Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘I know,’ he said, recognising her interest. ‘It’s a masculine kind of room, like the rest of the house. It needs a woman’s influence.’

  ‘Does your sister advise you on such matters? Does she visit you here?’

  ‘Occasionally. She and her husband were once regular guests, but Willem died last year and since then she has preferred to stay with her friends. I’m sure she’ll come if she knows you’ll be here.’

  ‘But surely we shall be going to London soon, won’t we?’

  ‘Eventually. There’s no hurry for you to go before you’ve learned how to manage this place. One thing at a time.’

  The sudden straightening of her back coincided with the turn of her head away from him, but not quickly enough to hide the annoyance she felt at his plans for her immediate future. To her, there was a hurry, and whilst managing his household was an inescapable duty, it was by no means her sole aim in life. While she was here at Mortlake, perhaps for months, the royal court would remain unmindful of her and the Queen would conveniently forget that moment of recognition while others wheedled their way into her favour.

  But as if he had read her mind, he reached out to lay his large hand over her wrist before she could move it away, obliging her to look at him, to hold his eyes as he spoke. ‘I know what this is all about,’ he said. ‘I know you wish to visit Levina at court and why. I know you also hope to gain an entry with Sir Elion, somehow. But if you get there at all, my lady, it will be with me and no one else. For now, I suggest you put it out of your mind until the time is right. Just be patient, Henrietta. You will find plenty to keep you occupied as mistress of the house, and you’ll be able to make visits to Cheapside to choose fabrics for a new wardrobe. I want my new wife to be the best-dressed lady in the Guild. You already have a head start in that.’

  ‘I do?’

  His hand released her and moved upwards to describe the shape of her face with the backs of his fingers, sending a shiver of excitement across her chest. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘you do. Most of the mercers’ wives are middle-aged and, although they have the means to dress well, none of them have your style or your looks. You will have to use all your diplomacy, sweetheart, not to eclipse them entirely. Can you do that?’

  At the lure of a new wardrobe, Etta’s earlier vexation dwindled beneath a mound of velvets and samite, taffeta and brocade, kid gloves and shoes with buckles and bows, embroidered sleeves and farthingales as wide as doorways. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose a married lady must have discretion, at the very least. There will be no trading of insults from me, my lord. I’ve heard them. I shall do nothing to make you ashamed of me, as some husbands are.’

  ‘Then we’ve already made some progress, Lady Somerville. Tomorrow, I shall show you round your new home for you to see what you are mistress of. But for now, let me show you what I have for you, in here.’ Leading her away from the table, he took her by the hand into an adjoining room where lutes hung on the wall. Over by the panelling stood a richly decorated virginal, the keyboard instrument upon which Queen Elizabeth was so accomplished. ‘My wedding gift to you,’ he said. ‘Shall you try it out?’

  After the trials of the day, the newness of her surroundings and situation, Etta was relieved to spend the rest of the evening making music on an instrument she had been sure would be missing from her life, for she had had to leave her mother’s virginals behind. Lord Somerville’s lute-playing, polished and sensitive, demonstrated a skill that made her strive hard to match him and it seemed to her that he had chosen a perfect way to soothe her irritations and to find that sweet compatibility they had shared at the very beginning of their relationship. When it became impossible for her to stifle her yawns, he laid down his lute and led her from the cushioned stool, saying nothing as he walked with her upstairs to her room.

  In the candlelit bedchamber, Tilda rose from her chair as they entered.

  ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Lord Somerville said.

  ‘No,’ said Etta.

  Master and maid looked at her for confirmation. Which of them did she mean? ‘Mistress?’ said Tilda.

  ‘I’ll send for you in a moment. Leave us,’ Etta said to her.

  Waiting until the door had closed, Somerville came closer, thinking that perhaps Etta had another way to proceed. ‘You want me to undress you?’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right. Just nod, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I want,’ she said, stepping backwards.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry...but...nothing. I can go...have gone...so far with this charade, my lord, but I can go no further. We must sleep alone.’

