by Anne O'Brien
‘Do you not love me enough? You are happy enough to enjoy my kisses. Is there a limit to your love, my lady?’
Oh, his words were accusatory.
‘There is no limit,’ I responded. ‘You know that I love you, but I no longer know if you love me. I think to reject me so openly was cruel.’
I was astonished at how cool and confident my voice sounded. I knew that I was in the right in my refusal. The thought of Gloucester passing judgement on my moral state still horrified me, so I met Edmund’s furious stare with a steady regard.
‘You are very cold,’ he observed.
‘I am hurt.’
He held out his hand in demand. I thrust my hands behind my back.
And, taking me aback, instead of the frustration or even anger I had expected, his face was illuminated with a smile that made my blood sing. ‘Are you sending me away?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ But my heart quaked.
‘Do you expect me to make an apology?’ he demanded.
I suspected that he did not know the meaning of the word. ‘Do you think you should?’ I deliberately allowed a little edge to colour my tone. ‘How could you inflict such hurt on me, Edmund? And so thoughtlessly, if you see no need to ask pardon.’
‘Love is not love without hurt.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Edmund swooped, and captured one of my hands, since I allowed it, falling smoothly into the verse:
‘Love without anxiety and without fear
Is fire without flames and without warmth,
Day without sunlight, hive without honey
Summer without flower, winter without frost’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, lifting my chin, as if I were in no mood for such complex sentiments. In fact, they thrilled me, but I held firm in my resolve.
‘It means that love must have pain to make the joy more intense.’ Edmund pressed my fingers against his mouth. ‘Come to my bed, my golden one.’
‘I will not.’
‘Must I go away again?’
I lifted a negligent shoulder. ‘I will not be browbeaten, my lord.’
‘I beg of you, my glorious Queen Kat. Have mercy.’
I shook my head. Neither would I be cajoled, though I could not contemplate the thought of never seeing him again, not touching him, not savouring his mouth on mine. But I knew he would not leave me again.
‘Speak to me.’ Edmund pressed his lips to the soft skin of my wrist where my blood beat heavily. ‘Come to my bed, my obstinate love. Who’s to know here?’
‘I will not.’
‘Your mouth provoked me,
Kiss me, kiss sweet!
Every time I see you so it seems to me…’
‘I don’t provoke you.’
‘But you do. Your refusal provokes me to madness.
Give me a sweet, sweet kiss, or two or three!’
Edmund, still clasping my hand, in all his travel-stained boots and hose, sank to one knee, head bent.
‘Don’t ask me again,’ I urged, trying to step away. ‘For I will not.’ And yet I felt that the mood in him had changed, the flirtation a thing of the past. Slowly his gaze lifted to mine.
‘Katherine.’
There was no mockery in his use of my name, neither was there any residue of light in his eyes. I had never seen him so serious. Had he indeed given up on me? Perhaps he would ask forgiveness for his presumption and explain that he had been mistaken after all, that his regard for me had proved to be a finite thing. My hand tensed in his but I regarded him steadily to cover the flutter of nerves in my belly.
‘Will you wed me, Katherine?’
It took my breath. ‘Marriage?’
‘Why not? We love each other. There is no one I would rather wed.’ His brows flattened. ‘Unless you have another man in mind?’
‘No, no.’
‘Then will you?’
I struggled to put my thoughts into words. ‘I must think, Edmund.’
‘Then think of this too.’
He stood, pulled me into his arms and kissed me long and thoroughly. I did not resist. He was mine, and I was his.
That night, alone in my room, curled on the cushions in the window embrasure with a single candle and the lap dog for company, I thought about what it would be like to be married to Edmund Beaufort. There would never be a dull moment, I decided with an unexpected wide smile that was reflected back at me cruelly refracted by the fault lines in the glass. It would be a highly respectable marriage, with a man at the forefront of politics and national events. Edmund would be a man I could be proud of and admire.
And it would be reciprocal. Did he not tell me that he admired me? I was his golden queen. I trembled at the thought of learning physical love in Edmund’s masterful arms.
