‘Then I shall give you that advice you asked me for. Come to court each day with your husband and look for me when he must attend the Queen. I shall be your companion whenever I can, in between duties, and when I cannot, I shall delegate that pleasure to a young man in my employ. You will not be left alone at any time. In this way I shall bring you to her attention and I shall convince her that your only wish is to be in her company. That’s all.’
‘Yes...yes, and tell her, if you please, that I am no threat to her.’
‘Depend on me, my lady. It may take a little time, but if I cannot convince her of your loyalty, then no one can. Tomorrow, she intends to hold an archery contest over in the gardens. Come suitably dressed. You and I will be in the same team, while your husband will be obliged to team up with the Queen. She has a very winning way with men. None of us can say no to her.’
A tight ball of pain pressed on her throat, unlike anything she had experienced before. Lord Robert’s words, idly spoken, hinted strongly that any man would fall in love with the Queen whether they wished to or not and that Somerville would be no different in that respect. Even now he would be laughing with her, striving to please, admiring, courteous and respectful, competing for her approval. Etta knew how women looked at her husband, but never had she thought the Queen would be one of them, or that she would so blatantly use her authority to keep him beside her when he ought to have been with his wife. Was this really what she herself would have to endure to be here at court? Was it going to be worth it? And why, suddenly, did she feel such pain at the thought of sharing her husband? ‘I ought to go and find my three companions, my lord,’ she said. ‘Shall we...?’
Picking up the hand he’d been holding, he raised her to her feet, waiting for the closer approach of two courtiers before lifting it to his lips for a longer-than-usual kiss accompanied by a look of deep admiration that would have melted the knees of most women. It was clear he wished the courtiers to see them together. ‘Now, my lady,’ he said. ‘Which garden was it?’
* * *
But only Joseph was there to explain how Lady Catherine Grey had arrived half an hour earlier to tell them that, on the Queen’s orders, they were to take the barge back to the jetty at Puddle Wharf. She had said that Lady Somerville would be returning later with her husband. ‘I refused to go,’ Joseph said, ‘so Master Leon and Mistress Betterton have returned home. I’m glad I waited, my lady.’
‘The scheming little bitch,’ Lord Robert muttered under his breath.
So Etta returned with Joseph, taking a wherry from Whitehall where boats waited two-deep for customers from the palace buildings. Fortunately, Joseph had the fare, but the usually pleasant river trip was marred, this time, by yet another failure to achieve anything significant except the promise of help from the Queen’s favourite. As Master of Horse, Robert Dudley’s duties were time-consuming, so Etta did not expect too much from that offer. More sobering, however, was the picture in her mind of Lord Somerville smiling into another woman’s eyes. That night, the candle had burnt itself out long before he returned. She heard the click of the bedchamber door, but pretended to be asleep, and when he came to the bed and laid his warm hand upon her hip, she made no response.
* * *
As soon as Lord Robert Dudley had bowed himself discreetly out of the Queen’s presence to follow Etta that day, Somerville had guessed what was uppermost in the man’s mind and that he himself was in no position to prevent it. It was no comfort to him, either, to know that some of his predictions were being played out at court, that the Queen was reacting to the perceived threat of a beautiful rival in her hive, that Etta was digging her heels in, in defiance, and that Dudley would be sure to hit back at the one woman whose patronage was so essential to him. Etta, he was sure, did not understand how dangerous the man was, how he could make women fall in love with him and how this was certainly not the way for her to win the Queen over. Nor would she have the slightest notion how hurt she would be when Dudley returned to his mistress’s favour. Court games were a complete mystery to her and Dudley had no qualms about using women to bolster his ambition. He was already doing that with the Queen herself.
* * *
Etta’s disappointment at the lack of progress only made her more determined to take whatever course was offered though, as a newly wedded woman, she had not yet acquired the knack of letting her husband into her confidence. In the privacy of their chamber next morning, he had wanted to know what transpired between her and Robert Dudley and, because she was still piqued by his enforced absence just when she had needed it most, she resented his questions. ‘Lord Robert offered me his help,’ she said, drawing a fine linen stocking up to her knee, ‘and I accepted it. Thank you, Tilda. You can leave me now.’
