time doing needlework as far as I could tell. My embroidery skills were frustratingly poor, so I’d begun to spend more and more time with my tutor, translating passages from Latin to English and then to Greek, which Grandmother approved of. Since I was to be queen one day – though at the time the idea seemed both intangible and, if I thought about it too deeply, quite terrifying – my educationwas of the greatest importance. But even my fascination for learning didn’t quite eradicate the lure of the stables.
    Dodderidge was waiting patiently – I never knew a more patient man. He was scrutinizing the plan, occasionally glancing up towards the building as if to assess which windows matched up with the route we were to take to the ladies’ rooms. A man approached him to ask where my luggage was to be taken. Dodderidge towered over the fellow. (Dodderidge towered over everyone and, though he was still quite young then, he walked with an old man’s stoop that only served to make him seem taller still, and meant that his fine fair hair flopped forward permanently into his eyes.) He counted the bags and chests as they were carried off towards my aunt’s rooms and sent my two maids in their wake.
    He and I marched side-by-side up the steps and into the great hall, where a crowd had gathered about a troupe of musicians, and on past the guards, who nodded us through into the watching chamber, where groups of well-dressed men played cards and dice and servants threaded their way about busily. Beyond was a clamour of people all seeking entry where we were going, their way barred by more guards who stood aside sharply to admit us when Dodderidge informed them who I was. The long gallery was tightly packed with milling courtiers dressed up like a muster of peacocks. As we moved through at a funereal pace I became aware of the curious glances and could hear two girls in whispered conversation behind me.
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘It’s the Lady Arbella Stuart.
    ‘Looks like a Tudor with that red hair.’
    ‘All the Stuarts are Tudors; didn’t you know?’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘Her great-grandmother was Margaret Tudor, the eighthHenry’s sister. She was wed to a Scottish king – surely you know that?’
    It was a strange thing, hearing myself talked of like that, and as Dodderidge shepherded me through and people dipped as I passed, I sensed myself fill with importance, beginning to understand what I had been raised to know but had never yet felt: my elevated position in that courtly melee.
    Once beyond the long gallery and past more guards the place became quite empty of people, save for the odd scurrying servant.