Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Does anyone know?’ The blue eyes held concern.

  ‘No one over here. Don’t worry, I’ll get them to you within the next few days. Now, you must come and sup with us.’ He took Etta’s hand, lovingly, smiling at her as if no harsh words had ever passed between them.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We shall be taking our meal in an hour or so. Why not join us, Dr Dee? That will give you both time to talk books.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. That is what we were talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And you have concerns about some?’

  Her husband squeezed her hand. ‘This is not for public consumption, Etta,’ he said, ‘but we were talking about Dr Dee’s latest almanac that I’m having printed and bound in Antwerp for him by a friend of mine. I’ve brought them over on one of my ships along with a consignment of luxury wares.’

  ‘Well then, that’s as good an excuse as any for us to make an early visit to London, isn’t it? But why have them printed in Antwerp, Dr Dee? Is there not an easier way?’

  Both men spoke at once, mincing the explanations into a jumble.

  ‘It’s quicker than...’

  ‘It’s cheaper in the long run...’

  ‘Yes?’ Etta said. ‘Why is it quicker to have a book published abroad? Is that what you said, Dr Dee?’

  The sharp blue eyes darted towards his host before he explained. ‘In England,’ he said, ‘our last queen established a Stationers’ Company who make it impossible to publish any book without their approval. Queen Mary was keen to stop Protestant literature being circulated, you see. So it can take months or even years for them to decide on what can and what can’t be published, by which time the information in my almanacs is partly out of date and, even then, they may decide it’s not in the public interest to pass it.’

  ‘Because,’ said his lordship, ‘the readers they employ don’t understand a word of it, so I take the manuscripts over to Antwerp, and have the books sent back in bound copies, and as long as Dr Dee sells them privately only to his friends and followers, the Stationers’ wardens are unlikely to find out.’

  ‘And if they did?’ Etta said.

  ‘If they did, all those years of work would be confiscated,’ he replied, ‘and we’d both have heavy fines to pay. I’m more concerned about the work than the fines.’

  ‘But you also said it was cheaper.’

  ‘Paper,’ said Dr Dee. ‘No one makes it over here. It’s made on the Continent, so it’s cheaper to have it printed there too. And in England, the only company who have been granted the monopoly on the printing of almanacs and prognostications, which is what I do, are Watkins and Roberts, so if they don’t agree with an author, they’re not going to publish his work. Nobody else holds the licence to print scientific works of an experimental nature. The Stationers’ wardens think it’s the work of the devil. I would not stand a chance, Lady Somerville.’

  ‘But surely,’ Etta said, ‘now you have the Queen’s favour?’

  ‘The Queen’s favour,’ said Dr Dee. ‘Yes, sincere enough at the time, but not to be relied on too heavily, I fear. Her Majesty promised me riches as a reward for my computations on her coronation day, but I have yet to see a sign of them. Mind you,’ he hastened to add, ‘don’t mistake me, dear lady. She is an angel. A Diana. The moon and stars combined.’ His eyes lifted into his neat white eyebrows and his hands came together as if in heavenly supplication.

  Etta did not think his dramatics were anything but the genuine expression of adoration, so she took the chance to find out more. ‘You have obviously made an impression on her, Dr Dee, and she on you. Did you find her gracious?’

  ‘Gracious in the extreme, my lady. Quite delightful and very well informed. She talked with me on a variety of matters. So easy in her manner. So very kindly.’

  Etta looked sideways at her husband as if to say, There you are, you see. Who says she’s difficult to please? ‘And do you think she might look kindly upon me, if my lord were to introduce me to her? Or you yourself?’ she said, ignoring the sharp movement of her lord’s hand upon hers.

  Dr Dee’s reply was quite emphatic, for she would discover that the dear man had an opinion about everything under the sun, even when he had few facts upon which to base it. ‘Of course she would,’ he replied. ‘How could she not love you like a sister? Such a dear, intelligent lady. I saw her dance the galliard, you know. Never seen anything like it. What energy and grace. Did you dance it at your wedding, Lady Somerville?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Etta, wistfully looking towards the tapestried wall where, in a Flemish country scene, the Rite of Spring was in full swing with a banquet and some debauchery going on in the background. Leering satyrs and goat-legged creatures played on pan pipes and drums. ‘No, no dancing. No anything, really. Do you chart horoscopes, Dr Dee?’

  ‘Indeed I do, my lady. I would deem it an honour to chart yours, if your husband will allow?’

  Keeping hold of Etta’s hand, Lord Somerville stood up, pulling her with him. ‘Yes, by all means do, John. Neither of us will disagree with a prediction from the Royal Astrologer. Come. Shall we go into the library? I have a new astrolabe to show you.’

  Even so, Etta managed to avoid the issue of the horoscope when the last thing she wanted was to hear when it would be appropriate for her to become pregnant, which he might be tempted to mention. She didn’t need Dr Dee’s help there. So by the time he had to take the wherry back to London, he had drunk enough Rhenish wine to make him happily forgetful. Later, she anticipated some kind of admonishment, to remind her of her promise to do nothing to embarrass him, but he seemed not to have been seriously affected by her indirect reference to their simple marriage of one day, or by yet another attempt at a court invitation.

