The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stared down at the lengthy document in my hand. The official script of a Westminster scribe raced across the page, interspersed with red capitals and hung about with seals. At least I recognised those—they were newly created for Young Henry to mark his forthcoming coronation. As for the rest—the close-coupled lettering, the close alignment—resentment was my primary emotion, with a thorough lacing of self-pity and a good pinch of embarrassment. I was not proud of myself. I could make a guess at its strikingly official content but guessing was hardly sufficient for so wordy a communication, and so of necessity I would have to admit my need to someone.

‘You look troubled, my lady.’

I started, like a doe in a thicket at the approach of baying hounds. Master Tudor had appeared, soft-footed, at my side. I had not heard his footfall, and I wished he was not there: I wished he had not seen whatever expression it was on my face that had alerted him. I did not want compassion. My own self-pity was hard enough to tolerate. Surely I could summon enough self-control to hide my discomfort. It was hardly a problem that was new to me.

I frowned at him, unfairly. ‘No, Master Tudor,’ I replied. His expression was dispassionate but his eyes were disconcertingly accommodating, inviting an unwary female to sink in and request help. ‘Merely some news from Westminster.’

‘Do you require my services…?’ he asked.

I snatched at a sensible answer. ‘No, no. That is…’ And failed lamentably. He was so close to me that I could hear the creak of the leather of his boot soles as he moved from one foot to another. I could see the blue-black sheen, iridescent as a magpie’s plumage, gleaming along the fall of his hair.

‘Perhaps a cup of wine, my lady? Or do I send for a cloak for you? This room is too cold for lingering.’

I could imagine his unspoken thoughts well enough. What in God’s name are you doing, standing about to no purpose in this unheated place, when you could be comfortable in your own parlour?

‘No, no wine,’ I managed at last. ‘Or cloak. I will not stay.’

He was right, of course. I looked around and shivered as a current of cold air wrapped itself around my legs and feet. This was not a room—a vast and sparsely furnished audience chamber, in fact—to stand about in, without a fur-lined mantle. I was there only because I had just received an unnervingly official royal herald, complete with staff of office and heraldic tabard, dispatched to me by my lord of Gloucester. With all the formality that I had been instructed to employ when communicating with the outside world, attended by my damsels, clad impressively with regal splendour in silks and ermine, I had stood on the dais in this bleak chamber and accepted the document, before sending the messenger on his way and dismissing my women.

And now here was Owen Tudor, aware of my bafflement. I needed to escape, to hide my inadequacies. Taking in the fact that he was in outdoor garb, I seized my chance.

‘I must not keep you, Master Owen, since you clearly have a task.’

‘Was it bad news, my lady?’ he interrupted abruptly.

I must indeed have looked distraught. I returned his stare, breathing slowly.

‘No.’

My curt reply had the desired effect. ‘I will send your chamber servant to you, my lady.’ A brief bow and he turned away, abandoning me to my worries. Was that not what I wanted? I wondered what my lost, loving Michelle would have advised, what she would have done in similar circumstances.

‘Master Tudor,’

He halted. ‘Yes, my lady?’

‘Can you read?’ Of course he could. A Master of Household must read. ‘Do you read with ease?’

‘I do, my lady.’

‘Then read this to me, if you please.’

Before I could change my mind, I thrust the bulky weight of it towards him. He could not think less of me than he already did. Without comment, Master Tudor’s head bent over the script. Fearing to see his disdain, still I asked, held myself up for disparagement. ‘Do you despise me, that I cannot decipher it for myself?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Where did you learn?’

He looked up. ‘In Sir Walter Hungerford’s retinue, when I first came to court, my lady.’ His eyes gleamed for a moment at some distant memory. ‘Sir Walter insisted. A clip round the ear could be very persuasive. And before that I could read my own tongue, of course.’

‘No one bothered whether I could read or not,’ I found myself saying.

‘The palace is full of people who will be pleased to do it for you, my lady,’ he replied.

‘I think they would be quick to condemn me for my ignorance.’

Owen Tudor shrugged mildly. ‘Why would they?’ And strode to the window where the light was good, and allowed his eye to run down it, whilst I breathed more easily. Perhaps I had been wrong in expecting censure.

‘It is the best of news,’ he reported. ‘My lord Henry is considered old enough to be crowned as King at Westminster next month. And at some point in the following year—not yet decided—he will travel to France and be crowned as King of that country too.’

It was good news, was it not? Young Henry crowned and anointed. And he would travel to Paris, to sit, child that he was, on my father’s throne and wear my father’s crown. And suddenly I was tipped back into the past, to when I had last stepped ashore in my own country, when I had still been a wife, still hopeful for a reconciliation—except that Henry had died, and I had not known of it. All that had been left to me had been that I should accompany his body home, locked in stunned grief.

The cold anxieties of that journey, my own hopelessness, my abject misery and sense of abandonment, struck deep, astonishing me with the keenness of the remembered pain, so much so that my hands clenched involuntarily to crease the fragile weaving of my skirts. I had thought I had tucked away Henry’s ultimate rejection of me, but it still lurked on the perimeter of my life, a wound that would not heal.

‘You will accompany the Young King, will you not, my lady?’

I dragged myself back to the present, taking back the document. Master Tudor’s question helped me to thrust Henry away.

‘To London, yes.’

‘And to Paris.’

Another worry to gnaw at me. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied honestly. It was no secret, not even from the servants. The restrictions on my life, and the reasons for them, must be the talk of kitchen and stable and undercroft, wherever they met to gossip. ‘It will be at Gloucester’s will whether I do or not. It might depend on my good behaviour. Or he might think I would choose to stay in France and refuse to return to England if he allows me to go. He would never risk that.’

