The Forbidden Queen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The effect on my household in the Rose Tower was immediate, and in a manner that I had never considered. We gathered in my solar at noon before making our way in informal manner to eat in the inner hall. I walked to the table on the dais, as I had done a thousand times before, taking my seat at the centre of the board. The pages began to bring water in silver bowls and napkins, the servants bustling in with jugs of ale and platters of frumenty. I had not given even a moment’s thought to the practicalities of our new situation. Now forced to consider the reality of it, I felt my face pale with irritation. How thoughtless I had been for Owen in his new status, how blindly insensitive.

And Owen? He had envisaged it all, of course. He had known exactly the problems we had created for ourselves, and had made his plans without consulting me. Perhaps he thought he would save me the burden, the heartache that it would bring me. Or else he knew I would object. I discovered on that day that I had acquired a husband of some perspicacity.

For the question that must be addressed was so simple a decision, so full of uneasy pitfalls. Where was Owen to sit? As my husband he had every right to sit at my side on the dais.

As I sat I looked to my left and right. The stools and benches were apportioned as they always were, and occupied. I raised my hand to draw the attention of a passing page, to set a place at the table beside me, ruffled at my lack of forethought. To have to set a new place now simply drew attention to the dramatic change in circumstances and caused unnecessary comment. I had been remiss not to have anticipated it.

And where was Owen Tudor?

I saw him. Oh, indeed I did. He stood by the screen between the kitchen passageway and the hall, and he was clothed as Master of Household, even to his chain of office. I was not the only one to see him, and the whispers, the covert glances, some with the shadow of a delicious malice, were obvious, as was the well-defined expression on Owen’s face, so that I felt a little chill of recognition in my belly, nibbling at the edge of my happiness.

I had not expected to have to fight a battle with him over status quite so soon, or quite so publically. But I would. I was resolute. My husband would not act the servant in my household. And so I, who never willingly drew attention to herself, stood, drawing all eyes. I raised my voice. If he would force me to challenge him under the eye of every one of my household, then so be it.

‘Master Tudor.’ My voice held a ringing quality that day, born out of a heady mix of anger and fear.

Owen walked slowly towards me until he stood before me, of necessity looking up at me on the dais.

‘My lady?’

His eyes met mine, his face a blank mask of defiance. I knew why he felt the need, but I would not accept it. Last night I had been wrapped in his arms, our love heating the air in my chamber. I would not tolerate this.

‘What is this?’ I asked, clearly.

His reply was equally as crisp. ‘I have a duty to your household, my lady.’

‘A duty? You are my husband.’

‘That does not absolve me from the tasks for which I am employed. And for which I still draw a wage from you, my lady.’

The pride of the man was a blow to my heart, a pride that bordered on arrogance. But I did not flinch.

‘My husband does not work for me as a servant.’

‘We wed outside the restrictions of the law, my lady, without permission. Until we have stood together before his grace of Gloucester and the Royal Council and made our change of circumstances known, and it is recognised, I will continue to serve you.’

‘You will not!’ I was astonished, senses shattered by this reaction in him that I could never have anticipated. I would not allow him to demean himself, and yet I suspected his will was as strong as mine.

‘And who else do you suggest will do it, my lady?’

‘I will appoint your successor. You will not serve me and you will not stand behind my chair.’

‘I will. I am still Master of the Queen’s Household, my lady.’

‘I don’t approve.’ I was losing this argument, but I could see no way to circumvent his obstinacy.

‘You do not have to. This is how it will be. I will not sit at my wife’s table when there is still doubt as to my status.’

At my side Father Benedict chose to intervene. ‘Indeed, there is no doubt that your marriage is legal, Master Owen.’

But I waved him to silence. This was between Owen and I.

‘There is no doubt,’ I said.

‘Not with you. Not with you, annwyl. But look around you.’

I did, refusing to be touched by him calling me his beloved in public, and I realised that we—Owen and I—stood at the centre of a concerted holding of breath. I looked at those who sat at my table, at those who waited on me. At my damsels and my chaplain. We had a fascinated audience. I read prurient interest from those who hovered to see who would win this battle of wills: some pity for me in the conflict I had naïvely created for myself; more than a touch of rank disapproval for the whole undignified exchange between mistress and servant. Even envy in the eyes of my women who had not been untouched by Owen’s charms. But all waited to hear what I would say next.

I looked back at Owen in horror.

‘Well, my lady?’

His voice rasped but his eyes were so full of compassion that I was almost overcome. And I retreated from the battle, admitting defeat. His will had proved stronger than mine, and to exhibit our differences in public on the first day of our marriage was abhorrent.

‘Very well. But I don’t like it.’

