The Forbidden Queen (72 page)

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Some of the servants, I expect, my lady.’ Beatrice, fanning herself with a branch of leaves plucked from an over-hanging ash tree, was unmoved by the commotion. ‘The men swim in the river when it is hot.’ Her lip curled at the prospect of such wanton male behaviour. ‘You’d think they had nothing better to do.’

Splashing and bellowing continued ahead.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ I heard, sotto voce.

‘Perhaps we should go on!’

‘It might not be seemly…’

I had seen the gleam in their eyes, and understood since there was little to entertain them at Windsor. Or—the thought struck me as a burst of invective assaulted my ears—were they truly trying to protect my royal dignity from the sight of naked servants cavorting in the Thames? I would not be so tender, and I continued to walk steadily.

‘We will go on. I have seen a man unclothed before. I will not faint at the sight.’

We came to the riverbank, where it curved beside a willow with a vast spread of shallow roots, perfect for a shady resting place—and stopped.

‘There! As I said. Nothing better to do with their time!’
Beatrice looked down her elegant nose. ‘I still think we should go back.’

‘Not yet.’ I raised my hand to still them.

A handful of the castle servants were making the most of their escape from palace duties, either sitting on the rough, close-cropped grass where it sloped into the water or immersed in the river itself. It was the most inviting of stretches, the bank worn away to create a deep pool, ideal for swimming in summer, equally good for skating, as I knew, when the water froze in a wide, flat expanse.

Some of the men I recognised: there was my cup-bearer and my carver. Quite unaware of their audience, they were stripped to the waist as they lounged and slaked their thirst from pottery ewers. Some were entirely naked.

We stood, motionless, and gazed our fill at a sight to entice, so much male flesh slick with sun and water. My damsels were engaged, eyes keen as if a platter of gilded almonds had just been presented for their delectation.

‘So, if we are not to forswear all men, which one of these fine examples of manhood would we consider taking to our beds?’ Meg asked, her solemnity belied by a catch in her breath.

I looked round, to smile and reply to her. And my words dried in my mouth as one figure with a flex of muscle in thigh and shoulder pushed himself to his feet, to stand for a moment on the riverbank, turning his head to laugh at some ribald comment, then dived into the water with barely a ripple, skin gleaming as he moved through
the water with speed and agility of a salmon. Emerging some yards further into the gentle flow, he stood, drops of water bright as diamonds on his shoulders and in his hair.

I inhaled slowly to fill my lungs.

Owen Tudor. Master of the Queen’s Household.

Water lapping around his waist, he raked his hair back from his face so that its black mass fell heavily onto his shoulders, the sparkling drops flung away into the sun in an arc of crystal. To my shame, I could not look away. I was enthralled, my gaze riveted, and I exhaled slowly as I had been holding my breath.

And all there was for me to do was to admire the physical attributes of a well-proportioned man, the flex of sinew and firm flesh, the definition of muscle that gave form to his chest and shoulders. And his face…Ah! I took another breath. His face was lit with such careless, unreserved joy, his eyes as dark as jet, his wet hair as polished as Venetian silk.

He was beautiful.

I realised that my loquacious damsels were silent around me.

‘Well,’ Lady Beatrice observed at last, breaking the spell.

But not for me. Not for me. For me, the spell had been irrevocably cast.

My Master of Household swam to the shallows, from where, unconscious of his lack of covering, he waded through the little wavelets. I discovered, dry-mouthed,
that my eye, of its own volition, followed the line of black hair from chest to stomach and on. His belly was flat and taut, his thighs smooth with muscle. I was sorry when he scooped up and pulled on a pair of linen drawers to hide his masculinity—or perhaps it enhanced it, as the cloth clung damply. There was an exhalation around me.

This splendid man was so far from Master Owen Tudor who determined daily which dishes should be presented at my table. The dour, silent, stern Master Owen who ensured that the floors were swept and the candles replaced, who controlled the state of my finances and the quality of wine served in my parlour. How could clothing and a studied demeanour of cool discretion cover so much that was spectacularly attractive?

His smile struck a note in my chest, like the single toll of a bell.

