Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

by Juliet Landon

  Familiar with danger of all kinds, the Queen recognised that Etta was not attacking her, although the method of salvation might have been more dignified. Heaving Etta aside, she accepted the helping hands of her ladies, but was stopped short by the sight of Mistress Aphra Betterton holding a black velvet hat in her hands with a strange expression of disbelief on her face. It had an arrow stuck through the crown with its point just appearing through the white plume.

  ‘Is that my hat, or yours, mistress?’ said the Queen, adjusting her sleeves and skirts.

  ‘It’s mine, Your Majesty,’ Aphra said, putting a hand to her bare head. ‘I think.’

  The Queen touched her own hat to feel it still in place. ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘That arrow, I suppose, was meant for me.’

  Helped to her feet by Somerville and Sir Elion, Etta was inclined to keep on apologising, but the circumstances were so bizarre and the Queen so much in command of the situation that she could only watch as a crowd of men hauled a very tousled but well-dressed young man towards them while someone carried the bow he had been using. The absence of a quiver to hold more arrows suggested that there had been no intention to try a second shot. Blood streamed down the lower part of the man’s face as he was dragged before the Queen, his eyes defiant in spite of his first punishment.

  Etta’s cry of recognition was stifled by her hand before it could escape and she was relieved to hear Lord Robert identify him. ‘Hoby,’ he said. ‘Is this how you repay those who once employed you? Ungrateful wretch! You’ll hang for this.’

  But Stephen Hoby was not inclined to answer any questions. Instead, his once-merry eyes slid past the Queen, past Etta too, to rest upon Aphra’s white face and then on the hat she held, to all who watched indicating his disappointment that his arrow had missed its mark. It was only Etta who understood, from this malicious glare, that it was Aphra who had been the target, not the Queen. Revenge. Sir George Betterton’s only daughter. The man who had dismissed him.

  The cry of distress that Etta had held back now escaped. ‘Affie!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Affie! It might have...oh, the wicked...wicked man!’ Leaving Somerville’s supporting arm, she rushed to her cousin’s side, holding her close, hardly able to believe that the young man who had once been her friend could harbour so much evil. ‘Affie, he nearly killed you.’

  ‘No,’ Aphra whispered, holding Etta away, ‘he didn’t, love. It was meant for the Queen. You must believe it. The Queen herself believes it. Everyone does.’

  It was true. Although the main aim was to restore the Queen’s dignity and some order to the trampled scene, everyone was convinced that Etta’s quick thinking had saved the Queen’s life, in disregard of the golden rule that no one might touch the Queen without her permission.

  Still refusing to speak, Hoby was marched away by the Queen’s personal bodyguard to an unmerciful fate, a tragic end to a life that Etta could never have imagined only a few short months ago. It could not fail to affect her. Trembling with shock, she clung to her cousin for mutual consolation, but it was Lord Somerville and Sir Elion who provided them both with the support of their strong arms as the Queen, still regal after her rough handling, thanked Etta. ‘That was well done, Lady Somerville,’ she said. ‘That arrow was meant for either me or my hat.’ She glanced at Etta’s, now restored to its position. ‘So perhaps that ruffian does not approve of the fashion. Nevertheless, we cannot have malcontents using us as target practice, can we? You have my thanks, my lady. You have courage, too.’

  On wobbly legs, Etta made a deep curtsy. As she rose, she saw that the Queen was already turning away as if nothing of particular importance had happened. For Etta, however, the afternoon was spent in her husband’s company and that of her cousin and uncle while accepting the compliments of those who had seen her amazing act of heroism. There were kind words for Aphra, too, whose serene beauty and gentle manners had come so close to being extinguished by a man known to have been, until only recently, in Lord Robert’s employment. Yet to those who saw what had happened, it looked like the insane act of a desperate man who stood no chance of escaping, even if he’d been successful. It was a conclusion not lost upon Etta, who could not help wondering whether she could have done something to prevent it.

