by Anne O'Brien
No one looked for scandal or for gossip in so retired an existence. It was like looking to find a dangerous predator infiltrating a perfectly constructed nest, designed for the comfort and sustenance of only one precious chick. I was the perfect Queen Mother, steeped in respectability, Henry was the Young King who thrived and learned his lessons, and Edmund, the well-loved royal cousin, had every right to visit the Young King’s household as he wished, bringing gifts and a breath of the outside world from Westminster and beyond.
Young Henry looked for his coming with innocent pleasure, delirious when Edmund lifted him high, swinging him round until he shrieked in excitement. The gift of a silver ship, magnificently in full sail and usefully mobile on four wheels, proved the perfect toy. Young Henry adored his cousin Edmund.
And so did I.
So Edmund became a frequent visitor to Windsor, and we sought each other out with no words that could be misinterpreted by a casual observer. Merely a glance of eye, the touch of fingertips as he gave me a goblet of wine, or a carefully contrived brush of tunic against houppelande. We made no extravagant promises that could not be kept. Our love was conducted entirely in the present. All I wished for was to be with him, and he with me.
‘You are me and I am you,’ he murmured in my ear.
He chased the shadows from my mind with expert, knowing hands and mouth.
So I was older than he by a handful of years. Yet Edmund’s experience was so much greater than mine that I felt I was the younger. He was a true Beaufort, confident and ambitious, raised to see his strengths and develop them by every means possible. The royal blood, no longer denied but recognised by law, ran strong through his veins. And yet how subtle he could be for so young a man, when I might have thought that self-control would be overswept by pure, vibrant love of life.
His outrageous Twelfth Night schemes made me wary of my reputation, but I found there was no need. True, he carried me along, a leaf in a stream, refusing to allow me to linger in the eddy at the brook’s side, refusing to allow me to hold back and think, yet never did he put my reputation into harm’s way before inquisitive and prurient eyes.
Pouring out all the love in my arid existence, I thanked him silently, from the bottom of my newly awoken heart, for his ineffable compassion for my position. When his arms banded round me, shielding me against the world, I clung to him.
‘Don’t think,’ he said more than once. ‘Don’t worry that the world will condemn. Dance with me, Queen Kat. Laugh and enjoy all that life can offer.’
But in public he never overstepped the mark of decency. He danced with my damsels too. He never showed a need to push me beyond the inexperienced limit of my own desires. Or not yet.
Sometimes, in my lonely bed, I questioned the vital happiness that gripped me. Did I deserve it? Perhaps I should step more slowly, perhaps it was wrong for me to allow Edmund to dictate my will and order my days. Perhaps I should worry about the world’s condemnation. I had seen the results of cruel gossip in my mother’s life. Perhaps I should know better than to follow in her dangerous footsteps.
And then, when I heard his voice raised in laughter or needle-quick response, my resolution to be sensible and abstemious was all destroyed.
Fleetingly I wished that James was still close, a valuable confidant for a troubled mind, but James had achieved his heart’s desire. He and Joan, now wed, were deliriously ensconced in Scotland. I rejoiced for him—but I did not need him. My mind was not troubled, my feet were light with joy.
How many secret places were there to discover in a royal palace, for two lovers bent on a snatched moment of solitude? In Windsor I could map them all. I could trace our steps over that year and point to every single blessed spot on the paving stones where our love grew stronger, more intense. I could catch my breath as I recalled Edmund’s seduction of my senses beneath every arch and carved rafter. How carefully, how cleverly those assignations were selected.
My guilt, if guilt it must be, was as great as his for I was a willing accomplice, lured by a wealth of poetry that tripped from his lips. My pale soul blazed with light, made vibrant and alive by a fanfare of colour.
Yours is the clasp
That holds my loyalty,
You dismiss all my heart’s sorrow
There—exactly there at the turn in the stair in the great Round Tower, where we climbed from first to second floor. Where the light from the narrow window did not quite illuminate us, and the echo of approaching footsteps in either direction would alert us.