  He was very still, half-expecting her to elaborate. But when she remained motionless, looking around her as if she were lost, he folded his arms and leaned against the door. ‘Alone,’ he said. ‘I see. So you have decided to use this as a bargaining tool, have you? I don’t get to share your bed until your anger wears off. Or is it until I promise to take you to court? Do I have it right? Is that what it’s about? Does it not occur to you that using your body as a reward is a dangerous way to proceed? It could backfire, you know, and what would you use then, I wonder?’

  ‘Yes, I do know that. But I have done everything I was obliged to do so far, with no choice in the matter. This is the only issue about which I am able to assert myself, my lord, though of course if your penchant is for unwilling women, then there’s little I can do about that except to suffer in silence. Is that what you want? You have tried to redeem the situation, I’m aware of that, as you would offer trinkets to a fractious child, but the plain truth is that I have offered you not the slightest encouragement from the start and I see no reason to change that, not until I see something in this arrangement for me. I have pleased my parents, and I assume that everything has gone according to your plan, too. But as I’ve said, I can go no further at present. Going to bed with you is asking too much of me, my lord. I’m sorry.’ She spread her hands, helplessly. ‘I need more time for this part.’

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ he said, unconcerned. ‘The Queen’s reign is only just beginning and I expect she’ll be on the throne for quite some time. Goodnight, my lady. Sleep well. Alone.’ Abruptly, he unfolded his arms, swung the door open and left her standing in the middle of the room, shaking, feeling a hard lump of unhappiness rise in her throat.

  Holding her face in both hands, she took deep lungsful of air to prevent the tears of self-pity from diverting her reasoning, as they surely would, the reasoning telling her that, whatever the rules of matrimony, in her eyes this man had no right to the use of her body. Would she have behaved differently if her wishes had been granted in some small way? Perhaps, because then her heart would have been softened and she would have had something concrete to hope for. But to reveal that his own sister was a friend of Elizabeth and that he visited her at Whitehall Palace, then to bring his new wife to live here, miles away instead of close to court, was not only perverse but seemingly intended to delay for as long as possible any chance of seeing the Queen. He knew of Etta’s urgency, but obviously had no concept of the reasoning behind it. A whim, he would be thinking. Just a woman’s fancy to make contact with a relative for the sake of the royal connection. Too difficult. Too dangerous. Elizabeth doesn’t care for competition. What nonsense! It was not about competition. It was not about being one of her ladies, or a personal friend. It was about finding just one connection to her own family, someone of her own flesh and blood, to find out what else they shared apart from looks. Could they be alike in other ways, too? She had to know. Her need for identity demanded it.

  She called for Tilda and, in the silence of barely controlled distress, suffered an undressing that might have been so much more interesting, under his hands. She would not think about that. What she had never known, she would not miss, though she realised that, in spite of his unconcern, he must have b
een particularly puzzled and hurt by her rejection. Especially, she mused, after the beautiful gift of the virginal and all his attempts to make her comfortable except in the one area that mattered to her most. After she had examined her motives for the hundredth time, she still felt justified in holding herself back on what ought to have been the happiest night of her life. The problem now was that, as he’d pointed out, this policy could backfire, for as long as she denied herself to him, he could also deny her any hope of reaching her goal. What a wedding night this had turned out to be.

  * * *

  Ought he to have expected this? Somerville poured himself a glass of wine and studied its blood-red reflections by the light of the fire. His room was warm and comfortable and more like a study, but he had not expected to be here on this night. He ached with desire for her. She was stunningly beautiful, more so than Elizabeth, and clever, too, and there would certainly be some skirmishes between them if he were to retain control of events, and of her. But how to do this without crushing that vibrant spirit? He knew that Lord Jon and Lady Raemon had told her of her parentage, which was only right and proper, but they had confessed to withholding information about the notorious Magdalen Osborn, the wealthy mistress of King Henry, who had ridden roughshod over everyone in her way, including Lord Jon himself. Their concern to protect her from vindictive courtiers was understandable. But what if Henrietta had inherited her mother’s ruthlessness? What if, after this unexpected streak of defiance, he himself had unleashed in her a weapon too powerful to keep in check? With good reason, Lord Jon had kept her away from court, but now she had the bit between her teeth and he, Nicolaus Benninck, would have to guide her through the dangers without causing too much damage, either to herself or others. It was at times like this when he wished his generosity to the young Princess Elizabeth had been forgotten, for now he was in her favour, and his sister too, he could not stay away from court for ever without causing deep offence. And that he could not afford to do. Nor could he afford to offend his wife indefinitely, either.

