Chapter One
January 14th, 1559—London
Chosen some months beforehand by Dr John Dee, Royal Astrologer, the day before the coronation had begun in the freezing dark hours, when the starry sky echoed to the din of every bell in every church tower in every ward of the city. As it grew light, the stands erected along the route of the procession took on a clothing of blues, browns and reds, with pink faces shouting above the clamour.
Henrietta sat with her seventeen-year-old twin stepbrothers, their cousins and Aunt Maeve, slightly envious of her own parents, who would be in Westminster Abbey tomorrow with other members of the aristocracy.
Cheapside seats, however, were the next best thing, for here the wealthy merchants and shopkeepers had decorated every surface with bright carpets hung from windows, shelves of gold and silverware, the coats of arms of the livery companies repainted for the occasion. Here was advertising as never before for the Drapers and Goldsmiths, Merchant Tailors and Haberdashers, Mercers and Fishmongers.
As far as the eye could see in both directions, a ribbon of colour threaded its way from the Tower in the east, past Charing Cross in the west, then round the bend of the river to Westminster, stopping at intervals to the constant blast of trumpets to allow for recitations and dances, songs and poems of praise for the young Queen Elizabeth. A crescendo of sound reached the stands and grew into a mighty roar as the waving became more frenzied. Through an arch of stone appeared a swaying mule-carried litter covered with shimmering gold cloth where, beneath a canopy carried by four courtiers, sat the new Queen, a vision of gold, white and silver, waving and smiling at the welcome.
From her vantage point, Etta saw the same bright copper hair as her own, splayed over the ermine-clad shoulders like a loose mantle of silk. She saw the same delicate skin and fine arched brows, the brown eyes that pierced the crowd as if she too was looking for one person in particular. ‘Here,’ Etta whispered into the noise. ‘I’m here.’
As if she had heard it over the din, the Queen turned her eyes upwards towards Etta and, for the space of several heartbeats, exchanged looks of curiosity and recognition, telling Etta as clearly as words that her existence was already known about. Known, but not so far acknowledged. Then the glance slid away, leaving Etta as stunned by the recognition as she was by the radiant sight, the prancing white stallions and the gleaming forest of the halberdiers’ pikes. For that moment, it had been like looking into a mirror where the reflection had a life of its own, alike in every respect except age. The Queen had been born twenty-five years ago, and Etta only twenty-one, and this was the first time their eyes had met.
Since she was a lively twelve-year-old, Etta had known something of her parentage, her sensible and loving step-parents deeming it only fair to explain to her how, from time to time, the father she had never seen, King Henry VIII, had taken mistresses. One of these had been her mother, the beautiful Magdalen Osborn, her stepfather’s first wife who had died giving birth to her one and only daughter.
But despite their explanations, Lord and Lady Raemon had never been able to fill the deep emotional void inside Etta left by never knowing either of the parents who had given her life. To the sensitive and highly intelligent child, her natural parents were the shadowy and insubstantial figures about whom only their names and a certain amount of gossip had reached her ears, some of it carelessly dropped by her nurse, tutor or elderly maid who mistakenly believed that she would not heed it. She had heeded it, avidly. Throughout her most formative years her innocent coquettishness and occasional childish vanity had drawn remarks such as, ‘She’s taking after her mama, that one’, or, ‘That’s an Osborn look if ever I saw it’ which somehow Etta knew was not meant to be complimentary, for since she was scolded for these childish misdemeanours, it stood to reason that her mother’s behaviour had been worse, in some way.
Nor did anyone realise quite how much anxiety Etta was absorbing from her step-parents’ well-intentioned oversight to provide her with anything admirable in her mother’s character to cling to. Was she really taking after her mother? How would she ever know? Her stepfather, Lord Raemon, would not speak of her mother at all; her stepmother had not known her, but it seemed to Etta as if all the world had known her father. Every now and then, some scandalous information filtered through the system to her childish ears about his various wives and their failures, about his two daughters and their unhappy lives about which she was both sad and grateful not to be in their shoes, as she might have been.
After Henry’s death, his young son Edward and then his elder daughter Mary had reigned through eleven uncomfortable years of religious turmoil, and now the younger daughter Elizabeth had appeared at last with new hopes of tolerance. Lord and Lady Raemon’s explanation of why King Henry had recognised some of his illegitimate offspring and not others, though making some sense to Etta, had done little for her wavering sense of identity. To have too many families with ties to royalty, they had said, would make the accession of his legal heirs more difficult. But although the royal rejection was not for Etta to contest, it added yet another layer of uncertainty, and some resentment, too, to her growing emotional insecurity.
‘Did the King not want me?’ she had asked her parents. ‘Did I do something he didn’t like? Was it my mama he fell out with, as he did with the two Princesses’ mothers?’
‘No, dearest. Nothing like that. Your mama died giving birth. The King was too sad to want to see you, I suppose.’
That, however, was not quite enough to settle the questions, once and for all. ‘Well, the new Queen doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to see me, either,’ she observed. ‘I can’t help but feel there must be another reason.’ When she had expressed to her parents a hope that Elizabeth might send for her, even if only to put right her father’s omission, Lord Raemon had not seen any reason why she should. ‘It’s early days yet,’ he had told her. ‘She’s hardly had time to choose her ladies, never mind which relatives to recognise, and she’s unlikely to acknowledge half-siblings so soon. Be patient, Etta.’
‘I’m not asking to become her bosom friend, Father,’ Etta had replied, ‘but I long to go to court, just the same. All those interesting people surrounding her. Surely we must be alike in wanting that, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Alike in other ways, too,’ her mother said, rather unhelpfully.
‘What do you mean, Mama?’
‘Your looks, my dear. From what I’ve heard, she’s not one to welcome competition. Others might wish to exploit the likeness, but I doubt if she would.’
Etta had turned away, unable to argue the point. Only recently, she had formed a friendship with a persuasive young courtier who had obligingly recounted to her the glamorous details and doings of life at the late Queen Mary’s court, fuelling Etta’s interest and determination to become part of it, one day. With the death of that Queen, his interest in Etta had come to an abrupt end, and she could only assume that he had left the court or lost interest in her or, perhaps, been warned off by her father. She could not ask, for she had not told her father of her friendship nor sought his permission, but the idea of being given over for another woman was humiliating and it hurt.
* * *
As the tail-end of the cavalcade disappeared from view, the crowds merged and with them went all hope of catching sight of the young man, no matter how intently she looked. Like touching a scar to find out if it still hurt, Etta revisited the site of her wounded pride, telling herself that he had never mattered to her, really. She had tossed her brilliant copper hair behind her, even as her eyes had sparked with anger, and had accepted her Cousin Aphra’s sympathetic embrace with no more than a sniff.
Only
