Etta’s despondent expression tugged at Aphra’s warm heart. She put her arms round Etta’s shoulders, hugging her like a mother. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know, dearest. You go on up. He’ll be back before you’re asleep. You’ll see.’
There were tears in Etta’s eyes as she croaked her thanks, wishing her cousin a goodnight. Once within her bedchamber and with only Tilda to see, she sobbed quietly as, layer by layer, her finery was undone and shaken free of the salt tears that dripped off the spangles. Between the soft linen sheets, her pent-up fears turned to desperate weeping as now all the frightening events of the day crowded in, forcing her to ask herself whether her ambition to be in the Queen’s company was ever going to be realised when the only positive thing to come out of it so far had been to reveal her love for the man she had married. Which, of course, was no bad thing except that her insistence on being at court had resulted in their being held apart for reasons of which she could no longer be certain. Judging by what she had witnessed that day, her former view of a disciplined and perfectly mannered court was sadly out of date, and how was she to know in what way that might rub off on her husband, a man of the world with a far greater experience of life than she? Yes, experienced in all departments.
For hours she lay awake, listening for the click of the latch through the muffled street sounds below, the cry of the night watch, the chiming of bells, the spasmodic bellowing of drunks, the slamming of doors and windows, the yapping of dogs. She thought she must have slept before something within the house woke her. Was it a door? Voices? She waited, but all was quiet again. Surely he must be home by now? The candle had long since died.
On bare feet she padded along the passageway, feeling the panels until she saw the dim light of a candle filtering through the partly open door of Lord Somerville’s counting house, the one to which she had been shown on her first visit here. Holding herself back against the panelling, she heard the low voices, then saw shadows move and dance across the opening. That would be Joseph talking to Somerville. He was home. At last. Home with her.
She wanted to cry out, to rush in through the open door, to throw herself at him and to hold his beautiful black-haired head against her breast, to cover him with kisses, to scold and weep and plead with him not to leave her again, to feel his arms and the strength of his body. So it was with every ounce of restraint that she stood there to watch his face and hands as he lifted packages off the floor to check and count them, obviously concerned that none had been opened. Then, overwhelmed with relief, she tiptoed back to her bed, too tired to wonder what her husband was doing at this time of night that could not be done in daylight. Then she slept.
She thought she must be dreaming when the bed tipped, the covers moved over her, and warm arms came to enclose her, more determined than the hesitant hand on her hip of last time. A remnant of the last sob rose into her throat as she melded herself into his contours and felt the deep rumble of words vibrate in his chest. ‘Ah, lass,’ he said. ‘You’ve been weeping?’
Her voice was hoarse. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re here.’
Gently, his hand moved over her face to touch the swollen eyelids and lips, following each touch with his mouth, kissing away the recent signs of distress. He would have attempted an explanation, but that was not what she needed most while only half-awake and clinging to him like a child. Few words passed between them as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, his hands sweeping over her body, convincing her as nothing else could that his desire was as keen as ever, no matter who or what had kept him from reaching her that night.
His wooing was briefer than usual for, still on the edge of sleep, she was already in her mind at the point where her dreaming senses were ready for him, her body tingling with a sudden awareness that fulfilment was only one move of his hand away. With a cry of desire, she took him inside her and urged him on with the soft rake of her fingertips along his back, responding like wildfire to his hunger, as eager as he to revisit the deep well of their passion. Joined, complete and in harmony at last as they had not been by day, they gave each other that pleasure they had both missed while attempting, not entirely successfully, to make it last, to make up for lost opportunities. Too soon, the moment rushed towards them with a ferocious speed neither of them could control, taking them beyond awareness, holding them suspended before the mindless lethargy of completion tipped them into sleep.
* * *
Wrapped closely in each other’s arms, they came awake as sounds from below warned them of approaching dawn, letting drowsy memories sift through their consciousness. ‘Lie still,’ Somerville whispered as Etta reached for the bell to summon Tilda. ‘We’re staying at home today.’ He placed a finger gently upon her lips to stop the protest. ‘Hush, woman. I have business I must attend to and you’re not going there without me.’
‘But surely,’ Etta said, loath to let him off so lightly without some kind of explanation, ‘you being there won’t make much difference to the business, will it?’
He sighed, aware that she deserved a reason for last night’s absence. Heaving himself up on to one elbow, he pushed a swathe of red hair off her face, smiling into the two drowsy brown eyes. ‘Yes, it will,’ he said, ‘whatever you think.’
‘How do you know what I think?’ she whispered.
The smile faded. ‘You think I was kept at the palace because I preferred to be with others rather than with my wife. That’s not so. Just as I was about to leave the palace to come here, I received a message from my man at the Steelyard to tell me that the Stationers’ wardens had been there, asking to take a look at my imports from Antwerp. He told them to return today when I would be there.’
‘The Steelyard? That’s where the northern merchants have their warehouses, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, just further along the Thames from the Puddle Wharf jetty. My ships load and unload there, then the merchandise is carried up here to Cheapside.’
‘So you went there straight from the palace.’
