by Anne O'Brien
‘More than usual?’ I queried with a fine show of insouciance.
‘I think so.’ Her eyes narrowed.
And the gestures continued. A rose, icily preserved and barely unfurled. Where had he found that in January? An intricate hood, the leather fashioned and stitched with a pretty tuft of feathers, for my new merlin. I knew whose capable fingers had executed the stitching. And for the New Year gift-giving, a crucifix carved with astonishing precision from that same applewood, polished and gleaming, left for me anonymously and without explanation on my prie-dieu.
And what did I give him? I knew I had not the freedom to give, as he had to me under the cover of the household, but the tradition of rewarding servants at Twelfth Night made it possible. I gave him a bolt of cloth, rich blue damask, as dark and sumptuous as indigo, to be made up into a tunic. I could imagine it becoming him very well.
Owen thanked me formally. I smiled and thanked him for his services to me and my people. Our eyes caught for the merest of breaths then he bowed again and stood aside for others to approach.
My cheeks were aflame. Was no one else aware of the burning need that shimmered in the air between us? Beatrice was.
‘I hope you know what you’re about, my lady,’ she remarked with a caustic glance.
Oh, I did. And after the weeks of thwarted love it could not come fast enough.
‘When can I be with you?’
It was the question I had longed to hear from him.
‘Come to my room,’ I replied. ‘Between Vespers and Compline.’
It was January, bleak and cold, and the court had slipped into its winter regime of survival: keeping warm; tolerating the endless dark when there was no light in the sky when we rose and it had vanished again by supper. But my blood raced hotly. The physical consummation of our love had to be. I wanted to be with him for I loved him with an outpouring of passion I knew not how to express. All I knew was that I loved him and he loved me.
And I had to take Guille into my confidence. She simply nodded as if she knew I could do no other, opening the door for him, closing it without a glance as she left us.
‘I’ll make sure you are not disturbed, my lady,’ she had promised. She did not judge me too harshly.
And there he stood, Owen Tudor, illuminated by a shimmer of candles because, perhaps out of trepidation at the last, I had lit my room as if for a religious rite. Dark-clad, hair dense as the damask I had given him, face sternly glamorous, his presence overwhelmed my bedchamber, and me. But not quite. I knew what I would do.
‘Will you run from me?’ he asked softly, not moving from the door, giving me all the time in the world.
‘Not this time.’ The words rasped a little on an indrawn breath.
He raised his chin a little. ‘I have nothing to give you but what you see.’
‘It is enough.’
He walked slowly around my chamber, dousing the candles as if it were a final task as my servant, leaving the one beside the bed to flicker and paint shadows on the entwined flowers embroidered on my chamber robe. Drawing back the curtains of my bed, he held out his hand to me. ‘My lady?’ There was just the hint of a query, still allowing me the freedom to choose.
I did not move. I could not take that final step just yet.
‘I have to say that I don’t know…’ I swallowed and tried again. ‘It is just that…’ And I raised my hands in despair. ‘I have no idea how I should make love with a man. How I should make myself desirable to him.’
His expression showed no pity. Owen took the step towards me and laid his fingers on my lips. ‘It is of no account. I will show you. I will lead and you will follow, as you will.’
And I did, allowing him dominion over me, following into undreamed-of paths of delight. It did not matter if my responses were clumsy and untutored. If he noted my ignorance, it made no difference. Between the caress of his two palms I came alive and learned what I did not know, that the physical bond between a man and a woman could be more than duty and necessity. It could be something dearly sought and much enjoyed. It could be blinding, blazing with a need that seared and consumed, then rekindled in driving passion. It could be a wordless bond of shared laughter and intimate caresses to enclose us in our own private world, a universe of two people. It could be as soft as a dove’s breast, as tender as my kitten’s paw. I could not have guessed at the half of it. I revelled in Owen Tudor’s smooth skin and firm flesh, the experienced fingers and lips that stole my soul.
