Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘About Etta?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve known her all your life, haven’t you?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, my lord. We’ve always been close.’ Now she began to see what this was about. Poor man. It had not been a good start, though anyone could see how he loved her. ‘This need of hers to attend court is not helpful, is it?’ she said.

  The look he gave her was so loaded with relief and gratitude that she wanted to hug him like a mother. His eyes closed as a sigh escaped him, as his hand hovered like a bird’s wing over the table. ‘I don’t want you to think...’

  ‘No, my lord. I don’t. But Etta started life with a disadvantage the rest of us don’t have, and although she received every loving care from her step-parents, that could never completely replace the emotional tie of her natural ones.’ She paused, wondering if she was going too fast, or in the wrong direction.

  He nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘To many...most...people, this would mean very little. She has step-parents, comfort, safety, what else could she possibly need? And now you’re wondering why she should be so obsessed with getting to know Elizabeth. What is it all about?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘That is exactly what I’m wondering, mistress. I’d be grateful if you could shed some light on it for me. I can understand her being curious about court life, especially when Lord and Lady Raemon have always refused to take her there because of the gossip there always is about royal relatives. They have not given her that reason, of course. Her mother is no more than a name to her.’

  ‘And that, my lord, is exactly the problem. Her parents, both of them, are no more than names and the only other relative she knows of for certain is also just a name and always will be unless she can learn more. Do you see?’ His nod prompted her to continue. ‘She needs to connect with someone of her own flesh and blood, to find out more about herself. She wants to know who she really is. Oh, dear...’ she sighed ‘...this is so difficult to explain. I have my parents and brother to confirm my place in the family and I can compare myself with them on all levels because I am part of them and they of me. You can do the same with your sister and family. Levina has inherited your father’s talent as an artist and you have your father’s business sense and love of beauty. But Etta will never know what she has inherited unless she can get to know, or simply observe, her only relative. Elizabeth. No one will talk to her about her mother, which has done her no favours because now she believes they can find nothing good to say. So what if she has inherited something of her mother that she doesn’t care for? How will she ever know? It’s a risk, but she desperately needs to find out, my lord. Now I wonder if the risk might be too great if it means putting in jeopardy what she’s just begun to experience.’

  ‘Experience, mistress? What is this experience?’

  Aphra paused, looking into his eyes to test the ground before she trespassed. ‘I mean love, my lord. Her behaviour is often difficult to interpret, but I know her well enough to recognise that she’s deeply in love. Yes, with you,’ she added, noting the incredulity flicker across his comely face. ‘Had you doubted it? Oh, do forgive me. I have no right to ask you this, but it’s a new experience for her, you see, and, being Etta, there’s sure to be some conflict between that and the other business.’

  ‘She’s a strong character, Aphra. It’s obviously not convenient for her to tell me, yet.’

  ‘Etta may be strong, my lord, but she’s vulnerable, too, and not at all as sure of herself as she appears to be. She wishes to please you above all things and to make you proud of her, but she has not yet found a way to reconcile her body’s needs with those of her heart. The problem is hers as well as yours. Have I helped?’

  ‘You have, Aphra. You’ve answered my questions before I asked them. I cannot begin to thank you.’ He stood up, taking her hand and touching the knuckles lightly with his lips. ‘Etta must never...’

  Placing a finger to her lips, Aphra smiled and shook her head.

  Chapter Eight

  Had Somerville known of Aphra’s plans to visit her mother with Master Leon the next day, he might not have given in to Etta’s pleading. Nor could he spare Joseph from the urgent duties for which he was needed in the counting house, for ships could not be held up for lack of paperwork. So he and Etta went to Whitehall on the private barge with few hopes of pleasing either of them, his lordship grumbling that he didn’t have time for this kind of business when he had more important matters on hand and Etta quietly wondering how she could make better use of this opportunity than sitting still for a portrait. It would, however, provide her with a reason to make several return visits.

