The Forbidden Queen

by Anne O'Brien

  And what a range of emotion slammed against us as we were announced into the Council Chamber, much as I had witnessed in my own household. Outrage and lascivious interest were uppermost. But some compassion, enough for one of the bishops to provide me with a stool. As I moved to sit, I looked up at Owen where he stood by my side, features well schooled into frozen courtesy, but then he smiled down at me, a sign of our love and one that I returned. Whatever they did, they could not destroy our union.

  I might smile at Owen but fear hummed through my blood, and I knew he was not at ease. If he had worn a sword, he would have had a hand firmly on the hilt. Who was to know what Gloucester might persuade his fellow councillors to do? What if, deeming me untouchable, they took out their frustrations at my intransigence on Owen? A term in a dungeon in the Tower of London would not seem beyond the realms of possibility. As he too knew. We had talked about it late into the night.

  ‘What if they incarcerate you?’ I had asked.

  ‘They won’t.’

  I did not believe him, but I let it lie, and loved him for his need to pluck troubles from my mind, as a blackbird gobbled the berries from a winter hawthorn. Would my consequence be sufficient to save him? I did not think it would. I had no consequence. Now I steeled myself, grasping what courage I could muster with both hands, to withstand the onslaught. When Gloucester had descended on Windsor, driven there by a gust of fury, he had been beyond words. He found them that day.

  ‘You have broken the terms of a legal statute, madam. You have defied the law of the land.’

  I was barely seated, still disposing the folds of my skirts and removing my gloves.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied. ‘I have.’ Owen and I had discussed at length how we would manage this confrontation. Even though he did not touch me, I felt the tension in him, vibrating like a strummed lute string.

  ‘You knew the terms of the law.’

  ‘I did, my lord.’ Nothing would shake me.

  ‘And yet you were determined, wilfully determined, to flout it!’

  I stood, handing my gloves to Owen. I would stand and face them. How could I argue for my greatest desire from a position of inferiority?

  ‘Wilfully?’ I said, strengthening my voice, but not too much. I had a role to play here, and I allowed my gaze to range over the ranks of those who would judge me. ‘I did not fall in love by intent, my lords. Thus, it was not my intent to break the law. But when my emotions were engaged and I desired marriage—then yes. Perhaps I was wilful. Or perhaps I would say that I was pragmatic. My son is too young to give his consent—and will be so for at least another seven years.’

  ‘Could you not wait? Could you not wait to indulge your physical needs until the King is of age?’

  I felt my skin flush, cheeks and temple hot as fire. There was no mistaking this innuendo or Gloucester’s displeasure as his eye swept over my figure. So the rumours had spread, suspicions ignited. Beside me I could feel Owen straining to hold his temper. We had known it would be like this, and that Owen’s participation would do nothing but harm. The burden was on me. I prayed that he could keep a still tongue.

  I drew myself up, and with all the pride of my Valois blood I marshalled the arguments that we had talked of.

  ‘How long would you wish me to wait, my lords? I am thirty years old. If I wait for the Young King’s blessing, I may be beyond the age of childbearing.’ I let my gaze move again, lightly, over the assembly. ‘Would you condemn me to that, my lords? How many of you are wed and have an heir to inherit your title and lands? Is it not a woman’s role to bear sons for her husband?’

  I saw the nodding of some heads. Pray God they would listen and understand…

  ‘You have a son.’ Gloucester had his response at his fingertips to destroy any strength my words might have with the august gathering. ‘A fine son, who is King of England. Is that not sufficient?’

  ‘But my husband, Owen Tudor, has no son to follow and bear his name. He has no one to continue his line. Do I deprive him of children? And for what purpose I do not understand. My marriage to Owen Tudor does not, as I see it, detract from the King’s authority. My son is now crowned. The ties of childbirth have been loosened and he is, as he should be, under the tuition of men. Why should the Queen Dowager not wed again?’

  Once more I surveyed the faces.

