The Forbidden Queen (85 page)

‘When did you first love me?’ I asked, as any woman must when first deluged in emotion.

‘When I first came to your household. I cannot recall a time when I did not love you.’

Drowsing, we knew our snatched moment together was rushing to a close. The daily routine at Windsor, the final service of Compline to end the day, claimed us back from our bright idyll.

‘How did I not know?’ I asked, trying to remember Owen in those days after Henry’s death.

His lips were soft against my hair, my temple. ‘Your thoughts were trapped in desolation. Why would you notice a servant?’

I pushed myself so that I could read his face. ‘And yet you were content to serve me, knowing that I did not
see
you.’

Owen’s smile was wry, so were his words. ‘Content? Never that. Sometimes I felt the need to shout my love from the battlement walk, or announce it from the dais, along with the offering of the grace cup. But there was no future in it, or so I thought. I was simply there to obey your commands and—’

I stopped his words with my fingers. ‘I am ashamed,’ I whispered.

Owen’s kiss melted the shame from my heart.

I glowed. I walked with a light step as my heart sang. Light of his life, he had called me. I could not imagine such happiness.

‘He makes you content, my lady,’ Beatrice observed carefully.

‘Yes.’ I did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Is there gossip?’

‘No.’

I thanked the Holy Mother for her inexplicable kindness as I lived every day for the time when Owen would blow out the candle and we would be enclosed in our world that was neither English nor French nor Welsh.

‘What is our future?’ I asked one morning when, in the light of a single candle and before the household was awake, Owen struggled, cursing mildly, into tunic and hose.

‘I don’t know. I have no gift for divination.’ Applying himself to his belt in the near darkness, he looked across to where I still lay in tangled linens, and seeing the gleam of fear in my eyes, he abandoned the buckle and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We will live for the present. It is all we have, and it is enough.’

‘Yes. It is enough.’

‘I will come to you when I can.’

He took my lips with great sweetness. I loved him
enough, trusted him enough, to put myself and our uncertain future into his care. How foolish we were to believe that we could control what fate determined.

I kept early hours in the summer months when the sun drew me from my bed. The next morning, before we broke our fast, as was customary my whole household—damsels, pages and servants who were not immediately in employment—congregated in my private chapel to celebrate Mass. As the familiar words bathed the chapel in holy power, my fingers might trip over the beads of my rosary but my mind practised the words I would use to explain to Owen Tudor that I desired him but must reject him, that we must continue in the rigid path of mistress and servant.

At the end when I turned my thoughts to Father Benedict’s blessing I had made at least one decision. I would meet with Owen in the Great Hall. I did not think my words would please him, but it would be public enough to preserve a remote politeness between us. I offered up a final prayer for strength and forgiveness, rose to my feet,
preparing to hand my missal and my mantle—essential against the cold in the chapel—to Guille and—

He was waiting for me by the door, and there was no misreading the austere expression: his mood was as dark today as yesterday. Neither did he intend to allow me to escape, but I would pre-empt him, seizing the initiative despite trembling knees. The drawing of a line between us which neither of us would cross again would be on my terms.

‘Our celebration for the Feast of St Winifred,’ I said, a small, polite smile touching my lips. ‘We must talk of it, Master Owen. Perhaps you will walk with me to the Great Hall.’

‘Here will do, my lady.’

To order him away would draw too much attention. I waved my damsels through the door before me and shook my head at Guille that I did not need her. Then we were face to face. Father Benedict would be sufficient chaperone.

‘Master Tudor—’ I began.

‘I bruised your face. And you would not receive me.’ His eyes blazed in his white face, his voice a low growl.

‘Well, I thought—’ Unexpectedly under attack, I could not explain what I had thought.

‘I marked you—and you refused to see me!’

‘I was ashamed.’ I would be honest, even though I quailed at his anger.

‘
You
were ashamed!’

I took a step back from the venom, but I was no longer so sure where his fury was directed. I had thought it was at me. Still, I would say what I thought I must.

‘I ask that you will understand—and pardon my thoughtlessness.’