But would our life continue at this madcap rate? Would he continue to shower me with poetry and extravagant compliments, luring me into breath-stopping kisses in secluded corners? Real life is not like that, I informed my reflection seriously. You cannot be breathless for ever.
But why not? He loved me. He turned my limbs to water.
‘Well? Will you wed me, Queen Kat?’
Edmund was waiting outside my chamber next morning, shoulders propped against the wall. How long he had been waiting I knew not, but of course it would have been no difficulty to discover the pattern of my days at Leeds Castle. He was dressed to perfection, linen pristine, boots polished, thigh-length tunic impressive in its richness, as he had intended. He bowed low, as I knew he would. The peacock feathers in his cap swept the floor.
‘I beg you to put me out of my misery. Wed me and I will be the most attentive husband you could ever desire.’ He cocked his head, his hair gleaming in the morning light. ‘Must I kneel again?’
‘No,’ I replied slowly, all my thoughts of the previous night crystallising in my mind. ‘Don’t kneel.’ I took a little breath. ‘Yes, Edmund. I will. I will wed you.’
His mouth curved in a smile, his eyes glowed, and from the purse at his belt he took out a gold and enamelled brooch, which he pinned to my bodice, where it glittered in blue and red and gold on my breast. Not a jewelled confection such as a man might give to the woman he loved but a coat of arms, a badge of ownership. I did not recognise it.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It is a family piece—a livery badge. The Beaufort escutcheon.’ He traced with his fingertip the portcullis and the lion rampant. ‘I thought I would like you to wear something so personal to me.’
‘It is beautiful. I will gladly wear it.’ And I turned his hand and kissed his palm.
‘I adore you, my beautiful Katherine.’
As we knelt together to hear Mass in the chapel, and my priest, Father Benedict, elevated the host, my blood ran hot with joy. The man at my side adored me. That was what he had said. And what a particular piece of jewellery he had given me, marking me as a Beaufort possession. Wearing it as I did that morning made a very clear statement of my intent. When Mass was complete, Edmund whispered:
‘Can I ask you to be discreet in your wearing of the brooch?’
I looked my surprise.
‘Just for a little time. Until I can announce to the whole world that you will be my wife.’
I agreed. Why would I not? Edmund would need to inform his family. When we returned to Windsor I would be free to wear the Beaufort portcullis and lion as openly as I pleased.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Edmund Beaufort took control with a snap of his impertinent fingers. I had never met anyone with so much inexhaustible energy. Or such a charmingly insolent denial of authority, such wanton disregard for my enforced cold respectability as Queen Dowager and Queen Mother. Or such wilful casting aside of court etiquette. Unleashed on the quiet Court at Windsor, Edmund Beaufort blew the cobwebs from the tapestries and stirred the old rooms into joyful activity, breathing life into rooms that had not seen occupation for years. I found myself at the centre of a whirlwind.
Our s
taid court became a place of ragingly youthful high spirits, the young courtiers who elected to remain with James and my damsels in no manner reluctant to be drawn into Edmund’s plans. It was as if they were awakened from a long sleep, and I too. I was drawn in whether I wished it or no. And I did. I came alive, my despondency and desolation vanishing like mist under early morning sun. There was no lying abed in those frosty December mornings when the sound of the hunting horn beneath my window blasted me into activity. Neither was I allowed to cry off. We hunted through the days, come fair weather or foul.
Some days, seeing my wariness around horses, Edmund arranged that we take the hawks out into the marshes on foot. There was little sport to be had, nothing but wet feet and icy fingers and shivering limbs by the time that the noon hour approached, but Edmund, in his role of Overseer of Inordinate Pleasure, had all arranged with my Master of Household. As the pale sun reached its zenith, wagons pulled by oxen trundled towards us along the track.
‘What is this?’ I squinted against the hazy sun.
‘Everything for your comfort, of course, my lady.’
I watched with astonishment.
‘When did he arrange this?’ I asked James, who stood with his arm openly around Joan’s shoulders.