I managed a smile but made no attempt to hide the bitterness. ‘Although why that should matter, I know not. I no longer play any role in my son’s life.’ I bit down on my tongue as I heard my words. What had made me bare my soul so explicitly? Fearing to expose myself further, I walked a little distance away, turning my back to him.

‘You will certainly go to Paris, my lady.’ Master Owen addressed my shoulder blades.

‘But Henry is considered old enough to stand on his own,’ I observed bleakly. ‘Once he is crowned King, then Warwick will give him all the guidance he needs. Valois guidance is not considered to have any value.’

‘You are of the greatest value, my lady,’ Owen Tudor responded. ‘Even my lord of Gloucester knows that.’

I turned my head sharply, glancing back over my shoulder. ‘You seem to be very well informed, Master Owen.’

‘It is my duty to be well informed, my lady.’ He was quite unperturbed. ‘You will be with Lord Henry in Paris, proclaiming to all his royal Valois blood.’

‘And I am beyond weary of being a vessel of royal Valois blood,’ I snapped, my hands clenching on the document, to its detriment. My emotions were far too quick to escape my control this morning, so I must bring this conversation to an end. With a controlled breath and a tight smile, I swung round briskly to face him again.

‘Thank you for your concern, Master Owen. You are probably right, of course. My Valois blood is of great significance. And as you said—it is far too cold to stand around in here, and you have your own duties.’ I gestured towards his heavy cloak and outdoor boots.

‘My duties are complete, my lady. I merely ensured that the herald had all he needed for his return to Westminster. Now my concern is for you.’

‘There is no need.’ I was already putting distance between us.

‘I think there is every need, lady.’

‘I have no needs.’

‘You do, lady, if you will admit it.’

He did not move. It was I who came to a halt and looked back. Suddenly our exchange had taken an unsettling turn, everything around me leaping into sharp focus. The carved panelling, the intricate stonework, the tapestries, all glowed with brighter colour. It was as if the quality of the air itself had changed, taking on a chill far deeper than the cold rising from the floor tiles. My skin felt sensitive, tight-drawn over my cheekbones, the texture of the manuscript brittle beneath my fingertips.

Neither could I take my eyes from Owen Tudor’s face, as if I might read something of significance in the flat planes and sculpted mouth that I had missed in the inflexion of his reply.

Without a word, Owen Tudor approached. He unfastened the brooch at his neck, swung the cloak from his shoulder and with a smooth gesture, without asking permission, he placed the heavy fall of fabric around me and fastened the simple pin at my throat. All very deft, thoroughly impersonal, but I knew it was not.

Only then, when it was done, did he say, ‘Permit me, my lady. It will keep out the cold.’

He had—quite cleverly, I decided—not given me the opportunity to refuse.

The thick wool was warm with the heat of his own body, its folds settling around me, the over-wrap of its collar snug against my neck. But I shivered, for in the doing of it, the fastening of the pin, Owen Tudor’s hands had brushed my shoulders and rested lightly at the base of my throat. I shivered even more when he readjusted the cloth against my neck, causing me to raise my eyes to his.

‘You are very kind.’ I said.

‘It is my position, as Master of Household, to do all that I can to smooth your path in life, my lady. That is why you employ me.’

How formal he was, his voice as solemn as his face—but at the same time how generous. And I understood in that moment that his gentleness had nothing to do with the terms of his employment or the duty expected of him. It was far more personal than that. To my horror, tears gathered in my eyes, in my throat. And to my disquiet, he took a square of linen from the breast of his tunic and without more ado blotted the tears on my cheeks. At first I flinched, then stood unmoving to allow it. My heart was beating so hard I thought he must surely feel its vibration.

‘I would do anything to spare you grief,’ he murmured softly as he finished his task, using the edge of the linen to dry my lashes.

‘Why would you? I am nothing to you.’ When had anyone ever dried my tears, simply because they cared or wished to guard me from grief?

‘I would because you are my mistress. My Queen.’

And I laughed, a little harshly, lifting my chin, refusing to acknowledge my disappointment at his denial of anything more particular. I had been mistaken in my reading of the tension between us: it existed only in my tortured mind. ‘My thanks for your loyalty, Master Tudor. Wiping her tears away is only what any servant might be expected to do for his lady.’

‘And because,’ he continued as if I had not spoken, at the same time taking one of my hands lightly in his, ‘because, my lady, you matter to me.’

My breath vanished.

‘Master Tudor…’

‘My lady?’

We stared at each other.

‘I don’t understand…’

‘What is there not to understand? That I have a care for you? That your well-being is a concern to me? How could it be otherwise?’

I took an unsteady breath. ‘This should not be,’ I managed.

‘No, of course it should not,’ he replied, the lines that bracketed his mouth deepening, his voice unexpectedly raw. ‘The Master of Household must never step beyond the line of what is proper in his dealings with his mistress, on pain of instant dismissal. He must be the epitome of discretion and prudence.’

What was this? I hesitated, considering so disquieting a statement, before falling without difficulty into the same role.

‘Whereas the Queen Dowager must be aloof and reserved at all times,’ I observed cautiously, not taking my regard from his face.

‘The servant’s role is to serve.’ If I had been embittered over the value of my Valois blood, it was nothing to the scathing tone Owen Tudor applied to the word ‘servant’. There was pride in him, I realised, and loathing of his servitude that I could never have guessed at.

‘The Queen Dowager must ask only what is appropriate from her servant,’ I replied. ‘She must be just and fair and impersonal.’

Our eyes were locked. His fingers tightened around mine.

‘The Master must feel no affection for his mistress.’

‘The Queen Dowager must not encourage her servant to have any personal regard for her.’

‘Neither must the servant ever allow it.’

‘To do so would be quite wrong.’

