The Forbidden Queen (75 page)

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.’