Your love and my love
keep each other company
Behind the carved screen in the Chapel of St George, such a sacred place to celebrate un-sacred love with passion-heated kisses. There we stood, I trembling in his arms, hidden by the rigid form of leaves and flowers created by a master craftsman who had had no idea that his artifice would hide the flushed cheeks of a Queen of England and her lover.
That your love is constant
in its love for mine
is a solace beyond compare
Yet not always so enclosed. In the calm solemnity of the King’s Cloister, when the canons and clerks were busy about their affairs with no time to enjoy leisure, there we walked hand in hand. I had no recollection of what we said, only of the slide of his hand against mine, his fingers weaving with mine, his palm hard and calloused from swordplay and reins. And, satiated with each other, we progressed to the Little Cloister when the noisy choristers were absent, intent on their choral duties, their voices raised in miraculous polyphony as a plangent accompaniment to our sighs.
Adam lay bounden,
Bounden in a bond,
Four thousand winter
Thought he not too long.
A bitter-sweet backdrop. I too was bounden in a bond from which I had no desire to break free. The words, the minor harmonies, were almost too beautiful for me to bear.
And all was for an apple,
An apple that he took.
As clerkes finden,
Written in their book.
And Edmund, master of all miraculous sleight of hand, when passion became too much, our breathing too roused, calmed my desire. As if he had conjured it all—as perhaps he had, for I thought nothing beyond him—he produced an apple from his sleeve, smoothly russet, that he presented to me as if it were a precious gem, and we shared it, piece by piece as he wielded his knife. He licked the juice of it from my fingers—until desire built and built again, and I thought I could not exist without him.
Back within enclosing walls, the Old Hall, converted years ago into a chamber for personal use of the king but now unused until Young Henry would be of age to occupy it, provided us with a vast expanse of space. Here, where we might be seen, we were discreetly adroit, a brush of fingertips our only recognition. With its twenty windows, greedy eyes for the world, there were no kisses exchanged here.
Ah, but within the privacy of the Rose Chamber, now that was a different matter. Our garments merging with the blue, green and vermillion paint and the gleam of gold leaf, camouflaging us like a butterfly on a bright flower, our bodies were free to meet and cling, one chrysalis.
Your love and my love
Shall be steadfast in their loyalty
And never drift apart…
Perhaps we became bold as the months passed. Queen Philippa’s chamber was hung with mirrors on all four sides. Here we dared fate, our two forms, melded into one in a passionate kiss, Edmund’s hands taking possession over the damask folds, smoothing down over the dip of waist, the swell of breast and hip, multiplied again and again from every side.
And all the other moments, the sweet taste, the scent of him kept me from sleep, when the excitement engulfed me and the recall of his touch made my belly clench and turned my blood to molten gold. The dancing chamber where in an impromptu revel, ordered up by Edmund for no reason at all but that he considered the court a dull place, we danced and touched because it was allowed.
A breathless, laughing dash up the st
airs of the Round Tower to where King Edward’s weight-driven clock told the hours, its hands moving slowly, the gears clicking and groaning as we sighed and kissed and caressed. An audience chamber, deserted of all but us. The Spicerie Gate-house, a dangerously thronged place as the main entrance to the palace, could still afford us the chance of a gaze of such longing that my fair skin was suffused with colour. Or the covered walkway between Great Hall and kitchens, busy with maidservants and pages, but not so busy that we could not linger…
And then, when the weather was clement, the private garden with its low hedges and herbs, where we were caught up in the deep shadow of the massive bulk of Salisbury Tower. Edmund’s kisses became more possessive with tongue and teeth until my senses were awash with him.
Who could blame me for falling headlong into delicious love? Edmund Beaufort was the sorcerer who magicked my sad heart into joy. My winter melancholy, instead of returning at the turn of the year, vanished into oblivion, like smoke dispersed in a light breeze. A gesture as simple as the stroke of Edmund’s tongue across my palm banished it entirely until I no longer recalled the depths of misery into which I had once fallen.