Somerville waited until the door closed before persisting. ‘What kind of help?’
‘Help at court. What else?’ She took the other stocking and held it up to the light. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you were not there to be of much use, were you? I have to accept it wherever I can and he said he’d do all he could. He will partner me in the archery contest, since you are to be in the Queen’s team.’ Sitting on the edge of the bed, she drew up her skirts and attempted to reach her foot over the widest hoop of her farthingale.
Taking the stocking from her, Somerville held it away. ‘And you think, do you, that by making the Queen jealous, she will be delighted to have you around? Is that what you believe?’
Etta made a grab at the stocking, but he held it away. ‘Why should she be jealous?’ she retorted. ‘Surely she allows him to speak to other women from time to time? Give me my stocking.’ Again, she grabbed, but missed.
‘Dudley’s offer of help, Etta, will come at a price,’ he said, pushing her shoulders until she fell backwards on to the bed. The bendy hoops of the farthingale collapsed on top of her, covering her face with a mound of fabric from which she could not escape, while Somerville grabbed her bare foot and held it between his thighs. ‘And if he so much as lays a finger on you, woman, he’ll have me to reckon with. Keep still while I put this on you.’ Taking hold of her foot, he slipped the stocking over her toes.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she shouted at him through the barrier of skirts. ‘What do you care what I get up to with him while you’re dallying with her all day and night? Let me up!’
‘Be still. I care, since you ask, because you’re mine. And I do not dally with the Queen, either.’ He wrestled the stocking over her heel and ankle, then began a slow journey upwards towards her knee.
‘Don’t tell me you talk about the price of kersey with her.’
Behind the barrier, he grinned. ‘I doubt she wears any kersey. Shall I ask her?’
The foot gave a violent plunge before he caught it again, rolling the stocking as high as it would go, but letting his hands stray even further. ‘Get off!’ she cried, wresting her foot out of his grasp. ‘Ask her what you like. Let me up. My gown will be a mass of creases before we start.’ Struggling against the skirt and hoops, she managed to catch at his hand and haul herself upright, though his firm grasp retained her, holding her close to him.
‘Just the same, woman, remember what I’ve said about Dudley. He’ll use anyone in any way to get what he wants and, believe me, he wants the Queen. She flirts with men because she thrives on their adoration and flattery, that’s all. So when she finds another man to feed her vanity, Dudley retaliates. It’s a game they play. He’s had more women than almost any man at court. Everyone knows it. Don’t rely on his help, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Is it really? I thought you were saying something about him laying a finger on me.’ She found herself wanting him to say it again, to tell her that she was his alone, that it was about more than ownership but about raw jealousy and his deep desire for her.
‘Don’t be alone with him,’ he said, pulling her hard into his arms. ‘Keep Aphra and Leon w
ith you, and Joseph, too. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ she said, before his mouth covered hers. His kiss was anything but gentle and she realised that, mixed with the teasing of stockings and legs and farthingales was a serious warning that matters could so easily spiral out of control in a place where every movement was watched, every word overheard. She had already been hugely inconvenienced by a spiteful woman to whom she had foolishly given information out of misplaced sympathy. She would have to learn to tread more carefully. Pushing herself away, she hurried down the stairs to break her fast in the warm dining parlour, feeling a sense of disappointment that, instead of suggesting what she might do to further her cause, he had dwelt upon what she should not do.