‘Yes.’ For a moment I thought he would say no more. And then: ‘It would, my lady. It would be unutterably wrong,’ he said gently, the passion controlled.

How perturbing this conversation, how unsettling, and yet with a strange glamour that made me breathless. We had dropped into this observation of what was proper and improper, exchanging opinions in a carefully constructed distance from reality, as if it had no connection to us, to the world in which we lived. And indeed, as I realised, it had freed us to say some things we would never have spoken directly to each other. Had I been lured into this dangerous exchange? Owen Tudor had a way with words, it seemed, but I felt no lure. He was bound under the same intoxicating power as I. Imprisoned and helpless, mistress and servant, we were drawn together.

I must have moved involuntarily, for he let my hand slip from his and retreated one step. Then another. He no longer looked at me, but bowed low.

‘You should return to your chamber, my lady.’

His voice had lost all its immediacy, but I could not leave it like that. I could not walk out of that chamber without another word being spoken between us, and not know…

‘Master Tudor, it would be wrong in a perfect world…to have a personal regard, as we both agree. But…’ I sought again for the words I wanted. ‘In this imperfect world, what does this hapless servant feel for his mistress?’

And his reply was destructively abrupt. ‘It would be unwise for him to tell her, my lady. Her blood is sacrosanct, whilst his is declared forfeit because of past misdemeanours of his race. It could be more than dangerous for the lady—and for him.’

Danger. It gave me pause, but we had come so far…

‘And if the mistress orders her servant to speak out, danger or no?’ I held out my hand, but he would not take it. ‘If she commands him to tell her, Master Tudor?’ I whispered.

And at last his eyes lifted again to mine, wide and dark. ‘If she commands him, then he must, my lady, whatever the shame or disgrace. He is under her dominance, and so he must obey.’

Deep within me a well of such longing stirred. My scalp prickled with heightened awareness. It was as if the whole room held its breath, even the figures in the tapestries seeming to stand on tiptoe to watch and listen.

‘So it shall be.’ I spoke from the calm certainty of that centre of that turbulent longing. ‘The mistress orders her servant to say what is in his mind.’

For a moment he turned, to look out at the grey skies and scudding clouds, the wheeling rooks beyond the walls of Windsor. I thought he would not reply.

‘And would the lady wish to know what is in his heart also?’ he asked.

What an astonishing question. Although the tension in that freezing room was wound as tight as a bowstring, I pursued what I must know.

‘Yes, Master Tudor. Both in his mind and in his heart. The mistress would wish to know that.’

I saw him take a breath before speaking. ‘The mistress has her servant’s loyalty.’

‘That is what she would expect.’

‘And his service.’

‘Because that is why she appointed him.’ I held my breath.

He bowed, gravely. ‘And she has his admiration.’

‘That too could be acceptable for a servant to his mistress.’ Breathing was suddenly so difficult, my chest constricted by an iron band. ‘Is that all?’

‘She has his adoration.’

I had no reply to that. ‘Adoration.’ I floundered helplessly, frowning. ‘It makes the mistress sound like a holy relic.’

‘So she might be to some. But the servant sees his mistress as a woman in the flesh, living and breathing, not as a marble statue or a phial of royal blood. His adoration is for her, body and soul. He worships her.’

‘Stop!’ Shocked, my reply, the single word, lifted up to the rafters, only to be absorbed and made nothing by the tapestries. ‘I had no idea. This cannot be.’

‘No, it cannot.’

‘You should not have said those things to me.’

‘Then the mistress should not have asked. She should have foreseen the consequences. She should not have ordered her servant to be honest.’

His face, still in profile, could have been carved from granite, the formidable brow, the exquisitely carved cheekbones, but I saw his jaw tighten at my denial of what he had offered me. The formality of servant and mistress dropped back between us, as heavy as one of those watchful tapestries, whilst I was still struggling in a mire of my own making. I had asked for the truth, and then had not discovered the courage to accept it. But I had been weak and timid for far too long. I spoke out.

‘Yes. Yes, the mistress should have known. She should not have put her servant at a disadvantage.’ I slid helplessly back into the previous heavy formality, because it was the only way in which I could express what was in my mind. ‘And because she should have been considerate of her servant, it is imperative that the mistress be honest too.’

‘No, my lady.’ Owen Tudor took a step back from me, all expression shuttered, but I followed, astonished at the audacity that directed my steps.

‘But yes. The mistress values her servant. She is appreciative of his skills.’ And before I could regret it, I went on, ‘She wishes he would touch her. She wishes that he would show her that she is made of flesh and blood, not unyielding marble. She wishes he would show her the meaning of his adoration.’

And I held out my hand, a regal command, even as I knew that he could refuse it, and I could take no measure against him for disobedience. It would be the most sensible thing in the world for him to spurn my gesture.

I waited, my hand trembling slightly, almost touching the enamelled links of his chain of office, but not quite. It must be his decision. And then, when it seemed that he would not, he took my hand in his, to lift it to his lips in the briefest of courtly gestures. His lips were cool and fleeting on my fingers but I felt as if they had branded their image on my soul.

‘The servant is wilfully bold,’ he observed. The salute may have been perfunctory, but he had not let go.

I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘And what, in the circumstances,’ I asked, ‘would this bold servant desire most?’

The reply was immediate and harsh. ‘To be alone, in a room of his choosing, with his mistress. The whole world shut out behind a locked door. For as long as he and the lady desired it.’

If breathing had been difficult before, now it was impossible. I stared at him, and he stared at me.

‘That cannot be…’ I repeated.

‘No.’ My hand was instantly released. ‘It is not appropriate, as you say.’

‘I should never have asked you.’