In that year I lived in a world apart, anticipating the next moment when I would see him, and the next and the next. My skin tingling, breath short, appetite destroyed, I lived for each moment we were together, mourning him through his enforced absences. A feverish pleasure gripped me, for was it not a fever? If it was, I embraced it. I danced through those days.
When Young Henry was knighted, John of Bedford’s sword touching his four-year-old shoulder lightly, I could not contain my pride and delight. No doubt radiant with it, I smiled across the crowd to Edmund, deliriously happy to share my triumph with such a man as he. He was a Beaufort, a man of rank, of consequence. A man of potential in the English Court. He was truly worthy of my love.
Secrecy could not last. Intimate affairs must of necessity be discovered and come into the public domain. Endless discretion was not on the plate of a young man of barely twenty summers, or on the platter of a restless, widowed Queen, and so we ran the gauntlet of the Court and were eventually discovered. The rumours began, a whisper, an arch glance in our direction, then the soft hush of words that died away as I entered a room.
‘It’s not wise, my lady.’ Alice, the first to voice her disapproval, was severe.
‘It is glorious,’ I replied, standing at the window in my chamber, tucking an autumn rose, a gift, into the knot of my girdle, humming the verse that Edmund had sung, wallowing in the soft sentiments.
Take thou this rose, O Rose,
Since Love’s own flower it is,
And by that rose
Thy lover captive is
‘No good will come of it.’ Alice’s features remained reproachful, her tone uncompromisingly censorious.
‘How can you know that?’ I turned away, my loving eye following Edmund below in the courtyard where he had mounted his horse prior to leaving for London.
‘You must end it, my lady.’
‘But why?’ I could see no reason why I should. No reason at all.
‘I foresee unhappiness.’
‘But I am happy now.’
‘My lady, it is a mistake!’
I ignored her.
My Master of Household, habitually taciturn, seemed to my mind more sombre than usual when supervising the taking down of tapestries in the gallery for cleaning.
‘Is there a problem, Master Owen?’ I asked. Neither the efforts of the servants under his authority nor the state of the sylvan scene with ladies and gentlemen engaged in music and song should merit his scowl.
‘No, my lady.’
He bowed, then his hands were once more fisted on hips.
‘Do you foresee a difficulty in removing the dust?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘Or is it the moth?’ I walked closer to inspect for any tell-tale holes.
‘No, my lady. And if I might advise, perhaps you should stand clear.’
I left. What was biting Master Owen, I could not imagine. Or perhaps I could.
Edmund returned.
‘They are talking.’ I met him on the stairs, and I warned him as we paced side by side, a careful arm’s length between us, along the gallery. For a moment there was an arrested expression in his face, but then he smiled, and a glint of what I could only interpret as Beaufort arrogance.
‘Let them talk. I care not. Neither will you, my love.’
The sparkling desire in his eyes, the heat of his mouth against my fingers, the admiration when he led me to my seat at supper ensured indeed that neither did I. I could foresee no danger for us.
Until…
‘Come to my bed, Queen Kat,’ he whispered when the minstrels withdrew and my household rose from the supper table, leaving us for a moment in a little space. ‘Let me prove my love for you—if you doubt it to any degree. Let me worship you with my body.’
The invitation, with all it implied, loosed a bolt of desire from crown to soles, setting me aflame. Staring at him, I drew in a ragged breath.
‘I cannot.’
‘Then I must come to yours.’
I shook my head, aware of Alice’s frowning scrutiny from where she lingered in the doorway, Young Henry’s hand clutched in hers.
‘Invite me!’ he demanded. ‘I will come to you when the palace sleeps. And I promise you that you will not regret this one step. Are we two not made for love?’
I sought wildly for a reply, managing only, ‘I will not. You would not.’