Owen bowed, as rigidly formal as the perfect servant. ‘Is it your pleasure that the food is now served, my lady?’

‘Yes.’ I sat down, my face aflame.

And Owen? He merely proceeded to beckon in the bread and meat as if it were an uneventful, commonplace breaking of our fast. A more silent meal I could not recall, with Owen, my husband of less than a day, standing behind my chair.

Never had the servants scurried as they did to serve that repast. Never had we been served with such efficiency or such speed. Never had the bread and ale been consumed so smartly. The usual chatter was almost silent, and what little there was in furtive whispers. Eyes glanced from me to Owen and back again. I tried to keep a flow of trivial comment with Beatrice and Father Benedict about something I cannot even recall.

When I could tolerate the atmosphere no longer, I stood and without excuse I marched from the room, Owen still ordering the dispensing of the remains to the poor.

I waited for him in my chamber, knowing that he would come. And if he did not, I would send for him. But things were not as they had been. By the time he opened the door with quiet precision, anger ruled.

‘How could you do that to me?’ Owen had barely closed the door on the hastily departing Guille. I was rarely roused to such passion but the very public audience to our difference of opinion had shaken me, and his inflexible intransigence had stirred up an unusual temper. I would tolerate neither my humiliation nor his. I would not! How could he have made me the object of such interest in the first meal we had shared together? ‘How dare you put our marriage on display in that manner?’ I demanded.

Owen stopped just within the door, arms folded, nothing of servitude in his stance, as I launched into my justifiable complaint.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ I noted with some surprise that my hands were clenched into fists. I squeezed them tighter. ‘You had enough to say an hour ago. It will have set the tongues wagging from here to Westminster and beyond.’

He walked slowly across the room, his eyes never leaving my face.

‘Is this our first quarrel, annwyl?’ he asked mildly, but his eyes were not mild.

‘Yes. And don’t call me that! And certainly not in public.’

‘So what do I call you? Is it to be my lady?’

I ignored that. I ignored the bitterness behind the innocuous question, as if I would so demean him after I had wed him. ‘Do you intend to stand behind my chair at every meal?’ I demanded.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Is your pride so great? So great that you cannot accept your new status through marriage to me?’

‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘My pride is not so great. But my care for you is.’

‘Your care for me?’ In my anger, my voice rose. ‘How is it possible that this public exhibition of disagreement would denote a care for me? You drew every eye, and made an issue of something that should never have been an issue. I did not appreciate being centre of attention in that manner. And I will not—’

‘Katherine.’ He took a step closer so that he could clasp my shoulders and stop my words with his mouth, notwithstanding my automatic resistance. I was thoroughly kissed. And then when he released me: ‘We’ll not rouse Gloucester to more anger than we have already. If he found me lounging at your side in silks and jewels, ordering ale and venison with all the authority that you would undoubtedly give me, can you imagine what he would do?’

I shook my head, realising that I had not thought about it in quite such graphic terms.

‘I doubt you thought about it at all,’ he said gently, kissing me again. ‘But I have. He would pull the sky down on both our heads. But on yours particularly. You need his blessing, Katherine, or as much of a blessing as is possible. You don’t need him as your enemy. Gloucester is the power in the land whether we like it or not. So, much as I despise the man, I must not compromise your position further.’

He stepped back, releasing me.

‘That is why I will continue to be Master of Household and stand behind your chair until we see how the land lies.’

I looked at him, all that was left of my anger draining away. It was me. It was me he cared about. I walked forward into his arms, sighing as they closed around me.

‘You foresaw this, didn’t you?’ I whispered.

‘I promised to shield and protect you. I will not encroach on your royal dignity. Or not until we have made our position clear before the Council.’

‘I’m sorry I challenged you as I did.’

Owen gave a bark of laughter. ‘Gan Dduw, Katherine! The faces of your women. They’ll have enough to pick over, and gossip about, to keep their tongues as busy as their needles as they stitch their never-ending altar cloths for the next twelvemonth. Your sanctimonious chaplain nearly choked on his ale.’ But beneath his apparent enjoyment I read the gleam of worry in his eyes, overlaid with sharp irritation.

‘I don’t think I can tolerate many more meals like that,’ I admitted. ‘Do you always use Welsh when you are angry?’

‘Not invariably.’ But at last the ghost of humour in his face was genuine. ‘As for the meals—we had better hope Gloucester travels fast.’

‘And when he does?’

‘Then we inform him of some changes to your household.’

It was all we could do. And yet: ‘Living like this is impossible.’

‘So we move to one of your dower properties.’

‘Will Gloucester forbid it?’

‘Short of locking us up, how can he? And that is what you will tell him. You will live where you choose.’