His eyes, blazing with impatience—or perhaps it was anger—were instantly hooded, his hands fallen to his sides, his reply ugly in its flatness. ‘No. Neither should I have offered you what you thought you wished to know, but had not, after all, the courage to accept. Too much has been said here today, my lady, but who is to know? The stitched figures are silent witnesses, and you need fear no gossip from my tongue. Forgive me if I have discomfited you. It was not my intent, nor will I repeat what I have said today. I have to accept that being Welsh and in a position of dependence rob me of the power to make my own choices. If you will excuse me, my lady.’

Owen Tudor strode from the room, leaving me with all my senses compromised, trying to piece together the breathtaking conversation of the past minutes. What had been said here? That he wanted to be with me. That he adored and desired me. I had opened my heart and thoughts to him—and then, through my lamentable spinelessness, I had retreated and thrust him away. He had accused me of lacking courage, but I did have the courage. I would prove that I did.

I ran after him, out of the antechamber and into the gallery, where he must have been waylaid by one of the pages who was scurrying off as I approached. Even if he heard my footsteps, Owen Tudor continued on in the same direction, away from me.

‘Master Tudor.’

He stopped abruptly, turning slowly to face me, because he must.

I ran the length of the gallery, queenly decorum abandoned, and stopped, but far enough from him to give him the space to accept or deny what I must say.

‘But the mistress wishes it too,’ I said clumsily. ‘The room and the locked door.’

He looked stunned, as if I had struck him.

‘You were right to tell me what was in your heart,’ I urged. ‘For it is in mine too.’ He made no move, causing my heart to hammer unmercifully in my throat. ‘Why do you not reply?’

‘Because you are Queen Dowager. You were wed to King Henry in a marriage full of power and glamour. It is not appropriate that I, your servant—’

‘Shall I tell you about my powerful and glamorous marriage?’ I broke in.

So I told him. All the things I had never voiced to anyone before, only to myself, as I had come to understand them.

‘I met him in a pavilion—and I was awestruck. Who wouldn’t be? That he, this magnificent figure, wanted me, a younger daughter, for his wife. He wooed me with the sort of words a bride would wish to hear. He was kind and affectionate and chivalrous when we first met—and after, of course.’ How difficult it was to explain. ‘But it was all a facade, you see. He didn’t need to woo me at all, but he did it because it was his duty to do so, because he wanted what I brought with me as a dower. Henry was very strong on duty. On appearances.’ I laughed, with a touch of sadness.

‘Did he treat you well, my lady?’

To my horror I could feel emotion gathering in my throat, but I did not hold back. ‘Of course. Henry would never treat a woman with less courtesy than she deserved. But he did not love me. I thought he did when I was very young and naïve, but he didn’t. He wanted my royal blood to unite the crowns and bring France under his control.’

‘It is the price all high-born women have to pay, is it not, my lady?’ He raised a hand, as if he would reach out to me across the space, the tenderness in his voice undermining my resolve to keep emotion in check. ‘To be wed for status and power?’

‘It is, of course. I was too ingenuous to believe it at first.’ I returned in my mind to those biting sadnesses of my first marriage, putting them into words. ‘Henry was never cruel, of course, unless neglect is cruelty. But he did not care. And do you know what hurt most? That when he was sinking fast in his final days, when he knew that death would claim him, he never thought of sending for me. He felt no need to say farewell, or even give me the chance to say goodbye to him. I don’t know why I am telling you all of this.’

I frowned down at my interwoven fingers, white with strain. ‘I thought I loved Henry, but it was an empty love, built on girlish dreams, and he destroyed it. Like a seed that withers and dies from lack of rain. He gave me nothing to help my love to grow—and so it died. I was very young.’ I looked up at my imperturbable steward. ‘I am not a very strong person, you see. I have had to grow into my strength.’

‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ he murmured, his eyes holding fast to mine. ‘I did not know.’

‘Nor should you. I hid it well, I hope. I am just telling you so that you know. There was no glamour in my marriage.’ In the face of his compassion my eyes were momentarily blinded by tears, but I wiped them away with the heel of my hand, determined not to allow this moment to escape me. ‘My courage tends to die when I feel unloved, unwanted, you see. When I cannot see a path for my feet to follow, when I feel that I am hedged in by thistles and thorn trees that sting and scratch. But today I have the courage to say this to you. What is in your heart is in mine too. What you desire, I too desire.’

Owen Tudor slowly retraced his steps to stand before me, reclaiming my hand, but not in the manner of a servant. I thought it was the way in which a man would approach a woman he desired, for, turning it within his, he pressed a kiss to my palm. His salute was no longer cold.

‘It could be a wish that the mistress might regret for the rest of her life,’ he stated.

‘How would she know unless she allowed herself the means to savour it?’

‘Perhaps the servant was wrong to accuse his lady of lacking courage.’

‘I think he was.’

Slowly, he linked the fingers of one hand with mine, his regard intense, reflecting none of the bright light that flooded through the gallery windows to illuminate us.

‘Have you enough bravery, Katherine,’ he asked, ‘to snatch at what you desire?’

He had called me by my name. If I would stop this, it must be now.

‘Yes, Owen,’ I said. ‘I have enough.’

‘Would you come to me? To that locked room?’

‘Yes. Would you invite me?’

He lifted our joined hands to touch my cheek in reply, and his mouth curved in a vestige of a smile. ‘What would be the punishment for a disenfranchised Welsh servant meeting privately with Queen Katherine?’

‘I don’t know.’ Selfishly, I did not care.

‘Do we risk the penalties? Will you come to me?’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

My heart thundered, but I would not step back. ‘Where?’

‘To my room.’

And pulling me close, so that my silks whispered against the wool of his tunic, he bent his head as if he would kiss me on the lips.