  Leaving her with his sister Levina, Somerville went off to obey the Queen’s command to attend her and, Etta thought, to praise her looks, her skills, her unselfish, un-shrewish, unmanipulative character. A rose without a thorn. Unlike herself whom he found too thorny to make love to. Full of resentment and feigned affability, she sat still for Levina’s preliminary sketches until the need arose to relieve herself. Unfortunately, Levina’s close stool had just been removed for emptying so, assuring Levina that her directions were perfectly clear, she reached the foetid gardrobe without incident. On her way back, the directions seemed not to work in reverse order as well as they ought, until a window set deep into the wall suggested that she might find her direction from there.

  Outside, down below her, the garden was laid with plots of spring hellebores and daffodils, hedges, lawns and pathways along which groups of courtiers strolled, conversing and laughing. This was obviously one of the Queen’s private gardens where only her most intimate friends were allowed, for there was Lord Robert Dudley some way behind Elizabeth’s unmistakable figure, her pale red hair and magnificent gown of silver-threaded grey silk shimmering with gemstones. A long white veil floated behind her and by her side walked the tall athletic frame of Lord Somerville, his head inclined to one side to hear what she was saying. As Etta watched, her husband bent to pick up a tiny flower from the plot and present it to Elizabeth with some soft-spoken tribute. Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed, peeping up at him coquettishly, like a young lass.

  Knowing she ought to stop looking and return to Levina before more damage was done, Etta found herself unable to avert her eyes or move away from the painful scene. Trembling with the insecurity of a one-sided love, she watched Somerville’s tenderness and chivalry manifest itself in the way it had rarely done with her, though it did not occur to her that this might be because she had rarely given him the opportunity, except in bed. Only during those first meetings with him had she shown him the personal interest the Queen now demonstrated, giving him the time and encouragement to behave as lovers do. Though he had made love to her on several occasions now, there had been no exchanges of loving talk, for the only subject of any importance to Etta so far had been her personal quest and Somerville knew it. Now it was too late, for he had begun to look elsewhere for those tender signs. After last night’s harsh words, she had lost him to the one woman who had it in her power to exclude her. Was this what he had tried to warn her of last night when he’d suggested she abandon her quest? Was this what he’d wanted to spare her from? The humiliation of losing him after only a few weeks of marriage?

  The Queen half-turned to someone behind her, two women, one of whom bulged in front with the heavy weight of an unborn child. She staggered against her friend while speaking to the Queen, clearly asking permission to withdraw, turning again into her friend’s arms as her mistress shook her head in irritation, waving her away and resuming her walk with Lord Somerville. Behind them on the path, the poor woman slumped through the supporting arms to the ground and was quickly surrounded by a group who lifted and carried her away, leaving a pool of water to spread like a dark stain into the gravel. Somerville halted and looked back, but the Queen slipped a hand through his arm and walked on, insisting on his company, oblivious to the tragedy.


  With a sob, Etta turned from the window to run down the passageway, her distress compressing her lungs and hurting her throat. Doors lined the next section, all with small crests painted on, like Levina’s. Which one was hers? Half-blinded by prickling tears, she flung open one of the doors, realising too late that this was not Levina’s room, that the two naked figures on the tangled bedding were not on Levina’s bed, either. Pale red hair streamed like silk over the side nearest the door and, as the young man raised his head to look at the intruder, the woman saw her upside-down, her pale eyes prominent with fright.

  By coincidence, Etta had dressed that day in a pale grey silk threaded with silver in a style so like the Queen’s that, at first glance—and an upside-down one at that—she could easily have been mistaken for Elizabeth. Her French hood was also of the same silk with a crescent-shaped billament studded with gems that she had sewn herself, with a softly transparent silk veil to drape over her shoulders. So when the unknown young man leapt up with a yelp and scrambled to his knees, gabbling words that included ‘Your Majesty’, the redhead beneath him rolled over to see if he was correct and, finding that he was very much mistaken, screamed a volley of abuse at the fast-closing door.