‘My loved one. My brightest star of the firmament. Heart of my heart.’
Owen talked to me, even when his voice was ragged, his breathing under duress. His endearments shook me as the slide of his mouth from throat to breast awakened all the senses I had not known I possessed. Beyond control I cried out. And then again there was no need for words for we were flooded with the reality of what we had created between us.
His hair was a tangle of black silk against my breast and I wept with the wonder of it, and when it became too much for me to bear I buried my face against his shoulder that was wet with my tears.
‘Sleep now,’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘You have travelled far and long, and you have travelled alone. You are no longer alone, my beautiful Katherine. You are at rest.’
My heart settled. I could not contemplate the superlative wonder of being together.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked when sense and some semblance of control had returned to us. My eyes were dry at last, but I was thankful for the concealment provided by the bed hangings. Owen’s eyes were closed, his face once more austere in repose, but then his mouth curved and his fingers linked with mine.
‘That if I were a man of substance, I would carry you off from here, across Offa’s Dyke.’
‘What is Offa’s Dyke?’
‘The old border between Wales and England, marked by banks and ditches constructed by King Offa to keep the Welsh out of England.’ His smile glimmered in the candlelight. ‘Not that it worked. The Welsh have always had a habit of raiding across the border and enjoying the benefits of English livestock.’
‘Would I like it? Across Offa’s Dyke?’
‘Of course. It is my home. And once we were there I would wed you.’
I thought it was said carelessly, Owen tottering on the edge of sleep. ‘No, you would not,’ I murmured.
‘Why would I not?’
‘Because if you were a man of substance, you would lose everything you owned.’
Which woke him. Eyes open, dark with emotion, his lips tightened, thinned. ‘And of course, as you well know, I have nothing to lose.’
I had not intended to spur so bitter a reaction, and did not fully understand it, but regretful of my thoughtlessness I sought for a less contentious issue. ‘Tell me what it is like to be Welsh, living in England. Is it any different from being French and living here?’
But he would not say beyond ‘I expect the English regard us all as foreigners out of the same disreputable bag’. I couldn’t persuade him further.
‘Then tell me about your family,’ I said. ‘You know all about mine. Tell me about your Welsh ancestors.’
It was a question destined to curtail even the mildest of confidences. He would not.
‘It is like searching for meat in a Lenten pie!’
‘Let it lie, Katherine,’ he whispered. ‘It is not important. It has no bearing on us.’
Nothing about his life before his arrival at Henry’s Court could be squeezed out of him. I gave up and lived in the moment, sinking into the joy of it, except that there was one issue I was compelled, against all sense, to raise. I placed my hand on his chest, where his heart beat.
‘You did not like Edmund Beaufort, did you?’
It was a ghost between us, maliciously hovering, that I felt the need to exorcise, even if it resulted in Owen condemning me for my lack of judgement. I recalled the disdain that had clamped Owen’s mouth on a former occasion when I had not understood. And as if he sensed my trepidati
on, Owen rolled, gathering me up into his arms so that he could look at me, his initial response surprising me by its even-handedness.
‘He is a man of ability and wit with a powerful name and inheritance. I expect he will be a great politician and a first-rate soldier and an asset to England.’ Then his arms tightened round me. ‘I detested him. He saw your vulnerability and the chance for his personal gain, and he laid siege.’
Held tight against his chest, I turned my face into him. ‘I am sorry.’
His arms tightened further. ‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But I do. I should have seen what he was, what he wanted. I was warned often enough.’
‘You were just a witless female.’ He kissed me, stopping my words when I would have objected. ‘How could you know? Beaufort could charm the carp out of the fish pond and onto the plate, complete with sauce and trimmings.’ A little silence fell. ‘He did not charm me. But you do, ngoleuni fy mywyd.’
‘What does—?’
His mouth captured mine, his body demanded my obedience to his and I gave it willingly.
We never spoke of Edmund Beaufort again. He was no part of my life now, and never would be again.
