The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  I stifled a groan. How shaming. Gloucester would lock me in my bedchamber at Leeds Castle and drop the key into the river.

  ‘Are you well, Lady?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘I am perfectly well,’ I croaked through dry lips.

  ‘It is very hot,’ she said, handing me a feather fan. ‘It will be cooler when the sun goes down.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it will.’

  I shivered uncomfortably in the heat, my cheeks flushed despite the breeze from the feverishly applied peacock feathers. If Beatrice knew what was in my mind, she would not be so compassionate.

  ‘Perhaps you have a fever, my lady,’ Meg suggested solicitously.

  ‘Perhaps I do.’

  Fever! For that was what it was, a passing heat of no importance, I decided. I was victim of an unfortunate attack of lust, of base physical longing for a handsome man, brought on by the hot weather and a lack of something better for my mind to focus on. Such obsession died. It must. If it did not die of its own accord, I would kill it.

  Out of sight, out of mind. Was that not the best remedy? At Gloucester’s command I travelled to Westminster with Young Henry, leaving my own household, and Owen Tudor, at Windsor. For a se’ennight I enjoyed the festivities, the bustle and noise of London. Every day I rejoiced in the sight of my little son growing more regal under Warwick’s tuition. I gloried in the fine dresses and even finer jewels, something I had forgotten in my quiet, retired existence.

  And every day I erected bulwarks against any encroaching thoughts of Owen Tudor. I would not think of him. I did not need him. I smiled and danced and sang, laughed at the antics of the Court Fool. I would prove the shallowness of my attraction to the man who had ordered the details of my daily life since Henry’s death.

  When I could exist a whole day in which he barely stepped into my mind, I sighed in relief at my achievements. My obsession was over. The wretched loneliness that fuelled my dreams was of no account. My infatuation was dead.

  But we must, perforce, return to Windsor.

  The hopeless futility of my plan was cast into bright relief not one hour after our return. My household met briefly for livery, the final mouthful of ale and bread at the end of the day and the giving out of candles. It was served under the eye of Master Tudor with the same precise and efficient self-containment that he showed in my company, whatever the task.

  He handed me my candle. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’ The epitome of propriety and rectitude. ‘It is good to have you back with us.’

  For me the air between us burned. Every breath I took was fraught with a longing to touch his fingertips as they held the candlestick. To brush against him as I handed back my cup. My absence had done nothing to quench my thirst.

  ‘May God and His Holy Saints watch over you, my lady,’ he said, with a final inclination of his head.

  Did he feel nothing for me? Obviously not. He regarded me simply in the light of Queen Dowager.

  But I recalled, as I shielded my candle from the draughts on my way to my bedchamber, that our eyes had met very much on a level. And at night the Welsh Master of my Household crept into my mind, even when I denied him access. He stalked through my dreams. With the coming of dawn I wept at my frustration.

  How could this be, that I desired him, when he showed no awareness of me as a woman? I railed at the unfairness of it, even as I despised my inability to deny him.

  Dismiss him! a whisper flitted through my thoughts.

  I could not contemplate it.

  I tried not to watch Owen Tudor. I tried not to let my eyes track his progress across the Great Hall—much as Young Henry’s gaze fixed on the approach of his favourite dish of thick honey and bread purée at the end of a feast. I tried not to be aware of the explicit contours of his body beneath his impeccable clothing.

  It was impossible. Whether he was clad in dark damask and jewelled chain for a feast or his habitual plain wool and leather when we dined informally, I knew the slide of muscle beneath his skin, the whole line and form of him. Owen Tudor had taken up residence, a thorn in my heart.

  I found myself searching through the little I knew of him. How long had he run my affairs now? Six years, I supposed, but since he had not been of my choice, I had paid little heed to him and knew nothing of his family or background. Recipient of the patronage of Sir Walter Hungerford, steward of Henry’s own household, Master Tudor had been in France in Henry’s entourage when I was first wed.