  * * *

  She had not been idle during Dr Dee’s stay and, while the February sun shone through the windows, she and the house steward toured the rooms set round three sides of a courtyard. Some of them had been extended and enhanced with extra windows, fireplaces and passages connecting in all directions to the upper and lower storeys. It was now easy for her to find the improvements made by Thomas Cromwell and to see his arms as the Earl of Essex blazoned on so many surfaces. Sure that the house steward would pass on her useful comments, she made small suggestions that only a woman would think of, more cushions on chairs, more tables, a change of bed-hangings and some smaller beds for her uncle’s children who would surely visit on their way to and from London. Cromwell’s bed, used also by Henry’s last queen, was large enough for a child to get lost in.

  That evening, in an attempt to show her pleasure at his gift, Etta played on her beautiful virginal, admiring its tone and the pale-pink-and-white roses painted on the woodwork. When it grew late, she wished her husband a courteous goodnight and went to her room, wondering if he might follow. For several hours she lay in her bed, listening for the sound of the door to open, knowing that it would not, for not only had she spurned him, but had also revealed that the sound of children in the house was not on her list of priorities.

  Racked by her own selfish motives, with sadness for the pain she was causing, with guilt at not being a true wife and anger at this ridiculous situation, she threw a rug over her nightgown and tiptoed out of the room into the passageway where the flickering candle threw a pale light ahead of her. Even now, she was unsure of what she wanted except to see him, to hear his voice, to see the desire in his eyes, the same desire that now stirred within her. Exactly what she was missing was still something of a mystery to her, yet she knew it meant having his warmth near her, his hands upon her, his kisses, too. Would he offer her a way out of this impasse? Or would he expect something more definite than an appearance at his door? In truth, she had no words to say what her heart needed, only that it ached for him.

  Downstairs, all was darkness and silence, though a faint strip of light showed beneath the doo
r to her husband’s library, inviting her to investigate. The soft clack of the latch made him look up from his paperwork while, instinctively, his hands rearranged the documents to conceal his writing. ‘What is it?’ he said, softly. The single candle on the table cast his face into strange shadows, highlighting the grey squirrel fur that gaped down the front to reveal his bare chest. He saw where her eyes had been drawn. ‘You should be asleep,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she whispered, holding on to the door. ‘What are you doing?’

  He cast a glance over his table of papers before deciding what to say, whether to accept or reject her attempt at capitulation, appreciating how poor the Tudors were at that. ‘I have work to do,’ he said, without elaborating.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No. Go back to bed.’

  The door closed as quietly as it had opened, though it was quite some time before his lordship picked up his pen and continued to write, using all his faculties to keep his mind on track and away from the picture of that beautiful body which, if he had not been so pig-headed, he could now be looking upon. Rarely had he turned down such an offer from a woman, and now, when it really mattered, he was determined to win this battle of wills, perhaps to his cost rather than hers.

  * * *

  Once so sure of getting exactly the kind of attention from a man she desired, though never the kind she now desired from her husband of two days, Etta had no one to blame but herself. Instead of weeping with anger or humiliation, she mulled over the situation yet again by candlelight, believing she knew which of them would be hurt most by this stand-off, even though she had no experience to tell her what she was missing, exactly. She had seen the tanned vee of his chest inside the squirrel fur and the thick muscular column of his throat, his bare wrists and forearms, which she had not appreciated could be so attractive, if that was the word to use. But just as significant had been his attitude towards her that day when, after her latest refusal to please him over the issue of children, he had been courteous to her in every way, both during Dr Dee’s visit and afterwards.

  Tempting as it was to assume he was unaffected by her waywardness, it was more than likely, she thought, that he was better at concealing his feelings than she was. Not only that, but he could play the waiting game better, too, for although he had made his desire for her known, he was prepared to wait for a more positive sign than a simple appearance in her nightgown, asking what he was doing. Apparently, she would have to do better than that to break the impasse, as she would also need to overcome her preference not to become pregnant.

  It was not so much that she disliked the idea of bearing his children. Far from it. But not yet, not until she had fulfilled her greatest wish to make some kind of connection with her half-sister that would cement, however tentatively, the physical bond that had been missing all her life. As a woman, her need of a family was as strong as his, but to establish her own roots must come before planting new ones. At the same time, the urge to sleep in his arms and to exchange loving was like the promise of a heaven she had never experienced. It was time, she thought, blowing out her candle, to ask herself some more serious questions before her husband began to look elsewhere, as men did. As her natural father had done.

