Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘In other words,’ said Etta, ‘you’re saying you intend to choose my future husband for me. Would you accept that, if you were me?’

  ‘Heavens above, Etta,’ said her father, ‘we’ve been more lenient with you over most things than we have with the boys, but a woman’s independence comes at a price, you know. Very few daughters of noble houses are allowed to choose their husbands. London will now be bursting at the seams with a younger generation of men eager to boost their careers and fortunes by marrying well. I’m not going to let you walk straight into the lion’s den, young lady, to be pounced on by some well-dressed young cockerel with big ideas who thinks he can win you simply by making sheep’s eyes at you. From now on, your mother and I will be saying who you are seen with. If you’d told us about young Hoby sooner, we could have saved you some heartache.’

  On any other occasion, the menagerie of metaphors would have made her laugh, but when Etta made no immediate reply to that, Lord Jon turned to her. ‘Well?’ he said, aware that her silence didn’t necessarily mean acceptance.

  ‘This lion’s den you refer to, Father. Would that be the court? As you know, I had hoped that the Queen might have sent for me, since she must know I exist. How could she not? As half-sisters, surely we could meet? Is that not what half-sisters do?’

  Etta’s mother tried to soften the edges of what she feared would come as unwelcome news. ‘It’s not as easy as that, darling,’ she said. ‘Our new Queen may not be quite as eager for your presence at her court as you are, you see. At the moment, she is the Queen Bee of the new hive. Now imagine how she would respond to an even more beautiful and younger queen bee in a hive swarming with handsome young men, watching them shower her with compliments in praise of exactly the same features as herself. Do you think she’d allow that? I don’t. She won’t stand for any rivals for her affection, Etta. She’s a Tudor. You’d get the sharp edge of her tongue before you’d been there one day. I was with her when she was a child of five, when she was often with Anna of Cleves, the lady I was with for a time. I know her temper very well, believe me. You would not care for it.’

  ‘And you really believe she would see me as a rival, Mama? Do you not think you and Father are making too much of this Tudor temperament?’ Even as she spoke, Etta had to admit that her mother knew Elizabeth far better than she did and that she was not likely to be mistaken in this.

  ‘Well, the truth of the matter is that we’ve had no word of her mind on this. Until she sends for you, there’s little you can do about it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, m’dear,’ said Lord Jon. ‘If she doesn’t send for her, the only other way Etta could be received at court is by marriage or with someone who’s already accepted there and I’m not going anywhere near the place at the moment. Far too much going on, for my liking.’

  Lady Virginia sighed and arranged the fur edge of her gown to cover her knees. ‘Throw another log on, Jon, will you? If you so desperately want to see her personally, Etta, then you must marry a courtier. But you rejected the last two courtiers before you’d even seen them, I recall.’

  Lord Jon dusted his hands off and kicked the log into the blaze. Etta stood up and shook out her skirts. ‘But if I were to go to court, Mama, the choice would be so much more interesting, wouldn’t it, than it is at present? I think I could do better than the Lord Mayor of Norwich’s younger son, or Lord Torrington’s middle-aged heir. They were the last two on offer. And I don’t believe a title is an advantage, either. There are plenty of nobly born people at court without them.’

  ‘Then what would be an advantage, young lady?’ said her father, impatiently.

  ‘Love, Father. If love was good enough for you and Mother, then it’s good enough for me.’ That, apparently, was to be Etta’s last word on the subject before she walked to the door and closed it quietly behind her.

  ‘God’s truth,’ said Lord Jon, ‘she’s behaving more and more like Elizabeth every day. We’ve been too soft with her, sweetheart.’

  ‘But I think that was supposed to be a compliment, Jon dear.’

  ‘Come here, smooth-tongued woman,’ he said, holding out a hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This,’ he said, taking her into his arms.