  After Henry’s death, when my entire household was composed of Henry’s people, he had been appointed Master of Household. All I knew was that he undertook his role to perfection without any interference from me: he had learned his skills from a master of the art.

  But what did I know of him as a man? Nothing. I knew nothing except that if I gave an order, it was carried out promptly and without fuss—and sometimes it seemed before I had even voiced my desire. I acknowledged that in all those years we had not exchanged more than a dozen words that did not deal with a request or the carrying out of it. I was mortified that I had so little knowledge of a man who had served me intimately.

  Yet now I yearned for more than impeccable and aloof service from him.

  How could I degrade myself so, following a servant with longing in my eyes, like a lovesick hound pining for its absent master? I turned away smartly, heading for the stair to my accommodations as he stretched to aid a young kitchen servant to replace candles in one of the sconces, laughing down at her when she fumbled and dropped one.

  My throat was dry, as if parched by a long drought. Had I been dwelling in a desert all my life? Why had this fire been lit by something so basic as the deep note of male laughter that tripped along my skin?

  This is no better than you being carried along into the embrace of Edmund Beaufort. Have you learned nothing, Katherine?

  But this was not like my falling into love with Edmund Beaufort at all. Edmund had set out to charm me, to win me with gifts and extravagances, to lure me with conversation and ridiculous exhibitions of high spirits that had made me forget my age and my rank so that I had thought I was a young girl again and free to indulge my senses. I had been tempted and enticed, bewitched. I had been captivated so that I had been unable to see the dross of raw ambition beneath the gilded surface.

  Owen Tudor did not set out to charm me at all. Rather it seemed to me that his prime desire was to repel me. Whatever I said, whenever I found the need to speak with him, never had he been so reserved, never had his conversations been so clipped and brief. He must have seen my interest, I decided, and was now intent on destroying it, for his sake and mine. I must presume that he was more discerning than I, for his ability to keep me at arm’s length was truly comprehensive. Was every woman as driven to embrace misery as I, when faced with a man who had no desire for her?

  And I knew in some strange manner, in a moment of blinding clarity one morning as I rose from my restless bed, what the fever was that persisted in tormenting me. Not physical desire with its raw urgency. Not a need for admiration and affection, or response to a courtly seduction. I had not wanted this, I had not sought this, but against all wisdom I had fallen disastrously in love. It was like falling down a shaft into a bottomless well.

  How could I live like this? Loving but unloved for ever?

  Dismiss him!

  I shrank from it, from never seeing him again.

  ‘Is there a remedy to quench a woman’s ardour, Guille?’ I asked, not caring when her brows rose.

  ‘They do say that to rub an ointment of mouse droppings will do it.’

  I turned my face away from her regard. I would live with the desire, unrequited as it would always be, and the pain of it. My rejection of men had been a sham, a mockery of the truth, for how could a woman of youth and hot blood think herself capable of living out her life without a man? I burned for him, but in the flames a tiny spark of rebellion was ignited.

  I knew what I must do. My mother had given in to her lusts: her daughter would not. I would play
out my role of Queen Dowager with all the sobriety and dignity expected of me. Master Tudor’s dismissal was not necessary because I would never seek out Owen Tudor, even if in my heart I loved him. On my knees, I vowed that it would be so.

  And then he touched me.

  I had noticed that he never did. Not that a servant would touch a Queen without her invitation, but on that one occasion, neither of his making or mine, he held me.

  It was one of those impromptu, merry moments when Warwick decided that it was well past time that Young Henry was introduced to the art of dancing. We used the large chamber after supper; the trestles cleared, the servants, the minstrels, pages and my damsels all commandeered to produce an opportunity for dancing. Simple stuff within the limited skills of the youngest and most inexperienced present: processions and round dances, their rustic naïvety guaranteed to appeal to the young.

  My pages applied themselves with energy, and Young Henry loved it, but I swear there was never a more ill-co-ordinated child than my eight-year-old son. How could he wield a pen with such skill, how could he learn his texts, yet find it impossible to plant his feet with any degree of care or exactitude? His enthusiasm knew no bounds but his ability to follow a beat or a set of simple steps was woeful.