‘When did you first love me?’ I asked, as any woman must when first deluged in emotion.
‘When I first came to your household. I cannot recall a time when I did not love you.’
Drowsing, we knew our snatched moment together was rushing to a close. The daily routine at Windsor, the final service of Compline to end the day, claimed us back from our bright idyll.
‘How did I not know?’ I asked, trying to remember Owen in those days after Henry’s death.
His lips were soft against my hair, my temple. ‘Your thoughts were trapped in desolation. Why would you notice a servant?’
I pushed myself so that I could read his face. ‘And yet you were content to serve me, knowing that I did not see you.’
Owen’s smile was wry, so were his words. ‘Content? Never that. Sometimes I felt the need to shout my love from the battlement walk, or announce it from the dais, along with the offering of the grace cup. But there was no future in it, or so I thought. I was simply there to obey your commands and—’
I stopped his words with my fingers. ‘I am ashamed,’ I whispered.
Owen’s kiss melted the shame from my heart.
I glowed. I walked with a light step as my heart sang. Light of his life, he had called me. I could not imagine such happiness.
‘He makes you content, my lady,’ Beatrice observed carefully.
‘Yes.’ I did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Is there gossip?’
‘No.’
I thanked the Holy Mother for her inexplicable kindness as I lived every day for the time when Owen would blow out the candle and we would be enclosed in our world that was neither English nor French nor Welsh.
‘What is our future?’ I asked one morning when, in the light of a single candle and before the household was awake, Owen struggled, cursing mildly, into tunic and hose.
‘I don’t know. I have no gift for divination.’ Applying himself to his belt in the near darkness, he looked across to where I still lay in tangled linens, and seeing the gleam of fear in my eyes, he abandoned the buckle and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We will live for the present. It is all we have, and it is enough.’
‘Yes. It is enough.’
‘I will come to you when I can.’
He took my lips with great sweetness. I loved him enough, trusted him enough, to put myself and our uncertain future into his care. How foolish we were to believe that we could control what fate determined.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I kept early hours in the summer months when the sun drew me from my bed. The next morning, before we broke our fast, as was customary my whole household—damsels, pages and servants who were not immediately in employment—congregated in my private chapel to celebrate Mass. As the familiar words bathed the chapel in holy power, my fingers might trip over the beads of my rosary but my mind practised the words I would use to explain to Owen Tudor that I desired him but must reject him, that we must continue in the rigid path of mistress and servant.
At the end when I turned my thoughts to Father Benedict’s blessing I had made at least one decision. I would meet with Owen in the Great Hall. I did not think my words would please him, but it would be public enough to preserve a remote politeness between us. I offered up a final prayer for strength and forgiveness, rose to my feet, preparing to hand my missal and my mantle—essential against the cold in the chapel—to Guille and—
He was waiting for me by the door, and there was no misreading the austere expression: his mood was as dark today as yesterday. Neither did he intend to allow me to escape, but I would pre-empt him, seizing the initiative despite trembling knees. The drawing of a line between us which neither of us would cross again would be on my terms.
‘Our celebration for the Feast of St Winifred,’ I said, a small, polite smile touching my lips. ‘We must talk of it, Master Owen. Perhaps you will walk with me to the Great Hall.’
‘Here will do, my lady.’
To order him away would draw too much attention. I waved my damsels through the door before me and shook my head at Guille that I did not need her. Then we were face to face. Father Benedict would be sufficient chaperone.
‘Master Tudor—’ I began.
‘I bruised your face. And you would not receive me.’ His eyes blazed in his white face, his voice a low growl.
‘Well, I thought—’ Unexpectedly under attack, I could not explain what I had thought.
‘I marked you—and you refused to see me!’
‘I was ashamed.’ I would be honest, even though I quailed at his anger.
‘You were ashamed!’
I took a step back from the venom, but I was no longer so sure where his fury was directed. I had thought it was at me. Still, I would say what I thought I must.