So I would. I would call on all the respect and honour I had worked for in my role at Young Henry’s side and I would challenge Gloucester. I would demand that Owen and I be left alone. How I wished I had never set eyes on Edmund Beaufort with all his worldly charm. But it was done and I must work with the consequences.

‘Will you stay?’ I asked him.

Owen lifted his chain over his head and cast it onto the bed. ‘I have no duties for the next hour, so pour me a cup of ale, woman.’ But as I walked past him with a little laugh to do just that, he caught me by the wrist and pulled me close. ‘And then I will kiss you,’ he murmured, his mouth against mine, ‘and I will unwrap for you the pleasures to be found in healing a disagreement between two lovers.’

And so he did. He turned to a new page, to a new bright illustration, that filled my mind with its beauty.

My son must be informed, I decided, and although Owen raised his brows, I took him with me from the Rose Tower to the royal apartments where Young Henry, at his lessons, smiled vaguely at Owen. He reluctantly took his attention from the book he held open on his lap, but he stood, laid the book down and bowed.

‘Good morning, maman.’ His manners were improving. He kissed my cheek.

‘I have married this man,’ I said without preamble. I had learned with Young Henry that to get straight to the point was good policy. He lost interest quickly.

‘Have you?’ he asked, looking at Owen. ‘I know you. You are Master Owen. You are Welsh.’

‘I am, my lord.’

‘I have never been to Wales. I wished to go to St Winifred’s well but they would not let me. Is Wales a wild place?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever lived there?’

‘Yes. And it is, my lord,’ Owen replied solemnly. ‘A land of mountains and rivers.’

That did not interest my son. ‘And do you speak Welsh?’ he asked. ‘I do not.’

‘I do, my lord.’

‘Say something to me in Welsh.’

Owen bowed very formally. ‘Yr wyf yn eich was ffyddlon, eich mawrhydi.’

Henry laughed in quick astonishment. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I am your loyal servant, Your Majesty.’

‘I like it. I like your new husband, maman.’ He turned back to his book. ‘I don’t think I will learn Welsh. I must know Latin and French. Perhaps I will send you a gift.’

We left him to his preoccupations. Henry was always generous with gifts.

‘You charmed him!’ I accused. ‘Just like you charmed me with a few Welsh words!’

‘Of course I did, annwyl.’ But although he slid an arm around my waist, his face was grim. ‘We might be in need of all the friends we can get. Even a nine-year-old boy, when he happens to be the boy-King.’

I sighed as Warwick eyed us with a disapproving air. It seemed that I would have to explain myself to every man at Court. Yes, I had known it would be like this but I felt that I must be constantly on the alert, quick with an answer. I was already weary of justifying myself and I had not been wed longer than a se’ennight. Warwick’s observation was trenchant.

‘Well, Katherine, this will stir up a hornet’s nest.’

‘Yes, Richard. I am aware of that.’ I raised my chin. ‘I do not regret it.’

‘I suppose there’s no point in me telling either of you that it would have been better not to do it.’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Better for whom, my lord?’ Owen added. His patience was also wearing thin but his demeanour held all its old dignity.

‘Richard.’ I touched his arm when he shrugged his incomprehension. ‘I know what I have done. I know that I must answer for it. Will you support me before the Council?’

‘It’s not my support you need.’ His tone was bleak. ‘It’s Gloucester’s. And I don’t see you getting that.’

‘Why would it matter so much?’ I glanced at Owen. ‘We would not draw attention to ourselves. It is my wish to live privately in one of my dower properties. I would not bring disgrace on the Crown or my son. I have little place in his life now.’

‘Gloucester won’t see it like that. You defied him, Katherine. He’ll not brook defiance, not from anyone. You saw the battle royal that developed between him and Henry Beaufort. He’ll not tolerate opposition to any degree.’

‘He never did approve of me, did he?’ I smiled a little sadly.

‘No, he didn’t. He acknowledged your usefulness, but he has no admiration for the Valois. But now you’ve made a bitter enemy of him.’

I thought about the three brothers. Henry, who tolerated me. Gloucester, who actively disliked me. And Bedford, the only one to show me and my plight any understanding.

‘I wish Lord John were back in England. He would not be unsympathetic. He might sway the Council,’ I hazarded.

‘No chance of that.’ Warwick grimaced. ‘Affairs in France are too crucial and not in England’s favour.’

So I was on my own.

But I was not. Owen was all the strength I needed. His arm was warm and strong around my shoulder. I needed it.

Gloucester arrived before the end of the week, travelling from Westminster in one of the royal barges, standing in the prow, hands braced on hips like a carved figurehead.

‘His face is as red as a winter beet, my lady,’ Guille remarked. We were watching from the old Norman gateway as he disembarked. ‘Neither is he wasting any time.’ He leapt from boat to landing like a scalded cat.