  * * *

  Etta’s remarks to Dr Dee about a possible introduction to Elizabeth’s court had not been lost upon Lord Somerville, who was by now convinced that she would try every device to have her own way. In one respect it was no more to him than a clash of wills, but the very real dangers that awaited any starry-eyed innocent, especially one as lovely and desirable as Etta, were such that no husband would intentionally allow his wife to face them unless he had a very special reason. Hoping to distract her, at least for a few months, by discussing changes she might like to make to the house, then the extensive gardens where she could entertain in summer, he kept her occupied all the next day until the light began to fade. They had already compiled a list of tasks, and Etta had made some useful suggestions when the courtyard was suddenly filled with the clamour of arriving guests, shouts of greeting mixed with groans of weariness. ‘I hoped we might have made it in one day,’ called Sir Elion D’Arvall, holding out his arms for his niece’s welcome, ‘but I couldn’t get my beloved wife and children moving until well into the morning. I think they might have intended to stop overnight here. You don’t mind do you, love?’

  They had seen each other only a few days ago at Tyburn House when nothing had been said about an imminent return to London or the possibility of a visit. But Etta was glad to see them, even at short notice, and to put them up for the night, especially when it would give her the chance to show off her skills as a hostess. Having met the kitchen staff only the day before, Etta was well primed on stocks of food and the cook’s ability to prepare an impressive supper within the hour. It was a huge success, after which his lordship was reasonably sure Etta would once again introduce the topic of her dearest wish while he and their guests were mellowed by wine, food and warmth. Sure enough, the subject was delicately broached, skirted round, and left undecided before Etta and Lady Sophia took the children up to bed, leaving Sir Elion and Lord Somerville alone to pick up the threads of Etta’s argument without her interference.

  ‘Nic,’ said Sir Elion, ‘I’ve known her longer than you have and I can tell you she’ll not let this matter drop until she’s seen for herself.’

  ‘It’s my duty to protect her,’ Somerville said. ‘You know what they’re like there. They’ll tear her to bits within the week. And you can see Elizabeth, can’t you, taking one look at her and deciding that the competition doesn’t please her?’

  ‘You’re thinking that won’t be good for you and the business?’

  ‘Of course I’m not, Elion. It’s not likely to affect my business one way or the other when I supply to the Royal Wardrobe, not the Queen directly. It’s Etta I’m concerned about.’

  ‘Her relationship to the Queen?’

  ‘That, and the fact that there are those who’ll remember Etta’s mother. She knows only that her mother was beautiful and that Henry loved her enough to give her a child. Well, what else could her parents have said? But there’ll be no punches pulled when she comes face to face with some of the other reprobates Magdalen Osborn had to do with.’

  ‘But you’ll be there with her. You can protect her from that.’

  ‘In theory, yes. But there will be times when I cannot and that’s when the damage will be done.’

  ‘She’s a grown woman, Nic. She’ll have to hear a few home truths before too long and, if that happens because of her insistence, I don’t see how she can grumble too loudly. In fact, I think this is the time to let her see what it’s like there and to make up her mind whether she likes it or not. After all, there isn’t the slightest possibility that Elizabeth will allow her to get too close.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she will, either. But Elizabeth’s methods of sending off those she doesn’t like can be brutal, can’t they? So what am I to do? If I cannot prevent her going without holding it against me for the rest of her life and I cannot protect her from everything that happens there, what’s best for her?’

  ‘Is she holding it against you?’ Elion said, meaningfully.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Well then, I’ll tell you. Let her have a new wardrobe, for a start. Elizabeth wears a lot of black and white, but recently she’s begun to wear colours here and there. It’s a reaction against Queen Mary, I suppose. Let Etta have some gowns for every occasion, a change for each day, the latest styles, but not enough to rival Elizabeth’s. Tell her all you know about protocol and who goes before whom, what to say, how to say it.’

  ‘How to grovel, in effect.’

  ‘Yes, that, too, if she’ll listen. Let her practise her languages and her music, card games, archery, and her dances, too. Elizabeth dances every day, you know. She rides, hunts...’
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  ‘With her admiring and ambitious Master of Horse.’

  ‘Oh, him! Well, let Etta have a couple of good horses with the best saddles, so she won’t be disgraced, and in a month she’ll be ready for anything. Stop worrying, man. If she gets hurt, she’ll have to pick herself up and start again. But you cannot keep her away for ever. That would be rather unfair.’

  From one who had known her all her life, such unsympathetic talk was understandable, but Somerville’s concerns were of a more tender nature, and the thought of Etta being hurt while living her dream sat very uncomfortably on his conscience. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you may be right. You’ll be there, too, won’t you, occasionally?’

  ‘I will. And you have your sister there, Mrs Teerlinc.’

  ‘Levina. She’s Willem Teerlinc’s widow now, but she holds a special position as the Queen’s miniaturist. I doubt very much if Elizabeth will ever send for Etta, even when she knows she’s my wife. Officially, she doesn’t recognise her.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right. You just present yourself and Etta when the Queen comes into her Presence Chamber and wait for her to speak. You know how it goes, Elizabeth will see you and decide whether she wants to speak to you. You may wait for months, or only an hour. I doubt she’s ever kept you waiting long, has she?’

  Somerville smiled. ‘No, but you know how she feels about wives. And about husbands, too. They’ll not force her hand on that, you know. I know more now about the Tudor temperament than ever I used to.’