‘
I
pardon
you
? It is unforgivable that I should have despoiled your beauty.’ He partially raised his hand as if he would touch my cheek, then, as Father Benedict shuffled about the sanctuary, let it fall to his side. ‘I deserve that you dismiss me for my actions. And yet for you to bar me from your rooms, and refuse to see me—it is too much.’

‘The blame does not lie with you,’ I tried.

He inhaled slowly, regaining control, of himself and of his voice. So he had a temper. I was right about the dragon in him. I feared it, yet at the same time it stirred my blood.

‘I regret—’

‘No. You have no need to regret.’ Briskly he took my mantle from my hands, shaking out the folds and draping it round my shoulders, the second time he had felt a need to protect me from the elements. ‘It is too cold without, my lady.’ The control was back, the passion harnessed, but the words were harsh. ‘I think the blame does lie with me in that I asked something of you that you were not capable of giving. I should have understood it, and not put you in that impossible position. My judgement was at fault. And because of that I harmed you.’

It hurt. It hurt that I had made him think me so weak.

‘I was capable,’ I retorted, but softly, conscious of Father Benedict still kneeling before the altar. ‘I
am
capable.’

‘Then why did you run from me?’

‘I shouldn’t have.’

His blood was running hot again, the dragon surfacing. ‘What happened between us, Katherine? One moment I thought you were of a mind with me—and the next you fought me as if I were endangering your honour. You came to me willingly. You allowed me to touch you and kiss you. You called me Owen. Not Master Owen or Master Tudor, but Owen. You allowed me to call you Katherine. Can you deny it? Did you think I would hurt you?’

‘Never that. But making a choice was too much to bear.’

‘What choice? To seize happiness in each other’s arms?’ There was anger simmering beneath the bafflement. ‘That was what I offered. I thought that was what you wanted too. And why did you accuse me of not being able to love you?’

‘Because no one ever has!’

I covered my mouth with my hands, horrified at hearing my admission spoken aloud.

Was he angry? I dared not look at him. Contrition made me move to walk past him, to escape the inevitable accusations, but as I reached the door Owen took my wrist. I glanced towards Father Benedict but he was occupied before the altar. When I pulled hard for release, Owen simply tightened his grip and drew me back into the chapel.

‘Katherine!’ He huffed out a breath. ‘Are all women so
intransigent and intriguing? I swear it takes a brave man to take you on! I want to seize you and shake you for your indecision—and at the same time prostrate myself at your feet in sorrow for my savagery. You tear me apart. Two nights ago, for that brief moment, you burned with fire in my arms. Today you are as cold as ice. A man needs to know what his woman is thinking.’

It shocked me. ‘I am not your woman,’ I remarked. I was indeed as cold as ice.

‘Tell me that you did not want me when you came to my room. If that is not being my woman, I don’t know what is. Or do they have different standards at the royal court in France?’

Doubly wounded by an accusation that had some degree of truth in it, fury raced through me like a bolt of lightning. I felt like throwing my missal at his head. I gripped it, white-knuckled, and without thought, without respect, committing all the sins I had deplored, I replied, ‘How dare you, a servant, judge me? You have no right!’

Gripping my missal hard, I instantly regretted my ungoverned words. Seeing what might be in my mind, Owen favoured me with an unequivocal stare and took the book from my hand.

‘I think your words have done enough damage,’ he observed, the soft cadence for once compromised. ‘To resort to violence would be less than becoming, my lady.’

And I was stricken. It was as if I had actually struck him, for how could I have spoken words so demeaning?
Demeaning to both Owen Tudor and myself. What would he think of me now? First to play him fast and loose, and then to lash out in an anger that he would not have understood? How could I possibly explain to him that I feared beyond anything to be likened to my mother and her louche court where lust ruled and principle came a far second? I could not tell him, I could not explain…

‘I am so sorry,’ I breathed. ‘I am even more ashamed…’

And how unforgiving was his reply. ‘Well, my comment was ill advised, I suppose. What would a servant know of such high matters as behaviour between those of royal blood?’

‘I should not have said that. It was unforgivable. Everything I say to try to put this right between us seems to be the wrong thing.’