  * * *

  Etta’s talk with her parents had given her some food for thought, and any mention of a love match was, she knew, as unrealistic as her dreams. The unpleasant truth about the young man’s interest in money had certainly shaken her, because she’d thought herself to be better qualified in her choice of friends than anyone else. Evidently that was not the case. She had been misled by his exquisite manners and charm. It would not happen again. She adored her parents and had striven to please them in all other respects, especially so since she had learned of her royal ancestry. She had taken schoolroom lessons with the boys in an attempt to emulate the Princess Elizabeth’s scholarship in so many subjects with the sole purpose of eventually making contact with her, on her own academic level. And no matter what reservations her parents had about the wisdom of this, she could not believe that anyone of Elizabeth’s intelligence would regard her as anything but an asset, if ever the Queen chose to recognise her as someone worth knowing, on whatever level. Friend, confidante, just another relative, occasional courtier or however Elizabeth chose to recognise her, any of these would help in her quest to relate, physically, to one of her own kin. But her father’s comment about not going anywhere near court, at present, did not bode well for any of the hopes she had nurtured for so long.

  * * *

  Next day, he had done his best to explain. ‘Your mother and I know the royal court well enough, Etta. We both spent some time in the service of your father. I was one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and your mother was a companion to the Lady Anna of Cleves. But we were quite happy for our duties to come to an end. Edward’s reign, then Mary’s were too fraught with danger to make life comfortable, and I have no reason to believe that Elizabeth’s reign will be any easier. That’s why we never took you or your brothers there. Too many intrigues for my liking.’

  Etta had accepted this, but had still enjoyed hearing about life at court from Master Stephen Hoby, who seemed to know all about it, who he knew there, what they wore, what new fabrics he had handled at the Royal Wardrobe and what the newest Spanish fashions were. It had seemed to her then that only at court would she ever meet a more interesting and engaging type of man who did more than praise her eyes. Surely the young Queen, with her amazing intellect and reputation for scholarship, would gather around her men who could converse with her on serious subjects.

  Her parents’ recent decision to find her a husband had been expected ever since the steady flow of suitors had begun to dwindle noticeably due, she was sure, to her reputation for rejecting them so quickly. So it was with some consternation that Etta realised that, this time, her parents were deadly serious and that her time of asserting her independence in this area was well and truly at an end.

  Behind her step-parents’ reluctance to understand her longing to meet the new Queen, Etta caught the vibrations of another kind of fear, that Elizabeth might exercise her right to dislike her. She had not needed them to point out to her that the sovereign was under no obligation to receive her with smiles of welcome, for the recent news that she was choosing fewer maids and ladies to attend her indicated some caution in the matter. As for conducting herself at court, her only education so far had been gleaned from listening to the experiences of others and from gossip when someone had breached the complicated codes of etiquette.

  * * *

  The next few days seemed intended to reinforce her longing to become a part of the royal court when she accompanied Lord and Lady Raemon and her brothers to the celebration banquets held by the various guilds associated with the Royal Wardrobe where Sir George Betterton, Uncle George, was a senior officer. So with banquets, jousts and masques,
visits to the Abbey of Westminster to see the decorated interior and to Lambeth Palace to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, there were plenty of opportunities for her to meet gorgeously dressed men and women who reflected the latest fashions and spoke at first hand of life at court. With her parents close at hand to guide her through some of the complexities of names and titles, Etta felt that this was her sphere, even more so now when it had become obvious to all who saw her that the Queen had a close relative who rivalled her in beauty and grace. But for Etta, the experience of dressing in her finest clothes every day, being seen and admired, speaking with those who interested her as much as she did them, was enough to send her to bed each night longing to become an integral part of this enchanted and glamorous world.

  Towards the end of that hectic week, she was invited to visit the Royal Wardrobe as the guest of Uncle George to see the Queen’s coronation robes that had been returned for cleaning and, if it was needed, some mending. As her brothers had worked under Sir George for two years already, they took her with them by river to where the Royal Wardrobe was situated near Blackfriars, only a stone’s throw from St Paul’s Cathedral. The River Thames flowed conveniently nearby and Puddle Wharf was the landing place for cargo ships and wherries that plied the river constantly. From the jetty at Tyburn House, they were rowed downriver huddled inside fur cloaks against the biting wind and flurries of snow, Etta wearing her white fur bonnet and the matching muff she’d been given for her birthday, a little over a week ago.

