by Anne O'Brien
‘My lady?’
Thomas was standing, waiting for instruction.
I folded the cloak and handed it to him.
‘Return this to Master Tudor,’ I instructed. ‘Express my thanks for his coming to my rescue.’
And the pin? I kept it. Just for a little while. It seemed to me that perhaps Owen Tudor had something of a dragon in him, in the display of brooding power I had just witnessed. I would not keep it long—just for a little while. To have something of him for myself.
I sat on his bed—for want of anywhere else. I had told no one of my intentions. Whom would I tell? Not even Madam Joanna could be a recipient of this wild step. My damsels were dismissed, Guille dispatched. I would put myself to bed, I stated. Was I not capable of it? When Guille showed some surprise, I claimed a need of solitude for prayer and private contemplation. Yet here I was, enclosed by dark shadows, alone in the room of the man I paid to supervise my household. An assignation with a servant. I swallowed convulsively, the nerves in my belly leaping like frogs in a pond on a summer’s night.
I was dressed in the plainest clothes I possessed. Anyone noting me as I had made my way by antechamber and stair would not have looked twice at the woman wrapped about in sombre hues, her hair secured, its fairness hidden from sight in a hood. I was nothing more than one of the royal tirewomen out and about on her own affairs. And if it was with a man who had caught her eye, then good luck to her.
So here I sat on Owen Tudor’s bed, my feet not touching the floor, and looked around. It was a surprise to me. Not the fact that it was small—Owen was fortunate to have a room of his own. It was barely large enough to contain the narrow bed, a plain stool, a coffer for small private items, a clothes press and a candle stand. If I had stood in the centre, with outstretched arms, I might almost have touched the opposite walls. The surprise was that it was as neat as a pin.
Owen Tudor took care of his possessions, making me realise again how little I knew of him. There were no garments strewn around, nothing where it should not have been. I slid my hand over the rough woven cover on the bed. Neither was there anything to indicate his status as the Master of Household. It could have been a monkish cell for all it might tell me of the man with whom I had made this liaison.
My eye travelled to the coffer and beside it the handsome slipware pottery bowl and ewer. And I smiled because I could not help it. Pottery cups and a flagon of what I suspected was wine stood there. A candlestick. And a book. Here was an item of value. He had left something for me to read to pass the time because he knew he might be late. How thoughtful! A book, a candle and a cup of wine. I laughed softly despite the stark beat of uncertainty in my mind. Had he known that I would be nervous, in spite of all my professed courage? Perhaps he had, and had done what he could to remedy it.
I opened the book—recognising it immediately as one of my own Books of Hours—how enterprising of him to give me comfort—and turning the pages, I discovered a well-loved illustration of the marriage feast at Cana, beautiful with its familiar depth of colour and lively participants. But I closed the book abruptly between my two hands. This was no sacred marriage I was contemplating. This was a sinful celebration of desire. And if Owen Tudor did not come soon, my much-vaunted courage would be naught but a puddle around my feet.
I heard his confident footsteps at the head of the stair. They drew nearer. Swift and purposeful, Owen Tudor sounded like a man spurred on by urgency. And I trembled.
This is a mistake…
When the door opened, I was on my feet, as if for flight. For a moment, there he stood in the doorway, blotting out the light from the corridor, as dark and solemn as always, as good to look at at the end of the day as he was at the beginning. If he saw my uncertainty, he gave no recognition, but smiled at me, and any thoughts of escape were thrust aside as the door was closed smoothly at his back.
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said, bowing as if we were meeting in public and our previous conversation had never happened. ‘I am late. My mistress had tasks for me. My time is rarely my own.’
His lips curved and his eyes gleamed, and I thought that it was the first time that he had shown any humour in my company. His face was lit by his smile, the cheekbones softening, and although my hands were clasped tightly together, I found that I had relaxed enough to respond in kind.
‘Does your mistress work you hard?’
