The Forbidden Queen (78 page)

‘We can’t hide it completely.’

‘No.’ I sighed. It was the best we could do. I broke my fast in my chamber and absented myself from Mass, but I would have to join my household for dinner, or my empty chair would cause comment. I would have to scrape up what I could of my poor fortitude and pretend that nothing was amiss.

And I would have to face Owen Tudor.

When I took my place on the dais, with no thought of what was on my plate, and no ear for Father Benedict’s blessings, all I could see in my mind was Owen Tudor’s gaze sweep over me, then return, as I had first walked defiantly into the room. The gaze became a stare, his whole stance taut, until he remembered his duties and
stalked away to summon the pages to bring in the serving platters. All I was left with was a memory of his stunned expression, for the much-vaunted cosmetics were not concealing the livid bruise to any degree.

I already knew this. My damsels, meeting with me in my solar, had been sympathetic with my plight and full of suggestions from their own remedies, but nothing could conceal the discolouring. Or my remorse when I saw Owen Tudor’s reaction.

Not Master Owen. He would never be Master Owen again. How could I think of him as a man in a position of subservience to me when he had held me in his arms? When his kisses had turned my blood to molten gold? Unfortunately, such was my nature that the gold had turned to lead and I had dealt him the worst of blows. I had encouraged him, only to repulse him.

Throughout the whole length of that meal contrition stalked me, for what had I seen, for that one breath-stopping moment, before he had masked all thoughts? Shock certainly, for he would not have known. But then a sudden blaze of furious anger. It had made my blood run cold, and added to the muddle of my thoughts.

How dared he be angry with me?

And yet why should he not? I admitted as I picked at the plums in syrup and sweet pastry set before me. Did I not deserve it? I had given him to believe that I was willing, kissing him with a wanton fervour previously unknown to me. I had pressed my body to his in
silent demand that he could not have misinterpreted. And then, when his embrace had grown too powerful, I had run away, when I should have had enough confidence to conduct an affair with a man with some self-possession.

If that was what I wanted. Even if he was a servant.

And if I did not want it, I should not have responded to him in the first place. Had he not given me the space to withdraw after my first foolish admission?

You need fear no gossip from my tongue
.

The fault was undoubtedly mine, and I deserved his ire.

The meal proceeded. We ate, we drank. We gossiped—or my damsels did. The pages, well-born boys learning their tasks in a noble household under Owen’s direction, served us with silent concentration. Owen’s demeanour was exactly as it should be, a quiet, watchful competence. But he did not eat with us, taking his seat along the board as was his wont. Instead, he stood behind my chair in austere silence, a personal and reproachful statement to me, as if to broadcast the difference in our ranks.

I deserved that too.

I had no requests of him. My whole awareness was centred on the power of his stare between my shoulder blades. It was as if I was pierced by a knife.

I put my spoon down on the table. The pastry sat heavily in my belly, and I breathed a silent prayer that the meal would be soon over and I could escape back to my room. Except that when the puddings were finished and the board cleared, I had no choice but to walk past him
since he had not moved. His eyes were rich with what I read as censure, when I risked a glance.

‘Was the food not to your satisfaction, my lady?’ he asked. He had noticed that I had eaten little.

‘It was satisfactory. As always.’ I made no excuse but my reply was brusque.

He bowed. I walked past him, my heart as sore and as wounded as my cheek.

‘Master Owen is come to see you, my lady.’ It was the hour after dinner and Guille entered my chamber where I sat, unseeing, my Book of Hours closed on my knee. ‘To discuss the arrangements for the celebration of the Young King’s birthday.’

‘Tell Master Owen that I am indisposed,’ I replied, concentrating on the page that I had suddenly seen a need to open. ‘There is time and more to discuss the tournament. Tell him to see my Lord of Warwick if there are difficulties.’

My eyes looked with horror at the penitential psalm on the open page, expressing sorrow for sin.

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions
.

Before God, I needed His mercy, and Owen Tudor’s, for I had indeed sinned.

‘Master Owen wishes to know if you will mark the day of St Winifred with a feast, my lady. He needs to make
the funds available. It should be on the third day of November.’ Guille again. Another hour had crawled by and my self-disgust was no less sharp. Neither was my self-immolation.

‘Who is St Winifred?’ I demanded crossly.

‘A Welsh saint, Master Owen says.’ Guille shrugged her lack of interest. ‘He says that she was a woman who showed herself capable of integrity and fortitude under duress. He says that such qualities are rare in womankind.’

I stiffened at so pointed a comment from my Master of Household.