  On their arrival at the vast complex of buildings known as the Royal Wardrobe, Etta found that she was not the only one to have been invited to view the robes, for her Cousin Aphra was there too, and her brother Edwin who worked there under his father’s eye. Other guests had accepted the invitation, some of whom she knew were wealthy merchants who supplied the Wardrobe with costly fabrics, furs and gems, silks for the embroidery, gold beads and threads. The twins, Michael and Andrew, went off with Edwin to the department where the tailors worked, while Etta and Aphra drew close together like sisters. As a four-year-old, Aphra had taken the two-year-old Etta under her little wing, acting as a mother hen to the mischievous child, and even now could not shake off the responsibility. ‘Show me the coronation robes, Aphie. I’m longing to see what she looked like,’ said Etta.

  ‘Father says it’s been frantic in here for weeks since the orders were given,’ said Aphra. ‘They even had to stop the mercers from buying up the crimson silk before the Queen had taken her choice. Of course,’ she added as they walked past ledger-covered tables and the bent heads of clerks, ‘it’s not going to finish now the coronation is over. Father says the Queen is insisting on a completely new wardrobe, to be as different from the old Queen’s as possible. And naturally, when the Queen sets a fashion, everyone else will follow. Here we are, see?’

  Through a wide archway, the room ahead was filled with shimmering gold satin and rich velvets of purple and crimson, piles of white ermine, tissues of silver with pearls by the thousand, gemstones and gold lace overlaying the twenty-three yards of cloth-of-gold. Not one gown but four, for the coronation, then more for the banquet and several changes for every day since then, though some had still not arrived from Westminster and the nearby Palace of Whitehall. The cost was phenomenal at a time when funds were low, but the Queen’s insistence on a rich show was as much a statement of serious intent as vanity. Now Etta could see in detail what had passed her by on that morning when all her attention had centred on the Queen’s recognition, the gold fabric worked with Tudor roses, the gold-edged ruffles, the heavily encrusted tassels of the ermine-caped mantle.

  ‘These must weigh a ton,’ Etta said, letting her fingertips brush along the fur. ‘She must be strong to look her best through so many days.’

  ‘Apparently,’ said Aphra, ‘she had to take to her bed after the coronation with a heavy cold. Some of the events had to be cancelled.’

  ‘And no one to chastise her when she’s late. Lucky lady. I wonder how much she paid for her velvet. Is it more expensive than the...?’

  Aphra had moved out of earshot, her place taken by a tall gentleman who answered Etta’s question without hesitation. ‘Twenty-two shillings the yard, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘And, yes, it is considerably more expensive than the satin, which can vary depending on colour and country of origin.’

  Etta was taken aback. It was not usual for a stranger to speak before being introduced. She decided to dispense with formalities, however, for this man was interesting on several levels: for one thing, he knew about fabrics and, for another, he was perhaps one of the best-looking men she had ever met and well-spoken in a soft deep voice. Well dressed, too. Fashionable, but not excessively so, in a suit of good quality fabric, a beautifully tailored doublet that fitted perfectly across a deep chest and broad shoulders. ‘Why should the price depend on the colour, sir? Are you telling me that some dyes cost more than others?’

  ‘That is exactly what I am telling you, mistress. Dyes such as blue and brown are easy to come by, but dyes like purple, for instance, come from distant lands and are difficult to source and obtain. Some are got by a complex dyeing process, which is why the Queen reserves them for royal purposes.’

  ‘Are you in the dyeing trade, then?’

  ‘I am a mercer,’ he said. ‘It’s my business to know about such things.’

  ‘And how did you know my name?’