‘You have no idea.’ He took two slow steps towards me. ‘Have you had wine?’
‘No.’
His actions were as neat and spare as his surroundings as he lit another candle and poured wine—just as if our meeting here was commonplace—whilst I stood unsure of what to do. I could not sit on his bed. I could not. He handed me a cup and raised his own.
‘To your health, my lady.’
‘To yours, Owen Tudor.’
I sipped, almost choking. I had no idea what to say. My awareness of him within these close walls traced a path over my skin from head to toe.
‘I told you that I admired you,’ he said softly. And when I looked blankly at him: ‘I was right to do so. You had all the courage I expected of you.’
‘I don’t feel brave.’
‘The door is not locked,’ he stated.
‘No.’
And I realised he was allowing me a choice, even at this late hour. Seeing my hands shaking, he took the cup from me and placed both on the coffer, so that his back was to me, inviting me to slide a hand over the fine material of the tunic he had worn for supper, to take cognisance of the firm shoulder beneath. But I couldn’t touch him. I wouldn’t touch him.
And as if aware of my difficulty, Owen took the decision out of my hands, for he approached, enclosed my hands in his and drew me towards him.
‘Do I have permission to kiss the once Queen of England?’
‘If you wish it.’
He filled my vision as he bent his head and placed his lips on mine. Gently. A promise rather than possession. And fleetingly. Barely had I registered the warmth of it than he had lifted his head and was looking down at me.
‘I’ll not ask permission again, Katherine. Is this what you want?’
I could not reply, unable to find the words to express the army of uncertainties that battered my mind, but I did not need to. Framing my face with his hands, his lips again claimed mine, and it was my undoing. How different this embrace! His mouth hot and hungry, body powerful, hands holding me so that he could take and take again, I was swept away with heat and the longing that built within me. He lifted his head again, hands still cradling me, his thumbs caressing my temples—until with a brusque movement he pushed back my hood so that it fell to the floor.
My hair free and released, it now tumbled over my shoulders to lie on my breast, and his, allowing him to curl his hand within it so that it wound round his wrist like a living shackle. My breath shuddered out between my lips in a sound of pure wordless pleasure.
‘Call me by my name. Call me Owen.’ There was the urgency.
‘Owen.’ A breath of delight.
‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The most desirable. And I should know better than to have you here—but what man can stand aloof from a woman who fires his blood? I have wanted you for years. I can no longer resist you.’
His arms anchored me against him, and his fervent avowals slid through my blood like wine as he kissed me and I clung, my senses cast adrift, robbed of all will, all thought, only knowledge that here was a man who said he desired me and always had. An explosion of heady feeling swept through me. Owen Tudor wanted me, and I wanted him beyond all reason. I would let him take me. His hands moved to the lacing of my gown—
No!
Suddenly the desire was shot through with pure panic.
‘No,’ I said.
I pushed against his chest, and when he released me I buried my burning face in my hands. What was I doing? Horror bubbled through my blood, and a capering terror that tripped and hopped to its own rhythm. I look
ed at the man I would have taken as my lover, distraught, suddenly seeing Edmund’s laughing face before me. Edmund had seduced me with laughter and song and carefree youth, making me think that I was a girl again without responsibilities, before abandoning me when he could not use me to climb his particular ladder of power.
This was no light-hearted seduction, but an explosion of passion that swept me along, dragging me down into a whirlpool of longing. I wanted it—but could not allow it, for it would bring nothing but humiliation for me, ignominy and dismissal for Owen. If Gloucester discovered…if the Council knew. A liaison with a servant? But I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me again. I wanted his mouth on mine.
Ah, no. It must not be!
And in that moment I was swamped by past hurts. Owen Tudor could never want me. Did I not have proof? No one else, neither Henry nor Edmund, had wanted me, except for what the Valois name or my position of Queen Dowager could bring them. Owen Tudor could not love me. Perhaps it was pity in his heart. Yes, that was it. All my confidence was undermined by terrible uncertainty…
I became aware that Owen was frowning as if trying, and failing, to read the morass of thoughts chasing through my mind. His hands fell away from my shoulders, yet he smoothed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, and my fears were almost overthrown.
‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked.
‘No.’ I must not give in. I must not. ‘It’s not that. I should not be here.’
And I saw justifiable exasperation glitter in his eye as he sighed. ‘It’s a bit late for that.’
‘It’s all my fault.’
And I slid from his hands to flee. The door was unlocked. Two more steps and I would be there and out of this room that contained all I desired but all I could not have. I could be back in my chamber where I could wipe out my memory of what I had almost done. I could forget how I had almost fallen at his feet in longing—but before I had managed one step, Owen captured my wrist.
‘Don’t go like this.’
As his fingers closed, fear built irrationally. I pushed hard against him but to no avail.
‘Katherine. Don’t struggle. I’ll do nothing that you don’t wish.’
‘I can’t do this.’ I was beyond sense, shot through with guilt that I might bring judgement against him. ‘I have behaved outrageously. You should know that there is bad blood in my veins. My mother…no handsome man was safe with her. I have to ask your forgiveness.’
‘No. No forgiveness is necessary between us.’ He tried to gather me into his arms. I wanted it more than life itself and for a moment allowed myself to be drawn close, before self-reproach re-ignited in an agony of despair.
‘I can’t stay…’ I struggled, overbalanced, so that he clamped me to his chest. ‘Oh!’ The sting of pain along my cheekbone shocked me into silence.
‘What is it?’
I shook my head. ‘Let me go!’
And now his voice was all ice, all understanding having fled. ‘So you do despise me as a servant, too lowly for you to lie with. You can lust after my body but my birth isn’t good enough for you.’
‘No! That’s not it.’
‘That is what it looks like to me.’
‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Please understand. You must let me go.’
‘Then go if you wish, my lady. There is no compulsion. I would not endanger your mortal soul by forcing you to share a bed with a man who is not fit to remove your shoes.’
The heavy formality, the harsh judgement, was my undoing.
‘You cannot possibly love me,’ I cried out in my anguish. ‘No man has ever loved me.’
And when Owen stood aside, I flung the door wide, hurrying down the corridors, through the rooms to my own, my hair loose, my face undisguised, praying helplessly that I would meet no one. I did not, but it was no relief. Despair drenched me from head to foot at what I had almost allowed myself to do.
And what I had thrown away.
Closing my door, I leaned back against it, willing my emotions to settle. Shame was a living entity, nasty and cruel, mocking my every breath with jeering contempt in every comment. Overcome with physical need, I had invited the intimacy. I had called him by his given name and agreed to the assignation, compromising my honour. I had drunk his wine, kissed him, and then I had fled for my life like a frightened child rather than a woman of almost thirty years. I had left my hood. I had run through the corridors like a court whore escaping from an importunate lover. Yet now, forced to accept my dishonour, I wished I was back in his room, sitting on his bed, allowing him to lead me in whatever path he chose.
You fool. You utter fool. You allowed desire to rule and look what happened. Have you learnt nothing from your life? How will you face him ever again?
And still my need for him would not release its hold on me. If he had come to my door at that moment, I would have opened it to him and bid him come in. I would have fallen at his feet in gratitude.
He won’t come. He thinks you have damned him as inferior, unfit to consort with a queen.
I sobbed. Why? Why had I run away?
Because I was afraid. Afraid of putting my life into the hands of a man I barely knew, who might not have care with it. Afraid that the line between servant and mistress was impossibly blurred and, in the end, I had not been able to take my fortitude in both hands and leap over that line. What would Beatrice say if she knew that I contemplated removing my shift for Owen Tudor? Or Madam Joanna? I don’t care, I had once said. But I did. I shivered at the thought of their reproof.
And what of Owen Tudor? I had denied him, rejected him, allowing him to believe that I thought him too far below me. A man of such self-esteem as he was would never forgive me for that. I was without honour: the blame was all mine.