‘I ask that you will understand—and pardon my thoughtlessness.’
‘I pardon you? It is unforgivable that I should have despoiled your beauty.’ He partially raised his hand as if he would touch my cheek, then, as Father Benedict shuffled about the sanctuary, let it fall to his side. ‘I deserve that you dismiss me for my actions. And yet for you to bar me from your rooms, and refuse to see me—it is too much.’
‘The blame does not lie with you,’ I tried.
He inhaled slowly, regaining control, of himself and of his voice. So he had a temper. I was right about the dragon in him. I feared it, yet at the same time it stirred my blood.
‘I regret—’
‘No. You have no need to regret.’ Briskly he took my mantle from my hands, shaking out the folds and draping it round my shoulders, the second time he had felt a need to protect me from the elements. ‘It is too cold without, my lady.’ The control was back, the passion harnessed, but the words were harsh. ‘I think the blame does lie with me in that I asked something of you that you were not capable of giving. I should have understood it, and not put you in that impossible position. My judgement was at fault. And because of that I harmed you.’
It hurt. It hurt that I had made him think me so weak.
‘I was capable,’ I retorted, but softly, conscious of Father Benedict still kneeling before the altar. ‘I am capable.’
‘Then why did you run from me?’
‘I shouldn’t have.’
His blood was running hot again, the dragon surfacing. ‘What happened between us, Katherine? One moment I thought you were of a mind with me—and the next you fought me as if I were endangering your honour. You came to me willingly. You allowed me to touch you and kiss you. You called me Owen. Not Master Owen or Master Tudor, but Owen. You allowed me to call you Katherine. Can you deny it? Did you think I would hurt you?’
‘Never that. But making a choice was too much to bear.’
‘What choice? To seize happiness in each other’s arms?’ There was anger simmering bene
ath the bafflement. ‘That was what I offered. I thought that was what you wanted too. And why did you accuse me of not being able to love you?’
‘Because no one ever has!’
I covered my mouth with my hands, horrified at hearing my admission spoken aloud.
Was he angry? I dared not look at him. Contrition made me move to walk past him, to escape the inevitable accusations, but as I reached the door Owen took my wrist. I glanced towards Father Benedict but he was occupied before the altar. When I pulled hard for release, Owen simply tightened his grip and drew me back into the chapel.
‘Katherine!’ He huffed out a breath. ‘Are all women so intransigent and intriguing? I swear it takes a brave man to take you on! I want to seize you and shake you for your indecision—and at the same time prostrate myself at your feet in sorrow for my savagery. You tear me apart. Two nights ago, for that brief moment, you burned with fire in my arms. Today you are as cold as ice. A man needs to know what his woman is thinking.’
It shocked me. ‘I am not your woman,’ I remarked. I was indeed as cold as ice.
‘Tell me that you did not want me when you came to my room. If that is not being my woman, I don’t know what is. Or do they have different standards at the royal court in France?’
Doubly wounded by an accusation that had some degree of truth in it, fury raced through me like a bolt of lightning. I felt like throwing my missal at his head. I gripped it, white-knuckled, and without thought, without respect, committing all the sins I had deplored, I replied, ‘How dare you, a servant, judge me? You have no right!’
Gripping my missal hard, I instantly regretted my ungoverned words. Seeing what might be in my mind, Owen favoured me with an unequivocal stare and took the book from my hand.
‘I think your words have done enough damage,’ he observed, the soft cadence for once compromised. ‘To resort to violence would be less than becoming, my lady.’
And I was stricken. It was as if I had actually struck him, for how could I have spoken words so demeaning? Demeaning to both Owen Tudor and myself. What would he think of me now? First to play him fast and loose, and then to lash out in an anger that he would not have understood? How could I possibly explain to him that I feared beyond anything to be likened to my mother and her louche court where lust ruled and principle came a far second? I could not tell him, I could not explain…
