The Forbidden Queen (96 page)

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.

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.