  ‘I am a woman, my lords. A weak woman, if you will, who has had the misfortune to fall in love. Would you condemn me for that? I did my duty by my husband, King Henry. I brought him the crown of France and an heir to wear it. I have been a vital part of my son’s childhood years. Now I wish for a more private life as the wife of a commoner. Is it too much to grant me that, or do you compel me to live alone?’

  I pushed on, repeating the salient points, finding no favour with what I had to say, but if I had to plead on my knees to achieve my heart’s desire then I would do it.

  ‘My son is now nine years of age. He has not needed his mother’s constant care for many years. Those appointed to his education—by yourselves, sirs—are men of ability and good character, such as my lord of Warwick.’ I inclined my head towards him. ‘That is how it should be. But my womb has been empty for those years. Would you condemn me to a barren life? The Holy Mother herself would not. She bore other children after the Christ Child.’

  How did I find the courage? I did not even look at Owen, not once, for I did not need to, conscious throughout of the strength of his love, urging me on. When I felt an almost overwhelming need to seek his hand with mine, I did not. I must stand alone and make my plea, for this attack was directed at me, not at Owen.

  A new, harsh voice intervened. ‘It is blasphemy for you to draw comparison with the Blessed Virgin.’ I recognised the disparaging features of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  ‘It is no blasphemy, my lord,’ I replied. ‘The Blessed Virgin became a mother in a human sense. Her sons were brothers of Our Lord Jesus Christ and recognised by him. She would understand my need. Do not you, my lords?’

  There was some murmuring.

  ‘There might be something in what you say, madam.’ Was this a possible ally in the smooth intervention of the Bishop of London? I thought he might be stating a position in opposition to the Archbishop rather than in support of me, but I would snatch at any vestige of hope.

  ‘The Holy Mother is full of compassion, my lord,’ I said, turning a smile of great sweetness on him. And on all the councillors.

  ‘Amen to that,’ the bishop intoned.

  So what now? I shivered as a little silence fell on the proceedings, and again, astonished at my own temerity, I forced the issue.

  ‘Well, my lord of Gloucester? I have stated my case. Are we free to go? To live together, united by God, as we most assuredly are?’

  And I sighed silently when Gloucester picked up my challenge without hesitation.

  ‘We are not finished here. Any man who weds you without permission will forfeit his property. You transgressed the law, and so must pay the penalty.’

  ‘But my husband has no property,’ I said gently.

  ‘Then he made a fine bargain, did he not?’ Scorn all but dripped from the walls. ‘Seducing a wife of wealth and influence!’

  I dared not look at Owen. Every muscle in his body was taut with controlled outrage, straining for release.

  ‘There was no seduction,’ I said. ‘You dishonour both myself and Owen Tudor, my lord. Do I not have the wit to make my own choices? Neither did my husband set himself to seduce me. He had been Master of my Household all the years since I was left a widow. It is only of late that we were touched by love. I was not seduced or forced against my will.’

  It was a strong argument.

  ‘It seems to me that it was not so great a bargain for him in taking me as his wife,’ I continued. ‘Why should a man have to appear before the King’s Council over his choice of his bride? Yes, I am a wealthy woman, but as for influence—what influence do I have? None, I would suggest. Owen Tudor would no
t work his way up the ladder to greatness by marriage to me. And that is not our intent. We do not seek a life in the full light of the royal court. We would live privately.’ I lifted my hands in appeal. ‘My lords, that is all I ask of you. Your recognition of my married state and permission to live as and where I choose.’

  But Gloucester was not finished. ‘How could you choose a man in disgrace before the law?’

  ‘I chose a man of pride. A man of honour and integrity, my lord.’

  ‘A man of honour?’ Oh, he was inordinately, savagely pleased. He had found a weak spot, and I knew immediately what it would be. ‘And when is the bastard you carry due to be delivered?’

  ‘My child will be no bastard,’ I replied serenely. ‘He will be born within holy wedlock, recognised by his father and by the Church.’

  ‘He was conceived in sin.’

  ‘But he will live in the light.’ I stared at Gloucester, no longer dominated by him. How dared he speak so to me? ‘I find you presumptuous, my lord. Do I deserve such calumny? If you have nothing more to say—’

  ‘You are still to remain at Windsor in your son’s household,’ he ordered, grasping at straws, so it seemed to me.