* * *
Dressed for a chilly morning out of doors, Etta and Aphra wore sleeveless fur-lined over-gowns, jaunty feathered felt hats, leather shoes and gloves, Etta in jade-green velvet and Aphra in apricot. Accompanied by Leon and Joseph, the river trip to Whitehall was bright with reflected sunlight shattered by swans and their new families. This time, they made straight for the jetty at the garden stairs that led them past raised beds of red brick where early plants showed inside wooden rails of green and white. At every corner, tall red-and-white striped posts were topped with gilded heraldic beasts, unicorns, griffins, stags and dragons holding shields before them as if to guard each plot. Groups of noblemen were already drifting towards the grassy area where straw archery butts had been set, tended by pages who would keep the contestants supplied with arrows. Couples dallied, kissed, and giggled round every bush until a hush told them of the Queen’s arrival.
From the direction of the Queen’s Privy Garden, the royal entourage flowed like a shining ribbon of colour along the gravel pathways, their feathers, jewels and furs catching the sun, bright against the shadowy walls. The Queen wore black, although her sable furs did not hide the sheen of pearls on the bodice beneath, or the slender figure, but the brief nod in Etta’s direction seemed to indicate that, this time, her choice of a very small ruff had been approved. Etta and Aphra sunk into deep curtsies as she approached, but her smile was for Lord Somerville.
‘You shall be in my team,’ she said to him, taking her bow from Lord Robert. ‘And you, my lord, shall choose another. Now, who’s going to put money on my team? Somebody take the wagers. High stakes, everyone.’
‘I’ll pay your dues,’ Somerville whispered to Etta. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘But I don’t intend to lose,’ Etta said. ‘I’m as good as anyone here.’
‘That may be,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but you must allow Her Majesty to be the winner. I told you, she doesn’t like to lose.’
‘Nor do I,’ she said. ‘Ah, Lord Robert, thank you.’ She accepted the bow with a smile. ‘Aphie, love. Will you hold my gloves?’ As she turned to her cousin, she caught sight of a well-dressed young man moving to Lord Robert’s side and realised with displeasure that it was the same one for whom her eyes had searched on the morning of the coronation parade, the same who had spoken to her two days ago. Master Stephen Hoby, whose tailor’s and gambling bills had risen beyond his means. She whispered into Aphra’s ear as she gave her the gloves, ‘Stay close to Master Leon and Joseph, Aphie.’
It soon became apparent to Etta that the Queen’s eyesight was nowhere near as good as her own, or indeed most of the others. None of her arrows went anywhere near the bullseye, yet all the contestants deferred to her in what Etta felt was a most ridiculous charade. Even her husband was obeying the Queen’s unwritten rules. Etta, however, decided the game should be played fairly, aiming her arrows at the centre of the butt and scoring the first bullseye. Then the second, and the third.
The contestants fell silent as the Queen turned stiffly towards Etta and then, to everyone’s amazement, addressed her in fluent Italian as if to catch her out at something, if not in archery. ‘Your diplomacy is far from perfect, my lady, is it not? I hope you will soon learn that your Queen sets the standard here, not the wives of her courtiers.’
Fortunately, it was well within Etta’s capabilities to understand what had been said and to reply just as fluently, though she noticed the looks of horror and bewilderment on the faces of the crowd. Curtsying low, she rose to look into those short-sighted brown eyes. ‘I beg Your Majesty to forgive me, but I understood that you were purposely holding back in order to allow your poor subjects a chance to shine. Had you not in your charity done so, I know you would have won and there would have been no contest, would there?’
She knew by the slight parting of the Queen’s lips that she was completely unprepared for that answer, though her expression gave nothing else away. But nor was Etta prepared for the Queen’s loud peal of laughter at the cleverly flattering reply and, when the sycophantic applause of the courtiers died down, the Queen simply nodded at her. ‘Brava,’ she said and turned away to speak to Etta’s husband. Etta found that she was trembling, but whether from fright or elation she was not sure. All she knew at that moment was that she would like to have felt Somerville’s arms around her and his deep voice murmuring in her ear. At Mortlake, she knew where his fooling around with her stocking would have ended, but that morning his lecturing had annoyed her and the harsh lacing and boning of the court dress was not conducive to a romp on the bed. Which, in retrospect, was perhaps just as well.
Behind her, Lord Robert’s voice was a substitute of sorts. ‘Well said, my lady. Beauty and wit together. Somerville is a fortunate man.’