  To have her husband’s company that afternoon was a bonus neither of them had expected, yet a cloud came to put a damper on their plans for the evening when Lord Robert came riding up to them with an invitation from Her Majesty. ‘To attend the entertainments this evening at the palace. Yes, all of you. There, my lady,’ he said to Etta with a smile that clearly expected one in return, ‘an invitation at last, eh?’

  ‘Please thank Her Majesty for us, will you, my lord?’ said Somerville. ‘We are honoured indeed.’ As Lord Robert rode away, Somerville placed a hand over Etta’s. ‘A refusal is not possible, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Just one more evening, that’s all. She obviously wants you to know how grateful she is. You can share the heroism with Aphra.’

  Contradictory thoughts clashed in Etta’s mind, tugging her in two directions, for only a few weeks ago she had been hell-bent on obtaining the Queen’s favour, and now she had it, she had found another kind of favour a thousand times more precious to her. An evening spent in the lioness’s den held no appeal for her, even though she had gained the admiration and respect of so many courtiers to carry her through it. ‘You’ll have to be with her, I suppose,’ she said, ‘and I wanted you with me.’

  His hand squeezed hers. ‘And I want it too, my love, believe me. Wait until we get home, and I’ll show you, shall I?’

  That made her smile at last, enough to discuss with Aphra what gowns they would wear for a first and last evening at Richmond Palace. With her cousin, she shared her concern that, now it was too late to matter to her, Elizabeth might command her, after all, to attend her in some capacity and so upset Etta’s new plans to make a home and a family for the man she adored. How ironic would that be? ‘Tell me it won’t happen, Affie?’ she said.

  ‘It won’t happen, love,’ Aphra said, obligingly. ‘If she offers you a position, tell her you’re with child.’

  Etta stared at her, remembering the scene she had witnessed in the Queen’s garden when one of her ladies had passed out, her request to leave ignored. That image had done nothing to enhance her perception of a loving and compassionate Queen, and the thought of being in a similar position herself hung like a dark shadow over her hours of careful preparation.

  Chapter Ten

  Etta’s last evening appearance in the Queen’s company had been a sartorial disaster, but on this occasion she had time at home to choose her most dazzling gown of the popinjay shot-silk she had seen on that momentous visit to the Royal Wardrobe. The rich blue-green, worn with a cream stomacher, dazzled and sparkled with gold embroidery and jewels and, rather than cover her hair, she agreed with Aphra to wear it piled with gold mesh twined between plaits, feathers and ropes of pearls, presenting a vision of vivid colour against Aphra’s virginal creamy-white with the merest hint of rose embroidery over the full sleeves. Now they had the experience to know that they would cause a sensation. They travelled by horse litter across the park to the courtyard of the palace, while Lord Somerville and Sir Elion rode alongside them.

  Although familiar with Richmond Palace from the outside, neither of them had seen the interior which, they had been told, rivalled even Whitehall in its magnificence. Chambers, corridors, galleries and state rooms glittered with every kind of decoration in a blaze of light and colour, richness from floor to ceiling, every surface patterned with gold leaf and gemstones, polished wood and silk drapes and countless honey-scented beeswax candles.

  The buzz of voices and music met them long before they reached the magnificent hall on a wave of guests in gorgeous gowns and plumed hats, velvet and gold braid, rustling silks, pearls and pendants as big as bricks and as gaudy as a flower garden. Immediately, and with on
ly time for a whispered farewell and a touch of hands, Lord Somerville was summoned by the Queen and Etta knew then that nothing had changed in that direction. ‘Just a few hours, sweetheart,’ he whispered as he left her with Aphra and Sir Elion. There was no time for repining, for Lord Robert soon came to the group already augmented by those who had heard of the Queen’s dramatic deliverance from death that afternoon. Etta and Aphra were surrounded, drawn into the dance and surrounded again, telling what happened with as much modesty as they could, but subjected to a deluge of praise, thanks and admiration, along with the unavoidable observations about the Queen’s own half-sister being the one to save her life. Neither of them had expected or wanted such adulation, especially not in the Queen’s presence, but this was better, Etta told herself, than having to suffer the malice of Lady Catherine Grey.

