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

bring myself to drown it
.
    I still, even after all these years, have the bell from Geddon’s collar in my bag of treasures – small objects that bring me a thin kind of comfort.
    The ancient countess was looking at me, waiting for me to say something else. My vague response was clearly not enough for her. ‘I’m not entirely sure I would relish marriage to a Catholic,’ I offered, feeling rather pleased with myself, for Grandmother had pressed upon me the importance of advertising my faith. The old woman nodded approvingly.
    Another voice entered the conversation. ‘
Something
must be done, for that Spaniard’s armada is almost built, and he will send it our way; you mark my words.’ This was my neighbour on the other side, who was fidgeting with her fan. Fidgeting was another trait that, like smiling, revealed weakness and which Grandmother insisted I conquer.
    ‘We are to hear a story from Ovid, I believe,’ said the countess, ignoring the fidgeting lady as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
    I knew a little of Ovid, enough to be aware that most of the stories were deemed unsuitable for someone of my age, and so a little flame of anticipation lit in me. At thirteen, any glimpse into the mysteries of the adult world is a thrill and I was not to be disappointed.
    A woman walked forward to stand at the centre of the chamber with an open book in her hands.
    ‘I don’t know her. Who is she?’ asked the countess.
    ‘Henry Hunsdon’s mistress. Musician’s daughter, I think,’ replied the fidgeter.
    ‘Gracious me, she’s young enough to be his granddaughter.’
    I found myself captivated by that woman who was someone’s mistress, a fact that made her seem to my young and cloistered self immediately a little dangerous. Her hair was black and thick and glossy as Dorcas’s mane, and her eyes too were dark, set deeply above the angular planes of her cheeks and framed by arched brows. In contrast, her skin was pale, but nothing like as light as the almost blue-white complexions of most of the women in the room. Her difference to them was striking, making it hard for me to tear my gaze away from her, and I wondered if that was beauty.
    She began to recite. Her voice, as richly captivating as her looks, drew each woman listening into the story, as if falling under a spell. The poem told of the marriage of the King of Thrace to Procne, one of a pair of sisters. It was not a myth I knew, which gave me hope that it might be one of the unsuitable ones, and as it unfurled it became clear that this was so. The King of Thrace’s uncontainable attraction to his wife’s lovely sister, Philomel, led him to ravage her. I felt a forbidden thrill tug at me, the story winding about my imagination, as Philomel vowed her vengeance:
for this wickedness full dearly thou shalt pay … my voice the very woods shall fill.
    I felt the room garner behind that imaginary heroine, each one of us inside her mind craving revenge, willing her to shout her attacker’s crime from the treetops. But the reader paused, leaving us suspended an eternal second, before continuing.
… That drawing out his naked sword that at his girdle hung,
    He took her rudely by the hair, and wrung her hands behind her,
    Compelling her to hold them there while he himself did bind her.
    When Philomel saw the sword, she hoped she should have died,
    And for the same her naked throat she gladly did provide …
    A shift of timbre in her voice and all at once the entire listening company had flung their hands over their mouths in shock.
… And with a pair of pincers fast did catch her by the tongue,
    And with his sword did cut it off. The stump whereon it hung …
    Did patter still. The tip fell down and quivering on the ground
    As though that it had murmured it made a certain sound …
    The fidgeting lady to my left emitted a horrified howl, ‘He cut out her tongue,’ and grabbed at my arm.
    I snatched it back, shaking her grip away. ‘Don’t touch me!’ It came out as