‘Lord knows. He’s a past master. Give him an inch…’
And he would take a dozen miles. As he had. Hot braziers, the air shimmering around them, were manhandled onto the ground in our midst. Heaped platters of bread and meat and cheese, bowls of steaming pottage, flagons of warm spiced ale were all unloaded and a group of minstrels produced their instruments, blowing on their cold fingers. Soon the marshes echoed to music and song.
It was magical.
‘Do you approve, Majesty?’ Edmund asked with a bold stare.
‘It’s too late to ask that,’ I replied in mock reproof.
He sank to his knees, head bent. ‘I asked no permission. Am I in disgrace?’
‘Would you care?’ I thought he would not.
‘I would care if I caused you to frown on me, lady.’ Suddenly he was grave, looking up through his dark lashes, all light mockery abandoned, making me recognise that I must consider my choice of words. And so I kept them light as I borrowed a fiddle bow from one of the nearby minstrels and struck Edmund lightly on both shoulders.
‘Arise, Lord Edmund. I forgive you everything. A hot brazier and a bowl of onion pottage on a freezing day can worm your way into any woman’s favour. Even mine.’
He leapt to his feet. ‘Come and be warm.’
Handing over the raptors to the waiting falconers, we ate, then danced on the frosted grass by the river, until the bitter wind dispelled even the heat of the fires and drove us in. I laughed at the irresistible impulsiveness of it all when we joined hands and circled like any peasant gathering, and my hand was clasped hard in Edmund Beaufort’s as we hopped and leapt. As if he felt that I might run away if he released me for even a moment.
I felt like a young girl again. I had no intention of running.
Ah, but some days I felt old, older than my years, unable to respond to the simple magic of pleasure. A vicious cold snap found us skating on the solid stretch of river, silvered and beautiful in the frosty air, the grass seed heads coated in hoar.
‘I cannot,’ I said, when my damsels donned skates and proved their prowess. It looked dangerously uneven to me, the ice ridged and perilous to those who had no balance.
‘Have you never skated?’ Edmund was skimming fast across the frozen ripples, already at my side in an elegant slide and spurt of ice that drew all eyes, while I shivered miserably on the riverbank, reluctant even to try. I had a vision of me, sprawled and helpless and horribly exposed.
‘No.’
‘You can learn.’ ‘I doubt it.’
What’s wrong with you? Why can you not just try? What will it matter if you fall over?
I am afraid. I think I have been afraid all my life.
And there was the familiar gloom lurking on the edge of my sight, waiting for me to allow it to approach closer and overwhelm me.
‘You can, Queen Kat. There is nothing that you cannot do.’ Edmund’s certainty cut through my self-imposed misery. ‘You will be an expert by tonight. I guarantee it.’
Still I sought for an excuse. ‘I have no skates.’
He produced a pair, shaking them by their leather straps over my head. ‘Sit there and I will remedy your lack.’
I sat on a folded cloak on the bank. ‘Permit me, my lady.’
Without waiting for permission, he pushed back my skirt and lifted one foot, beginning to strap on the skate. I discovered that I was holding my breath, watching his bent head as he huffed at the stubbornness of the frozen leather. He wore a magnificently swathed velvet hood, his hair curling beneath it against his cheek; his fingers were sure and clever, even in the cold.
I took in a quick breath as they slid over my ankle, then round my instep. It was an intimate task but not once did he stray beyond what was acceptable. Quick and efficient, he was as impersonal as any servant. Not once did he look up into my face. Until it was done.
And then he did, holding my gaze, his own bright with knowing. ‘There, my lady. It’s done. You may breathe again.’ His eyes outshone the jewels anchoring the velvet folds. He knew I had been holding my breath. My heart jolted against my ribs.
And then there was no time to think. Edmund braced himself to lift me, and drew me onto the ice. I clung to his arm as if he were my last resort in preserving my life, but I skated and my pride knew no bounds.
‘A prize! A prize for Queen Kat, who has learned a hard lesson.’