  Etta could hardly believe that such words could be a part of Lady Catherine Grey’s vocabulary but, she thought, perhaps that was what living in this dreadful place did for one.

  Shaking and bewildered, Etta hastened to turn yet another corner where more crests on doors revealed initials, too. Then, to her great relief, one of the doors opened, the occupant looking up and down the passageway, searching for her guest. ‘Etta, my dear, there you are. Come, I was getting worried about you. Why, what on earth is the matter?’

  ‘Lost,’ Etta gasped. ‘Again.’

  Her distress had to be explained but, since there were now multiple reasons for it, Etta chose the last one although it was in fact the least of them to matter. It came as no great surprise to Levina, however. ‘That would be young Hertford,’ she said, handing Etta a beaker of ale. She adjusted a cushion behind her. ‘There now, my dear, don’t let it bother you. That kind of thing goes on all the time at court.’

  ‘Who is Hertford?’ Etta said. ‘I thought Lady Catherine was still in love with her former husband.’ The beaker shook.

  ‘No, dear. The Earl of Hertford is the late Jane Seymour’s brother. His father had hoped to marry him to Lady Catherine’s sister, the one who was executed, but he’d better not be seeking to ally himself with the Grey family. Elizabeth would never allow that. Too many royal connections, you see. They’d be seen as a threat to the throne. She’s a foolish child to risk pregnancy. Very foolish.’

  And too many names, Etta thought, that I shall never remember. Of all people she would rather not have encountered in that way, Lady Catherine was probably the most dangerous, and only time would tell what their next meeting would be like. But of far more importance was what she had seen of the intimacy between Elizabeth and Lord Somerville that had not only shocked her, but had also made her see more clearly than ever how her recognition of love had come too late. Elizabeth was young and feminine, attractive, intelligent, and she could summon any man to her side to idolise her, as they did. She was the glorious one, never to be scolded as she herself had been, never to be told that she was manipulative or self-obsessed. Nor would anyone ever tell her that her lack of compassion was an unattractive trait. If that was an example of the Tudor magnetism then she, Etta, had better start to disclaim it rather than boast of it, for never would she have ignored a woman in that terrible plight as Elizabeth had done. Never. And imagine what might have happened if she too had found herself in that poor woman’s situation with Elizabeth ignoring her distress. What an awful coldness. Her heart must be made of steel.

  The events of the morning, and those of the previous days too, had begun to shake the foundations of Etta’s determination to be a part of the Queen’s court or to know any more about her. How could she respect and love a woman whose heart was impervious to kindness, who stole women’s husbands and drove a wedge between them? Had Somerville been right? Should she leave now and go home? Or should she stay and fight, and play the woman at her own game?

  In one way, the question was answered for her when Somerville arrived to say that the Queen had told him he must stay. It was well after dark and Levina had gone down to the great hall for supper but, since no provision was made for the wives of courtiers, Etta had been obliged to stay in the room and dine on a few biscuits and an apple. Alone.

  ‘Alone?’ Somerville said, frowning.

  ‘As you see,’ said Etta. ‘You dined with the Queen, I take it?’

  ‘No. She eats in the Privy Chamber when she feels like it. I came to...’

  ‘To tell me that you have to stay with her. Yes, no surprise there, then.’

  He sighed, squatting on his sister’s drawing stool and flipping back the loose panels at the base of his doublet. ‘Etta, the choice is not mine, I can assure you. If she wants to keep me here, there’s little I can do about it. But I won’t have you staying in here alone all evening while Levina is away and I’m not sending you home on your own, either. I shall take you with me. Can you dance in that gown?’