And I covered my face at the impossibility of it, so that when Owen moved to pull me to sit on the settle he startled me, but I did not refuse, neither did I rebuff him when Father Benedict rose, genuflected, and withdrew into the sanctuary, and Owen took a seat beside me.

‘Don’t weep,’ he said. ‘What I said to you was intolerable for a man of honour. But I claim provocation.’ His smile was wry. ‘Your tears are sufficient condemnation of my actions towards you. Doubtless I should be dismissed from your service for it. I would do nothing to hurt you, my lady.’

‘I’ll not dismiss you. Do you not understand?’ His return to formality overcame me, undermining all my intentions
to remain aloof and distant, and the words poured as freely as my tears. ‘I was responsible. I was too impulsive. I am ashamed that I came to your room, willingly kissed you and accepted your kisses, and then my courage gave out at the last moment. I could see no happiness, no future, for either of us. Do you not see? I am not allowed to have what would make me happy. My life is dictated by Gloucester and the Council. Yes, I wanted you. I would have lain in your arms if I had not had a fit of remorse for beginning what could not be ended. For Gloucester’s anger at me would touch you also.’

He said nothing, merely leaned forward, forearms supported on his thighs, studying the tiles between his boots. I could not tell if he understood, or despised me as a weak woman who could not make up her own mind. I feared it might be the latter.

‘I wish I had never seen you swimming in the river,’ I sniffed.

He turned his head to look up at me. ‘Why?’

‘Because since then I am aware of you as I have been of no other man.’

‘I didn’t know you admired my prowess at swimming,’ he said.

‘I didn’t. I lusted after your body,’ I admitted.

He laughed softly, the sound not totally devoid of humour, as he returned my missal to me. ‘So why refuse me?’

‘Because I have to live as I am told to live, discreetly and circumspectly, to honour my son and the Crown.’

The dark brows drew together. ‘You are not a child, to follow orders.’

‘It is not as simple as that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am alone. I have no one to encourage me, to give me strength. If I am to rebel against those who have power over me, I cannot do it alone. You were right. St Winifred had far more courage than I.’

‘To Hell with St Winifred. I would give you strength.’

‘But if we embarked on…that is to say…’

‘If you allowed me to become your lover.’

‘Yes. That is what I meant.’ I kept my gaze on my fingers, still clutching my ill-treated missal. ‘When it was discovered it would bring Gloucester’s wrath down on us. And that would mean dismissal for you, even punishment.’

‘To Hell with Gloucester too. Do you not rule your own household? I could give you happiness.’

‘And I could bring disaster down on your head.’

‘Do we deny each other because of what others want for us?’

It all seemed so simple when he spoke it. But it wasn’t simple at all. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We must deny each other.’

His hand touched my arm. ‘I say no. Where is your spirit?’

‘I have none.’ Self-pity washed over me like a wave. ‘I don’t believe myself to be worthy of love.’

‘Look at me, Katherine.’

I did, wishing my face was not ravaged by tears, but still I looked, to discover all the anger and condemnation in his face had quite gone. I was caught up in such understanding, such compassion, such a tenderness of care that I could not look away.

‘Use my name,’ he said gently.

‘Owen,’ I said with a watery smile.

‘Good. You have given me a hard task, have you not? To prove to you that my love is sure? Now, listen to me. Here is how I see it,’ Owen stated solemnly. ‘I see a woman of extraordinary courage. You came to a strange country as a young girl, to make a new life alone since your husband left you for the demands of war. You bore the loss of widowhood, and you have stood by your young son. Do you think I have not seen how you behave? Never has there been a Queen Dowager as gracious as Katherine of France. You have escaped from the toils of Edmund Beaufort, God rot his soul. And not before time—he was not the man for you. I say that you are a woman of spirit. And I say that that you should not accept a life of solitude and loneliness because your brother-by-marriage thinks it would be good for the Crown. Do you not deserve a life of your own, on your own terms?’

There was a little silence.

‘Look at me, Katherine. Answer me.’

‘I…’

‘My lady?’