He left me standing at the edge, to skate off to the far side, returning with a feather fallen from the wing of one of the swans that we had driven off in high dudgeon. It was perfect, shining white, and he tucked it into my hood.
‘You are a pearl beyond price, Queen Kat.’
‘Indeed, you must not…’ Despite the cold, my body felt infused with heat, but a voice of sense whispered in my mind. Enchantment could be a dangerous thing.
And then before I could say more he was off with a whoop to swing Joan away from James and drag her along the curve in the river at high speed. And then even Alice, who had brought Young Henry down to see the jollity. He did not single me out again, for which I was glad.
I sat on the bank and watched, Young Henry tucked against my side. And when I shivered, my Master of Household strode across, shaking out a length of heavy woollen weave to wrap around the pair of us, anchoring it against the breeze with much efficient tucking. When I murmured my thanks, he bowed gravely in acknowledgement, sternly unsmiling, returning to his position.
As the wagons were repacked and we prepared to return to the castle, whose towers beckoned with promises of warmth and comfort, I retained enough presence to thank those who had added to our festivities—the minstrels, the servants, the long-suffering pages, who had been at our beck and call all day. I did not think Edmund would necessarily remember them, and it was my household after all.
‘Master Tudor.’ I summoned the young man who had stood, silent and watchful throughout. ‘Do you have any coins?’
‘I have, my lady.’ Searching in the purse at his belt, he dropped into my outstretched hand a stream of silver.
I dispensed them with my thanks.
‘You must tell me what I owe you,’ I said.
‘There is no need. I will note it in the accounts, my lady.’
His eyes were as dark as obsidian, his voice a slide of pleasurable vowels and consonants, but brusquely impersonal.
‘Thank you,’ I said hesitantly.
‘There is no need, my lady,’ he said again. ‘It is my duty to see to your comfort.’
The winter evening’s twilight was falling fast and I could see his face only obscurely, the planes of his face thrown into harsh dips and soft shadows. It seemed to me that the corners of his mouth were severely indented, almost disapproving—or perhaps it was a trick of
the light.
A voice reached me, calling out to my left.
‘Come and give me your opinion on this important matter, Queen Kat!’
I went joyfully where I was summoned.
I looked in my reflecting glass when we returned. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, and not from the exercise. My thoughts were capricious, and all centred on Edmund Beaufort. I had wished he would not single me out, but was irritated when he did not. His wit, his outrageous compliments set fire to my blood, but then I found them too personal, too over-familiar.
I was swept with an urgency, a longing: I could barely wait to rise from my bed to experience a new day at the wilful hands of this man who had erupted into my life.
And then came the long evenings and nights, the days when it did not grow light and the twelve days of festivity drew close. The day before Our Lord’s birth dawned, and the castle was shivering with anticipation. Perhaps I was the one to shiver, uncertain of what awaited me but exhilarated in equal measure.
I had had one Christmas with Henry, in Rouen, a rather sombre, religious affair, heavy with tradition and formal feasting and celebration of High Mass. And then I had spent Christmas alone at Windsor after my son’s birth. We had made no merriment that year for I had not yet been churched. Neither did I recall any moments of festive joy as a child. This year would be different. This year Edmund Beaufort was at court. There was a distinct air of danger when we met together before supper on Christmas Eve. Not menace, but a waiting, a standing on tiptoe.
‘We need a Lord of Misrule,’ Joan announced. With James at her side she had blossomed like a winter rose. ‘We cannot celebrate without a Lord of Misrule.’
We were standing in the Great Hall around the roaring fire, still in furs and heavy mantles after a foray along the riverbank. It was a tradition I knew of, such cunning and malice-laden creatures who turned the world upside down.
‘I will be the Lord of Misrule,’ Edmund announced, posturing in a fur-lined cloak of brightest hue. He looked like some malign being from the nether world.
‘You can’t,’ Joan responded promptly. ‘Tradition says he must be a servant, to make mockery of all things. You don’t qualify.’
