Weakly, Catherine closed her eyes. She could not fight the darkness that was engulfing her. She sighed, and at least there was no more pain.
* * *
When Catherine opened her eyes, she found the sun dazzling her and somewhere, quite near was the sound of sobbing. She felt cold. Her hands and feet were lifeless, and when she tried to move it was as if she had turned to stone.
“Owen,” she said softly, and immediately he moved into her line of vision, his hair shining red like a halo.
“Catherine, my dear wife!” He bent towards her, his cheek hot against hers. The crying had stopped abruptly as if muffled by a hand. She tried to turn her head but the effort was too much.
“Where is Marie? I must thank her.” The words were thin, without body or resonance, and she scarcely recognised her own voice.
Owen made a gesture, and Marie appeared at his side. Her eyes were swollen and red though she attempted a smile.
“You gave us a scare then, my lady, and no mistake.” She adjusted the sheets as though to gain time. “You are regaining your strength slowly, and if you eat some of my good broth you will feel much better.”
Catherine nodded. The hot liquid warmed her, and soon the feeling began to return to her legs.
Marie beamed as she spooned out the last of the broth. “There, that will make you well.” She set down the bowl and began to bathe Catherine’s face in sweet scented water. “It will freshen you, my lady.”
Catherine suffered her ministrations in silence, and when she was finished she turned to Owen.
“Our child. You promised me I could see him.”
Owen closed his eyes for a moment and then sat at the edge of the bed, taking Catherine’s cold hand in his own.
“It was a girl. I called her Margaret after my mother; I knew you would wish that.”
Something in his attitude struck a chill into Catherine’s heart. “My baby. My little girl. Where is she?”
Owen could not speak. He covered his face with his hands and his broad shoulders began to shake.
“Marie, bring me my daughter.” Catherine’s voice was stronger now. “Is she deformed or ugly? What is wrong with her?”
Marie hesitated, and then went to the crib in the corner of the room, lifting the tiny bundle, and carrying it carefully to Catherine.
The child was perfect. Her features delicate and beautiful, her hair dark and glossy. And she was dead.
Tears poured from Catherine’s dark eyes and fell like diamonds in the child’s dark hair. Owen rose and took the baby gently away.
“It is the will of God, Catherine,” he said quietly. “We must try to accept.”
She looked up at him as if he was a stranger. “I will never accept. I will always grieve for my own little girl who had no chance to live.”
Her voice was cold and empty and she watched with wide eyes as Marie took the infant from the room.
“Catherine, you might have died, too.”
Owen sat close to her and tried to comfort her. She was listless and apathetic, her face empty of all emotion. She turned her face away from him and closed her eyes; and for the first time in their marriage, Owen felt that his wife did not want or need his presence.
Chapter Sixteen
The ground was hard beneath the horse’s hooves, and Owen delighted in the wind and rain that beat against his face. At his side rode Lady Margaret, the hood of her cloak blown back from her face, and her yellow hair streaming in wet curls behind her.
“Are you sorry now that you decided to come with me?” he shouted.
The wind took his words and dispersed them, and he laughed at the bewilderment in her face. Through the trees, he saw a hut and held up his hand for Margaret to stop. He helped her down and pushed open the door. It was bleak and dusty inside, but at least it was shelter until the rain stopped.
Margaret shrugged out of her dripping cloak and laughed up at him, her face shining and flushed, her hair in tendrils that clung like a baby’s to her skin.
His heart turned over as he compared her to Catherine. It was six months now since the death of the baby and yet the Queen still remained pale and listless, her hands lying like dead leaves against her black dress. Every time he looked into her eyes, he saw a reproach there, as if she blamed him for the tragedy. That’s why he was here with Margaret now; he needed to get away from the cloying atmosphere of the Queen’s chamber.
“It is foolish of us to attempt to ride in this, my lord.” She smiled, her teeth white and strong in her young face, the colour whipped into her cheeks by the wind only making her more attractive.
“I have enjoyed it thoroughly,” he said, sitting down on the rough bench against the wall.
She sat beside him, suddenly quiet, her eyes shy and deep as they looked into his.
Owen reached out and took her hand. “I am very grateful to you, Margaret. I want you to know that.”
She curled her fingers around his and stared at him, her breath almost leaving her.
“I do not need gratitude,” she whispered.
For a moment he hesitated. He loved Catherine even though she seemed to care nothing for him now, and it was never his intention to be unfaithful.
Her eyes were clear and wide and warm like honey, as they looked into his. She swayed towards him and he felt the fullness of her breast against his.
Desire swept into his body like a fire. Margaret was young and healthy; a beautiful girl. He put his arm around her – even in the heat of the moment, comparing her firm flesh to the delicate thinness of his wife.
Margaret gasped, and thrust herself towards him, her hands reaching for his face to draw it to her. She was eager and energetic, and Owen felt warm and needed, flattered by her passion for him.
His hand expertly unfastened her bodice, and she did not withdraw. Her skin was pink and golden and excitingly different to Catherine’s brownness. Passion sang in his blood, and in his head driving out all thoughts but the immediacy of his desire.