‘The Queen!’

We had been detected.

The little group, to a man, scrambled for clothing, all attempting something resembling a bow, incongruous given their state of undress, but their expressions were not hard to read. They resented my presence, my interference in a time that should have been their own, and free from surveillance. Owen Tudor pulled a shirt over his head as if clothing could restore his position, as perhaps it did for it brought home to me that although I might admire, I should not have been there. I should not have stayed. It was demeaning for me to be spying, and equally for them
to be spied upon. A breath of conscience undermined my innocent appreciation.

‘We will leave them to their leisure,’ I said, turning my back on the river and the unsettling figure of Owen Tudor, black hair dense as satin in the sun. ‘Their pleasures should not be a matter for our entertainment.’

‘More pleasures for us if we had stayed, my lady!’ Meg chuckled as we returned.

‘Yes, for you,’ I replied, surprised at the coldness of my tone. ‘But it would not be correct for me to stay.’

‘No, my lady, they would not want you there.’

It was a shock—although it should not have been. How could any Valois princess or English queen not be aware? But Meg’s light-hearted remark and the rapid reclothing of my servants had proclaimed the unbridgeable chasm that existed between me and those with whom I lived more clearly than any sermon preached at me about female decorum or the sanctity of royal blood. My damsels could have stayed and enjoyed the scene; and the men, sensing their admiration, would have appreciated the audience. But to be watched by the Queen Dowager? That was not the order of things. They were servants and I was anointed by God and holy oil. I had shared the King’s bed and now lived out my life in sacred chastity. It was not for me to peek and pry into their entertainments.

For men of rank, for Henry or Edmund Beaufort, it would have been accepted. They would have joined in, at sport or play. Men amongst men, the difference in status
would have been swept aside in the competition or challenge of the moment. Even Young Henry, child as he was—they would have welcomed him, moderated their language and perhaps encouraged him to swim and play the man. But I was a woman, royally isolated, and my position sacrosanct, not far removed from that of the Virgin. I must be kept in a state of grace and innocence.

I retraced my steps, my damsels silent around me, striving to control an astonishing spurt of anger. Did they think I did not know the contours and specifics of a man’s body? How did they think I had conceived a child? I was a woman and had the desires and needs of any woman. But that would not be accepted. If I had ever thought my royal status would not matter, that I was simply another woman amongst my damsels, I had been shown to be entirely wrong.

There had been no mistake: when Owen Tudor had bowed low, his body once more shielded from my stare by seemly linen, it had been as if a mask had fallen into place, all his earlier vivacity quenched. He thought I had no right to be there, perhaps he even despised me for admitting to the needs of mortal women.

For what had he seen in my face? I had no skill in the art of dissimulation. Had he seen my naked desire? I shuddered that I might have revealed far too much, and as I strode back to the castle, where I might hide my flushed cheeks, I could not banish the image of him from my imagination. The line of thigh and leg, the curve of buttock
and calf, the shimmering moisture caught in the dusting of dark hair on his chest, and I knew exactly what it was that had intoxicated me most in that little display of male power.

Henry, always royal, always the king, had been conscious of the impression he must make, knowing that I could only pay homage before his superb majesty. Edmund had been wilfully, magnificently seductive, intent on sweeping me off my feet, energised when I could do nothing but respond to him.

And Owen Tudor? Owen Tudor, even when he had known I was there, had had no desire at all to engage my emotions. But, by the Virgin, he had. My skin heated at the bright memory. And the horror, the shocking reality of it struck my breast with the force of a Welsh arrow.

No! No, no, no!

I would have covered my face with my hands if I had not been in the public eye. The words, repeated over and over again, beat in my head. I did not want this. I would not have it! Had I learned nothing from my experience with Henry? From my rapid falling in love with Edmund? Oh, I had learned, and learned bitterly. I would never again allow my heart and mind to be at the beck and call of any man. I would not have my will snatched from me by a futile desire to discover love.