His flattery grated on her, but she managed not to let it show. ‘Thank you, my lord. My husband warned me. I should have listened to him.’
‘Then think, my lady. If you’d taken his advice, Her Majesty would probably not have spoken to you, would she?’ He moved away to take his turn at the butts, giving Etta time to appreciate his grace and to recall what Somerville had said about Lord Dudley’s danger to women. He was indeed a fine figure, dark-haired, neatly bearded, eyes of deep blue; no wonder the Queen was enamoured of him. But what kind of physical need urged her, Etta wondered, to so publicly encourage the attentions of a married man?
She was not given long to ponder the question before realising that someone had come to stand beside her, expensively suited in tawny brown, black and gold, his flat velvet bonnet set at an angle on thick sand-coloured hair. This time, it was she who spoke first. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘We do not know each other.’
‘Hah!’ He smiled. ‘That will not do, Lady Somerville, and you know it. Lord Robert Dudley has commanded me to escort you whenever he cannot. And since your very wealthy new husband cannot, either, I am happy to oblige.’
‘I have my escorts, Master Hoby. You are freed of your obligation.’
‘Is that so?’ He turned to look over his shoulder. ‘Where, exactly?’
Etta turned to look, too. In a corner of the garden beside one of the heraldic posts stood Aphra with Leon talking animatedly to Dr John Dee, the two black gowns in stark contrast to the colour around them. With hands gesticulating and white beard flapping, the dear man was obviously delighted to meet another scholar, while Aphra was engrossed in their conversation and doing exactly what Etta had said by staying close to Leon. But where was Joseph?
Etta and Stephen Hoby had once been good friends, enjoying their time together all the more for being hidden from Etta’s parents. Young men with neither title nor obvious means of support made unsuitable partners for a lord’s only daughter and Etta, aware that she was flouting their wishes, had been careful that their contact remained innocently verbal. She had been sorry to hear, when her father discovered it, that Hoby was known to her Uncle George as a young man who had once worked at the Royal Wardrobe. She had never felt him to be any kind of threat, nor did she now; more like an inconvenience and a disappointment. He had told her he was a courtier, and had recommended himself to her with his sunny disposition and self-assurance. They had laughed and been carefree toge
ther then, but now she was the wife of a baron and everything had changed.
Her eyes searched for Joseph. ‘Have you told your master of our acquaintance?’ she said to Hoby.
‘He knows nothing of our friendship, my lady. And, yes, since you are too polite to ask, Lord Robert pays me well. As you can see,’ he said, laughing down at her.
‘We cannot be friends, Master Hoby. My husband would not approve. But tell me something before you go, if you please.’
‘I was not about to leave. But carry on, my lady.’
From his lips, her new title sounded strange. ‘What exactly does his lordship intend you to do in this role that my friends cannot do just as well?’
‘Your friends are as new to the court as you are, Etta.’
‘You must not call me that any more.’
As if she had not interrupted, he continued. ‘So they do not know who to be wary of, who will seek to find you alone. Even now, as we speak, there are at least two such men who have noticed your likeness to the Queen and who would have come to your side as soon as Lord Robert walked away. You would not care for them, I think.’
She turned to look. One of the men was her uncle, Sir Elion D’Arvall. ‘That’s...’ She stopped herself just in time. ‘That’s true,’ she said. She would like to have assured him that Lord Somerville would never allow any harm to befall her, but the words dried in her mouth as she saw how he was otherwise engaged, surrounded by the white-dressed Maids of Honour, the Ladies-in-Waiting, and the paraphernalia of betting and scores. She could not rely on him to come between her and any unwanted male, but neither could she allow her former friend to step into the breach and assume the role of protector, no matter what Lord Robert had told him to do. Only a few weeks ago, she might have tried to anger her new husband by reviving her friendship with Stephen Hoby, but things had changed, and now she felt uncomfortable with him. If she wished to anger Somerville, it would not be with a man like this.
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 14
