Taming The Tempestuous Tudor. Juliet Landon
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truth about the young man’s interest in money had certainly shaken her, because she’d thought herself to be better qualified in her choice of friends than anyone else. Evidently that was not the case. She had been misled by his exquisite manners and charm. It would not happen again. She adored her parents and had striven to please them in all other respects, especially so since she had learned of her royal ancestry. She had taken schoolroom lessons with the boys in an attempt to emulate the Princess Elizabeth’s scholarship in so many subjects with the sole purpose of eventually making contact with her, on her own academic level. And no matter what reservations her parents had about the wisdom of this, she could not believe that anyone of Elizabeth’s intelligence would regard her as anything but an asset, if ever the Queen chose to recognise her as someone worth knowing, on whatever level. Friend, confidante, just another relative, occasional courtier or however Elizabeth chose to recognise her, any of these would help in her quest to relate, physically, to one of her own kin. But her father’s comment about not going anywhere near court, at present, did not bode well for any of the hopes she had nurtured for so long.
* * *
Next day, he had done his best to explain. ‘Your mother and I know the royal court well enough, Etta. We both spent some time in the service of your father. I was one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and your mother was a companion to the Lady Anna of Cleves. But we were quite happy for our duties to come to an end. Edward’s reign, then Mary’s were too fraught with danger to make life comfortable, and I have no reason to believe that Elizabeth’s reign will be any easier. That’s why we never took you or your brothers there. Too many intrigues for my liking.’
Etta had accepted this, but had still enjoyed hearing about life at court from Master Stephen Hoby, who seemed to know all about it, who he knew there, what they wore, what new fabrics he had handled at the Royal Wardrobe and what the newest Spanish fashions were. It had seemed to her then that only at court would she ever meet a more interesting and engaging type of man who did more than praise her eyes. Surely the young Queen, with her amazing intellect and reputation for scholarship, would gather around her men who could converse with her on serious subjects.
Her parents’ recent decision to find her a husband had been expected ever since the steady flow of suitors had begun to dwindle noticeably due, she was sure, to her reputation for rejecting them so quickly. So it was with some consternation that Etta realised that, this time, her parents were deadly serious and that her time of asserting her independence in this area was well and truly at an end.
Behind her step-parents’ reluctance to understand her longing to meet the new Queen, Etta caught the vibrations of another kind of fear, that Elizabeth might exercise her right to dislike her. She had not needed them to point out to her that the sovereign was under no obligation to receive her with smiles of welcome, for the recent news that she was choosing fewer maids and ladies to attend her indicated some caution in the matter. As for conducting herself at court, her only education so far had been gleaned from listening to the experiences of others and from gossip when someone had breached the complicated codes of etiquette.
* * *
The next few days seemed intended to reinforce her longing to become a part of the royal court when she accompanied Lord and Lady Raemon and her brothers to the celebration banquets held by the various guilds associated with the Royal Wardrobe where Sir George Betterton, Uncle George, was a senior officer. So with banquets, jousts and masques, visits to the Abbey of Westminster to see the decorated interior and to Lambeth Palace to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, there were plenty of opportunities for her to meet gorgeously dressed men and women who reflected the latest fashions and spoke at first hand of life at court. With her parents close at hand to guide her through some of the complexities of names and titles, Etta felt that this was her sphere, even more so now when it had become obvious to all who saw her that the Queen had a close relative who rivalled her in beauty and grace. But for Etta, the experience of dressing in her finest clothes every day, being seen and admired, speaking with those who interested her as much as she did them, was enough to send her to bed each night longing to become an integral part of this enchanted and glamorous world.
Towards the end of that hectic week, she was invited to visit the Royal Wardrobe as the guest of Uncle George to see the Queen’s coronation robes that had been returned for cleaning and, if it was needed, some mending. As her brothers had worked under Sir George for two years already, they took her with them by river to where the Royal Wardrobe was situated near Blackfriars, only a stone’s throw from St Paul’s Cathedral. The River Thames flowed conveniently nearby and Puddle Wharf was the landing place for cargo ships and wherries that plied the river constantly. From the jetty at Tyburn House, they were rowed downriver huddled inside fur cloaks against the biting wind and flurries of snow, Etta wearing her white fur bonnet and the matching muff she’d been given for her birthday, a little over a week ago.
On their arrival at the vast complex of buildings known as the Royal Wardrobe, Etta found that she was not the only one to have been invited to view the robes, for her Cousin Aphra was there too, and her brother Edwin who worked there under his father’s eye. Other guests had accepted the invitation, some of whom she knew were wealthy merchants who supplied the Wardrobe with costly fabrics, furs and gems, silks for the embroidery, gold beads and threads. The twins, Michael and Andrew, went off with Edwin to the department where the tailors worked, while Etta and Aphra drew close together like sisters. As a four-year-old, Aphra had taken the two-year-old Etta under her little wing, acting as a mother hen to the mischievous child, and even now could not shake off the responsibility. ‘Show me the coronation robes, Aphie. I’m longing to see what she looked like,’ said Etta.
‘Father says it’s been frantic in here for weeks since the orders were given,’ said Aphra. ‘They even had to stop the mercers from buying up the crimson silk before the Queen had taken her choice. Of course,’ she added as they walked past ledger-covered tables and the bent heads of clerks, ‘it’s not going to finish now the coronation is over. Father says the Queen is insisting on a completely new wardrobe, to be as different from the old Queen’s as possible. And naturally, when the Queen sets a fashion, everyone else will follow. Here we are, see?’
Through a wide archway, the room ahead was filled with shimmering gold satin and rich velvets of purple and crimson, piles of white ermine, tissues of silver with pearls by the thousand, gemstones and gold lace overlaying the twenty-three yards of cloth-of-gold. Not one gown but four, for the coronation, then more for the banquet and several changes for every day since then, though some had still not arrived from Westminster and the nearby Palace of Whitehall. The cost was phenomenal at a time when funds were low, but the Queen’s insistence on a rich show was as much a statement of serious intent as vanity. Now Etta could see in detail what had passed her by on that morning when all her attention had centred on the Queen’s recognition, the gold fabric worked with Tudor roses, the gold-edged ruffles, the heavily encrusted tassels of the ermine-caped mantle.
‘These must weigh a ton,’ Etta said, letting her fingertips brush along the fur. ‘She must be strong to look her best through so many days.’
‘Apparently,’ said Aphra, ‘she had to take to her bed after the coronation with a heavy cold. Some of the events had to be cancelled.’
‘And no one to chastise her when she’s late. Lucky lady. I wonder how much she paid for her velvet. Is it more expensive than the...?’
Aphra had moved out of earshot, her place taken by a tall gentleman who answered Etta’s question without hesitation. ‘Twenty-two shillings the yard, Mistress Raemon,’ he said. ‘And, yes, it is considerably more expensive than the satin, which can vary depending on colour and country of origin.’
Etta was taken aback. It was not usual for a stranger to speak before being introduced. She decided to dispense with formalities, however, for this man was interesting on several levels: for one thing, he knew about fabrics and, for another, he was perhaps one of the best-looking men she had ever met and well-spoken in a soft deep voice. Well dressed, too. Fashionable, but not excessively so, in a suit of good quality fabric, a beautifully tailored doublet that fitted perfectly across a deep chest and broad shoulders. ‘Why should the price depend on the colour, sir? Are you telling me that some dyes cost