‘I would.’ He took my hand, lightly innocuous, in his to help me to step down from the dais. ‘I cannot continue this cat and mouse play longer.’
Too much. Too soon. Panic doused the flames. I tried to smile so that no one would suspect the content of his words, or mine. ‘I cannot. You must see that I cannot. What revenge would Gloucester take if my reputation was besmirched?’
His grip on my hand tightened so much that I winced.
‘You refuse me?’ Extravagantly, his brows winged upwards. ‘How can you, when we were meant to be together?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do refuse. Forgive me.’
‘I warn you—I will not give up.’ His voice was low, but he kissed my fingers with an intensity that left me in no doubt of his passion or the hint of quick anger I had seen in his face. ‘You have set me a hard task. As challenging as a quest set for one of King Arthur’s knights. But I will not give up. I will win you, my lady. I will lay siege to the Castle Impregnable—and I will win. I will never admit defeat, for I cannot live without you.’
Releasing my hand, stepping back in one fluid movement, Edmund bowed. I watched him walk away. When he reached the door, he looked back, and bowed again. The light of battle was in his eye.
When I attended Mass next day, it was to be informed by an impassive-faced Master of Household that Lord Edmund had left Windsor at daybreak. He had given no indication that he would return.
So he had left me. He had left me because I would not go to his bed or invite him to come to mine. He had been furious, taking himself off to London—or anywhere else as far as I knew—simply to punish me, because he had been thwarted.
Had Edmund Beaufort ever been thwarted in his whole life?
I doubted it, but I would not be pushed into a commitment that left me so uncertain. Why would I not sleep with him? I pondered. I was no virgin, but I could not commit myself to so momentous a step. I was not totally lost to good sense, and reason told me that to lay my reputation bare to accusations of lewd scandal would throw me into the hands of Gloucester and the Royal Council. Who knew what measures they might take against me if they thought my actions discredited the Young King in any way? I had done the right thing.
Oh, but I missed him. I longed to feel his arms around me again, his soft words against my throat. Perhaps I had just destroyed my only chance of happiness, a glittering gift offered on Edmund’s outstretched palms. Yet I knew that I had not. I knew that I had not seen
the last of Edmund Beaufort. I had become the Holy Grail for him, and I knew he would not give up until I lay in his arms.
Edmund’s unheralded departure had given my damsels much food for speculation and Alice an exhalation of relief. After two days of my being the object of their interest, watched to see if I was languishing from unrequited passion, I informed my household that I planned to visit my dower property at Leeds Castle, once Madam Joanna’s place of imprisonment. I found that the idea of the secluded retreat suited my mood, sequestered as it was, cushioned against the world, a place with no court and no damsels for they would not accompany me.
And if Edmund Beaufort discovered my absence and wished to see me, I knew in my heart that he would follow me.
I gave my orders to Master Tudor, who received them without expression. My small entourage was under way the following day, with my Master of Household and a handful of soldiers providing a stiff-backed and silent escort. Ensconced at Leeds with only Guille to serve my needs I wrapped my solitude around me. Every morning I climbed to the battlement walk and looked north towards London, my heart bright with hope. I was quite as capable of throwing down a challenge as my lover. We would see how strong his love was for me.
‘You left me!’ I accused as he strode with purpose into the entrance hall. I knew the role I would play. I had not had too long to wait—less than a se’ennight, in fact—for Edmund followed, gratifyingly quickly, but it pleased me to be less than conciliatory. It pleased me to see his steps hesitate momentarily as I addressed him with what might have been interpreted as temper. ‘You walked away from me and made me the subject of common gossip,’ I added, in case he did not realise the effect of his rapid departure.
‘You were cruel. You refused my invitation. You rejected my love,’ Edmund responded through gritted teeth. He was hot and sweaty from a fast ride, eyes fierce, russet hair mussed as he pulled off his hood. He was entirely appealing.
‘I could not take the step you asked of me.’ I was adamant.