Free The Girl in the Glass Tower by Elizabeth Fremantle

turning and galloping off.
    ‘Oh God,’ I said, pressing a fist to my mouth, biting hard into my finger.
    ‘One is shot.’
    ‘Dead?’ asked Grandmother.
    ‘Looks to be the case.’
    There was nothing on the dead man to suggest he was anything other than a common thief, no incriminating Catholic paraphernalia, but as Grandmother said, we couldn’t be entirely sure in what guise they might come. It all seemed so far-fetched; how could anyone think I might be taken and easily persuaded into a faith that was not mine, as if I were not a person in my own right? It was the first time I had a palpable understanding of the price of my royal blood and a true sense of the danger that came with it. It gave me a glimpse of what it might be like to be queen; a glimpse I would rather not have seen.
    Margaret was in a terrible state, cowering in a corner of the carriage, and even the guards were jittery. They slung the corpse over poor Dorcas. I watched her skit and buck inprotest at her lifeless burden, as if she was spooked by his ghost, but Grandmother wouldn’t allow me to soothe her, deemed it too great a risk, as did Dodderidge. The body must have served as a warning to any others who might have threatened our convoy, for the rest of our journey was mercifully uneventful.

Clerkenwell
    Ami and Mansfield stand opposite each other watching, motionless, as if on the brink of combat. His words ring in the silence:
There would not be space enough in hell if all adulterers were sent there
. The violation of his fingers on the soft parts of her body, just moments ago, has left an imprint of disgust and all she can think of is sluicing herself clean, washing off his smell and the disturbing sensation of his touch. She would give him a piece of her mind but knows that if she allows her temper free rein she will have lost the battle. Taking a deep slow breath, she draws in her willpower, resolving not to squander the fragile moral high ground she has gained.
    A thankful interruption comes with a tap at the door. He shifts, head down, towards the hearth, turning his back to the entrance. She skirts round him to answer it, finding a boy on the stoop with a grubby face and filthy hands, proffering a letter. It is from Hal – news of his safe arrival, she hopes. The boy waits for a tip she can ill afford but she notices a line on the back by the seal:
Messenger paid
.
    ‘Go on, be off with you,’ she says, stuffing the letter into her apron pocket and stooping to pick out an apple from the basket nearby, tossing it to the boy, who grins and takes a bite. Goodwife Stringer stands watching, leaning against the jamb of her open front door.
    ‘I see you have a visitor,’ she says once the boy has gone.
    There is something vaguely menacing in the woman’s tone that puts Ami on the defensive. ‘Only Mister Mansfield, come to settle an account.’
    ‘Is that so?’ the goodwife replies.
    Instead of simply wishing the busybody good day andclosing her door, she says, ‘Of
course
it is so.’ Her voice comes out shrill.
    The other woman merely raises her eyebrows and after a pause says, ‘Went to that hanging. What a thing it was. She mewled something awful on the scaffold, begging for mercy. You should have heard the howl as she died, her body twitching and shaking and all. They said it was the devil leaving her.’
    ‘Good God,’ says Ami involuntarily. ‘What a world we live in.’ She’d seen the so-called witch often at the market. Poor woman was just a widow who sold trinkets for good luck – she was harmless.
    ‘What a world indeed,’ the goodwife replies. ‘We must all be vigilant. There’s dark forces all round us.’
    ‘Yes, vigilant … yes.’ Ami is flustered. ‘Well, better be getting on.’
    ‘Don’t want to keep Mister Mansfield waiting.’
    Ami doesn’t rise this time, just bids the woman a bland goodbye and closes the door to face the other threat within. But the sight of that grubby little messenger has