  He smiled, revealing perfect teeth and showing a pair of laughing brown eyes that sparked with admiration. ‘I could not help but know your name, mistress, when it’s upon everyone’s lips. Now we’ve had a chance to compare you, the sight of another woman with the Queen’s looks cannot help but be the cause of some comment. I was present at the Guild of Mercers’ banquet a few days ago, which you also attended with your parents, but you left before I could be introduced. Did your ears not burn?’

  She looked away, laughing in embarrassment, though secretly she was excited to find herself the object of such interest. ‘No, sir. I think you are teasing. Perhaps you could tell me more about the Queen’s robes?’

  So while the deep-voiced mercer told her of the Queen’s artificers who made up her gloves, purses, hose, shoes and hats, showing her the heavily embroidered velvet bags specially made to keep them in, Etta constantly cast her eyes over his handsome head and masculine figure and wondered how she might develop this budding friendship without suffering the investigations her parents were set on imposing. He was probably of no particular importance, she thought, for her parents to have overlooked an introduction, and yet, to her, his knowledge of fashion and fabrics, his charming manner and obvious good breeding was of more importance to her than any titled good-for-nothing with more wealth than intelligence. But, of course, he would be married. How could he not be?

  They had moved into an adjoining room where liveried men carried rolls of fabric on their shoulders between ceiling-high racks piled with bales of fabric, their labels dangling like tassels, the soft thud of cloth-rolls hitting the shelves, the faint perfume of lavender and spices. ‘Did you not bring your wife with you, sir?’ she asked, looking towards the open door.

  His eyes lingered over her face as if deliberating how to answer the simple question, making her fear that it might not be to her liking, after all. When he replied, it was as if he knew exactly the purpose of her query, exposing her thoughts and linking them to his own. ‘I have not yet taken a wife, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could help me to find one?’

  She tried to search his eyes, but they were searching hers and she could not maintain her quest for a meaning. Long-lashed lids flickered like shutters to prevent him from seeing any sign that might expose her interest and, with an effort at the brand of nonchalance she used on such occasions, she moved away from him, speaking over her shoulder. ‘I doubt it, sir. Perhaps you should look amongst the mercers’ daughters. There are sure to be some available. Now, I m
ust return to my cousin. She’ll be wondering where I am. Through here, is it?’

  She heard the soft laugh behind her, as if he were amused by her attempt at a dismissal, and it was no accident that she abstained from asking his name, if only to reinforce her uninterest. Except that she was far from being uninterested, for the sound of his laugh, his voice and the presence of him beside her stayed in her mind all the way home and for the rest of that day. Nor would she ask her brothers if they knew him, as indeed they must have done, as perhaps Aphra did, too. It looked to Etta as if, in that crowd of guests, not one of them was willing to admit that they had noticed either the meeting or the unceremonious parting.

  * * *

  Partly to cling to her independence for as long as possible and partly, she had to admit, to take another look at the handsome mercer, she asked to pay another visit to see the fine fabrics at The Royal Wardrobe, for there were one or two she had forgotten the name of, and perhaps Uncle George would sell her some.

  ‘No, he won’t,’ said her mother, closing the lid of the virginal and removing the music from the stand. ‘It’s all for the royal use, my dear. I thought you knew that. It’s bought in from the mercers and merchants, and it’s for her and the officers to say what’s to be done with it. But there’s no reason why you should not take another look, if you take Tilda with you and be home in time for supper.’

  * * *

  There was a heightened sense of anticipation in the river journey this time, though flakes of snow made her blink and hold the fur more tightly across her chin. Tilda’s eagerness to see the robes was reason enough for Etta’s visit so soon after the first, but added to that was the delicious feeling that she was still finding her own friends in defiance of her parents who, although having her happiness and safety at heart, could have no perception of how much she valued her independence. If the sneaking thought entered her head that her defiance was very close to deceit, then she pushed it away along with the knowledge that they might well find out for themselves, as they had done before. She supposed Uncle George would see to that.