This
lust
was no more than a physical attraction to a fine body and a well-moulded face. He was the Master of my Household, a man I had known for all the years of
my widowhood. This was a wayward, immature emotion. Had I not proved that such superficial desire, however powerful in the moment, was quick to fade and die?

I marched back to the castle, furious with my own weakness. So much for my forswearing men. So much for my foolish drama with coloured silks. I had been hooked, like a carp from one of my own fish ponds, by the sight of a beautiful man rising from the waters of the Thames, a scene worthy of one of the romantic stories from the
Morte D’Arthur
, where women were invariable too silly for their own good and men too chivalrous to know when a woman desired more than a chaste kiss on her fingertips.

My women marched with me, uncomplaining, until, with a cry, Mary stumbled on the rough path and I moderated my speed. Flight was useless, since I could not escape my thoughts, or my sudden unfortunate obsession. Owen Tudor remained firmly implanted in my mind.

Was I really contemplating leaping into a liaison with Owen Tudor, my
servant
?

It is degrading. He is a servant. It is not a suitable liaison
.

It might not be suitable, but I knew a craving to touch him, imagining what his arms might feel like around me. My cheeks were as hot as fire, my thighs liquid with longing, even as my heart ached with shame. Was this how I would spend my life? Lusting after servants because they were beautiful and young?

Returned to my parlour, I ordered Cecily to fetch wine
and a lute. We would sing and read of true heroes. We would engage our minds in higher things. Perhaps even a page from my Book of Hours would direct my inappropriate thoughts into colder, more decorous channels. The Queen Dowager must be above earthly desires. She must be dull and unknowing of love and lust.

And if she was not?

Think of the gossip, I admonished myself, the words deliberately harsh to jolt myself into reality. If nothing else will drive Owen Tudor from your thoughts, think of the immediate repercussions. How could you withstand the talk of the Court with its vicious darts and sly innuendo? To succumb to my longings would brand me as a harlot more despicable than my mother. What was it that Gloucester had said of me? A woman unable to curb fully her carnal passions. A wanton child of Isabeau of Bavaria, the Queen of France, who everyone knew could not keep her hands and lips from seducing young men.

No, I could not bear the knowing looks from my damsels, the judgemental stares when I accompanied Young Henry to Court. My reputation, already tattered and shabby in some quarters, would be in rags. And would it not be so much worse if I looked at Owen? At least my mother, lascivious as she might well be, drew the line at seducing her servants.

Have you heard? The Queen Dowager has taken the Master of her Household to her bed. Do you suppose
she persuades herself he is assessing the state of her bed linen?

I stifled a groan. How shaming. Gloucester would lock me in my bedchamber at Leeds Castle and drop the key into the river.

‘Are you well, Lady?’ Beatrice asked.

‘I am perfectly well,’ I croaked through dry lips.

‘It is very hot,’ she said, handing me a feather fan. ‘It will be cooler when the sun goes down.’

‘Yes. Yes, it will.’

I shivered uncomfortably in the heat, my cheeks flushed despite the breeze from the feverishly applied peacock feathers. If Beatrice knew what was in my mind, she would not be so compassionate.

‘Perhaps you have a fever, my lady,’ Meg suggested solicitously.

‘Perhaps I do.’

Fever! For that was what it was, a passing heat of no importance, I decided. I was victim of an unfortunate attack of lust, of base physical longing for a handsome man, brought on by the hot weather and a lack of something better for my mind to focus on. Such obsession died. It must. If it did not die of its own accord, I would kill it.

Out of sight, out of mind. Was that not the best remedy? At Gloucester’s command I travelled to Westminster with Young Henry, leaving my own household, and Owen Tudor, at Windsor. For a se’ennight I enjoyed the
festivities, the bustle and noise of London. Every day I rejoiced in the sight of my little son growing more regal under Warwick’s tuition. I gloried in the fine dresses and even finer jewels, something I had forgotten in my quiet, retired existence.

And every day I erected bulwarks against any encroaching thoughts of Owen Tudor. I would not think of him. I did not need him. I smiled and danced and sang, laughed at the antics of the Court Fool. I would prove the shallowness of my attraction to the man who had ordered the details of my daily life since Henry’s death.