by Anne O'Brien
‘I would do anything to spare you grief,’ he murmured softly as he finished his task, using the edge of the linen to dry my lashes.
‘Why would you? I am nothing to you.’ When had anyone ever dried my tears, simply because they cared or wished to guard me from grief?
‘I would because you are my mistress. My Queen.’
And I laughed, a little harshly, lifting my chin, refusing to acknowledge my disappointment at his denial of anything more particular. I had been mistaken in my reading of the tension between us: it existed only in my tortured mind. ‘My thanks for your loyalty, Master Tudor. Wiping her tears away is only what any servant might be expected to do for his lady.’
‘And because,’ he continued as if I had not spoken, at the same time taking one of my hands lightly in his, ‘because, my lady, you matter to me.’
My breath vanished.
‘Master Tudor…’
‘My lady?’
We stared at each other.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘What is there not to understand? That I have a care for you? That your well-being is a concern to me? How could it be otherwise?’
I took an unsteady breath. ‘This should not be,’ I managed.
‘No, of course it should not,’ he replied, the lines that bracketed his mouth deepening, his voice unexpectedly raw. ‘The Master of Household must never step beyond the line of what is proper in his dealings with his mistress, on pain of instant dismissal. He must be the epitome of discretion and prudence.’
What was this? I hesitated, considering so disquieting a statement, before falling without difficulty into the same role.
‘Whereas the Queen Dowager must be aloof and reserved at all times,’ I observed cautiously, not taking my regard from his face.
‘The servant’s role is to serve.’ If I had been embittered over the value of my Valois blood, it was nothing to the scathing tone Owen Tudor applied to the word ‘servant’. There was pride in him, I realised, and loathing of his servitude that I could never have guessed at.
‘The Queen Dowager must ask only what is appropriate from her servant,’ I replied. ‘She must be just and fair and impersonal.’
Our eyes were locked. His fingers tightened around mine.
‘The Master must feel no affection for his mistress.’
‘The Queen Dowager must not encourage her servant to have any personal regard for her.’
‘Neither must the servant ever allow it.’
‘To do so would be quite wrong.’
‘Yes.’ For a moment I thought he would say no more. And then: ‘It would, my lady. It would be unutterably wrong,’ he said gently, the passion controlled.
How perturbing this conversation, how unsettling, and yet with a strange glamour that made me breathless. We had dropped into this observation of what was proper and improper, exchanging opinions in a carefully constructed distance from reality, as if it had no connection to us, to the world in which we lived. And indeed, as I realised, it had freed us to say some things we would never have spoken directly to each other. Had I been lured into this dangerous exchange? Owen Tudor had a way with words, it seemed, but I felt no lure. He was bound under the same intoxicating power as I. Imprisoned and helpless, mistress and servant, we were drawn together.
I must have moved involuntarily, for he let my hand slip from his and retreated one step. Then another. He no longer looked at me, but bowed low.
‘You should return to your chamber, my lady.’
His voice had lost all its immediacy, but I could not leave it like that. I could not walk out of that chamber without another word being spoken between us, and not know…
‘Master Tudor, it would be wrong in a perfect world…to have a personal regard, as we both agree. But…’ I sought again for the words I wanted. ‘In this imperfect world, what does this hapless servant feel for his mistress?’
And his reply was destructively abrupt. ‘It would be unwise for him to tell her, my lady. Her blood is sacrosanct, whilst his is declared forfeit because of past misdemeanours of his race. It could be more than dangerous for the lady—and for him.’
Danger. It gave me pause, but we had come so far…
‘And if the mistress orders her servant to speak out, danger or no?’ I held out my hand, but he would not take it. ‘If she commands him to tell her, Master Tudor?’ I whispered.
And at last his eyes lifted again to mine, wide and dark. ‘If she commands him, then he must, my lady, whatever the shame or disgrace. He is under her dominance, and so he must obey.’
Deep within me a well of such longing stirred. My scalp prickled with heightened awareness. It was as if the whole room held its breath, even the figures in the tapestries seeming to stand on tiptoe to watch and listen.
‘So it shall be.’ I spoke from the calm certainty of that centre of that turbulent longing. ‘The mistress orders her servant to say what is in his mind.’
For a moment he turned, to look out at the grey skies and scudding clouds, the wheeling rooks beyond the walls of Windsor. I thought he would not reply.
‘And would the lady wish to know what is in his heart also?’ he asked.
What an astonishing question. Although the tension in that freezing room was wound as tight as a bowstring, I pursued what I must know.
‘Yes, Master Tudor. Both in his mind and in his heart. The mistress would wish to know that.’
I saw him take a breath before speaking. ‘The mistress has her servant’s loyalty.’
‘That is what she would expect.’
‘And his service.’
‘Because that is why she appointed him.’ I held my breath.
He bowed, gravely. ‘And she has his admiration.’
‘That too could be acceptable for a servant to his mistress.’ Breathing was suddenly so difficult, my chest constricted by an iron band. ‘Is that all?’
‘She has his adoration.’
I had no reply to that. ‘Adoration.’ I floundered helplessly, frowning. ‘It makes the mistress sound like a holy relic.’