  Had it not been Lent, they might have expected a masque devised by the Master of Revels, but the Queen was not one to give up her dancing for forty days. Not even for one day. ‘Play la volte!’ she called to her musicians. ‘Come, let us see who still has a spring in his step. Three couples.’

  Etta’s eyes were upon Somerville, sure that he would be obliged to invite the Queen to partner him, all the company waiting to see if she herself would lead the way. A scattering of delighted applause rattled round the hall as Somerville removed his short cape, then his rapier, setting the example for two others to do the same before leading their ladies on to the floor, hands held high, toes pointing. Playing to a fast hopping beat of three-four time, the musicians set the pace for each couple to entwine arms and turn, with eyes linked in a kind of stylised disdain while Etta’s heart beat to a rhythm of envy hidden behind her smile and clapping hands. How she wished she had been his partner instead of Elizabeth, or that Lord Robert had invited her to be his.

  The watching courtiers crowded round the edges of the hall, as close as farthingales would allow, whispering comments and whooping as the men performed high kicks and twists in the air, which their partners could not do. A man’s voice in Etta’s ear made her turn to see who spoke, then to frown with annoyance as she saw that it was the man she had disabled in the passageway, now plying her with information she did not want. ‘Your lady mother was the best at this, you know. My father told me how she liked it when he put his hand there...see?’

  It was impossible for her not to understand what he meant when the nearest dancing couple were performing the high lift with the man’s left hand on one of his partner’s hips and his right hand holding the whalebone stomacher, the pointed base of which was level with the tops of her legs. It was a perfect lever, managed correctly, by which the man could hoist his partner high up against him, but one could see how it might have been open to abuse by predatory men and promiscuous women. Was this dreadful man suggesting to Etta that her mother was one of these?

  She tried to move away but the press of people around her was too great and, trying to catch a glimpse of Aphra or Uncle Elion, she found only Lady Catherine Grey close behind her, ready with her malicious tongue to add more insinuations. ‘It was not only your father,’ she said, her voice covered by the fast music, ‘it was anybody’s father. She was known as Mount Magdalen, you know. Did you not know that, Lady Somerville?’

  ‘I shall not listen to this,’ Etta said, swinging round, but being forced to turn back when bodies blocked her way, pressing forward as Somerville and the Queen reached their part of the floor, high-clapping, swirling, jumping and twisting in perfect unison, each engrossed in the precision of the dance. The audience clapped in delight, for now it appeared to be a contest between Elizabeth and Lord Robert as to which of the two could be more exciting.

  A feeling of sheer panic rose in Etta’s breast as the man behind bent again to her ear. ‘She’s right, my lady. Magdalen Osborn would go to bed with any man. She was insatiable, they say. There’s old Lady Portingale over there. She lost her husband to her. So did others. They’re none too pleased to see you in the Queen’s favour, I can tell you.’

  ‘So did you throw yourself at Her Majesty as a last attempt, Lady Somerville?’ said Lady Catherine. ‘Very clever. You have the same brazen streak as your mother had, by all accounts. Henry’s Whore, some called her, and see where it’s got you, then. Your husband is infatuated with the Queen, isn’t he?’

  ‘Stop it!’ Etta cried, her voice clashing with the music and the whoops of delight. The Queen was being lifted high above Somerville’s head as if she were a doll, sliding down the length of him, smiling into his eyes as she passed, unaware of how this made Etta crumple with jealousy. Again, Etta turned to escape, but the man’s leg was deliberately in her way and she could not step over it. ‘I shall not listen to this. You are lying, both of you,’ she cried.

  ‘Ah, but it’s true, Lady Somerville,’ said Lady Catherine. ‘You may have got yourself a title, but you’re a bastard, aren’t you? I’ll wager even the whore herself didn’t know who your father was when she’d open her legs for...’

  The rage that had been building inside Etta suddenly exploded into a howl of anguish as she stuck her elbows out, jabbing at those who would have kept her there and forcing herself between them in a furious whirlwind of rage. ‘You lie...you lie!’ she panted, her lungs hurting as tears filled her eyes. ‘Lies...lies! Let me through...the door...where...?’ No one was allowed to leave the room before the Queen, but the look of utter wretchedness on Etta’s lovely face, her waving arms and running feet drew the two guards to attention and, without question, they allowed her to pass through into another hall where a scattering of servants turned in alarm to watch as she flew past in a flood of tears.