  All the same, Henrietta had never been so much at ease with him that she could explain exactly this need to meet her half-sister. It was, to be fair, too soon for her to trust him with the workings of her heart. Was it simply a woman’s whim that would fade with time? Or were there other things that would eventually fill her thoughts instead? Well, he told himself, replacing the glass, for that to happen, things would certainly have to go more smoothly than they had on this night. ‘Ah, Joseph,’ he said as the door opened, ‘I shall need your assistance to go through some of these papers.’ He indicated a pile of letters on his desk. ‘Come on, man. I don’t pay you to stand there looking astonished.’ It was only then, as he filled his glass up again with the rich red wine, that the thought occurred to him that she might have been using her anger as an excuse for something else she was reluctant to mention. Her monthly courses. If so, that would be yet another inconvenience for her. The date. She had not been allowed to choose that, either.

  Chapter Four

  In the fading light of the previous day, Baron Somerville’s manor house at Mortlake had seemed to Etta very much like Lea Magna in style and size although the interior, lit by dozens of candles, had revealed more about its prominent owners than she had wanted to ask, at the time. The influence of the present occupant was in evidence everywhere she looked, from the silk-covered chairs to the foreign tableware and the substantial library of scientific books. But, she wanted to know, who was responsible for all the ecclesiastical-themed heraldry?

  They stood side by side in the great hall in which no surface had been left undecorated on chequer-patterned walls, plasterwork ceiling or tiled floor. Around the tops of the panelling, a deep frieze held a succession of heraldic shields. ‘The Archbishops of Canterbury,’ Somerville told her. ‘They’ve been using this place since the eleventh century. In fact, nine of them died here. So all those arms up there, as you can see by the mitres, belong to them.’

  ‘And after them?’

  ‘Oh, your royal father put a stop to all that. He took it into his own hands when he dissolved the monasteries and gave it to Thomas Cromwell, his Minister of State. But by that time it needed bringing up to date. Cromwell had it enlarged, but sadly, he didn’t have much time to enjoy it. Then the King gave it to his last wife, Catherine Parr, and she used it for a while. It still belongs in royal hands, but Elizabeth has given me the lease of it.’

  ‘I see. So it’s Baron Somerville of Mortlake’s now.’

  ‘Quite a mouthful, isn’t it?’

  ‘And do you have plans for it too, my lord?’

  ‘I have plans for everything I own, Henrietta,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘But I want you to take a critical look at the place and tell me what it needs to become a family home.’

  ‘A family home? Why, are you...are we...?’ She frowned into the long beam of sunlight slanting across the hall floor, rainbow-coloured by the stained glass. ‘Surely not so soon?’

  ‘It’s bound to happen eventually,’ he said, pulling her hand out wide to make her face him. ‘So what’s the problem? Is this a bad time of the month for you, or is motherhood not on your list of needs yet?’

  Put like that, it sounded coldly unromantic, her hesitation revealing to both of them that this was a subject about which she had given very little thought. To be truthful, she had not thought about it at all until this moment. Now, in a flash, she saw how motherhood would seriously interfere with her plans for a life at court, such as they were. ‘No, my lord, it’s not that time of the month for me, but nor is motherhood on my list of needs. I would find it very inconvenient, so soon.’

  ‘Inconvenient? I assumed every woman would hope to bear children and to have a happy family life.’ Dropping her hand, he walked away towards the screened passage, and she saw how much her thoughtless words must have wounded him, especially after their chaste night apart. He would know by now what was at the top of her list.