I froze. Footsteps at the end of the gallery were announcing the return of Thomas, my page, bearing a covered ewer and a cup. Before the lad had covered half the length of the room, Owen was no longer standing near me.

‘It will be as you wish, my lady,’ he said, as if some business between us had been completed. ‘I will send your request to the Young King. And if you will consider my suggestion…?’

There was nothing here that was not proper. ‘I have considered it, Master Tudor. I think it has merit and will act upon it.’ I looked across at my page with a smile. ‘Good morning, Thomas. Had you come to find me?’

‘Master Owen sent me to fetch wine for you, my lady, in the audience chamber.’

So he had thought of me, even when he had been so angry.

‘That was kind—but I have changed my mind. You can accompany me back to my chamber and you can tell me…’

Later I could not recall what small matter I had talked of with my page. I had done it. I had agreed to meet with Owen Tudor. There was a connection between us impossible to deny despite the unbridgeable rift between us. I had stepped over that rift and could find nothing but exquisite joy in the stepping.

At the door to my chamber I discovered that I was still wearing his cloak, redolent of the scent of him, of horses, and smoke from an applewood fire. Of maleness. I drank it in, before reluctantly I unfastened the pin, allowing the enveloping weight to slip from my shoulders as I examined the brooch. It was silver and of no great value, a little worn from long polishing and without gems, but when I looked closely I could see that its circular form was that of a creature I supposed was a dragon. Its wings were only half-furled as if it might take to flight at any moment, if its tail were not caught in its mouth. It had an aura of power, of mystical authority in the skilful carving of it. I thought it had no great value—how would a servant own jewels of any value?—but the little dragon had the essence of something old and treasured. Perhaps it had once belonged to his family, passed down through the generations. I traced the lines of the silver wings with my finger. It was a far cry from the Beaufort escutcheon with its enamelling and glittering stones, and yet…

‘My lady?’

Thomas was standing, waiting for instruction.

I folded the cloak and handed it to him.

‘Return this to Master Tudor,’ I instructed. ‘Express my thanks for his coming to my rescue.’

And the pin? I kept it. Just for a little while. It seemed to me that perhaps Owen Tudor had something of a dragon in him, in the display of brooding power I had just witnessed. I would not keep it long—just for a little while. To have something of him for myself.

I sat on his bed—for want of anywhere else. I had told no one of my intentions. Whom would I tell? Not even Madam Joanna could be a recipient of this wild step. My damsels were dismissed, Guille dispatched. I would put myself to bed, I stated. Was I not capable of it? When Guille showed some surprise, I claimed a need of solitude for prayer and private contemplation. Yet here I was, enclosed by dark shadows, alone in the room of the man I paid to supervise my household. An assignation with a servant. I swallowed convulsively, the nerves in my belly leaping like frogs in a pond on a summer’s night.

I was dressed in the plainest clothes I possessed. Anyone noting me as I had made my way by antechamber and stair would not have looked twice at the woman wrapped about in sombre hues, her hair secured, its fairness hidden from sight in a hood. I was nothing more than one of the royal tirewomen out and about on her own affairs. And if it was with a man who had caught her eye, then good luck to her.

So here I sat on Owen Tudor’s bed, my feet not touching the floor, and looked around. It was a surprise to me. Not the fact that it was small—Owen was fortunate to have a room of his own. It was barely large enough to contain the narrow bed, a plain stool, a coffer for small private items, a clothes press and a candle stand. If I had stood in the centre, with outstretched arms, I might almost have touched the opposite walls. The surprise was that it was as neat as a pin.

Owen Tudor took care of his possessions, making me realise again how little I knew of him. There were no garments strewn around, nothing where it should not have been. I slid my hand over the rough woven cover on the bed. Neither was there anything to indicate his status as the Master of Household. It could have been a monkish cell for all it might tell me of the man with whom I had made this liaison.

My eye travelled to the coffer and beside it the handsome slipware pottery bowl and ewer. And I smiled because I could not help it. Pottery cups and a flagon of what I suspected was wine stood there. A candlestick. And a book. Here was an item of value. He had left something for me to read to pass the time because he knew he might be late. How thoughtful! A book, a candle and a cup of wine. I laughed softly despite the stark beat of uncertainty in my mind. Had he known that I would be nervous, in spite of all my professed courage? Perhaps he had, and had done what he could to remedy it.

I opened the book—recognising it immediately as one of my own Books of Hours—how enterprising of him to give me comfort—and turning the pages, I discovered a well-loved illustration of the marriage feast at Cana, beautiful with its familiar depth of colour and lively participants. But I closed the book abruptly between my two hands. This was no sacred marriage I was contemplating. This was a sinful celebration of desire. And if Owen Tudor did not come soon, my much-vaunted courage would be naught but a puddle around my feet.

I heard his confident footsteps at the head of the stair. They drew nearer. Swift and purposeful, Owen Tudor sounded like a man spurred on by urgency. And I trembled.

This is a mistake…

When the door opened, I was on my feet, as if for flight. For a moment, there he stood in the doorway, blotting out the light from the corridor, as dark and solemn as always, as good to look at at the end of the day as he was at the beginning. If he saw my uncertainty, he gave no recognition, but smiled at me, and any thoughts of escape were thrust aside as the door was closed smoothly at his back.

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said, bowing as if we were meeting in public and our previous conversation had never happened. ‘I am late. My mistress had tasks for me. My time is rarely my own.’

His lips curved and his eyes gleamed, and I thought that it was the first time that he had shown any humour in my company. His face was lit by his smile, the cheekbones softening, and although my hands were clasped tightly together, I found that I had relaxed enough to respond in kind.

‘Does your mistress work you hard?’

‘You have no idea.’ He took two slow steps towards me. ‘Have you had wine?’

‘No.’