‘I expect it will be even redder after he’s said what he has come to say,’ I replied. ‘I’m tempted to refuse to see him if he demands that I wait on him. Which he will.’

Sure enough, as soon as he had marched from river landing to entrance hall, he had sent a page at a run to summon me to the main audience chamber. A summoning, not a request, forsooth. So it was to be a bitingly cold and formal confrontation.

I spent a little time over my appearance, considering the ermine and cloth of gold then rejecting it as it would do nothing to assuage Gloucester’s fury. I did not run.

‘I think I should go alone,’ I said when I found Owen waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, neat and suave and authoritative in shin-length dark damask and chain of office. He was obviously, as Master of the Queen’s Household, out to make a statement.

‘Do you?’ he replied mildly.

‘As you said, it will only antagonise him. It might be worse if we see him together.’

Owen’s hand closed on the sable edge of my sleeve as I walked past him. There was no longer anything mild in his response. ‘And do you think I will allow you to face him alone?’

‘It would be for the best.’

‘But it will not happen. I will escort you.’

My relief was strong and for a brief moment I clasped his hand. ‘He might see reason, of course,’ I said consideringly, ‘and accept that what is done cannot be undone.’

I chose not to react to Owen’s jaundiced air.

It was a very brief meeting. There was no courtesy from Gloucester, no semblance of the good manners that he was so keen to see instilled into the Young King. He ignored Owen, addressing me as if he was not there, yet rampant hostility shimmered in the air between the two men.

‘So it’s true,’ he said, his delivery no less threatening for its extreme softness.

‘Yes.’

‘Words are wasted on you. You—both of you…’ now he glanced across with venom ‘… will present yourselves at Westminster. You are summoned to appear before the Royal Council to explain your aberrant behaviour.’

He looked me up and down, as if he could spy my thickening waist beneath the velvet pleating, yet there was no way of his knowing. I stood straight-backed, and kept my eyes fixed on Gloucester’s inimical regard.

‘I will agree to accompany you, of course,’ I replied, refusing to acknowledge that it had been a command. ‘I will explain to the Council. I know that I will be awarded a generous hearing.’

Gloucester left without further comment, enveloped in a cloud of ill humour.

‘Well, that went well,’ Owen observed, watching our guest stalk back to his river transport. ‘I think he saw reason, don’t you?’

How brave I had sounded, but in my heart was fear. I had always known that it would come to this.

Owen and I attended the Royal Council, as we were bidden. We were in no position to refuse, neither did we wish it. So there we were, with the proof of our marriage tucked in the breast of Owen’s tunic—Father Benedict had witnessed it with a disapproving scrawl at the foot of the document—and my belly still effectively disguised by the width of my skirts. The faces of those who sat in judgement on us were familiar to me, lords temporal and ecclesiastical come to condemn the Queen Dowager and her inappropriate lover.

And what a range of emotion slammed against us as we were announced into the Council Chamber, much as I had witnessed in my own household. Outrage and lascivious interest were uppermost. But some compassion, enough for one of the bishops to provide me with a stool. As I moved to sit, I looked up at Owen where he stood by my side, features well schooled into frozen courtesy, but then he smiled down at me, a sign of our love and one that I returned. Whatever they did, they could not destroy our union.

I might smile at Owen but fear hummed through my blood, and I knew he was not at ease. If he had worn a sword, he would have had a hand firmly on the hilt. Who was to know what Gloucester might persuade his fellow councillors to do? What if, deeming me untouchable, they took out their frustrations at my intransigence on Owen? A term in a dungeon in the Tower of London would not seem beyond the realms of possibility. As he too knew. We had talked about it late into the night.

‘What if they incarcerate you?’ I had asked.

‘They won’t.’

I did not believe him, but I let it lie, and loved him for his need to pluck troubles from my mind, as a blackbird gobbled the berries from a winter hawthorn. Would my consequence be sufficient to save him? I did not think it would. I had no consequence. Now I steeled myself, grasping what courage I could muster with both hands, to withstand the onslaught. When Gloucester had descended on Windsor, driven there by a gust of fury, he had been beyond words. He found them that day.

‘You have broken the terms of a legal statute, madam. You have defied the law of the land.’

I was barely seated, still disposing the folds of my skirts and removing my gloves.

‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied. ‘I have.’ Owen and I had discussed at length how we would manage this confrontation. Even though he did not touch me, I felt the tension in him, vibrating like a strummed lute string.

‘You knew the terms of the law.’

‘I did, my lord.’ Nothing would shake me.

‘And yet you were determined, wilfully determined, to flout it!’