  She thought how handsome he looked in his tawny brocade suit, the gold edgings and aiglets, the creamy-white frill around his neck just catching his hair at the back. The thought that she might have lost him was like a dagger twisting in her heart, but she would not be cowed. She would fight on and she would never behave as the Queen had done. She thought of the dances she and Aphra had learnt, thinking that by now they would surely have been in the Queen’s favour, dancing every night and sharing her days. She thought of the gowns they’d had made for evenings of dancing, crusted with embroidery and gemstones, slippers of satin and velvet, the fans and headdresses. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can dance in anything. But don’t let me spoil your evening, my lord. I shall find companions, I’m sure, and if you can flirt with Elizabeth, then you’ll surely not object to me following suit. Discreetly, of course.’

  His look held none of the warmth she craved. ‘Don’t play this silly game with me, Etta. You know the circumstances. You wanted to be here, not me. You promised me, once, that you would do nothing to embarrass me. I expect you to keep that promise.’

  ‘What a pity you didn’t make a similar promise to me, my lord.’ She stood up, smoothing down the creases in the silvery silk, adjusting her French hood and tucking away a strand of red hair. ‘There, that’s the best I can do at such short notice. Shall we go and sing for our suppers? Have you played the lute to her yet, as you once did with me?’ He did not answer her at once, but wrote something hastily on a scrap of paper that lay on Levina’s work table, pushing it between the handles of her paintbrushes.

  ‘What’s the note about?’ Etta said. ‘Information, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing she would not believe him. ‘And the situation is bad enough without your sarcasm, Etta. Come, let’s go.’

  His warm fingers enclosed hers, leading her out of the stuffy room and, for the time it took them to walk in silence towards the sound of music, Etta could almost pretend that nothing had come between them to cause her such unbelievable heartache. She didn’t know how she would get through the next few hours of seeing him smile at Elizabeth, the Queen, the way she wanted him to smile at her.

  The sounds of music and laughter grew louder as they passed through a series of anterooms towards the magnificent hall where a blaze of light and colour engulfed them. Every surface sang with a cacophony of rich pattern, silks shot through with metal threads, lace, gems flashing against tapestried walls, feathered fans, satins and rich brocades, making Etta blink with an overload of beauty. The Queen’s ladies sailed through the crowded hall like rich galleons festooned with floating scarves and decked out in a riot of brilliance while the men, no less gaudy, cavorted round them, po
sing and posturing for their attention. Etta felt the lure of the glamour through the soles of her feet as they fidgeted to the rhythm of tabors and reedy pipes, her skirts already swaying to the tripping dance steps, although her eyes were now more critical than they had been before, wary and watchful, ready to be disappointed again by some behaviour of the Queen’s.

  Somerville’s arm tightened on her hand, preventing her escape. She looked up at him impatiently and saw him mouthing words intended only for her to hear. But the noise was too great and, instead of asking him to repeat it, she assumed it would be a warning of some kind, reminding her how he had consistently thrown doubts in her way. He wanted a family. He did not want a life at court. The Queen’s favour could not be relied on, and so on. Now, due to her persistence, it could happen and she was no longer certain she wanted it.

  The crowd was thick and the two of them were caught up in the surge of bodies to the end of the hall where Elizabeth was enthroned on a huge velvet chair surrounded by her maids, while Etta felt the restraint of her husband’s arm acting like a brake on her progress. ‘Not yet, Etta!’ he said into her ear. ‘We must wait for the Queen’s invitation.’ But it was too late. The musicians and dancers finished on a long note and the bending bodies parted to make a space around Etta and her husband. It was then that she wished she’d had a chance to change. The Queen’s day gown had been exchanged for an extravagant creation of shining white satin embroidered with coloured silks and gold thread, with pearls and a forepart encrusted with shimmering spangles. In her hair were more pearls and feathers in an arc that framed her face, emphasising her affinity with Diana, goddess of the moon. Unfortunately, the magnificence also emphasised the ordinariness of Etta’s silver-grey silk, creased after a day’s wear, her shoes no longer clean, her hanging purse and fan unsuitable for evening wear.