  ‘He is very young,’ Warwick observed. ‘But he must learn.’

  Young Henry leapt. He capered. He could not process with stately presence for more than three steps together. Warwick hid his despair manfully and withdrew from the affray. I adopted stalwart patience and took my place in the circling procession. My damsels and my pages adopted avoidance tactics.

  Young Henry tried again with awkward diligence until, in a lively round dance, losing his balance and his hold on his partner, he fell against me, standing on my skirts so that I too stumbled. Young Henry sprawled on the floor with a crow of laughter, I floundered, struggling not to follow him, and a firm hand grasped my arm. I was held upright against a solid body.

  I looked up, laughter catching me, about to offer my thanks. And any remaining breath I had was driven from my lungs. My whole body stiffened.

  ‘You will not fall.’

  No polite usage. Simply a statement of fact.

  How close we were, our breath mingling, so close that I could see my reflection in his eyes. His hand slid down my arm to close round my fingers. And his voice, with all those soft and musical Welsh cadences, stroked over my skin like a fur mantle.

  ‘You are quite safe, my lady,’ Owen Tudor said, when I was struck dumb. ‘And your son has taken no hurt.’

  My thoughts were not on Young Henry. My thoughts were on his palm against mine, his fingers coolly wrapped around mine, his other hand solid on my waist to give me support against the drag of my skirts under Young Henry’s weight. My thoughts were centred on the heat that leapt in my belly and spread to every inch of my skin.

  Could he not feel it? Could he not sense the flames that licked over me? His hand was cool, but mine seemed to be as hot as the blood that beat heavily in my throat. Was he himself untouched by this urgent demand that pulsed through me like a stream in spate? Surely he could not mistake it? I felt my face flush from chin to hairline as embarrassment engulfed me, and, worst of all, my tongue refused to form any words to release the tension. My gaze was caught in his and I couldn’t think of a single word to say…

  My damsels swooped in like a flock of maternal chickens to rescue Young Henry. Warwick strolled forward to deliver some advice, but I was held fast in a fine net of pure desire.

  ‘Can you stand, my lady?’ Owen Tudor murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ I managed. And as I opened my mouth to attempt some formal gratitude for my rescue, he released me, his hands sliding away as if he had been caught in some misdemeanour. Immediately he turned from me to help to pick up my laughing son from the floor, and I was standing alone. The whole seemed to me to last a lifetime. In truth it was less than the time it took to snuff out the flame of a candle.

  Had anyone noticed his act of chivalry? Had anyone noticed my reaction? I think they had not. It was decided that Young Henry had enjoyed enough activity that night, and he was escorted to his bed and his prayers. The rest of my household sank into exhaustion and gossip. It had been, all in all, a good evening.

  But as I sipped a cup of wine and ate the evening bread, I shivered at the memory of Owen Tudor’s hands holding me, preventing me from falling.

  ‘You are tense tonight, my lady,’ Guille observed as she removed my girdle and untied the laces of my houppelande.

  ‘Yes.’ I laughed softly. ‘Weary, I think. My son is not a natural dancer.’

  The thick damask slid to the floor and I stepped out of it, lifting my arms so that Guille could attack the side lacing of my under-tunic.

  ‘You dance well, my lady,’ she said, head bent over her task.

  I would like to dance with Owen Tudor. The thought slid into my mind, followed fast by another. He can never be for you. You will never dance together.

  I considered this. He is a man who, for some reason I cannot define, speaks to my heart.

  I did not like the reply, which came in a style of forthright Alice. You cannot wed such a man.

  Who speaks of marriage?

  You would take your Master of Household as your lover? The denunciation rubbed my emotions raw.

  How should I? He has no feelings for me.

  So why bother thinking about him at all? He has touched your hand once…

  And my waist! I added.

  And dropped you like a hot pan. You are a fool, Katherine.

  I scowled at the invisible Alice. So I was. I glanced down at Guille.