‘Tell Master Owen that I am at prayer.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

How dared he? Did he think to discountenance me even more? Kneeling before my
prie-dieu
, I covered my face and ignored Guille’s speculative stare.

The hour arrived, before we would all meet again for supper.

‘Master Owen has returned this, my lady.’ It was my hood, carefully folded. ‘He says that you must have left it in the chapel.’

‘Yes, I must have. Thank him, if you will, Guille.’ Taking it from her, I buried my face in the soft velvet when she left the room. I could not face my own thoughts.

Our paths must of necessity cross at supper. I considered shutting myself in my room with some feeble excuse but
was that not the way of the coward he thought me? I had played my part in this situation and thus I must see it through to the end. I must have the fortitude of the venerated St Winifred. I took my seat, hands folded, appetite still impaired, and set myself to suffer.

And, oh, I did. Not once did he look at me. He stalked about the chamber as if he had the toothache, then became as before, a thunderous brooding presence behind my chair. If he was angry before, he was furious now. I ate as little as I had previously and at the end walked past him as if I had no knowledge of him.

That night I knelt once more at my
prie-dieu
but after the briefest acknowledgement of the Virgin’s grace I turned my thoughts inward. I must make recompense, I must admit my fault, undertaking what I could to smooth out this tangled mess of fear and desire. After Mass next morning I would summon Owen Tudor and explain that. But what would I explain? I did not understand the turmoil in my heart and mind. But I would explain that the mistake had been mine, and accept that his attraction to me had died a fast death.

I would accept it, as I had accepted Henry’s coldness and Edmund’s betrayal in the face of ambition. It would be no worse. I had weathered those storms well enough. My marriage to Henry had brought me a much-loved son, and I rarely thought about my Beaufort suitor except to
wish that I had been a little older and wiser. To lose Owen before I had even known him would be no worse.

Except that it would. However hard it was for me to acknowledge it, I did not think I could live without Owen Tudor. The fundamental aching need that had touched me when I had seen him stride from the river had not lessened with the passage of time. It had grown until I had no peace.

I lifted my face to the Virgin and promised that I would make my peace, with him and with myself.

I stared down at the lengthy document in my hand. The official script of a Westminster scribe raced across the page, interspersed with red capitals and hung about with seals. At least I recognised those—they were newly created for Young Henry to mark his forthcoming coronation. As for the rest—the close-coupled lettering, the close alignment—resentment was my primary emotion, with a thorough lacing of self-pity and a good pinch of embarrassment. I was not proud of myself. I could make a guess at its strikingly official content but guessing was hardly sufficient for so wordy a communication, and so of necessity I would have to admit my need to someone.

‘You look troubled, my lady.’

I started, like a doe in a thicket at the approach of baying hounds. Master Tudor had appeared, soft-footed, at my side. I had not heard his footfall, and I wished he was not there: I wished he had not seen whatever expression it
was on my face that had alerted him. I did not want compassion. My own self-pity was hard enough to tolerate. Surely I could summon enough self-control to hide my discomfort. It was hardly a problem that was new to me.

I frowned at him, unfairly. ‘No, Master Tudor,’ I replied. His expression was dispassionate but his eyes were disconcertingly accommodating, inviting an unwary female to sink in and request help. ‘Merely some news from Westminster.’

‘Do you require my services…?’ he asked.

I snatched at a sensible answer. ‘No, no. That is…’ And failed lamentably. He was so close to me that I could hear the creak of the leather of his boot soles as he moved from one foot to another. I could see the blue-black sheen, iridescent as a magpie’s plumage, gleaming along the fall of his hair.

‘Perhaps a cup of wine, my lady? Or do I send for a cloak for you? This room is too cold for lingering.’

I could imagine his unspoken thoughts well enough.
What in God’s name are you doing, standing about to no purpose in this unheated place, when you could be comfortable in your own parlour?

‘No, no wine,’ I managed at last. ‘Or cloak. I will not stay.’

He was right, of course. I looked around and shivered as a current of cold air wrapped itself around my legs and feet. This was not a room—a vast and sparsely furnished audience chamber, in fact—to stand about in, without a
fur-lined mantle. I was there only because I had just received an unnervingly official royal herald, complete with staff of office and heraldic tabard, dispatched to me by my lord of Gloucester. With all the formality that I had been instructed to employ when communicating with the outside world, attended by my damsels, clad impressively with regal splendour in silks and ermine, I had stood on the dais in this bleak chamber and accepted the document, before sending the messenger on his way and dismissing my women.

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.’