The Queen's Secret

by Jean Plaidy

We stood close, smiling at each other. There was no need for words in that moment. His arms were about me and he held me tightly.

  Then I heard him say: “For so long I have loved you, Katherine…Queen of England.”

  And I replied: “I love you too, Owen Tudor.”

  That night we became lovers. It was reckless. I am amazed now, looking back, at our courage. I was in a state of despair. I was going to lose my child. I was not the sort of woman who could live without a husband. Moreover, I was in love. This was different from what I had experienced with Henry. I had believed I was in love with him. I had been fond of him. I had found life with him fulfilling to a certain extent, even enjoyable. But it could not be compared with the feelings I experienced with Owen.

  This was reckless love…love which refused to be denied, which had not been arranged for the benefits it would bring to both sides in a war. This was different. This was dangerous, unsanctified love…love which was so overwhelming as to be irresistible.

  And having tasted it, there was no going back.

  He told me how he had loved me from the beginning, how he had contemplated asking that he might be relieved of his post, and how he could not bring himself to do that.

  I listened avidly, drinking in every word, reveling in this wild passion which I vowed I would never lose.

  It was my due. It was the due of every woman. They had taken my child from me; they should not deny me my lover.

  We were both fully aware of the dangers.

  “I have good and faithful women about me,” I told him. “They would never betray me.”

  “You are too gentle, my love, too trusting. You expect everyone to be as kind and good as you are.”

  “Dear Owen,” I assured him, “I can trust my Joannas and Agnes, and Guillemote would die rather than betray me.”

  “I have noticed their devotion and have often rejoiced in it.”

  We talked of little that night but our love for each other…how it delighted and alarmed us at the same time.

  “No one can love where people want them to because it is convenient,” I said. “Love is not like that. It is there…one does not say it is suitable…therefore we will love.”

  “You have suffered so much,” he said.

  “My dear Owen, all our troubles will be shared from now on.”

  “Katherine…is it possible…do you think …?”

  “Have I a timid lover?”

  “Not timid…the only anxiety I have is what trouble this may bring to you.”

  I put my fingers over his lips.

  “I will not listen to such talk,” I said. “For tonight in any case we are together. It is wonderful. At last we have broken through the barriers of convention and admitted our love. Nothing must spoil this night.”

  Nor did it. That was for later. On this night we had found each other.

  That was enough.

  DANGEROUS LOVE

  I knew I had changed. I knew that Agnes and the Joannas looked at me incredulously and that there was a hint of fear in Guillemote’s eyes.

  But they said nothing. Nor did I.

  I was happy…as happy as Jane on her journey to Scotland. I was happy as I had never thought to be in the whole of my life.

  I could think of nothing but Owen. I wanted to hear about his life, of those early days in Wales. I wanted to hear about Cadwaladr, an ancient ancestor who had defended Wales from King Henry II. I wanted to hear more of his father, the outlaw, who had fled from the neighborhood when he had killed a man. It all seemed so wildly romantic and I loved to hear him recount those stories in his beautiful musical voice.

  I was obsessed by Owen.

  “We must not show our feelings,” he warned me.

  “You must not look at me as you do when people are present,” I admonished him.

  “Do you not like it?”

  “I adore it. No, no, forget what I said. I care not. Please look at me like that.”

  “How do I look at you?”

  “As though you love me.”

  “Which is no more than the truth.”

  Lovers’ talk. Lovers’ ways. I could not help it. Life was wonderful suddenly.

  I was losing my baby, but I had my love to comfort me. Owen was making life wondrously happy for me.

  I will not lose all, I reasoned with myself.

  Guillemote was strangely silent. She seemed a little aloof. I had betrayed too much and she was wondering what would come out of this. She would guess the truth, I knew. I had been so desolate at losing my child; and she would know that I must have something in my life to help me replace that loss.

  She said nothing, though I knew the time must come when she would.

  The household had been taken over now. Dame Alice Butler and Mrs. Astley were in charge of it. There was no place for me. Henry’s Court moved to Windsor, and I stayed on in Hertford.

  It was easier here for Owen and me to meet, for the King must necessarily be under constant scrutiny; and it would be more so now that he had his own household. Thus I could live more or less privately, for a time at least. I should be grateful for that.

  I became more and more aware of that anxiety in the looks which my dear ladies cast in my direction, and they appeared to be a little embarrassed when Owen’s name was mentioned.

  Guillemote could contain herself no longer.

  She came to me one day and I guessed what was on her mind, because for the first moments she was silent and she looked at me in a puzzled sort of way.

  “My lady,” she said solemnly at length, “are you aware that you have changed and that it is…noticeable?”

  “Changed? In what way, Guillemote?”

  “Something has happened. I knew it…and what matters is that others know it.”

  “We all know that the King has his own establishment now. That is certain to make change.”

  “After all your sorrow, you seem to have accepted that separation. Is that because …?”

  “Because, Guillemote?”

  “Because you have found consolation?”