  ‘No.’ I allowed a little smile even as anger beat in my head. ‘I will not.’

  ‘It is the law.’

  ‘Then I will ignore the law. I will live in one of my dower houses. They are mine, given for my use by the late king in his wisdom. I will live in them with my husband.’

  ‘And if we insist?’

  ‘Will you insist, my lords? The only means to determine where we will live is by the use of force. And if you do…’ once more I eyed Gloucester ‘… if you force me to live at Windsor, I will broadcast to the world the disgrace of your treatment of the once Queen of England, the Queen Mother, Princess of France. The wife of the hero of Agincourt. I think my royal state deserves respect. I think I will be given a hearing by the Commons, don’t you?’

  Gloucester flung himself down into his chair, denying any respect.

  ‘God’s Blood, woman! Was it not possible for you to embrace a chaste and honourable widowhood?’

  ‘I could have. But I chose to be a lawfully wedded wife again.’

  ‘To a palace minion, by God!’

  And since Gloucester at last stared at Owen, my husband bowed and replied, ‘I was not always a servant, my lord.’

  ‘And Welsh too!’

  ‘I consider that an honour, my lord, not a detriment. The law of England cannot dictate my pride in my birth.’

  ‘Pride in your birth?’ Gloucester’s disgust grew to vast proportions as he turned his ire on me again. ‘Could you not have let your eye fall on someone of your own status?’

  ‘I tried that, my lord. You refused Edmund Beaufort because his status was equal to mine.’

  I had him there, and he knew it. Oh, it was a direct challenge and my heart beat against my ribs. Gloucester, his face the hue of parchment, had thought I would bow before his dictates because I had in the past. He swung his attention from me to Owen.

  ‘And what have you to say? We note that you have left your wife to plead your cause. That does not strike me as being the stand of a man of honour. Is your facility in speaking the English tongue not good enough?’

  I sensed Owen inhale slowly. He held my gloves lightly in his hands and addressed himself to the Council rather than to Gloucester. How calm he looked, how impressively dignified. Not one man there saw the fire in him, the fury at his and my treatment.

  ‘I have not spoken, my lords, because this is concerning the freedom of the lady who is my wife. It is her right to put her own case, and that is what she wished. I agreed that it should be so, although I found it hard to hold my tongue when she was subject to such crude accusations. My blood may be Welsh, but I was raised a gentleman and I know degradation when I witness it at first hand, as I have here today.

  ‘No Welshman would ever address a nobly born lady in such a manner, certainly not a lady who has been nothing but a shining gem in England’s crown. I feel her shame. And I feel her courage, as I am certain you do, my lords. She has all my admiration.’

  Pausing, stepping to close the small space between us, Owen smiled at me, a smile of such brilliance that it steadied my heart, and now, at last, he took my hand in his.

  ‘What can I add to a situation that is already plain? Katherine is my wife. She carries my child, as you are aware. We will live together and raise our children, imbuing them with integrity and loyalty to the English Crown. But we will not live at Windsor. Or anywhere that the Queen does not wish to live. She must have her freedom to live as she chooses. And now I think it is her wish that we leave. Her health is fragile and she should rest. I ask your permission for this Council session to end, for her sake.’

  I held his hand as tightly as I could. It all hung in the balance.

  It was not Gloucester who spoke. It was the Bishop of London.

  ‘Let the lady rest. We will consider the situation in the light of our findings, sir.’

  Incensed, Gloucester leapt to his feet: ‘The law has been broken. We cannot overlook the fact that the Queen Dowager has brought England’s government and King into disrepute by her selfish actions. This cannot go unpunished.’

  But we walked from the Council Chamber, not stopping until we had escaped the confines of the buildings and could stand in the open, with sun and a light breeze and the caw of rooks in the elms by the river. And I drew in a breath, relief flooding through me. I had done it. I had done the best I could. What the outcome would be I had no notion, but for the moment we were free.