  Blindly, she ran across rooms and along panelled passageways lit by the flicker of wall torches, having no idea where she was going, wishing only to escape the sounds and sights of that dreadful place. Sobs racked her as the taunting, damaging words echoed in her head, closing her ears to the sound of her name being called behind her. ‘Etta... Etta, please...stop!’ It was Aphra who caught her just as she turned into a covered walkway surrounding the large open expanse of the Queen’s Garden, where low clipped hedges made patterns of new spring growth. Out there, darkness hid every detail, nearly bringing Etta to her knees with a cry when she crashed into a stone bench and fell heavily on to it.

  ‘Etta, darling...oh, dear one! What’s happened? Tell me, love.’ Aphra’s arms went round her cousin, rocking her, hoping to hear what had gone so terribly wrong. But Etta’s frenzied despair would not allow words to form. Instead, the night air absorbed the sounds of her uncontrollable weeping that came with the heartbreak of newly discovered truths, delivered with deliberate cruelty. Now she knew exactly to what lengths people would go to prevent an outsider from gaining the Queen’s favour, even when they had no future there, either. And now she knew the reason why none of her relatives, nor her husband, had wanted her to pursue her dream. They must all have known of her mother’s reputation and wanted to spare her the unsavoury details that would surely be offered by those who wished her ill. Soaking Aphra’s shoulder with her tears, she howled her misery, sharing her deep humiliation with the mental picture of her husband holding Elizabeth above him and letting her slide slowly down his body to the floor, to the delight of the onlookers. It was called for, in la volte, but they had taken it to a different erotic level in full view of the court.

  Through her strenuous weeping, Etta heard Aphra speak, then felt her arms loosen their hold on her. ‘Don’t go, Aphie,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Your Majesty...forgive me...if I loose her, she’ll fall.’

  ‘Here, let me,’ said the Queen. ‘She’s a Tudor. She won’t fall.’

  Skirts rustled around her and another pair of arms held her like a child against a mother’s breast, still warm from recent exertions, encrusted with gold and gems. For some moments, Elizabeth allowed the weeping to continue until the first few half-words began to emerge. ‘Your...pardon... Your Majesty... I cou
ld...not stay...any...longer.’ The shoulders shook, smoothed and patted by royal hands.

  ‘Tell me,’ Elizabeth said, ‘what it is those two wanted you to know?’

  ‘You saw?’

  ‘I see what goes on in my court, yes, Henrietta. What was it?’

  ‘About my...my mother. Oh, the things...they said...so unkind.’ Fresh sobs broke out again as the insults bored into her like red-hot irons.

  ‘Then listen to me, Henrietta. Are you listening?’

  Etta nodded, accepting the Queen’s handkerchief.

  ‘You can choose whether to believe what you heard about your mother, or not. It’s up to you. But just remember you’re not alone in this. I, too, had to hear what the royal court said about my mother. They called her a whore and concubine, amongst other vile names. My own father, your father, called me and my sister bastards. Yes, my own father had us both declared illegitimate. I was a child of three, but old enough to understand the meaning of those words and the disrespect that went with them. I was too young to attend court when...when my father married Jane Seymour, but I remember the beautiful lady called Magdalen Osborn who became the first Lady Raemon. She came to see me at Greenwich Palace and she was always so kind to me, treating me with respect and bringing me clothes when I had very few. She would tell me stories, too, about dragons and beautiful princesses. One never forgets that kind of thing, Henrietta. That’s why I rewarded Nicolaus Benninck, your husband, who showed me kindness later when I most needed it. Some did it to feather their own nests for the future, but not him. He has not come begging favours, as some do, nor is he the kind of man to be unfaithful, my dear—neither in word nor in deed. So think kindly of him and of your lady mother, too. Speak only of her with love, as I do mine, as one who was kind to small frightened children. Those who do otherwise are sad creatures, are they not, Baron?’