They rode back home in silence, Owen relaxed and happy; a man again. At his side, Margaret’s face was flushed with joy; her eyes shone as if the sun was trapped within them.
From her herb garden, Marie watched their approach. Her face was troubled. She guessed at once that they were lovers, and she could not find it in her heart to blame Owen. The Queen had spurned his affections for too long.
Poor Catherine. She may never recover from the death of her baby girl. She walked about like a dead thing herself with no smile touching her lips even when her sons sat with her.
Marie crossed herself. Please God that the Queen would return to her full senses before long. She thought of Catherine’s father; so mad that he didn’t care even if he dressed himself. Perhaps the Queen had inherited the weakness, and would become as he was. But no. Catherine’s sickness was a temporary thing, brought on by grief; the best thing would be for Owen to make her with child again.
Marie placed her hand on her own stomach; even now after five months she couldn’t believe that she was with child. The baby moved as if feeling the warmth of her hand. Marie whispered a prayer that all would be well. Tom was almost beside himself with joy. He had thought himself too old to be a father now.
She turned her back on the couple riding towards her to save the embarrassment of being seen, and stooped down to tend to her plants.
Catherine was saying her prayers when she heard the sound of horses outside. She did not lift her head to look or take her mind from her occupation, but one of her ladies exclaimed and made a sudden, startled movement, and Catherine was distracted.
She knew, with just one look, and her heart turned to stone within her. How could he be so cruel and faithless? He was hers; he belonged to the Queen of England. How dare he outrage her in this manner?
Her ladies stood motionless, waiting for her to move. She looked down again and resumed her prayers; but her heart was heavy, and for the first time in months she felt tears warm and fast fall on to the crucifix in h
er hand.
* * *
“I will always love the smell of the forest.”
Margaret lay on her back in the deep coarse grass, her pale arms stretched above her head. Owen looked down at her with affection, admiring the fullness of her breasts beneath the soft, smooth velvet of her dress.
“You are looking exceptionally lovely today, little yellow flower.”
He bent over and kissed her soft lips, but somehow there was no excitement, no warming of the blood. Today he had seen Catherine, dark as a raven in her crimson gown; and now Margaret seemed insipid by comparison.
It was strange, but he felt that his wife had been flirting with him. Her brilliant eyes had looked provocatively into his, and when he had stooped to kiss her dutifully on the cheek, she had turned her mouth to him in a sharp, stirring kiss. He could feel it now; the way her little tongue probed his and her small white, almost feline teeth, had been sharp against his lips.
“Come back to me!” Margaret complained. “You are far, far away. I don’t like to be shut out from your thoughts.” She wound her arms around him and pulled him close. “Do you not wish to love me a little, Owen?”
She nuzzled against him; every part of her was soft and with a fullness that had now lost its savour. He longed for Catherine’s fineness, the fragile bones that felt as if they would break beneath his caress.
He tried to move away, but Margaret held him close; her hands busy and her lips clinging to his. She was like a whirlpool that sucked in victims giving them no avenue of escape. Suddenly he was inexplicably angry. He pressed down against her, heedless of her sharp cry of pain using her in blind animal fury, until at last he fell back into the grass and stared sightlessly up at the sky.
* * *
They rode back home without either of them speaking a word. Margaret sobbed ceaselessly, the tears slipping large and plentiful down her cheeks. She knew it was over, finished; his love was dead and nothing would resurrect it. She sought in her mind for a way out of her dilemma. She was with child, and she could hardly remain as one of the Queen’s ladies now.
At the gateway, she dried her eyes, and held her head high. Owen turned to her, his eyes pleading for understanding.
“I can give you a dowry,” he said. “It will help you to make a good match.” She nodded her head, and then rode away from him without speaking.
It took a while, but soon she had erased the marks of the tears from her face, and in fact, her eyes looked more luminous and yellow than ever.
“Tell Lord Kilbourn I will see him,” she said to her servant, her heart beating quickly. What if he didn’t want to associate with her now? But then he was at the door, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Please enter, my lord.” Margaret’s voice trembled and from the lift of his eyebrows she knew he was aware of her nervousness. He came and stood before her, and she was disappointed by the smallness of his stature in comparison to that of Owen Tudor.
“I am at your service, my lady,” Lord Kilbourn said softly, a curious inflection to his voice.
Margaret coughed; she found it difficult to begin.
“I believe that you wished to marry me, my lord?” she said at last, her eyes downcast and her hands twisted together.
“You speak as if I no longer wish such a thing,” he said, and his hand, strong, almost cruel, forced her chin up so that she had to look into his eyes.
“Do you?” she said fearfully, trying desperately to free herself.
Instead of answering he drew her into the bedchamber and without ceremony pushed her back against the covers.
“My lord, what is the meaning of this?”
“I feel I have the right to inspect the goods before buying,” he smiled cruelly, and tugged so hard at her bodice that it came away in his hands. She lay there, her eyes closed against the humiliation.
“Not bad for a woman they call the Tudor whore,” he said, “and what is good enough for the husband of the Queen shall be good enough for me; especially with the handsome sum of money I have been offered by Owen Tudor.”
