Her curtsy to the Queen was graceful, her head bowed in deep reverence, her ears straining to catch any words of greeting. But the Queen’s words of greeting were directed at Somerville, not Etta, and it was his hand that raised her up while he repeated the words she had missed, in her impatience. ‘You are to stay in the hall until I come for you,’ he whispered. ‘Walk backwards three steps and curtsy.’
Unable to believe that she was being overlooked yet again, she sought the Queen’s face for confirmation and saw the steely dark gaze boring through her as if Etta’s every intention was being understood and put in its place. I will accept you when I am ready, the Queen was saying through her eyes, and not a moment before. Do not presume.
A slight tug on her arm reminded her what she must do and there, before the glittering court, she was forced to accept the royal rejection, modified only by Somerville’s light kiss upon her knuckles. She would not allow her disappointment to show, smiling at those nearest her and feeling some relief when her hand was taken by Lord Robert Dudley, drawing her away to one side as though he could sense her humiliation at the Queen’s public dismissal. She watched her husband’s departure in response to the Queen’s imperious summons, forcing her face not to betray her distress. In a moment, taking hold of herself, she decided to make the best of what was on offer, the company, the admiring faces, the music and dance, entertainments, and so far none of the questionable behaviour she had witnessed in other parts of the palace. And if Lord Robert wished her to stay by his side, then so much the better. Somerville could hardly complain that she was being taken care of by the Queen’s favourite, surely?
He needed no encouragement. Leading her into the next dance, Lord Robert drew all eyes towards him and his newest partner who resembled the Queen so closely that, at times, it was difficult to tell that it was not her. Well aware that she was attracting so much attention, Etta danced like a goddess, concentrating on every movement with her brilliant partner, smiling into his eyes and recognising the unmistakable desire. He appeared not to conceal his admiration and she saw no reason not to take full advantage of this warm regard after the recent husbandly disapproval. But while she smiled and appeared to bask in this attention, in the strong hold of his hands and the assuredness of his directions, she knew in her heart, rebellious as it was, that she would never want this man as a lover, that the only man to make her heart skip a beat was the one now sitting close to Elizabeth, with eyes only for his Queen. It took all her efforts to steel herself against the painful scene, talking merrily to those ladies who came to make her acquaintance and to those men who remarked on her likeness to the Queen and to ask how this came about. One of those men was the bold ill-mannered courtier who had grabbed at her in the passageway only days before. Now, he was all false smiles, leaving her with the bitter taste of duplicity about which both Hoby and Somerville had warned her. And to her relief, Stephen Hoby was nowhere to be seen. There would be no need for her to mention him to Lord Robert.
At the sound of her name, she turned to find that Lady Catherine Grey was about to show everyone in the group how well she was acquainted with Etta. ‘Yes, do tell us, Lady Somerville, the reason for your resemblance to Her Majesty? Everyone knows of my own relationship, but we’re all dying to know about your beloved lady mother, aren’t we, ladies? Was she one of many? Or don’t you know?’
Etta’s heart gave a lurch, for the woman’s tone implied more trouble. But before Etta could reiterate what she had already said on the subject, Lady Catherine took her by the shoulders as if to kiss both cheeks, taking the opportunity to whisper a warning in her ear. ‘Don’t you dare speak about what you saw.’ Her smile at such close quarters was acid-sweet, her pale eyes threatening.
Never having been one to accept intimidation without a fight, Etta turned her full attention to Lady Catherine, turning defence into a challenge. ‘First, my lady,’ she said, ‘perhaps you can tell me who it was informed the Queen’s fool that my wedding was a shabby affair, due to my lord’s stinginess? Since I cannot remember speaking about my wedding day to anyone except yourself and Lord Robert, perhaps you can suggest the origin of such wicked lies?’
To those who watched, it looked like twin sisters sparring, one of them stronger, bolder and lovelier than the other. Obviously not expecting this, Lady Catherine braved it out as best she could. ‘I remember nothing of any talk about your wedding,’ she said. ‘Your memory is at fault, my lady.’
