Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Why, Father?’

  Having discovered that he could not answer her, Lord Jon turned to his wife for help. ‘She was a very beautiful woman, Etta,’ said Lady Virginia, ‘but perhaps a little too self-centred to make the best queen. I’m sure she would have adored you, but I’m glad we were given the chance to make you ours.’

  ‘Didn’t her parents offer to adopt me?’ said Etta.

  ‘No,’ Lord Jon said. ‘Sadly, they refused to have anything to do with their daughter when she became the King’s mistress. They didn’t approve of that kind of arrangement, although fortunately for me that didn’t affect her wealth inherited from her grandparents. So I decided to keep you with me at Lea Magna and hire a staff to care for you while I set about finding a lady to marry who would love you as her own.’ His smile at his wife was filled with adoration.

  ‘And he did,’ said her mother. ‘You were two years old when I became your stepmother.’ Almost without realising it, Lady Virginia steered the questions and answers more towards Etta and themselves than Magdalen Osborn, which might have been difficult for them to answer truthfully other than to say that she was very beautiful, wealthy, and sought after, the King’s mistress and full of life. ‘Now,’ said Lady Virginia, ‘tell us about your expeditions to Whitehall. Have you spoken with the Queen yet?’ She saw how her stepdaughter reached for Aphra’s hand as if for comfort and guessed immediately by the pain in Etta’s eyes that all was not as well as they’d hoped.

  Frankly, Etta told them about what had happened, with no more result than that the Queen was driving a wedge between her and her new husband and that the once rosy picture of the royal court had become distinctly tarnished.

  ‘But surely, Etta,’ said Lady Virginia, ‘you cannot believe Lord Somerville is paying her any more attention than he’s obliged to? All men have to pay her compliments. It’s what she thrives on. You cannot take this kind of flirting too seriously?’

  Usually, Etta kept her tears well under control, but now they rose to the surface like a hot spring, shaking her frame with sobs that interrupted every attempt to explain. It was not only that she had failed in her quest for recognition but that, even after only a few weeks, she had not managed to hold on to her husband’s allegiance. That, for a beautiful and intelligent woman, was more humiliating than any other factor, brought home to her fully now as she spoke it out loud to her parents. She saw no reason to mention the physical side, for she had naively believed from the beginning of her relationship with Somerville that love was not an essential ingredient for lovemaking to be pleasurable. Last night, half-asleep, they had made love again, deriving from the act the physical commitment they had been deprived of during the day, Etta supposing that this was what any man would do with any woman who lay naked in his arms, while she wanted him and no other.

  ‘So you love him, then?’ said her father, leaning on his knees to look at her. From him, the question came as a shock, although the weeping had begun to free thoughts suppressed for too long.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘Yes...I do...I do.’

  ‘Does he know, dear?’ her mother said.

  ‘I don’t...don’t suppose so. We started off on the wrong foot, you see.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Lord Jon, ‘but you risk staying on the wrong foot unless you tell him what he needs to know. It’s up to you, Etta, to put things right between you. You were the one to insist on following up your Tudor relationship. You were the one to make a fuss about marrying him because he was our choice and now you make use of him to get you to court. So your plan has miscarried. So who’s to blame for that?’

  ‘Jon, dear,’ said his wife. ‘That’s a little unfair, isn’t it? Etta’s not to blame.’

  ‘Then who is? Elizabeth fancies every personable male she sees, just as her father fancied every personable female. It’s up to the wives to keep them out of her clutches, in my view, by every means they know. It’s too late for Dudley’s poor wife. She lost her husband years ago. But you don’t have to, Etta. Somerville was determined to have you.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Etta replied, hotly. ‘So much so that he deceived me, taking away any choice I might have had.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, lass! Open your eyes. When a man will go so far to get the woman he wants, doesn’t that say something to you? But listen to me, Etta,’ he said more gently, ‘a man like Somerville has his pride, too. You don’t imagine he wasn’t affected by all that fuss you made, do you, especially when he thought you were keen on him? So do you really expect him to speak of his love for you before you tell him how you love him and how much you want to make up for not allowing him the kind of wedding he wanted?’