  “Consolation,” I mused. “Oh, Guillemote, it is more than that.”

  “It is Owen Tudor, is it not?”

  I nodded. It was no use pretending with Guillemote. She was too good a friend and she knew me too well.

  She said: “This is…reckless.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you thought what it might lead to?”

  “Listen, Guillemote…I married once to please them. This time I suit myself.”

  “But it is not a question of marriage. A queen cannot mate with a …”

  “A brave soldier,” I cried. “My husband thought Owen was one of the finest men in his army.”

  “But you cannot …”

  “I cannot help it, Guillemote.”

  “Well, it was understandable. You were overwrought. You saw Jane with the King of Scotland. Your baby has been handed over to his nurse. I knew it. It happened. But now there must be no more.”

  I felt suddenly confident to manage my own life. I laughed at her. I said: “Guillemote, it is for me to decide what there shall be…for Owen and me.”

  “He is the Clerk of the Wardrobe.”

  “He was the companion of my late husband.”

  “He is a penniless Welsh squire.”

  “And I am the Queen who loves him.”

  “Holy Mother of God, has it gone as far as that?”

  “It has, Guillemote.”

  “They will discover.”

  “They?”

  “The Duke of Bedford, the Bishop of Winchester…the Duke of Gloucester. Gloucester…now he is a mischievous one. I would not want him to know. You are placing yourself in danger, my lady.”

  “I care nothing for danger.”

  Her next words frightened me. “And there is one whom you might place in even greater danger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Owen Tudor, of course.”

  I was terrified, for sh
e was right.

  “Yes,” she went on. “He is the one they would blame. You…well, you might be shut away in a convent…away from the world. But wardrobe clerks who aspire to queens…well, I would not want to dwell on what might happen to him. Mon Dieu!They could call it treason.”

  That sobered me.

  And Guillemote was satisfied. She had made me pause to think.

  · · ·

  For a few days I would not see him. Then, when I came upon him, he looked so doleful that I asked myself why I was listening to Guillemote’s dismal prophecies.

  Owen said: “It is days since I have seen you.”

  “I have been afraid,” I told him. “Guillemote knows.”

  “Does she? She would keep our secret.”

  “She is completely loyal…but she talked to me.”

  “You are on such familiar terms that I am not surprised.”

  “She is worried about what will happen if we are discovered.”

  “She has a point there,” he agreed.

  “They would separate us…and Owen…what charge would they bring against you?”

  “Whatever it was, I should count everything worthwhile.”

  “It must never be,” I said quickly.

  “We must be doubly careful and make sure that we are not discovered.”

  “Everything she says is because of her care for me, I know.”

  “Perhaps I should go away.”

  “You could not. I should forbid it.”

  “How did Guillemote discover?”

  “She said it was the way I looked.”

  “You are beautiful…always.”

  “People in love betray themselves sometimes, Owen. I listened to her. She made me fear for you.”

  He was silent.

  “I could not bear it if anything should happen to you, Owen.”

  “I will take the utmost care to preserve myself for you.”

  I knew it was useless. We could not stay away from each other. It had begun and it must go on.

  So through all the days my thoughts were of Owen; and all through the nights we were together.

  We lived in a state of bliss. This was the most wonderful experience which had ever befallen me. I had not known there could be anything like it, and I marveled to contemplate that, if Owen had never come my way, I should have lived my life without it. I had thought I loved Henry, but now I realized that that had been a pale shadow of this exciting relationship.

  Henry’s kingship, his need to conquer, had been the driving force of his life. To him love was a light adventure, pleasurable and rewarding in a way but something apart from the main purpose of life. Whereas I was everything to Owen and he to me. Not only was there this all-absorbing, awe-inspiring passion but there was the need for secrecy which gave an added excitement.

  There were times, of course, when I wished that we could live in peaceful harmony, openly and unafraid, but the fact that we were living dangerously, in those early days, did add a thrill of which we could not be unaware.

  I was not cut off from my son. I was allowed to visit him. It was not like living under the same roof, but at least I could assure myself that he was not unhappy. Dame Alice was a good, serious-minded woman, determined to do her duty; and Henry appeared to accept her.

  It was clear to me that Joan Astley was ready to devote that loving care to her charge which the best nurses give unstintingly, and I could see that he was safe in her hands. She would protect him and if—which I fervently hoped would not be the case—Dame Alice felt at times that she wished to avail herself of the permission to chastise him, Joan Astley would be there to comfort him.

  Henry showed his pleasure in seeing me and was not overdistressed when I left—a fact which both saddened me and made me rejoice.

  Guillemote, who had accompanied me on the visit, said: “It is not as bad as we feared. He will be happy enough and he will not forget us.”

  “A child should be with his mother,” I insisted.

  “There would be many people around to watch us…if he were with you,” she reminded me.

  She was right, of course. She was worried about me—which I realized she had good reason to be.

  Owen was still a soldier at heart; his life had been governed by the war in France and he was very interested in how it was progressing. He listened avidly to the news of what was happening across the seas as well as in England.

