by Anne O'Brien
I would discover what invisible currents moved beneath the courtly reserve.
‘Master Tudor.’
‘Yes, my lady?’ He halted and turned.
A breath of irritation shivered over my nape. I would make him look at me, but what could I say that would not make me appear either foolish or too particular? ‘I am thinking, Master Tudor, of making changes to my household.’
‘Yes, my lady?’ There he stood, infuriatingly straight and numbingly deferential, as if I had asked him to summon my page.
‘I have been thinking of making changes to those who serve me.’
His features remained unyielding as I rose from my chair and stepped down from the dais so that I stood before him.
‘Are you quite content in your position here, Master Tudor?’ I asked.
And at last, finally, Master Tudor’s eyes looked directly into mine.
‘Are you dissatisfied with my service to you, my lady?’ he asked softly.
‘No. That was not my meaning. I thought that perhaps you might choose to serve the Young King instead. Now that he is growing, he will need an extended household. It would be a promotion. It would allow more scope for a man of your talents.’
I stopped on a breath, awaiting his response. Still he held my gaze, and with no hint of self-abasement he replied: ‘I am quite content with my present position, my lady.’
‘But my household is small, and will remain so, with no opportunity for preferment for you.’
‘I do not seek preferment. I am yours to command. I am content.’
I let him go, infuriated by his demeanour, angry at my own need.
‘Give me your opinion of Master Tudor,’ I said to Alice when she visited my rooms one morning with Young Henry, who was immediately occupied in turning the pages of the book he had brought with him.
‘Owen Tudor? Why do you need my opinion, my lady?’ she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap, and with something of a sharp look, as if settling herself for a good gossip.
‘I think I have underestimated him,’ I replied lightly. ‘Is he as efficient as he seems?’
‘He is an excellent man of management,’ Alice replied without hesitation, but her expression was disconcertingly bland. ‘You could do no better.’
I considered what I wished to say next. What I ought, or ought not, to say.
‘And what do you think of him, as a man?’
Alice’s smile acquired an edge. ‘I’d say he knows too much about flirtation than is good for any man. He could lure a bat down from its roost with his singing.’
‘He does not talk to me,’ I admitted sadly. ‘He does not sing to me.’
I knew he was not always unapproachable. I had seen his ease of manner, smiling when the maids passed a coy remark, making light conversation with one or another of my household. Neither was he slow to come to the aid of even the clumsiest of servants. I had seen him leap to rescue a subtlety—a device of a tiger, accompanied by a mounted knight holding the tiger’s cub, all miraculously contrived from sugar—the work of many hours and much skill in my kitchens—with no remonstration other than a firm hand to a shoulder of the page who had not paid sufficient attention. My cook would have laid the lad out with a fist to the jaw if he had seen the near-catastrophe, but Owen Tudor had made do with an arch of brow and a firm stare.
As for the women…Once I saw him slide a hand over a shapely hip as he passed, and the owner of the hip smile back over her shoulder, eyes bright in anticipation, and I knew jealousy, however ill founded.
‘Owen Tudor knows his place, my lady.’
I read the implication in the plain words. ‘Do you think that I do not?’
And Alice reached forward to touch my hand with hers. ‘It will not do, my lady.’
I thought of launching into a denial. Instead, I said, ‘Am I so obvious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ And I thought I had been so clever. ‘What if…?’ But I could not say it. What if I were not Queen Dowager? In the end I did not need to—Alice knew me only too well.
‘You are too far above him, my lady. Or he is too far below you. It comes to the same thing—and you must accept that.’ She frowned at me, a little worried, a little censorious. ‘And it would be wise if your thoughts were not quite so open.’
‘I did not think I was…’
Alice sat back, refolding her hands. ‘Then how is it that I can read your interest in this man, as clearly as the page your son is reading now?’
I gave up, and we turned our conversation into more innocuous channels. Until she left.
‘He is a fine man. But he is not for you.’
Her wisdom was a knife with a honed edge.
‘I never thought that he was.’
‘There is a way, my lady,’ Guille whispered in my ear as I dressed for Mass the next morning.
‘To do what exactly?’ Regretful of what I had revealed, ill grace sat heavily on my shoulders, exacerbated by the knowledge that I would have to make some confession to Father Benedict.
‘To meet with Master Owen.’
‘I have changed my mind.’
‘Perhaps that’s for the best, my lady.’ She began to brush and coil my hair. I watched her face, waiting to see if she would say more. She didn’t, but busied herself with the intricate mesh of my crispinettes and a length of veil lavishly decorated with silk rose petals.
‘What would you suggest?’
‘That you meet him in disguise, my lady.’
‘And how would you suggest that I do that?’ I asked. Had I not, in my fanciful meanderings in my dreams, already considered such a scenario—and discarded it as a plan that could only be composed by an idiot? Temper bubbled ominously.
‘The only way I can see is for me to dress as a servant and waylay him—he talks to servants, does he not? But how would that be possible? He would recognise me. Do I have to meet him in a dark cupboard, my face swathed in veiling? Do I have to be mute? He would recognise my voice. And even if I did accost him as some swathed figure, what would I say to him? Kiss me, Master Owen, or I will fall into death from desire? And by the way, I am Queen Katherine!’ I laughed but there was no humour in it.
‘He would despise me for tricking him, for the shallow woman that I undoubtedly am, and that I could not bear. What’s more, I would look nothing more than a wanton. Am I not already suspect, that I am too rapacious, too caught up in sins of the flesh?’ I stood, too agitated to sit, and prowled, my petal-covered veils still half-pinned.
‘I suppose my lord of Gloucester would say that.’
‘Of course he would. And not only Gloucester. What would my damsels say? The Queen Dowager, clothing herself as a kitchen maid, to waylay a hapless servant who had no wish to be waylaid? It would be demeaning for me and for him. I’ll not have trickery. I’ll not lay myself open to ridicule and humiliation.’
‘Forgive me, my lady.’
Instantly remorse shook me, so that I returned to where Guille stood and placed my fingers on her wrist. ‘No. It is I who should ask forgiveness.’ I tried a smile. ‘I have no excuse for ill humour. I promise I will confess it.’
‘Do you care what Lady Beatrice says, my lady?’ Guille asked after a moment of uncomfortable reflection for both of us.
I thought about that. ‘No, I don’t think I do. But I would not court infamy.’
‘Some would say better infamy than a cold, lonely bed. Try him, my lady.’
‘I cannot.’
‘I can arrange it. I can make an assignation for you.’
‘It is not possible. We will forget this conversation, Guille. I am ashamed.’
‘Why should a woman be ashamed that she desired a handsome man?’
‘She should not—but when the handsome man has no feelings for her, and his birth and situation put him far beyond her grasp, then she must accept the inevitable.’
‘His birth has no influence on her female longings.’
This offered no answer to
my dilemma. What do I do, Michelle? I received no reply. I was alone to trace my uncertain path through an impossible maze.
Dismiss him!
Before God, I could not.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.’
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.’