I stood, handing my gloves to Owen. I would stand and face them. How could I argue for my greatest desire from a position of inferiority?

‘Wilfully?’ I said, strengthening my voice, but not too much. I had a role to play here, and I allowed my gaze to range over the ranks of those who would judge me. ‘I did not fall in love by intent, my lords. Thus, it was not my intent to break the law. But when my emotions were engaged and I desired marriage—then yes. Perhaps I was wilful. Or perhaps I would say that I was pragmatic. My son is too young to give his consent—and will be so for at least another seven years.’

‘Could you not wait? Could you not wait to indulge your physical needs until the King is of age?’

I felt my skin flush, cheeks and temple hot as fire. There was no mistaking this innuendo or Gloucester’s displeasure as his eye swept over my figure. So the rumours had spread, suspicions ignited. Beside me I could feel Owen straining to hold his temper. We had known it would be like this, and that Owen’s participation would do nothing but harm. The burden was on me. I prayed that he could keep a still tongue.

I drew myself up, and with all the pride of my Valois blood I marshalled the arguments that we had talked of.

‘How long would you wish me to wait, my lords? I am thirty years old. If I wait for the Young King’s blessing, I may be beyond the age of childbearing.’ I let my gaze move again, lightly, over the assembly. ‘Would you condemn me to that, my lords? How many of you are wed and have an heir to inherit your title and lands? Is it not a woman’s role to bear sons for her husband?’

I saw the nodding of some heads. Pray God they would listen and understand…

‘You have a son.’ Gloucester had his response at his fingertips to destroy any strength my words might have with the august gathering. ‘A fine son, who is King of England. Is that not sufficient?’

‘But my husband, Owen Tudor, has no son to follow and bear his name. He has no one to continue his line. Do I deprive him of children? And for what purpose I do not understand. My marriage to Owen Tudor does not, as I see it, detract from the King’s authority. My son is now crowned. The ties of childbirth have been loosened and he is, as he should be, under the tuition of men. Why should the Queen Dowager not wed again?’

Once more I surveyed the faces.

‘I am a woman, my lords. A weak woman, if you will, who has had the misfortune to fall in love. Would you condemn me for that? I did my duty by my husband, King Henry. I brought him the crown of France and an heir to wear it. I have been a vital part of my son’s childhood years. Now I wish for a more private life as the wife of a commoner. Is it too much to grant me that, or do you compel me to live alone?’

I pushed on, repeating the salient points, finding no favour with what I had to say, but if I had to plead on my knees to achieve my heart’s desire then I would do it.

‘My son is now nine years of age. He has not needed his mother’s constant care for many years. Those appointed to his education—by yourselves, sirs—are men of ability and good character, such as my lord of Warwick.’ I inclined my head towards him. ‘That is how it should be. But my womb has been empty for those years. Would you condemn me to a barren life? The Holy Mother herself would not. She bore other children after the Christ Child.’

How did I find the courage? I did not even look at Owen, not once, for I did not need to, conscious throughout of the strength of his love, urging me on. When I felt an almost overwhelming need to seek his hand with mine, I did not. I must stand alone and make my plea, for this attack was directed at me, not at Owen.

A new, harsh voice intervened. ‘It is blasphemy for you to draw comparison with the Blessed Virgin.’ I recognised the disparaging features of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘It is no blasphemy, my lord,’ I replied. ‘The Blessed Virgin became a mother in a human sense. Her sons were brothers of Our Lord Jesus Christ and recognised by him. She would understand my need. Do not you, my lords?’

There was some murmuring.

‘There might be something in what you say, madam.’ Was this a possible ally in the smooth intervention of the Bishop of London? I thought he might be stating a position in opposition to the Archbishop rather than in support of me, but I would snatch at any vestige of hope.

‘The Holy Mother is full of compassion, my lord,’ I said, turning a smile of great sweetness on him. And on all the councillors.

‘Amen to that,’ the bishop intoned.

So what now? I shivered as a little silence fell on the proceedings, and again, astonished at my own temerity, I forced the issue.

‘Well, my lord of Gloucester? I have stated my case. Are we free to go? To live together, united by God, as we most assuredly are?’

And I sighed silently when Gloucester picked up my challenge without hesitation.

‘We are not finished here. Any man who weds you without permission will forfeit his property. You transgressed the law, and so must pay the penalty.’

‘But my husband has no property,’ I said gently.

‘Then he made a fine bargain, did he not?’ Scorn all but dripped from the walls. ‘Seducing a wife of wealth and influence!’

I dared not look at Owen. Every muscle in his body was taut with controlled outrage, straining for release.