Long after he had left, Margaret sat at the window and stared out at the green grass and the tall trees pointing to the scarlet-streaked sky. She would make the best of her marriage to Lord Kilbourn; who knew but that he might mellow with time and in a strange way, there was something exciting about his very cruelty to her. As she glanced down at her torn bodice, a flush of anticipation coloured her cheeks.
* * *
“Come along, Edmund, hit Jasper back. He must not be allowed to get away with such antics!” Owen fell laughing on the green watching his sons wrestle with each other.
“See how strong Jasper is, Uncle Owen?” Henry stood proudly, watching his half-brothers, with fist clenched as if he would have liked to join in the mock battle.
“Aye, he’s a sturdy lad; but then Edmund is quick and wiry and escapes most of the blows. Go on, see how you fare against them.”
The young king went hesitantly forward, but the two Tudor boys quickly swooped on him, and soon he was laughing and tumbling, happy to forget that he was ruler of England.
“I see our sons are having a fine time,” Catherine smiled serenely, and as Owen quickly got to his feet, she rested her small hand on the sleeve of his doublet. “Would you care to walk a short way with me, my lord?” Her eyes were dark and mysterious as they looked into his. Owen felt his blood stir.
The grass was soft and lush beneath their feet and the cold breeze ruffled Catherine’s hair so that strands of it drifted free and rested tantalisingly against his face. The scent of it reminded him vividly of moments of extreme intimacy, and he longed to hold her and make her truly his wife again.
“You are looking very well, Madam.” His tone was formal and the words were not the ones he wished to speak.
Catherine smiled at him amused. “Yes, I feel much improved, both in spirits and in body; thanks mainly to the administrations of the faithful Marie. Would you believe that she brings me leaves from the fields to eat?”
She laughed and Owen smiled warmly at her good humour.
“She is remarkable. We both owe her a great deal,” he said, wondering why on earth he wasn’t telling his wife that she had captivated him with her beauty, and that he wanted nothing more under the sun than to love her.
“Soon she will have her child,” Catherine said, glancing up at him mischievously. “I envy her, my lord.”
Owen felt his mouth go dry. “Catherine, just allow me to…” He got no further; the Queen lifted her hand, and darted away from him.
“My son, I do believe he is injured!”
He followed her across the grass to where Henry was sitting, his hand held to his eye. At his side stood Jasper, his tiny fists clenched and his lip pushed forward as if he would weep any moment.
“Don’t scold him Mother,” Henry said bravely trying to smile, though by now his eye was quickly darkening into a bruise. “It was an unfortunate accident, it really was.”
Catherine scooped Jasper into her arms. “That is treason,” she said playfully. “A vicious attack on your king. Shame on you Jasper Tudor!”
The boy began to cry and immediately Henry held out his arms.
“Don’t tease him, Mother, it doesn’t matter at all. See, it has almost gone now.”
Jasper went to him and patted his cheek with more affection than gentleness, and Henry winced. “You are a tough little fighter; one day you will be a great general in my army.”
Edmund was not to be outdone. “I want to be in your army too. I will fight as good as Jasper, you’ll see!”
“All right, both of you shall be in my army.”
Henry smiled, pleased to have made the boys happy; and Owen wondered if Henry would still remember his promise in years to come.
“Come, the children are satisfied now.” Catherine took his arm once more, and led him towards the palace. “I have had enough of the sunshine, and the breeze is growing quite cold. Will you accompany me to my chamber, Owen?�
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She slanted her eyes at him in a way that spoke her thoughts quite clearly. He put his arm around her waist and she fitted against him as if she was made for him. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks. It was almost like being a boy again and in love for the first time.
Slowly he bent and kissed the top of Catherine’s silky hair.
Chapter Seventeen
Catherine was like a girl again. She laughed and danced as if she had never known a moment’s illness in her life. Owen attended her as if afraid she would disappear into a mist, and the courtiers talked behind their hands at the openness of the couple’s love for each other.
“I don’t give a fig for anything the gossips say.” Catherine lay on the bed, her hair spread around her like a dark cloak. “I have been the subject of Court gossip for many years, and it hasn’t been allowed to interfere with my life. I live it the way I please.”
Marie, her round face flushed, brought Catherine a bowl of orange water. “We all know that, my lady,” she said wryly.
Catherine glanced at her. “You are incredibly large, Marie. Surely the child will be born soon?”
No longer did the thought of Marie’s baby have any sting. Catherine herself was with child again.
“I don’t think I could carry it much longer, my lady.” Marie sat heavily in a chair. “I already feel like a cow about to calf.”
Catherine laughed good-humouredly. In all truth that was an accurate description of how Marie appeared.
“At least you will be sure of a big healthy child,” Catherine said comfortingly. She rose from the bed. “I must dress, and join my lord.”
She chose the red dress that Owen loved so much. It was still snug over her flat stomach; but soon, the seams would be let out to accommodate her as she grew with her pregnancy.
“Catherine, are you nearly ready?” Owen entered the chamber like a breath of fresh spring air; his face rosy from the vigorous ride he had enjoyed, and his eyes shone blue and bright.
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