His actions were as neat and spare as his surroundings as he lit another candle and poured wine—just as if our meeting here was commonplace—whilst I stood unsure of what to do. I could not sit on his bed. I could not. He handed me a cup and raised his own.

‘To your health, my lady.’

‘To yours, Owen Tudor.’

I sipped, almost choking. I had no idea what to say. My awareness of him within these close walls traced a path over my skin from head to toe.

‘I told you that I admired you,’ he said softly. And when I looked blankly at him: ‘I was right to do so. You had all the courage I expected of you.’

‘I don’t feel brave.’

‘The door is not locked,’ he stated.

‘No.’

And I realised he was allowing me a choice, even at this late hour. Seeing my hands shaking, he took the cup from me and placed both on the coffer, so that his back was to me, inviting me to slide a hand over the fine material of the tunic he had worn for supper, to take cognisance of the firm shoulder beneath. But I couldn’t touch him. I wouldn’t touch him.

And as if aware of my difficulty, Owen took the decision out of my hands, for he approached, enclosed my hands in his and drew me towards him.

‘Do I have permission to kiss the once Queen of England?’

‘If you wish it.’

He filled my vision as he bent his head and placed his lips on mine. Gently. A promise rather than possession. And fleetingly. Barely had I registered the warmth of it than he had lifted his head and was looking down at me.

‘I’ll not ask permission again, Katherine. Is this what you want?’

I could not reply, unable to find the words to express the army of uncertainties that battered my mind, but I did not need to. Framing my face with his hands, his lips again claimed mine, and it was my undoing. How different this embrace! His mouth hot and hungry, body powerful, hands holding me so that he could take and take again, I was swept away with heat and the longing that built within me. He lifted his head again, hands still cradling me, his thumbs caressing my temples—until with a brusque movement he pushed back my hood so that it fell to the floor.

My hair free and released, it now tumbled over my shoulders to lie on my breast, and his, allowing him to curl his hand within it so that it wound round his wrist like a living shackle. My breath shuddered out between my lips in a sound of pure wordless pleasure.

‘Call me by my name. Call me Owen.’ There was the urgency.

‘Owen.’ A breath of delight.

‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The most desirable. And I should know better than to have you here—but what man can stand aloof from a woman who fires his blood? I have wanted you for years. I can no longer resist you.’

His arms anchored me against him, and his fervent avowals slid through my blood like wine as he kissed me and I clung, my senses cast adrift, robbed of all will, all thought, only knowledge that here was a man who said he desired me and always had. An explosion of heady feeling swept through me. Owen Tudor wanted me, and I wanted him beyond all reason. I would let him take me. His hands moved to the lacing of my gown—

No!

Suddenly the desire was shot through with pure panic.

‘No,’ I said.

I pushed against his chest, and when he released me I buried my burning face in my hands. What was I doing? Horror bubbled through my blood, and a capering terror that tripped and hopped to its own rhythm. I looked at the man I would have taken as my lover, distraught, suddenly seeing Edmund’s laughing face before me. Edmund had seduced me with laughter and song and carefree youth, making me think that I was a girl again without responsibilities, before abandoning me when he could not use me to climb his particular ladder of power.

This was no light-hearted seduction, but an explosion of passion that swept me along, dragging me down into a whirlpool of longing. I wanted it—but could not allow it, for it would bring nothing but humiliation for me, ignominy and dismissal for Owen. If Gloucester discovered…if the Council knew. A liaison with a servant? But I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me again. I wanted his mouth on mine.

Ah, no. It must not be!

And in that moment I was swamped by past hurts. Owen Tudor could never want me. Did I not have proof? No one else, neither Henry nor Edmund, had wanted me, except for what the Valois name or my position of Queen Dowager could bring them. Owen Tudor could not love me. Perhaps it was pity in his heart. Yes, that was it. All my confidence was undermined by terrible uncertainty…

I became aware that Owen was frowning as if trying, and failing, to read the morass of thoughts chasing through my mind. His hands fell away from my shoulders, yet he smoothed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, and my fears were almost overthrown.

‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I must not give in. I must not. ‘It’s not that. I should not be here.’

And I saw justifiable exasperation glitter in his eye as he sighed. ‘It’s a bit late for that.’

‘It’s all my fault.’

And I slid from his hands to flee. The door was unlocked. Two more steps and I would be there and out of this room that contained all I desired but all I could not have. I could be back in my chamber where I could wipe out my memory of what I had almost done. I could forget how I had almost fallen at his feet in longing—but before I had managed one step, Owen captured my wrist.

‘Don’t go like this.’

As his fingers closed, fear built irrationally. I pushed hard against him but to no avail.

‘Katherine. Don’t struggle. I’ll do nothing that you don’t wish.’

‘I can’t do this.’ I was beyond sense, shot through with guilt that I might bring judgement against him. ‘I have behaved outrageously. You should know that there is bad blood in my veins. My mother…no handsome man was safe with her. I have to ask your forgiveness.’

‘No. No forgiveness is necessary between us.’ He tried to gather me into his arms. I wanted it more than life itself and for a moment allowed myself to be drawn close, before self-reproach re-ignited in an agony of despair.

‘I can’t stay…’ I struggled, overbalanced, so that he clamped me to his chest. ‘Oh!’ The sting of pain along my cheekbone shocked me into silence.

‘What is it?’

I shook my head. ‘Let me go!’

And now his voice was all ice, all understanding having fled. ‘So you do despise me as a servant, too lowly for you to lie with. You can lust after my body but my birth isn’t good enough for you.’

‘No! That’s not it.’

‘That is what it looks like to me.’

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Please understand. You must let me go.’

‘Then go if you wish, my lady. There is no compulsion. I would not endanger your mortal soul by forcing you to share a bed with a man who is not fit to remove your shoes.’