‘Yes, I had to. I don’t want the Stationers poking about in my warehouse whether I’m there or not, so I had to move the Antwerp imports quickly.’
‘In the dark?’
‘That’s the best time, when the streets are quiet. Then Dr Dee and I had to go through them last night...’
‘Wait a minute... Dr Dee was with you, in your office? They were not fabrics, then?’
‘No, not fabrics. The Stationers’ wardens must have been tipped off about what was wrapped inside the bales.’
‘Dr Dee’s books,’ she said. Packets of them.
‘That’s right. And today we have to get some of them out of here to his private clients. He believes Master Leon will want to take some to the Apothecaries.’
‘My lord, this is dangerous.’
‘It’s a risk, but we’re not in any personal danger, if that’s what you mean. Plenty of almanac pamphlets are sold for a penny or two at the stationers’ stalls along St Paul’s, but these are bound books of prognostications. We both know it’s an offence, but it’s not treasonous material. Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing.’
Etta was silent, recalling that awful moment yesterday when one man had been quite prepared to insult the wife of Lord Somerville without a second thought. Which did not suggest to her that the dreadful man had anything to fear by way of revenge from his lordship. Were there men at court who bore him a grudge, perhaps? ‘So who could have tipped the Stationers off?’ she said.
‘Oh, anyone with a grudge against Dr Dee, I suppose.’
‘Or against you?’
‘Or me,’ he agreed, kissing the tip of her nose.
* * *
In some respects, the decision not to visit Whitehall that day came as a relief to Etta’s cousin. Aphra had felt the trembling hand in hers as they had sat on the barge together, felt the tense silence, too, and
the barely controlled distress that Lord Somerville’s message had caused, later. A new marriage was bound to bring problems, especially one as controversial as Etta’s, but Aphra had also seen occasions when something akin to love had been very close to the surface. Knowing her cousin for longer than Somerville, however, gave Aphra a greater insight into her volatile temperament and she would like to have warned him that two swallows do not make a summer, as the English say.
After receiving early morning messages for them to call at the Sign of the Bridge that same day, dozens of Dr Dee’s devotees brought their wives to the mercer’s shop ostensibly to choose from the new consignment of fabrics that had recently arrived via Antwerp on one of Somerville’s ships. Business was brisk that day, with Etta and Aphra on hand to welcome them upstairs for a warming drink and a rest before leaving with parcels weighing rather heavier than the fine fabrics inside would suggest. Even Dr Dee himself was there, staying to talk with friends, signing books and discussing the contents, considerably lessening the print run which, by late afternoon, had dwindled to only a few dozen. These, Master Leon assured him, would be taken to the Apothecaries’ Hall from where they would quickly be distributed.
* * *
That evening, the supper table had nine guests happily crammed along its sides, all of whom helped Lord Somerville and Dr Dee to celebrate the fact that the Stationers’ wardens had found nothing to interest them in the warehouse. The danger appeared to be over, though no one was any nearer suggesting who might have been responsible for alerting the Stationers in the first place.
Praising Etta for what had been a hugely successful day, Somerville outlined plans that made no mention of a return to Whitehall Palace and, while she was pleased to receive his admiration as a competent hostess, she could not suppress the disturbing feeling that her own personal quest was being bypassed. He was, of course, a successful businessman whose varied concerns demanded that he must be where he was needed and, having already spent several days at Whitehall, Etta was in no position to grumble. But, unable to go there without him, and still having made no progress, she found it hard to show the same contentment as he did at bedtime when he mentioned the day’s successes.
Assuming that her lack of conversation was due to natural tiredness, he expected a lukewarm response as he drew her gently into his arms, having seen no indication of the irritation rankling inside her at the thought of more days of lost time. Words were of no use to her and her scheme, such as it was, was slipping out of her control. There was only one way she knew to release her anger without causing damage. So when his tender kissing over her face reached her lips, she grasped a fistful of hair at the back of his head to slew his mouth across hers in a kiss that took him completely by surprise by its almost savage urgency. And when he would have slowed down, she forbade it by rearing above him to keep his head imprisoned upon the pillow, venting her frustration with fierce kisses instead of words.
It did not take him long to realise that the wild side of his wife had been unleashed and that Etta intended him to be on the receiving end of it and so, for a while, he allowed himself to be used, resisting the temptation to laugh at the nips to his earlobes, chin and throat. Then, suspecting that his passivity was not what she wanted, he put up a mild resistance, rolling with her across the great bed and taking turns to be mastered and master in a battle that was, at times, less than gentle. Far from complaining, Etta retaliated with her nails until her wrists were caught and held away while his mouth sought her beautiful breasts, keeping her still with the movement of his lips and teeth, teasing, pulling and suckling until she cried out that this was unfair, unchivalrous, disallowed. Pleasure for its own sake had not been intended.
‘No it isn’t,’ he growled, freeing her arms. ‘You started it.’
Until then, she had not realised how tired she was after the efforts of the day. But having used up what remained of her energy in this unequal tussle with a man whose strength was formidable, even in its gentlest form, she could summon up no more. Resting her lips on the hard bulge of his shoulder, she signalled her submission with a softly biting kiss. ‘Don’t go thinking I want you,’ she whispered, ‘because I don’t.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ he replied, looking into eyes dark with desire. ‘How could I ever have thought it? Shall I persuade you, then?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t need your persuasions.’