‘And so is yours, dear sister-in-law,’ said Lord Robert. ‘I was there.’
‘I don’t remember. Anyway,’ she said, looking round for support, ‘what does it matter? Who knows how Jack Grene gets to know things?’
‘I do so agree with you, Lady Catherine,’ Etta said, keeping her smile fixed in position, ‘who knows how Jack Grene gets to know anything? He thrives on scandal, doesn’t he, and if it’s not scandalous, he’ll make it so, for laughs. Better be careful what we tell him then, hadn’t we?’ She saw how accurately she had scored by the expression of fear in the woman’s eyes, yet it was too soon for Etta to lower her guard when Lady Catherine came back for another attack, like a dog with a favourite bone.
‘So are you going to tell us about your mother, Lady Somerville? There must be some ladies here who remember her well, not to mention the men. Who was she, exactly? Did she keep the King’s attention for long, or was it one of those brief affairs he had while his dear wife was expecting the heir to the throne?’
In all her years, it had never been a pressing concern of Etta’s to know the details of her mother’s relationship with King Henry VIII whose need to take mistresses during his wives’ pregnancies was both well known and accepted, with varying degrees of patience from the wives in question. It was more important to Etta to know what kind of woman her mother was, rather than the King’s demands on her. That was something she might not have had much choice about. Nor could she see any reason to discuss the subject with this troublemaking woman. As if by divine intervention, she caught the eye of a man threading his way through the crowded room to be at her side, saving her from a difficult situation which she now realised she was ill equipped to manage. ‘Uncle Elion! What a delight. Have you come to ask me to dance?’ she called.
‘Indeed I have, my niece. My lord. My lady.’ Sir Elion D’Arvall bowed to Lord Robert and Lady Catherine, the epitome of a diplomat. Working with Lord William Cecil provided him with every contact and his dislike of the malicious Catherine Grey was unconcealed when he linked arms with Lord Robert and Etta and walked away from her. ‘That one would get her own mother into trouble, if she could,’ he said. ‘Is that not so, my lord?’ he said.
‘Indeed it is, Sir Elion. My advice would be to keep well clear of her.’
They found a space beside a tapestry showing Daniel in the lions’ den and, although its images were too large for Etta to see, the subject seemed appropriate. At that moment, she felt as if things were sliding out of her control. ‘So why would she bring up the subject of my mother, Uncle Elion? Is she implying some kind of trouble there?’
Standing between the two men, she could not avoid seeing the glance that passed between them. ‘No,’ Sir Elion replied, ‘but that won’t prevent her inventing some. I’m afraid the royal court is like that, Etta my dear. Heaven knows, if there’s no scandal to report, people will exercise their imaginations. Resembling the Queen as you do, I think you may have to expect it.’
Lord Robert nodded in agreement but stayed beside her as, one after another, soloists kept them entertained with love songs to the accompaniment of the lute. Their messages of unrequited love were always aimed at Elizabeth while she lapped up the sentiments like a cat with cream. All who watched and listened knew it to be a convention that she herself encouraged, but that did not make it easier for Etta when Somerville took the lute and sang a haunting melody about one who would not speak her love for him. His powerfully sweet baritone won the loudest ap
plause of the evening, but there were tears in Etta’s eyes, for it seemed to her like yet another sign that she had lost him.
Sir Elion noticed her distress. ‘Don’t take it seriously, Etta,’ he said, placing an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t think you’ll last long in this place if you take these things at face value. Is it time you went home?’
Etta nodded. She would not be the Queen’s friend tonight, or indeed any other.
‘Then leave it to me.’ Giving her a quick squeeze, he left her in the care of Lord Robert who, although more hardened than she to the ways of the royal court, still felt keenly the temporary loss of the woman to whom his life was dedicated. Having few scruples about using others for his own ends, his close attentions to Etta, whose resemblance to that woman was so convenient, began to overstep the mark when he manoeuvred her into a shadowy alcove, laid a hand on her throat and tipped her chin up towards his face. For her, the day had been disastrous from the start and, even when she had thought to salvage her scheme by joining in the Queen’s entertainments, unkindness had followed her, adding to the rejection she had suffered. Never had she felt so in need of some small show of comfort after Uncle Elion’s kindly meant warning that this place was not what she had thought. But Lord Robert was not the man she wanted. ‘So beautiful,’ he was whispering. ‘If you were mine, lady, I would not bring you here.’