‘There was no seduction,’ I said. ‘You dishonour both myself and Owen Tudor, my lord. Do I not have the wit to make my own choices? Neither did my husband set himself to seduce me. He had been Master of my Household all the years since I was left a widow. It is only of late that we were touched by love. I was not seduced or forced against my will.’

It was a strong argument.

‘It seems to me that it was not so great a bargain for him in taking me as his wife,’ I continued. ‘Why should a man have to appear before the King’s Council over his choice of his bride? Yes, I am a wealthy woman, but as for influence—what influence do I have? None, I would suggest. Owen Tudor would not work his way up the ladder to greatness by marriage to me. And that is not our intent. We do not seek a life in the full light of the royal court. We would live privately.’ I lifted my hands in appeal. ‘My lords, that is all I ask of you. Your recognition of my married state and permission to live as and where I choose.’

But Gloucester was not finished. ‘How could you choose a man in disgrace before the law?’

‘I chose a man of pride. A man of honour and integrity, my lord.’

‘A man of honour?’ Oh, he was inordinately, savagely pleased. He had found a weak spot, and I knew immediately what it would be. ‘And when is the bastard you carry due to be delivered?’

‘My child will be no bastard,’ I replied serenely. ‘He will be born within holy wedlock, recognised by his father and by the Church.’

‘He was conceived in sin.’

‘But he will live in the light.’ I stared at Gloucester, no longer dominated by him. How dared he speak so to me? ‘I find you presumptuous, my lord. Do I deserve such calumny? If you have nothing more to say—’

‘You are still to remain at Windsor in your son’s household,’ he ordered, grasping at straws, so it seemed to me.

‘No.’ I allowed a little smile even as anger beat in my head. ‘I will not.’

‘It is the law.’

‘Then I will ignore the law. I will live in one of my dower houses. They are mine, given for my use by the late king in his wisdom. I will live in them with my husband.’

‘And if we insist?’

‘Will you insist, my lords? The only means to determine where we will live is by the use of force. And if you do…’ once more I eyed Gloucester ‘… if you force me to live at Windsor, I will broadcast to the world the disgrace of your treatment of the once Queen of England, the Queen Mother, Princess of France. The wife of the hero of Agincourt. I think my royal state deserves respect. I think I will be given a hearing by the Commons, don’t you?’

Gloucester flung himself down into his chair, denying any respect.

‘God’s Blood, woman! Was it not possible for you to embrace a chaste and honourable widowhood?’

‘I could have. But I chose to be a lawfully wedded wife again.’

‘To a palace minion, by God!’

And since Gloucester at last stared at Owen, my husband bowed and replied, ‘I was not always a servant, my lord.’

‘And Welsh too!’

‘I consider that an honour, my lord, not a detriment. The law of England cannot dictate my pride in my birth.’

‘Pride in your birth?’ Gloucester’s disgust grew to vast proportions as he turned his ire on me again. ‘Could you not have let your eye fall on someone of your own status?’

‘I tried that, my lord. You refused Edmund Beaufort because his status was equal to mine.’

I had him there, and he knew it. Oh, it was a direct challenge and my heart beat against my ribs. Gloucester, his face the hue of parchment, had thought I would bow before his dictates because I had in the past. He swung his attention from me to Owen.

‘And what have you to say? We note that you have left your wife to plead your cause. That does not strike me as being the stand of a man of honour. Is your facility in speaking the English tongue not good enough?’

I sensed Owen inhale slowly. He held my gloves lightly in his hands and addressed himself to the Council rather than to Gloucester. How calm he looked, how impressively dignified. Not one man there saw the fire in him, the fury at his and my treatment.

‘I have not spoken, my lords, because this is concerning the freedom of the lady who is my wife. It is her right to put her own case, and that is what she wished. I agreed that it should be so, although I found it hard to hold my tongue when she was subject to such crude accusations. My blood may be Welsh, but I was raised a gentleman and I know degradation when I witness it at first hand, as I have here today.

‘No Welshman would ever address a nobly born lady in such a manner, certainly not a lady who has been nothing but a shining gem in England’s crown. I feel her shame. And I feel her courage, as I am certain you do, my lords. She has all my admiration.’

Pausing, stepping to close the small space between us, Owen smiled at me, a smile of such brilliance that it steadied my heart, and now, at last, he took my hand in his.

‘What can I add to a situation that is already plain? Katherine is my wife. She carries my child, as you are aware. We will live together and raise our children, imbuing them with integrity and loyalty to the English Crown. But we will not live at Windsor. Or anywhere that the Queen does not wish to live. She must have her freedom to live as she chooses. And now I think it is her wish that we leave. Her health is fragile and she should rest. I ask your permission for this Council session to end, for her sake.’

I held his hand as tightly as I could. It all hung in the balance.

It was not Gloucester who spoke. It was the Bishop of London.