  ‘He’s never said he wanted...’

  ‘No, nor will he unless he hears it from you first. What means most to you, your marriage, or Elizabeth? You’re going to have to choose before it’s too late.’

  ‘Jon, I think you’re being a little harsh. I’m sure it’s not too late. Is it, Etta?’

  ‘He said he didn’t care about having a big wedding,’ she said, sadly.

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said her father. ‘But think about it. He’s probably London’s most successful mercer, an alderman in his Company, well respected and honest. Think of all his friends who’d like to have celebrated with him. Not to mention our own family. He’s too proud to show you his disappointment, but believe me, he’d enjoy showing off on his wedding day just as much as we all do.’

  ‘I only said it out of pique. I thought he was trying to please me.’

  Lord Jon leaned back, groaning softly as he glanced up at the raftered ceiling. ‘You’ve a lot to learn about men, my lass. Only a Tudor could have come to that conclusion.’

  The comment, although hitting the target, was funny enough to bring huffs of laughter to their lips and for Lady Virginia to place an arm around her stepdaughter’s shoulders. ‘Reading a man’s mind is an art,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’ll get the hang of it, eventually. Have you given up entirely on your royal ambition?’

  Etta shrugged. ‘I don’t fancy returning to Whitehall,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I think you might be having your mind made up for you, Etta,’ said her father. ‘It would be best for you and Somerville if the Queen and her court packed up and left.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lady Virginia. ‘Do you know something I don’t know?’

  Straight-faced, Lord Jon looked gravely at his lovely wife. ‘Oh, I doubt that, dear heart. But I heard yesterday from your brother George at the Wardrobe that the court moves to Richmond Palace within the next three days. There now, that might help to solve the problem, don’t you think?’

  Fortunately, they did not ask Etta what she thought about the royal move for, if they had, she would have been too confused to give a sensible answer. Richmond Palace was only a short horse ride away from Mortlake Manor, and it therefore remained to be seen which of them, she or her husband, would suggest returning to Mortlake first.

  Chapter Nine

  There was much for Etta to ponder on the way home to busy Cheapside, her parents having unwittingly pointed out failings in her dealings with her lord that she knew to be true and impossible to excuse. She had not mentioned his desire for a family, for there she did not have a leg to stand on, knowing how they would agree that her self-centredness was getting in the way of her duty. The same trait in her mother had, apparently, stood in the way of her duty to her husband, too. And that was the second time she’d heard the fault mentioned recently. As for the Tudor trait of making use of people, that had struck an ill-sounding chord that she resented, for why would not any man or woman make use of a spouse’s connections? Everyone did that, surely? But there was more than that in her father’s uncompromising words about it being up to her to put matters right between them and the more she thought on it, the more she believed he did not understand how diffic
ult that would be. A simple declaration of her love might already be too late. Although Somerville could make love to her and not to the Queen, the very fact that she looked like Elizabeth might, for all she knew, be one of the reasons why he still wanted her in his bed. The thought was not an attractive one and yet, if that was what it took to keep him close to her, then so be it. As her stepfather had said, who was to blame for that?

  She and Aphra had stayed at Tyburn House for a light midday meal and had taken a wherry home, stopping for some shopping on the way through Cheapside, then going upstairs to change before supper. Etta was still in her chemise as her husband came into the bedchamber with all the dust of a day’s work on him, taking in the scene with one glance. ‘Ask Tilda to leave us,’ he said, holding the door open. The maid slipped out.