  And don’t even think about asking Guille what she thinks about the whole miserable affair. Unless you want your household marvelling at the antics of their queen, you will not say a single word.

  I will if I wish.

  I looked back over my shoulder to where Guille was still struggling with a knotted lace, huffing at her inability to loosen it. Her head was bent, her attention focused.

  ‘Guille, in your opinion, would it be very wrong of a woman of rank to…?’ This was more than difficult. ‘To wish to speak alone with a servant?’

  Guille looked up, brows as knotted as the lace, then lowered her regard to her task again.

  ‘I’d say it depends, my lady.’

  ‘On what does it depend?’

  ‘On what this lady of rank wishes to say to her servant. And to which servant she wishes to say it. If it was to give instructions for a banquet or a journey…’

  ‘And if it was more of a personal matter?’ It was like wading through thick pottage, choosing the least guilt-ridden words. ‘Would it ever be right?’

  ‘No, my lady. I don’t think it would.’

  ‘So it would be wrong.’

  There! I told you it would be.

  ‘It might give rise to gossip, my lady.’

  ‘Yes.’ I sighed. ‘It would be foolhardy in the extreme.’

  ‘But still you wish to meet with Master Tudor?’

  She stood, the knot untied, her question leaving me directionless. Had I been so obvious, when I had tried so hard to preserve at least a modicum of dignity?

  ‘Does everyone talk of it?’ I whispered.

  ‘No, my lady. But I know you well, and I see what you would wish to remain hidden.’

  ‘It is true,’ I admitted. I would dance around it no more. ‘I join the ranks of many. How foolish women can be!’ I plunged the dagger further into my flesh, into my heart. ‘Does he have a special woman, Guille?’

  ‘Not one, my lady.’ Guille’s mouth pursed but her eyes twinkled.

  I laughed, picking up her implication. ‘So many.’

  ‘As many as he smiles on. He has great charm.’

  But he did not use it with me. I was his royal mistress, he was my minion. ‘So you like him too?’ I asked.

  ‘I would not refuse if he invited me to share his kisses,’ Guille said, not at all abashed. ‘It must be the
Welshness in him.’

  ‘So it must.’

  ‘Your rank stands in the way of such knowledge, my lady.’

  ‘I know it does.’

  But I could not leave it alone.

  Oh, the excuses I made to hold conversation with him—for I could not be direct. I was never a bold woman. How appalled I was at my subterfuge when I found myself drawn to him, like a rabbit to the cunning eyes of the hunting stoat. Yet Owen Tudor was no predator. My desire was of my own creation.

  ‘Master Tudor—I wish to ride out with my son the King. Perhaps you would accompany us?’

  ‘I will arrange for the horses, my lady. An armed escort would be better,’ he replied promptly, my judgement obviously found wanting in his eye. ‘I will arrange that too.’

  And he did, being there in the courtyard to see that all was as it should be. But when I needed a helping hand into the saddle—what woman did not, hampered with yards of heavy damask and fur?—he kept his distance, instructing one of the young grooms to come to my aid. When we returned, there was Master Tudor awaiting us, but the same groom helped me to dismount.

  How to provoke a reaction—any reaction—from an unresponsive man?

  ‘Master Tudor. My rooms are cold. Are we lacking in wood? Have you made no provision for this turn in the weather?’ How unkind I was.

  ‘There is no lack, my lady,’ he replied, his tone as caustic as the east wind that gusted through the ill-fitting windows. ‘I will remedy the matter immediately.’ He bowed and stalked off, no doubt irritated that I had called his organisation into question. It was August, when fires were rarely lit. I refused to feel remorse.

  And again. ‘My son is old enough to own a falcon, Master Owen. Can we arrange that?’ Surely he would show some interest in hunting birds. Did not every man?

  ‘It shall be done, my lady. Your falconer will, I imagine, have a suitable raptor. I will speak with him immediately and send him to wait on you.’

  Or even, with a smile and light request: ‘Do you sing, Master Owen? I understand that Welshmen are possessed of excellent voices. Perhaps you would sing for us?’