‘So she might be to some. But the servant sees his mistress as a woman in the flesh, living and breathing, not as a marble statue or a phial of royal blood. His adoration is for her, body and soul. He worships her.’
‘Stop!’ Shocked, my reply, the single word, lifted up to the rafters, only to be absorbed and made nothing by the tapestries. ‘I had no idea. This cannot be.’
‘No, it cannot.’
‘You should not have said those things to me.’
‘Then the mistress should not have asked. She should have foreseen the consequences. She should not have ordered her servant to be honest.’
His face, still in profile, could have been carved from granite, the formidable brow, the exquisitely carved cheekbones, but I saw his jaw tighten at my denial of what he had offered me. The formality of servant and mistress dropped back between us, as heavy as one of those watchful tapestries, whilst I was still struggling in a mire of my own making. I had asked for the truth, and then had not discovered the courage to accept it. But I had been weak and timid for far too long. I spoke out.
‘Yes. Yes, the mistress should have known. She should not have put her servant at a disadvantage.’ I slid helplessly back into the previous heavy formality, because it was the only way in which I could express what was in my mind. ‘And because she should have been considerate of her servant, it is imperative that the mistress be honest too.’
‘No, my lady.’ Owen Tudor took a step back from me, all expression shuttered, but I followed, astonished at the audacity that directed my steps.
‘But yes. The mistress values her servant. She is appreciative of his skills.’ And before I could regret it, I went on, ‘She wishes he would touch her. She wishes that he would show her that she is made of flesh and blood, not unyielding marble. She wishes he would show her the meaning of his adoration.’
And I held out my hand, a regal command, even as I
knew that he could refuse it, and I could take no measure against him for disobedience. It would be the most sensible thing in the world for him to spurn my gesture.
I waited, my hand trembling slightly, almost touching the enamelled links of his chain of office, but not quite. It must be his decision. And then, when it seemed that he would not, he took my hand in his, to lift it to his lips in the briefest of courtly gestures. His lips were cool and fleeting on my fingers but I felt as if they had branded their image on my soul.
‘The servant is wilfully bold,’ he observed. The salute may have been perfunctory, but he had not let go.
I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘And what, in the circumstances,’ I asked, ‘would this bold servant desire most?’
The reply was immediate and harsh. ‘To be alone, in a room of his choosing, with his mistress. The whole world shut out behind a locked door. For as long as he and the lady desired it.’
If breathing had been difficult before, now it was impossible. I stared at him, and he stared at me.
‘That cannot be…’ I repeated.
‘No.’ My hand was instantly released. ‘It is not appropriate, as you say.’
‘I should never have asked you.’
His eyes, blazing with impatience—or perhaps it was anger—were instantly hooded, his hands fallen to his sides, his reply ugly in its flatness. ‘No. Neither should I have offered you what you thought you wished to know, but had not, after all, the courage to accept. Too much has been said here today, my lady, but who is to know? The stitched figures are silent witnesses, and you need fear no gossip from my tongue. Forgive me if I have discomfited you. It was not my intent, nor will I repeat what I have said today. I have to accept that being Welsh and in a position of dependence rob me of the power to make my own choices. If you will excuse me, my lady.’
Owen Tudor strode from the room, leaving me with all my senses compromised, trying to piece together the breathtaking conversation of the past minutes. What had been said here? That he wanted to be with me. That he adored and desired me. I had opened my heart and thoughts to him—and then, through my lamentable spinelessness, I had retreated and thrust him away. He had accused me of lacking courage, but I did have the courage. I would prove that I did.
I ran after him, out of the antechamber and into the gallery, where he must have been waylaid by one of the pages who was scurrying off as I approached. Even if he heard my footsteps, Owen Tudor continued on in the same direction, away from me.
‘Master Tudor.’
He stopped abruptly, turning slowly to face me, because he must.
I ran the length of the gallery, queenly decorum abandoned, and stopped, but far enough from him to give him the space to accept or deny what I must say.
‘But the mistress wishes it too,’ I said clumsily. ‘The room and the locked door.’
He looked stunned, as if I had struck him.
‘You were right to tell me what was in your heart,’ I urged. ‘For it is in mine too.’ He made no move, causing my heart to hammer unmercifully in my throat. ‘Why do you not reply?’
‘Because you are Queen Dowager. You were wed to King Henry in a marriage full of power and glamour. It is not appropriate that I, your servant—’
‘Shall I tell you about my powerful and glamorous marriage?’ I broke in.
So I told him. All the things I had never voiced to anyone before, only to myself, as I had come to understand them.
‘I met him in a pavilion—and I was awestruck. Who wouldn’t be? That he, this magnificent figure, wanted me, a younger daughter, for his wife. He wooed me with the sort of words a bride would wish to hear. He was kind and affectionate and chivalrous when we first met—and after, of course.’ How difficult it was to explain. ‘But it was all a facade, you see. He didn’t need to woo me at all, but he did it because it was his duty to do so, because he wanted what I brought with me as a dower. Henry was very strong on duty. On appearances.’ I laughed, with a touch of sadness.
‘Did he treat you well, my lady?’