Placing a hand on his cheek, she turned him away from her, ducking her head out of range. ‘And I ought not to have come,’ she said. ‘But thank you for your concern, my lord.’ Just in time, they pulled apart to see past the backs of the sparkling crowd to where the Queen had risen from her chair. Courtiers sank to one knee until she and her ladies had disappeared, then rose like a huge sea of bright colour, the tall figures of Somerville and Sir Elion fording their way through it to reach the back of the room. ‘My lord,’ said Sir Elion to Lord Robert, ‘Her Majesty commands your presence.’
The looks exchanged between Lord Robert and Somerville spoke volumes for anyone understanding the code. Aware of each other’s helplessness under the Queen’s manipulating thumb, the rivalry between them was tempered by some sympathy, each acknowledging the other’s bow with a relief that they were now able to resume their rightful roles. Even so, as the Queen’s favourite kissed Etta’s knuckles, Somerville could detect the remains of a tear upon her lashes. ‘What’s he been up to?’ he said as soon as he was able.
Etta would have retorted in the same tone, something critical and unhelpful, but Sir Elion saw it coming and interrupted them both. ‘Keeping your wife from the wolves, lad. Now, take her home. She needs a hide thicker than an elephant to spend any more time here. I’ll walk with you to the jetty.’
Calling at Levina’s room to pick up their cloaks and say their farewells, Levina handed her brother a slip of paper which he quickly pushed into the front of his doublet, then the three of them went in silence to the water stairs where the barge waited, bobbing gently on a dark incoming tide. Etta and her uncle hugged, sympathy and darkness enclosing them, but she did not see her husband pass the slip of paper to Sir Elion. In the barge, Somerville tucked a rug around her knees as they pulled into the middle of the river where a stiff March breeze made Etta gasp, but as he peered more closely, he saw that her shoulders were shaking with sobs. Saying nothing, he drew her close to him and held her in his arms, rocking to the gentle sway of the barge as the men pulled hard against the current.
For many reasons, this was not the time for an inquest into what went wrong. Again. Etta was too exhausted to eat and the others had long since taken to their beds so, like two weary pilgrims, they went straight to bed without any expectations of physical contact when so much rancour lay unspoken between them. But all it took was for Somerville to reach out a hand towards her, touching her fingers as she lay rigidly on her back and whispering her name, ‘Etta’, for her to turn to him, seeking the bliss of his embrace. There was too much to say, so they said nothing, finding all they needed in the warmth of naked flesh and gentling kisses, and in the wonderment of their bodies’ needs.
Lethargically, they lay on their sides to entwine and seek each other in a manner they’d not tried before, thinking it might be uncomfortable. But it was not. It was the tenderest act that seemed to console and reassure them, after a day of terrible doubts, that they still had need of each other. Even when the climax surged like a breaker along the shores of their sleepy bodies, they clung and nestled into each other like lost children, satisfying their hunger before all else. And with her lips on the rhythmic pulse at the base of his throat, Etta was almost asleep before he had withdrawn from her.
* * *
After all her husband’s reservations, warnings and precautions, and after last night’s total failure to make any dent in the Queen’s armour, Etta had to acknowledge that it was never going to happen under her direction, only under the Queen’s. Everything that could have been done had been and now even discussion about future tactics seemed pointless in light of the royal rebuff. Somerville himself had come to the same conclusion by leaving for the Steelyard before Etta was dressed, apparently seeing nothing to be gained by going over the same ground again or enquiring too closely into what had gone wrong. The Queen had kept him by her side, exercising her rights as his sovereign, but ignoring any womanly feelings of compassion. She was young, unmarried and powerful. She had waited twenty-five long and sometimes frightening years to come so far and the taste of power and success was still with her. She would choose her friends very carefully, none of whom would be allowed to outshine her. Not even a half-sister. Especially not a half-sister of such beauty. Somerville knew this, but so far had been unable to convince Etta, whose Tudor blood had imbued her with a rare determination.