  She walked fast to catch up with him. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘don’t say that. Please. I cannot help the way I feel. Give me time. It’s all happened so suddenly and my hand is being forced in all directions. Not this one, too. Please?’

  He slowed and stopped, his handsome face suffused with disappointment. ‘I am not a magician, Henrietta, nor shall I make use of any method of avoiding conception. I made no secret of the fact that I want a family. It’s one reason why I chose a wife and I was stupid enough to think that, if I could interest you in making love, as I have failed to do so far, you might begin to forget your close relationship to the Queen and forge one with me instead. Now I see that, to please you further, I must sleep in my own room. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to let me know when the inconvenience is past.’

  His thorny words twisted painfully into her heart as she watched him walk away. He was right and, in putting her own desires first, she was not being to him the dutiful wife he expected, but how could he expect such a thing from her when he knew of her priorities beforehand? Was it fair of him to use this against her? She would try to be a dutiful wife in all other things, but he must not expect so much from her that she was still not ready to give. As for them sleeping alone, she did not think that would discomfort her as much as it would him.

  Echoes of men’s voices reached her from the courtyard. Guests? Already? Keen to perform her duties as a hostess, if not in other departments, she followed her husband to the porch and was just in time to see him in a hearty embrace with what looked at first like an elderly wizard whose long snow-white beard made a stark contrast against the flowing black gown that reached the cobbles. Over Lord Somerville’s shoulder, the guest’s twinkling blue eyes espied her, creasing with pleasure into his rosy child-like complexion. ‘Ah, my Lady Somerville, so it’s true what they told me.’ Disengaging himself, he came towards her as if she were the one he’d come to see. ‘You are indeed every bit as lovely...oh, dear...I forget
myself. How churlish. John Dee, my lady. Your husband and I have known each other for years. He sells me his offcuts for my gowns at a bargain price,’ he added, teasingly, knowing he’d not be believed. His voice held the delightful musical lilt of the Welsh.

  ‘You are welcome, Master Dee,’ Etta said, realising that her first assessment of him as an elderly man was wide of the mark, despite the white hair. ‘Do you live locally?’ Laying her hands upon his outstretched palms, she suffered a hairy kiss to her lips, as was the custom these days, feeling the warm grip of a young and enthusiastic personage, dynamic, yet spiritual, too. It was easy to see why her husband was so pleased to see him.

  ‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘I came up by boat on the tide from the city. One day I shall live here, when Nic finds a little cottage for me.’

  ‘When I know you’re serious, my good friend,’ said his lordship, ‘I shall build you one. Now, come inside, and don’t think I’m persuaded you’ve come to see my library when I know full well you’ve come to take a look at my wife. You’d not have believed it otherwise, would you?’

  Men’s laughter, men’s teasing about why he had not married sooner, making Etta blush while thanking heaven that this man’s timely arrival had stepped into a breach that ought not to have happened. They seemed to want her with them, so while they sat companionably together to drink ale and eat plum cake with cream, she learned that this was none other than the Dr John Dee who had advised the new Queen on the most auspicious date for her coronation. As a young princess, she had often consulted Dr Dee about her horoscopes and now he was welcomed at court as a man of great learning and wisdom, for all his thirty-odd years. Brilliant mathematician, astronomer and astrologer, geographer and alchemist, there was little this man could not turn his hand to, either in this country or in the rest of Europe, and Etta found it no hardship to sit in his company with her husband, listening to their shared knowledge. There was, she discovered, something very attractive about her husband’s modest scholarship which, though not on a par with John Dee’s, added another veneer of interest to his many-faceted character. Was she being a fool not to try to please him in every respect? She knew the answer to this, but pushed it away to the back of her mind. She noticed that their conversation had become more specific, more intense. She listened to their carefully chosen words. ‘I have them safe for you, John,’ her husband was saying. ‘They’re waiting in the warehouse.’