  ‘I think that was the worst hour of my life.’

  But beside me Owen exploded. ‘God’s Blood! How could I remain silent? How could I not answer word for every damned insolent word Gloucester directed at you? The law has been broken—yes, it has—but we are wed. Can they not accept that? What does it matter to the state of the realm? They were not even interested in the legality of our marriage. All they did was follow Gloucester’s lead and harp on about the damned law. Have they no sense? No compassion? I despise them! I despise all the bloody English for their narrow-minded, opinionated—’

  ‘And that is why we agreed that I should make our case,’ I said, with a little laugh. ‘Thank God you did not tell it to their narrow-minded, opinionated faces.’

  Owen dragged in a breath, forcing himself to rein in his temper, but it still rumbled dangerously below the surface. ‘We’ll just have to wait.’ He thrust my mangled gloves back into my hands. ‘Take these before I destroy them!’ But at last he looked at me with a softer expression. ‘You were magnificent, you know.’

  ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘No one would have known it. How I didn’t use my fist against Gloucester’s smug face and his insinuations, I’ll never know.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Oh, I think you could. You have hidden depths, fy nghariad.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘And that from a despised Welshman.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘My love. And, fy nghariad, we still have our freedom and no compulsion to live anywhere than as you choose. Let’s go.’

  ‘It wasn’t very satisfactory, was it? Our marriage is recognised only in so far as they can do nothing to end it.’

  ‘It’s the best we can hope for.’

  So it was. And perhaps it was enough. Yet I frowned.

  ‘Is it enough to stop you from standing behind my chair at every meal?’

  Owen thought about it.

  ‘Yes, By God! It is enough.’

  We decided to leave that very day, that very hour, Owen looking back over his shoulder as he was helping me into the litter, surveying the bulk of the Westminster palace that cast its shadow over us.

  ‘I’ll not be sorry to leave this place. Gloucester hovers over it like a bad smell. It smacks of English military aggression, not to mention dungeons and locked vaults where poor incarcerated fools never
again see the light of day.’ Sometimes Owen was very Welsh. He stared at me. ‘Now, are you comfortable? Or do you wish to stay a night?’

  ‘We leave immediately.’ Suddenly my desire to depart was as strong as Owen’s.

  ‘Immediately, my lady.’ And he grinned at what had been a very imperious tone.

  ‘Master Tudor?’

  A tall, lean man in clerical glory hailed us and approached from the wing of rooms behind us, and I smiled. It was the Bishop of London, who had spoken up for me, or at least not against me. Robert FitzHugh, a friendly face, all in all, and not one of Gloucester’s coterie. He was followed by another cleric I knew, Bishop Morgan of Ely. They ranged up beside us and bowed to me. And, interestingly, to Owen. I remarked it, but Owen’s face was implacable.

  ‘We will not stay, my lords,’ he said unequivocally.

  ‘I understand,’ FitzHugh replied. He looked across at Morgan, who nodded. ‘But just a word, sir, my lady.’

  Owen scowled, and I saw the direction of his thoughts. What would these clerics want with us? ‘We’ll hear you—but I wish to make good time, my lord,’ Owen stated. ‘It will not be a comfortable journey for my wife.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Morgan, as rotund as FitzHugh was lean, asked.

  ‘To Hertford. We’ll stay there until the child is born.’

  FitzHugh merely nodded with a thin smile. ‘A suggestion, my lady. And an offer. To you and to your husband.’

  Owen eyed him speculatively. ‘Is it possible that you’re of a mind to circumvent Gloucester’s plans, my lord?’

  ‘It might be. His ambitions gnaw at my conscience sometimes.’ The smile grew a little. ‘But here is my offer. Your marriage is legal, without any doubt. You have the proof of your priest and the Council can do nothing—neither do most of them wish to. Yet Gloucester still rails against you breaking the law. May I suggest that your child be born under the auspices of the church?’

  ‘I don’t see the need,’ I replied, uncertain.

  ‘May be there is none.’ Morgan took up the ecclesiastical view. ‘But if there should be—if the legitimate birth of the child is ever questioned…’