The heavy formality, the harsh judgement, was my undoing.

‘You cannot possibly love me,’ I cried out in my anguish. ‘No man has ever loved me.’

And when Owen stood aside, I flung the door wide, hurrying down the corridors, through the rooms to my own, my hair loose, my face undisguised, praying helplessly that I would meet no one. I did not, but it was no relief. Despair drenched me from head to foot at what I had almost allowed myself to do.

And what I had thrown away.

Closing my door, I leaned back against it, willing my emotions to settle. Shame was a living entity, nasty and cruel, mocking my every breath with jeering contempt in every comment. Overcome with physical need, I had invited the intimacy. I had called him by his given name and agreed to the assignation, compromising my honour. I had drunk his wine, kissed him, and then I had fled for my life like a frightened child rather than a woman of almost thirty years. I had left my hood. I had run through the corridors like a court whore escaping from an importunate lover. Yet now, forced to accept my dishonour, I wished I was back in his room, sitting on his bed, allowing him to lead me in whatever path he chose.

You fool. You utter fool. You allowed desire to rule and look what happened. Have you learnt nothing from your life? How will you face him ever again?

And still my need for him would not release its hold on me. If he had come to my door at that moment, I would have opened it to him and bid him come in. I would have fallen at his feet in gratitude.

He won’t come. He thinks you have damned him as inferior, unfit to consort with a queen.

I sobbed. Why? Why had I run away?

Because I was afraid. Afraid of putting my life into the hands of a man I barely knew, who might not have care with it. Afraid that the line between servant and mistress was impossibly blurred and, in the end, I had not been able to take my fortitude in both hands and leap over that line. What would Beatrice say if she knew that I contemplated removing my shift for Owen Tudor? Or Madam Joanna? I don’t care, I had once said. But I did. I shivered at the thought of their reproof.

And what of Owen Tudor? I had denied him, rejected him, allowing him to believe that I thought him too far below me. A man of such self-esteem as he was would never forgive me for that. I was without honour: the blame was all mine.

Forcing myself to walk across the room, I picked up my reflecting glass. What would I see? Would I see the face of a slut? Would I recognise the woman who stared back at me? I looked, a quick glance. And was surprised. There was no imprint of the sin I had contemplated.

Then I looked again, carrying the glass to a candle. An unhappy woman stared back, a woman who had stood on the edge of grasping what she most wanted in life. There, enticingly before her, was the bridge over the chasm, there the helping hand stretched out, there the man who would give her her heart’s desire—and she had stepped back. She had leapt away, destroying any chance of taking that step again. He would despise her, her lack of valour, her lack of courtesy. It was hopeless.

I relived the moments again in all their glory and all their pain. He had called me Katherine. He had kissed me and I had pushed him away, when all I had wanted was to say, ‘Kiss me again!’ and make use of the bed with the bright woven cover.

You can lust after my body but my birth isn’t good enough for you…

Owen Tudor would despise me, but not as much as I despised myself.

I took a comb to my tangled hair, pulling on the knots as if the pain would dissolve my grief. I could not weep. The guilt was mine, choosing to go to the room of a passionate man then fleeing when he had kissed me.

I looked again, turning my head as I saw the abrasion on my cheek. It was red, with the slightest breaking of skin. Of course. His chain of office had marked me. How appallingly apt.

A terrible memento of a disastrous evening.

Guille drew back the heavy bed-curtains that had been witness to my lack of sleep, and halted with a hiss of consternation.

‘My lady!’

‘What is it?’ My reactions, both of mind and body, were slow.

‘What have you done?’ She disappeared, returned and held out my reflecting glass.

And I looked. The abrasion, a minor blemish the night before, was angry and red with the purple-blue of bruising flaring across my cheekbone.

‘Who did this to you?’

I touched the tender spot, flinching at the pain. Here was truth I could not admit to.

‘It was my own fault,’ I managed smoothly. ‘I fell against the bed foot. I had spent too long on my knees at my prie-dieu.’ It was horribly noticeable. I closed my eyes: the last thing I needed was to draw attention to my reprehensible behaviour. ‘Can we remedy it?’ I asked.

‘A day for some clever disguise, I think.’ And Guille, rummaging, lifted a chest of cosmetics from the depths of my coffer.

I rarely used them. My skin was fashionably pale and close textured, but today I needed subterfuge. Guille and I knew enough from my mother, who had been expert in applying glamour to win the eye of a man. My need was to hide from him. Owen Tudor must not suspect that our meeting had left its mark on me.

We spent a useful hour opening packets and phials, finally applying powdered root of the Madonna lily to whiten my face and hide the abrasion. Ground leaves of angelica added a glow to my cheeks and drew the eye from the bruising.

‘It’s better,’ Guille ventured, a frown between her brows. ‘I suppose.’

‘But not good.’ I cast my looking glass on the bed in despair.

‘We can’t hide it completely.’

‘No.’ I sighed. It was the best we could do. I broke my fast in my chamber and absented myself from Mass, but I would have to join my household for dinner, or my empty chair would cause comment. I would have to scrape up what I could of my poor fortitude and pretend that nothing was amiss.

And I would have to face Owen Tudor.

When I took my place on the dais, with no thought of what was on my plate, and no ear for Father Benedict’s blessings, all I could see in my mind was Owen Tudor’s gaze sweep over me, then return, as I had first walked defiantly into the room. The gaze became a stare, his whole stance taut, until he remembered his duties and stalked away to summon the pages to bring in the serving platters. All I was left with was a memory of his stunned expression, for the much-vaunted cosmetics were not concealing the livid bruise to any degree.