‘Let the lady rest. We will consider the situation in the light of our findings, sir.’

Incensed, Gloucester leapt to his feet: ‘The law has been broken. We cannot overlook the fact that the Queen Dowager has brought England’s government and King into disrepute by her selfish actions. This cannot go unpunished.’

But we walked from the Council Chamber, not stopping until we had escaped the confines of the buildings and could stand in the open, with sun and a light breeze and the caw of rooks in the elms by the river. And I drew in a breath, relief flooding through me. I had done it. I had done the best I could. What the outcome would be I had no notion, but for the moment we were free.

‘I think that was the worst hour of my life.’

But beside me Owen exploded. ‘God’s Blood! How could I remain silent? How could I not answer word for every damned insolent word Gloucester directed at you? The law has been broken—yes, it has—but we are wed. Can they not accept that? What does it matter to the state of the realm? They were not even interested in the legality of our marriage. All they did was follow Gloucester’s lead and harp on about the damned law. Have they no sense? No compassion? I despise them! I despise all the bloody English for their narrow-minded, opinionated—’

‘And that is why we agreed that I should make our case,’ I said, with a little laugh. ‘Thank God you did not tell it to their narrow-minded, opinionated faces.’

Owen dragged in a breath, forcing himself to rein in his temper, but it still rumbled dangerously below the surface. ‘We’ll just have to wait.’ He thrust my mangled gloves back into my hands. ‘Take these before I destroy them!’ But at last he looked at me with a softer expression. ‘You were magnificent, you know.’

‘I was terrified.’

‘No one would have known it. How I didn’t use my fist against Gloucester’s smug face and his insinuations, I’ll never know.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Oh, I think you could. You have hidden depths, fy nghariad.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘And that from a despised Welshman.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘My love. And, fy nghariad, we still have our freedom and no compulsion to live anywhere than as you choose. Let’s go.’

‘It wasn’t very satisfactory, was it? Our marriage is recognised only in so far as they can do nothing to end it.’

‘It’s the best we can hope for.’

So it was. And perhaps it was enough. Yet I frowned.

‘Is it enough to stop you from standing behind my chair at every meal?’

Owen thought about it.

‘Yes, By God! It is enough.’

We decided to leave that very day, that very hour, Owen looking back over his shoulder as he was helping me into the litter, surveying the bulk of the Westminster palace that cast its shadow over us.

‘I’ll not be sorry to leave this place. Gloucester hovers over it like a bad smell. It smacks of English military aggression, not to mention dungeons and locked vaults where poor incarcerated fools never again see the light of day.’ Sometimes Owen was very Welsh. He stared at me. ‘Now, are you comfortable? Or do you wish to stay a night?’

‘We leave immediately.’ Suddenly my desire to depart was as strong as Owen’s.

‘Immediately, my lady.’ And he grinned at what had been a very imperious tone.

‘Master Tudor?’

A tall, lean man in clerical glory hailed us and approached from the wing of rooms behind us, and I smiled. It was the Bishop of London, who had spoken up for me, or at least not against me. Robert FitzHugh, a friendly face, all in all, and not one of Gloucester’s coterie. He was followed by another cleric I knew, Bishop Morgan of Ely. They ranged up beside us and bowed to me. And, interestingly, to Owen. I remarked it, but Owen’s face was implacable.

‘We will not stay, my lords,’ he said unequivocally.

‘I understand,’ FitzHugh replied. He looked across at Morgan, who nodded. ‘But just a word, sir, my lady.’

Owen scowled, and I saw the direction of his thoughts. What would these clerics want with us? ‘We’ll hear you—but I wish to make good time, my lord,’ Owen stated. ‘It will not be a comfortable journey for my wife.’

‘Where will you go?’ Morgan, as rotund as FitzHugh was lean, asked.

‘To Hertford. We’ll stay there until the child is born.’

FitzHugh merely nodded with a thin smile. ‘A suggestion, my lady. And an offer. To you and to your husband.’

Owen eyed him speculatively. ‘Is it possible that you’re of a mind to circumvent Gloucester’s plans, my lord?’

‘It might be. His ambitions gnaw at my conscience sometimes.’ The smile grew a little. ‘But here is my offer. Your marriage is legal, without any doubt. You have the proof of your priest and the Council can do nothing—neither do most of them wish to. Yet Gloucester still rails against you breaking the law. May I suggest that your child be born under the auspices of the church?’

‘I don’t see the need,’ I replied, uncertain.

‘May be there is none.’ Morgan took up the ecclesiastical view. ‘But if there should be—if the legitimate birth of the child is ever questioned…’

‘My offer would circumvent it,’ FitzHugh completed the thought. ‘I suggest that you smother yourselves—and the child—in righteous legality.’