But his hand was already there, persuading her thighs to melt and open for him, making her groan with aching readiness, arching her body to meet him and to welcome him inside her with a sigh. ‘I know what this is all about,’ he said.
She let him have the last word as, with his first masterly possession of her, she felt her anger dissipate in the exquisite pleasure that grew and grew until the shattering climax, emptying both their minds of all except the harmony of their beings. It was the one thing, Etta mused, that had the power to heal a rift between them, even to making her forget what it had all been about.
* * *
Somerville’s suggestion that she and Aphra might pay a visit to see Sir George at the Royal Wardrobe the next morning coincided perfectly with Etta’s wish to ask her uncle one or two pertinent questions about Master Stephen Hoby. It was some time since she had seen her two brothers and cousin, and while not wishing to divert them from their duties, she knew they were often the recipients of the kind of gossip women needed to know about such as, for instance, whose wife had been given new fabrics and what the Queen’s silk woman was making for the royal use.
The claustrophobic rooms lined with shelves of materials, chests and coffers, baskets and bales, order books and record books by the hundred, linen bags to hold clothing and boxes of braids, ribbons, wires and threads, brought back strong memories of when Etta and Lord Somerville had first met, when he had introduced himself as plain Master Nicolaus. She had used his first name rarely since then, for she knew that to do so regularly would be signalling a return to that easy and affectionate relationship when matters had been within her control. Now, however, she was learning to forgive him and her parents for that deceit and, as the weeks passed, the sting was becoming less painful as her love for him grew stronger.
Aphra’s good-natured father was happy to see them, though he was as busy as ever with the Queen’s orders. As a new monarch, he told them, there was so much needed for the occasions denied her by her half-sister, Queen Mary. Sir George thought it would take months, if not years, to supply all her needs by which time, he said, they’d have to start again as fashions changed. Already the Queen was adopting a wider ruff. Had Etta noticed?
Etta said nothing, exchanging glances with Aphra. Her twin brothers at the Royal Wardrobe appeared to have grown since their last meeting, and seeing them again brought a certain guilty sadness that they had been denied a share in their sister’s wedding day. Michael and Andrew harboured no grudge, but their hugs and looks of concern for her happiness suggested to Etta that they sympathised with her for the way things had turned out. It was her cousin Edwin, Aphra’s younger brother, who supplied her with the information about which she had intended to ask Sir George concerning Stephen Hoby. It was Edwin himself who had brought that young man’s offences to the attention of his father, resulting in dismissal from the Royal Wardrobe and the end to Etta’s friendship with him, which Sir George had not known about until then. He had been obliged to pass on this information to Etta’s father, Lord Jon Raemon, with the inevitable result.
The five young cousins huddled together in the spring sunshine that blazed through a large window on to a palette of jewel colours piled on top of an enormous cutting table. Sir George was going through a list with his master tailor, allowing the young people time together. Edwin was still apologetic, after all this time. ‘I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen what he was getting up to, Etta,’ he said. ‘He was friends with all three of us, too, and I think he thought he was safe enough, that we�
��d turn a blind eye. Especially as you took a liking to him.’
‘What was he up to?’ Etta asked. The five of them were close and Etta knew that Edwin would have done nothing to hurt her intentionally, but he had his loyalty to his father to consider.
‘Pilfering,’ said Edwin.
‘Yeah, it’s called theft,’ said Andrew, less charitably. ‘He was always having some new suit made. We wondered how he did it on our kind of pay.’
‘Well, he gambled, remember,’ said Michael. ‘He must have won...’
‘Hundreds, yes,’ said his twin. ‘He did and lost it again. That’s probably...’
‘Why he took stuff from here. Yards of it missing. Braids...’
‘Aiglets, guards. Did you not wonder...?’
‘Why he was so fine and prinked out, Etta?’
She could not resist a smile at their shared thoughts and sentences. ‘No, I don’t think I did,’ she said. ‘Men always owe money to their tailors, don’t they?’
‘Hoby owed money to everybody, even though he supplied his tailors with the cloth,’ Edwin said. ‘All three of us saw what he was doing, Etta, but it was me who told my father. I’m sorry. I know you liked him, but he was not honest.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Ed,’ she said. ‘I like him a lot less now. He’s not what I thought. He lied. He told me he was a courtier.’
Edwin frowned at her, suspecting there was more to be said. ‘You mean, you’ve seen him since?’
‘He’s at court now,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to him, too.’
Michael’s whisper was vehement. ‘For pity’s sake, Etta. You shouldn’t have done. The man’s a scoundrel.’
‘Shh!’ she said, laying a hand on his arm. ‘It’s not what you think. We are not in the least friends. He’s in the employ of Lord Robert Dudley, no less.’
‘The creeping little worm!’ Exclamations came from all three men.
Aphra stared in disbelief. ‘We should tell Father,’ she said.
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 16