In some ways, Etta was relieved to avoid Somerville’s questions, for she did not want to tell him how she had seen him with the Queen. Her emotions were too painful to describe and she was not sure she could bear to hear him make light of it, as he surely would. Nor did she want to admit that, by following her dream, she had opened Pandora’s Box, the latest affliction being the insinuating questions about her mother. Now she had to know. She could only think it was the self-obsession Somerville had accused her of which had prevented her finding out before.
Breaking her fast with Aphra and Leon over a plate of ham, cheese and warm bread, Etta heard the latest gossip to come from Aunt Maeve, Aphra’s mother, particularly that their old grandmother, who had been unwell, had recovered enough to return to her own cosy dower house at D’Arvall Hall. Leon was well aware that he had been vetted and approved, and could now tell his good friends at the Sign of the Bridge that he and Aphra would eventually marry when he had been home to Italy to ask for his parents’ blessing. In the midst of her own sadness, Etta managed to summon up a smile of genuine happiness for them.
‘The other news,’ Aphra said, ‘is that your parents are back in London.’
Of all things, that was exactly what Etta needed to hear. ‘When?’ she squeaked, hugging her cousin.
‘Yesterday, I believe. Why, love? What is it? Have you missed them?’
Etta nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘I need to see them,’ she said.
‘So let’s go. We can go today, unless you’re going...’
‘No, I doubt if I’ll be going to Whitehall again, Aphie.’
‘Not ever? What’s happened? Oh, dear, I ought to have been with you. Tell me, love.’
Including the Queen’s apparent conquest of her husband, Etta told her how the day had gone from bad to worse, ending with the unpleasantness of Lady Catherine Grey and the disturbing questions about her own mother, which must be explained. ‘My mother and father will know,’ Etta said. ‘Father was married to her once, remember.’
‘Yes, so that you would take your stepfather’s name. That’s not unusual,’ Aphra said. ‘Queen Anne Boleyn’s sister did the same when she was the King’s mistress
and she was a well-loved lady. Her daughter is one of the Queen’s ladies. So if your mother had been related to Elizabeth, you might have had more success. Never mind. We can find out a bit more than we know already.’
* * *
They were not to know, when they set off that morning to visit Tyburn House, that the ‘bit more’ was hardly enough to raise Etta’s hopes of being in possession of all the facts, for Lady Virginia had never met the lady, and Lord Jon was infuriatingly hazy about Etta’s mother except to say why he married her.
They sat together by an open window overlooking the knot garden with the orchard beyond, where daffodils danced in the bright sunshine and white doves sat in rows on the mossy wall. Lord Jon laid a hand over his wife’s as he raked up old history that he had tried, during his happy marriage to Lady Virginia, to forget. ‘For money,’ he said, looking out at the colourful scene. ‘That’s the top and bottom of it. I needed money to keep my estate going when my father died in France. Magdalen had plenty of it and she needed a titled husband. So that was it, really. Mutual benefits.’
Sensing that no more details were forthcoming, Lady Virginia filled in some of the missing bits. ‘Magdalen Osborn was one of Queen Jane Seymour’s ladies,’ she said.
‘So is that when the King fell in love with her?’ said Etta, thinking more of the romance than the lust.
‘Probably,’ said her mother. ‘I think it was likely he took her as his mistress when Queen Jane was pregnant, because Magdalen died in childbirth three months after Jane.’
‘How very sad,’ said Aphra. ‘So the King lost both his beloved wife and his mistress within months of each other.’
‘But just think,’ said Etta, not in the least abashed by such a tragedy, ‘if my mother had lived, she might have become the next queen. Now there’s a thought.’
Lord Jon shifted his position, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly, ‘but she was married to me, you see. The King’s natural inclination to make use of people never failed him. Anyway, your mother would not have made a good queen, love.’
Taming the Tempestuous Tudor Page 19