‘I don’t understand why…’ I didn’t want to be here, to be involved in plots and counterplots. I was weary beyond measure. All I wanted was to settle into my own property, away from prying eyes, but a hand suddenly enclosing mine stilled my tongue.

‘My lord Bishop is right, my love.’ Owen’s voice was harsh with the acknowledgement of how the world might see our union. ‘Do you want our children to be called bastards?’

‘But they never will.’

‘It is best to be sure,’ Bishop FitzHugh advised, patient with my concerns. ‘One of my properties—Much Hadham Palace, not too far from your castle in Hertfordshire—is at your disposal. You may travel there as you please.’ He beamed. ‘Your child will be born in the bosom of Holy Mother Church, hedged about with ecclesiastical favour. It may be that you—and your child—will need friends. I am privileged to count myself as one of them.’ His eyes positively twinkled.

‘And I,’ added Bishop Morgan. ‘We were both close to the policies of your husband—King Henry, that is. We feel it our duty to support you at this time.’

Owen’s brows rose. ‘Gloucester will be beyond rage.’

‘Yes, he will, won’t he?’ FitzHugh smiled. ‘Will you accept my offer?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Owen promptly, before I could open my mouth. ‘We’ll accept your offer. And with thanks.’

‘Excellent. A man of sense.’

The three men shook hands on the agreement without even asking me, Bishop Morgan making one final observation.

‘Are you aware, my lady, that the law, in fact, makes provision for you taking a new husband, with or without permission?’

No, I was not. My face must have registered shock, followed by bright anger.

‘Any children born of your union…’ he inclined his head to me and to Owen ‘… will be recognised as halfbrothers to the King.’

‘And Gloucester knew of this.’

‘Of course.’

I despised Gloucester even more, and as if my hatred called up his presence, Gloucester himself appeared, striding down the steps and halfway across the courtyard in the wake of the bishops. I saw him lift a peremptory hand to Owen, and I watched, narrow-eyed, as Owen, now mounted, nudged his horse in Gloucester’s direction, bending his head to hear the royal duke’s clipped delivery.

What passed between them I could not hear, but it was no friendly well-wishing. Gloucester had his hand on his sword hilt. Owen shook his head, raising a hand as if in denial, before hauling on his reins to leave Gloucester standing, frowning after him.

As Owen’s silence registered cold outrage I made no comment but, ‘What did Gloucester have to say?’ I asked at the first opportunity on the road to Much Hadham.

‘Nothing to disturb you, fy nghariad.’

I did not believe him. There was still fire in Owen’s eye and an obstinate set to his mouth but I had to admit defeat. His reticence was sometimes most infuriating.

Our son was born at Much Hadham without fuss, with only Guille and Alice in attendance. No withdrawal from society for me, no enforced isolation until I was churched. I was Owen’s wife, not Queen of England, and I was sipping ale in our chamber with Owen, idly discussing whether we should eventually move our household to my castle at Hertford or whether we would perhaps prefer the beautiful but damp environs of Leeds, on the morning that our son entered the world with lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows and a shock of dark hair.

Owen held him within the first hour of his life.

‘What do we call him?’ I asked, expecting a Welsh name.

‘Something indisputably English,’ Owen replied, much taken up with the tiny hands that waved and clutched. ‘Will he always bawl like this?’ ‘Yes. Why English?’ I asked.

‘As the wily bishop said, we want no question of his legitimacy or his Englishness.’ He slid a glance in my direction as Alice relieved him of our firstborn. ‘We’ll call him Edmund.’

‘We will?’ I blinked my astonishment. Why choose a name so uncomfortably reminiscent of my Beaufort indiscretion?

Owen’s expression remained beautifully bland. ‘Do you object? I think it a thoroughly suitable name for a royal half-brother. No one can possibly take exception to it.’

I could not argue against so shrewd a thought, and so Edmund he was. And the church remained our steadfast ally, for within the year our second child—another blackheaded son—was born at Hatfield, one of the Bishop of Ely’s estates. The church continued to smile on us, while Gloucester glowered ineffectually at Westminster.

‘And this one will have a Welsh name,’ I insisted, with all the rights of a new and exhausted mother. ‘A family name—but a name I can pronounce.’

‘We will call him Jasper,’ Owen pronounced.

‘I can say that. Is that Welsh?’

‘No,’ he said as cupped the baby’s head in his hand. ‘But it means bringer of treasure. Does he not bring untold blessings to us?’

The boys brought us joy and delight, and, unlike my firstborn, their father knew and loved them. I adored them, for their own sakes as well as for Owen’s blood that ran strong and true. My sons would never say that they were not loved.