  ‘What is it?’ said Etta. ‘Is something wrong?’ She held her hands over her breasts to prevent the chemise slipping off her shoulders. A thrill of excitement passed through her as she saw the look of desire in his eyes, his urgent need for her.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, reaching her in one stride. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He took her hands away and watched as the chemise slid over her curves to make a pool around her feet, lazily inspecting the exquisite fullness tipped with rose-pink that firmed under his gaze, invitingly. For a few moments, his inspection continued over her belly and breasts and then, as if he was unable to bear the suspense, he let go of her hands and pulled her towards him in an embrace that crushed her skin against the metal fastenings of his doublet.

  If Etta suspected that he might be imagining himself making love to Elizabeth, she gave no sign of it for her need was as great as his and no amount of pride would stand in the way. Not this time. Not ever. So she gave in to the demands of his hands and mouth as they took their fill of every contact, helping him to untie the points of his hose without taking her lips away from his. She felt the surge of white-hot desire drive them on, closer and closer until, somehow, she knew the weightlessness of being carried, then the thrilling softness of his bulk pressing her into their bed, opening her to him like a flower in the sun. Suddenly, they were striving, rhythmically, to reach further with each thrust, to know again the all-consuming passion of owning and being owned, of giving and taking. Etta felt his hand in the wild red tangle of her hair, heard him whisper endearments that she took for herself, refusing to share them with the woman who threatened her happiness. ‘Ah, beautiful, red-haired, wild creature. What spell have you cast on me that I can think of nothing but you all day?’ His lips took over from the words, scattering kisses into her hair, on her neck, and on the hand that came to touch his face. The scent of him in her nostrils was his alone. Like a potent drug.

  Unlike last night’s gentle coupling, this was the expression of a day-long desire held tightly in check by a vigorous man in the prime of his life, now released in a blinding fervour of passion. Predictably, the pinnacle was reached too soon as they came together for the final explosion, crying out with the intensity of sensation, his magnificent body, still clothed, straining with the effort of making it last for one more second.

  They lay together, recovering, reeling from a surfeit of excitement while his hand played over the soft undulations of her body. He saw the marks on her breast caused by the sharp aiglets fastening his doublet and was instantly apologetic. ‘Forgive me, sweetheart. I could not wait. Are you hurt much?’

  Inside, she wanted to say, we are hurting each other. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  * * *

  Later, as they dressed for supper, she told him about her visit. ‘My parents suggested it was time for me to stop,’ she said, watching Tilda’s fingers nimbly pin up her hair.

  He came to sit on the chest at the end of the bed from where he could see her face in the mirror. ‘Stop what?’ he said.

  ‘Going to Whitehall. Seeking the Queen’s approval. They don’t see it happening. Do you?’

  ‘I never have, Etta. But the choice is for you to make.’

  ‘I’ve made it. I’m wasting my time there.’

  Through the mirror their eyes met, querying, searching for another meaning. ‘You’re sure? After all the preparations? The costumes, the dancing lessons...’

  ‘Were a waste of money, weren’t they?’

  ‘No, that kind of thing is never a waste of money, but your expectations of their value were high, weren’t they? Perhaps a little too high. Do you want to return to Mortlake?’

  As the last pin went into her hair, she turned to face him, yearning for him to tell her that all her fears were groundless, even before she spoke of them. ‘So you know the Queen and court are to move to Richmond, my lord?’ she said, attempting to keep any hint of accusation out of the tone. Please say you didn’t know.

  ‘Yes, I knew that. I’ve known it for a few weeks. They’ll be back in London again by Easter.’

  ‘So is that why you suggested we move back to Mortlake? To be near her?’

  She saw the cloud of pain pass over his eyes. ‘No, Etta,’ he said, gently. ‘I didn’t suggest we both move back there. It’s you who ought to go. I have business here in London that I must attend to, personally. I could return to Mortlake on the tide each evening and be home in time for supper, but I’d be quite happy for you and Aphra to be there. You could ride and tend the gardens, and do all the things you can’t do here. Summer’s on the way. Things are starting to grow.’