Forcing myself to walk across the room, I picked up my reflecting glass. What would I see? Would I see the face of a slut? Would I recognise the woman who stared back at me? I looked, a quick glance. And was surprised. There was no imprint of the sin I had contemplated.
Then I looked again, carrying the glass to a candle. An unhappy woman stared back, a woman who had stood on the edge of grasping what she most wanted in life. There, enticingly before her, was the bridge over the chasm, there the helping hand stretched out, there the man who would give her her heart’s desire—and she had stepped back. She had leapt away, destroying any chance of taking that step again. He would despise her, her lack of valour, her lack of courtesy. It was hopeless.
I relived the moments again in all their glory and all their pain. He had called me Katherine. He had kissed me and I had pushed him away, when all I had wanted was to say, ‘Kiss me again!’ and make use of the bed with the bright woven cover.
You can lust after my body but my birth isn’t good enough for you…
Owen Tudor would despise me, but not as much as I despised myself.
I took a comb to my tangled hair, pulling on the knots as if the pain would dissolve my grief. I could not weep. The guilt was mine, choosing to go to the room of a passionate man then fleeing when he had kissed me.
I looked again, turning my head as I saw the abrasion on my cheek. It was red, with the slightest breaking of skin. Of course. His chain of office had marked me. How appallingly apt.
A terrible memento of a disastrous evening.
Guille drew back the heavy bed-curtains that had been witness to my lack of sleep, and halted with a hiss of consternation.
‘My lady!’
‘What is it?’ My reactions, both of mind and body, were slow.
‘What have you done?’ She disappeared, returned and held out my reflecting glass.
And I looked. The abrasion, a minor blemish the night before, was angry and red with the purple-blue of bruising flaring across my cheekbone.
‘Who did this to you?’
I touched the tender spot, flinching at the pain. Here was truth I could not admit to.
‘It was my own fault,’ I managed smoothly. ‘I fell against the bed foot. I had spe
nt too long on my knees at my prie-dieu.’ It was horribly noticeable. I closed my eyes: the last thing I needed was to draw attention to my reprehensible behaviour. ‘Can we remedy it?’ I asked.
‘A day for some clever disguise, I think.’ And Guille, rummaging, lifted a chest of cosmetics from the depths of my coffer.
I rarely used them. My skin was fashionably pale and close textured, but today I needed subterfuge. Guille and I knew enough from my mother, who had been expert in applying glamour to win the eye of a man. My need was to hide from him. Owen Tudor must not suspect that our meeting had left its mark on me.
We spent a useful hour opening packets and phials, finally applying powdered root of the Madonna lily to whiten my face and hide the abrasion. Ground leaves of angelica added a glow to my cheeks and drew the eye from the bruising.
‘It’s better,’ Guille ventured, a frown between her brows. ‘I suppose.’
‘But not good.’ I cast my looking glass on the bed in despair.
‘We can’t hide it completely.’
‘No.’ I sighed. It was the best we could do. I broke my fast in my chamber and absented myself from Mass, but I would have to join my household for dinner, or my empty chair would cause comment. I would have to scrape up what I could of my poor fortitude and pretend that nothing was amiss.
And I would have to face Owen Tudor.
When I took my place on the dais, with no thought of what was on my plate, and no ear for Father Benedict’s blessings, all I could see in my mind was Owen Tudor’s gaze sweep over me, then return, as I had first walked defiantly into the room. The gaze became a stare, his whole stance taut, until he remembered his duties and stalked away to summon the pages to bring in the serving platters. All I was left with was a memory of his stunned expression, for the much-vaunted cosmetics were not concealing the livid bruise to any degree.
I already knew this. My damsels, meeting with me in my solar, had been sympathetic with my plight and full of suggestions from their own remedies, but nothing could conceal the discolouring. Or my remorse when I saw Owen Tudor’s reaction.