I already knew this. My damsels, meeting with me in my solar, had been sympathetic with my plight and full of suggestions from their own remedies, but nothing could conceal the discolouring. Or my remorse when I saw Owen Tudor’s reaction.

Not Master Owen. He would never be Master Owen again. How could I think of him as a man in a position of subservience to me when he had held me in his arms? When his kisses had turned my blood to molten gold? Unfortunately, such was my nature that the gold had turned to lead and I had dealt him the worst of blows. I had encouraged him, only to repulse him.

Throughout the whole length of that meal contrition stalked me, for what had I seen, for that one breath-stopping moment, before he had masked all thoughts? Shock certainly, for he would not have known. But then a sudden blaze of furious anger. It had made my blood run cold, and added to the muddle of my thoughts.

How dared he be angry with me?

And yet why should he not? I admitted as I picked at the plums in syrup and sweet pastry set before me. Did I not deserve it? I had given him to believe that I was willing, kissing him with a wanton fervour previously unknown to me. I had pressed my body to his in silent demand that he could not have misinterpreted. And then, when his embrace had grown too powerful, I had run away, when I should have had enough confidence to conduct an affair with a man with some self-possession.

If that was what I wanted. Even if he was a servant.

And if I did not want it, I should not have responded to him in the first place. Had he not given me the space to withdraw after my first foolish admission?

You need fear no gossip from my tongue.

The fault was undoubtedly mine, and I deserved his ire.

The meal proceeded. We ate, we drank. We gossiped—or my damsels did. The pages, well-born boys learning their tasks in a noble household under Owen’s direction, served us with silent concentration. Owen’s demeanour was exactly as it should be, a quiet, watchful competence. But he did not eat with us, taking his seat along the board as was his wont. Instead, he stood behind my chair in austere silence, a personal and reproachful statement to me, as if to broadcast the difference in our ranks.

I deserved that too.

I had no requests of him. My whole awareness was centred on the power of his stare between my shoulder blades. It was as if I was pierced by a knife.

I put my spoon down on the table. The pastry sat heavily in my belly, and I breathed a silent prayer that the meal would be soon over and I could escape back to my room. Except that when the puddings were finished and the board cleared, I had no choice but to walk past him since he had not moved. His eyes were rich with what I read as censure, when I risked a glance.

‘Was the food not to your satisfaction, my lady?’ he asked. He had noticed that I had eaten little.

‘It was satisfactory. As always.’ I made no excuse but my reply was brusque.

He bowed. I walked past him, my heart as sore and as wounded as my cheek.

‘Master Owen is come to see you, my lady.’ It was the hour after dinner and Guille entered my chamber where I sat, unseeing, my Book of Hours closed on my knee. ‘To discuss the arrangements for the celebration of the Young King’s birthday.’

‘Tell Master Owen that I am indisposed,’ I replied, concentrating on the page that I had suddenly seen a need to open. ‘There is time and more to discuss the tournament. Tell him to see my Lord of Warwick if there are difficulties.’

My eyes looked with horror at the penitential psalm on the open page, expressing sorrow for sin.

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.

Before God, I needed His mercy, and Owen Tudor’s, for I had indeed sinned.

‘Master Owen wishes to know if you will mark the day of St Winifred with a feast, my lady. He needs to make the funds available. It should be on the third day of November.’ Guille again. Another hour had crawled by and my self-disgust was no less sharp. Neither was my self-immolation.

‘Who is St Winifred?’ I demanded crossly.

‘A Welsh saint, Master Owen says.’ Guille shrugged her lack of interest. ‘He says that she was a woman who showed herself capable of integrity and fortitude under duress. He says that such qualities are rare in womankind.’

I stiffened at so pointed a comment from my Master of Household.

‘Tell Master Owen that I am at prayer.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

How dared he? Did he think to discountenance me even more? Kneeling before my prie-dieu, I covered my face and ignored Guille’s speculative stare.

The hour arrived, before we would all meet again for supper.

‘Master Owen has returned this, my lady.’ It was my hood, carefully folded. ‘He says that you must have left it in the chapel.’

‘Yes, I must have. Thank him, if you will, Guille.’ Taking it from her, I buried my face in the soft velvet when she left the room. I could not face my own thoughts.

Our paths must of necessity cross at supper. I considered shutting myself in my room with some feeble excuse but was that not the way of the coward he thought me? I had played my part in this situation and thus I must see it through to the end. I must have the fortitude of the venerated St Winifred. I took my seat, hands folded, appetite still impaired, and set myself to suffer.

And, oh, I did. Not once did he look at me. He stalked about the chamber as if he had the toothache, then became as before, a thunderous brooding presence behind my chair. If he was angry before, he was furious now. I ate as little as I had previously and at the end walked past him as if I had no knowledge of him.

That night I knelt once more at my prie-dieu but after the briefest acknowledgement of the Virgin’s grace I turned my thoughts inward. I must make recompense, I must admit my fault, undertaking what I could to smooth out this tangled mess of fear and desire. After Mass next morning I would summon Owen Tudor and explain that. But what would I explain? I did not understand the turmoil in my heart and mind. But I would explain that the mistake had been mine, and accept that his attraction to me had died a fast death.

I would accept it, as I had accepted Henry’s coldness and Edmund’s betrayal in the face of ambition. It would be no worse. I had weathered those storms well enough. My marriage to Henry had brought me a much-loved son, and I rarely thought about my Beaufort suitor except to wish that I had been a little older and wiser. To lose Owen before I had even known him would be no worse.

Except that it would. However hard it was for me to acknowledge it, I did not think I could live without Owen Tudor. The fundamental aching need that had touched me when I had seen him stride from the river had not lessened with the passage of time. It had grown until I had no peace.

I lifted my face to the Virgin and promised that I would make my peace, with him and with myself.