  There was something in the way he said that which seemed to match his detailed scrutiny of her breasts and belly before they made love, making Etta wonder if the idea of ‘growing things’ was the reason behind it. Now, it didn’t seem to matter to her any more that she might become pregnant. In fact, the thought of bearing Nic’s child was a deeply attractive one. ‘So it would not be inconvenient for you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m quite used to it. I’ve been doing it for years. That’s why I have my own barge.’

  ‘Why does the Queen want to be at Richmond, suddenly?’

  ‘It’s not sudden. She wants to do some hawking, I believe. She might even invite you to join her if she knows you’re at Mortlake. Would you like that? Shall I buy you a gerfalcon of your own? I keep my falcons there already, but I’ve not had much chance to use them. There’s plenty of heron there.’

  It sounded all so reasonable, so sensible for her to distance herself from a place that, so far, had not given her a single day either of enjoyment or satisfaction. On the contrary, she had come away from Whitehall frustrated, humiliated, unfed and harassed, ignored by the one for whom she’d made all the effort and, even worse, looked like losing her husband to her. More recently had come those unkind hints from Lady Catherine Grey about her mother who, as mistress of her royal father, would inevitably have been the target for slander and innuendo, even in her lifetime. If Lady Catherine had mud to sling in her direction, then she, Etta, did not want to hear it. Her parents were right. While she was still desirable in his eyes, for whatever reason, she had better try to repair the damage which had been, she admitted, of her own making. The Tudors were not, it seemed, the easiest people to live with. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking down at her hands, ‘I would like a gerfalcon of my own. Could we buy one for Aphra, too?’

  He leaned towards her, taking her face between his hands and kissing her on the lips more gently than half an hour ago. ‘Of course. That’s the least we can do if we’re to take her away from her Master Leon so soon.’

  Her eyes lifted to his in surprise. ‘You’ve noticed?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘There’s not much that escapes my notice, sweetheart. They make a perfect couple, don’t they?’

  She nodded, envying her cousin and her pleasant uncomplicated young man the kind of easygoing relationship without the storms that had beset her and this noble intelligent creature, for whom her love was growing day by day. This would be, she knew, a good time to tell him so, while he was d
oing his utmost to soothe her fears about the Queen’s romantic intentions. There were, however, certain things she found it hard to dismiss from her mind, of which the decision to spend his days in London while she was at Mortlake was one. What about the furtive messages passing between him and his sister? Why could he not have shared this with her? Did it have something to do with him staying in London, or was she making something out of nothing?

  He kept her face between his hands, watching her eyes. ‘I’ve seen that look before,’ he whispered. ‘Come on, let’s have it. Complications, are there?’

  Etta took his wrists, freeing her face from his scrutiny. ‘No, I’m probably imagining things,’ she replied. ‘I must not pry into your business, my lord.’

  ‘Pry? What’s this about? What’s troubling you, sweetheart?’

  ‘It sounds trivial when I say it. Normal, even. Those notes.’ She turned his hands, palms up, then curled his fingers in and held them there.

  ‘Notes? Oh, the notes. Yes. To Levina. What about them?’

  ‘I asked you if it was information and you said yes. But was it?’

  ‘Yes. I told you.’

  ‘But she gave you one, later. Was that information, too? Are you an informer? Is that why you decided we must attend the court, after all?’

  ‘I inform in a very minor way, yes, but nothing for you to be concerned about. It coincided with our plans. If it hadn’t, I would still have taken you there.’

  ‘Would you? But isn’t it rather dangerous? That does concern me.’

  ‘Listen. It’s the information that’s dangerous, but these things have to be known about by those responsible for the Queen’s safety and that means her throne as much as her person. So Cecil, as chief minister, needs all the information he can get from wherever he can get it. Levina has access to many people at court who are happy to chat to her while they’re sitting still. She learns quite a lot that she can pass on to me, in case it’s useful and, as her brother, I can visit her freely at Whitehall Palace with my wife without arousing any suspicion.’