To my horror I could feel emotion gathering in my throat, but I did not hold back. ‘Of course. Henry would never treat a woman with less courtesy than she deserved. But he did not love me. I thought he did when I was very young and naïve, but he didn’t. He wanted my royal blood to unite the crowns and bring France under his control.’
‘It is the price all high-born women have to pay, is it not, my lady?’ He raised a hand, as if he would reach out to me across the space, the tenderness in his voice undermining my resolve to keep emotion in check. ‘To be wed for status and power?’
‘It is, of course. I was too ingenuous to believe it at first.’ I returned in my mind to those biting sadnesses of my first marriage, putting them into words. ‘Henry was never cruel, of course, unless neglect is cruelty. But he did not care. And do you know what hurt most? That when he was sinking fast in his final days, when he knew that death would claim him, he never thought of sending for me. He felt no need to say farewell, or even give me the chance to say goodbye to him. I don’t know why I am telling you all of this.’
I frowned down at my interwoven fingers, white with strain. ‘I thought I loved Henry, but it was an empty love, built on girlish dreams, and he destroyed it. Like a seed that withers and dies from lack of rain. He gave me nothing to help my love to grow—and so it died. I was very young.’ I looked up at my imperturbable steward. ‘I am not a very strong person, you see. I have had to grow into my strength.’
‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ he murmured, his eyes holding fast to mine. ‘I did not know.’
‘Nor should you. I hid it well, I hope. I am just telling you so that you know. There was no glamour in my marriage.’ In the face of his compassion my eyes were momentarily blinded by tears, but I wiped them away with the heel of my hand, determined not to allow this moment to escape me. ‘My courage tends to die when I feel unloved, unwanted, you see. When I cannot see a path for my feet to follow, when I feel that I am hedged in by thistles and thorn trees that sting and scratch. But today I have the courage to say this to you. What is in your heart is in mine too. What you desire, I too desire.’
Owen Tudor slowly retraced his steps to stand before me, reclaiming my hand, but not in the manner of a servant. I thought it was the way in which a man would approach a woman he desired, for, turning it within his, he pressed a kiss to my palm. His salute was no longer cold.
‘It could be a wish that the mistress might regret for the rest of her life,’ he stated.
‘How would she know unless she allowed herself the means to savour it?’
‘Perhaps the servant was wrong to accuse his lady of lacking courage.’
‘I think he was.’
Slowly, he linked the fingers of one hand with mine, his regard intense, reflecting none of the bright light that flooded through the gallery windows to illuminate us.
‘Have you enough bravery, Katherine,’ he asked, ‘to snatch at what you desire?’
He had called me by my name. If I would stop this, it must be now.
‘Yes, Owen,’ I said. ‘I have enough.’
‘Would you come to me? To that locked room?’
‘Yes. Would you invite me?’
He lifted our joined hands to touch my cheek in reply, and his mouth curved in a vestige of a smile. ‘What would be the punishment for a disenfranchised Welsh servant meeting privately with Queen Katherine?’
‘I don’t know.’ Selfishly, I did not care.
‘Do we risk the penalties? Will you come to me?’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
My heart thundered, but I would not step back. ‘Where?’
‘To my room.’
And pulling me close, so that my silks whispered against the wool of his tunic, he bent his head as if he would kiss me on the lips.
I froze. Footsteps at the end of the gallery were announcing the return of Thomas, my page, bearing a covered ewer and a cup. Before the lad had
covered half the length of the room, Owen was no longer standing near me.
‘It will be as you wish, my lady,’ he said, as if some business between us had been completed. ‘I will send your request to the Young King. And if you will consider my suggestion…?’
There was nothing here that was not proper. ‘I have considered it, Master Tudor. I think it has merit and will act upon it.’ I looked across at my page with a smile. ‘Good morning, Thomas. Had you come to find me?’
‘Master Owen sent me to fetch wine for you, my lady, in the audience chamber.’
So he had thought of me, even when he had been so angry.
‘That was kind—but I have changed my mind. You can accompany me back to my chamber and you can tell me…’
Later I could not recall what small matter I had talked of with my page. I had done it. I had agreed to meet with Owen Tudor. There was a connection between us impossible to deny despite the unbridgeable rift between us. I had stepped over that rift and could find nothing but exquisite joy in the stepping.
At the door to my chamber I discovered that I was still wearing his cloak, redolent of the scent of him, of horses, and smoke from an applewood fire. Of maleness. I drank it in, before reluctantly I unfastened the pin, allowing the enveloping weight to slip from my shoulders as I examined the brooch. It was silver and of no great value, a little worn from long polishing and without gems, but when I looked closely I could see that its circular form was that of a creature I supposed was a dragon. Its wings were only half-furled as if it might take to flight at any moment, if its tail were not caught in its mouth. It had an aura of power, of mystical authority in the skilful carving of it. I thought it had no great value—how would a servant own jewels of any value?—but the little dragon had the essence of something old and treasured. Perhaps it had once belonged to his family, passed down through the generations. I traced the lines of the silver wings with my finger. It was a far cry from the Beaufort escutcheon with its enamelling and glittering stones, and yet…