  Neither of us wanted to look too far ahead. Each of us knew that if our relationship was discovered we should be in trouble…deep trouble. Marriage would be out of the question, I was sure.

  I should be disgraced and Owen would be accused of treason. That worried me a great deal; but in the first flush of our passion I could think of little else but the joys of the moment.

  There were times when we lay in bed when Owen would whisper to me of what was going on in France.

  “It is always dangerous,” he said, “when a country extends its dominions. Communications have to be kept up. Armies have to be sent to guard the outposts. It is never easy. If the King had lived …”

  “If the King had lived,” I retorted, “we should not be here now…like this.”

  He was silent. He had a great reverence for Henry. I think he was deeply concerned that he had become Henry’s widow’s lover.

  “The Duke of Bedford is very good, they say,” I said.

  “There was only one King Henry V, and he was the greatest soldier the world has ever known.”

  “What do you think will happen now, Owen?”

  “I think the Duke of Gloucester will make a great deal of trouble.”

  I shivered. “I am afraid of Gloucester.”

  “He is a man to be watched. But now he is going to Hainault with a company of men to fight for his wife’s rights…so he will be out of our way.”

  “I hope he will stay there. Do you think he will regain Hainault? It was what he married for. Poor Jacqueline. I wonder if she knows?”

  “I feel she must. Or it may be that she prefers to delude herself. But from our point of view it is good that he has gone. As far as England is concerned, I believe what he has done may prove disastrous.”

  “You mean his quarrel with Burgundy?”

  “The Duke of Bedford will do everything within his power to keep the alliance with Burgundy, but it seems as though his brother will do everything he can to destroy it.”

  “Gloucester thinks only of his own good.”

  “Which is what he is doing now. He will jeopardize the English and Burgundian alliance for the sake of regaining his wife’s estates for himself. It is unfortunate that the Duke of Brabant is the Duke of Burgundy’s kinsman. This could well cost England Burgundy’s friendship, and that is something they cannot afford to lose.”

  “At least he is out of the country. I have for a long time had a feeling that he is against me. I feel afraid for little Henry while he is here. He wants to be King of England, and there are others in the way. Clarence died. There is Bedford, of course…and now he has married and strengthened his alliance with Burgundy through his marriage to the Duke’s sister. But if Bedford died without heirs…and if something happened to Henry…then Gloucester would be King of England. I cannot bear to think of that.”

  “It could not get to that,” said Owen. “I do not know what the outcome of all this will be, but of one thing I am sure, and that is that Gloucester, by his conduct, is putting the alliance between England and Burgundy in jeopardy.”

  “Let us forget all about them,” I begged. “Gloucester is far away. He is not concerned with us now. And we have found each other. Swear that you will never leave me.”

  “Not of my own free will, my dearest.”

  “Then I am happy.”

  Henry, Bishop of Winchester, called to see me.

  The visit of such a man must necessarily alarm me. I was constantly wondering whether my relationship with Owen had been discovered beyond my intimate circle, and what the consequences would be, so I
received him with a good deal of trepidation.

  He was gracious, very dignified, very much aware of his royalty and position in the country. He made me feel that it was an honor for him to visit me.

  I hoped I did not show my anxiety, but if I did, I supposed he would attribute it to my realization of the honor he did me.

  Henry had thought very highly of him. He had said to me once: “My uncle has enough dignity to balance his illegitimacy, for although my father most wisely legitimized him, the fact does remain that he was born before his parents’ union was sanctified by the Church. He cannot forget this, and it irks him, so we must forgive him that little extra dignity he has to exercise to remind us all that he is equal with the highest in the land.”

  I thought that summed up Henry Beaufort exactly.

  Henry had said he was a good man to have working for him; he was exceptionally intelligent; he knew that allegiance to the Crown would serve his best interests, and therefore he was loyal to the Crown. “But I trust Beaufort,” Henry had said, “and I have always known he was a good man to have on my side.”

  Beaufort was a man who would stand up for what he considered best for the country, while making sure, if it were possible, that what was done was profitable for himself.

  His recent quarrel with Gloucester had shown that Gloucester held great power, particularly while his brother Bedford was in France acting as Regent there for young Henry. Yet Beaufort had made no secret of his disapproval of Gloucester’s marriage to Jacqueline of Hainault because he knew it would be detrimental to the alliance with Burgundy, which was all-important to England, even though this created great antagonism between the two men and could be harmful to him.

  I told him that I was well and said I trusted he was in the same happy state.

  He assured me that he was and then came to the point of his visit.

  “Your Grace will be aware that His Highness the Duke of Gloucester is causing some dismay abroad.”

  “I know he has gone to Hainault to regain his wife’s estates.”

  “His wife!” said Beaufort. “There is some doubt that she is that.”

  “Did not the Pope grant her a divorce?”

  “The Duke of Brabant does not accept that. There are many who say she is still married to him and that the alliance with the Duke of Gloucester is no marriage at all.”