by Anne O'Brien
I shook my head, realising that I had not thought about it in quite such graphic terms.
‘I doubt you thought about it at all,’ he said gently, kissing me again. ‘But I have. He would pull the sky down on both our heads. But on yours particularly. You need his blessing, Katherine, or as much of a blessing as is possible. You don’t need him as your enemy. Gloucester is the power in the land whether we like it or not. So, much as I despise the man, I must not compromise your position further.’
He stepped back, releasing me.
‘That is why I will continue to be Master of Household and stand behind your chair until we see how the land lies.’
I looked at him, all that was left of my anger draining away. It was me. It was me he cared about. I walked forward into his arms, sighing as they closed around me.
‘You foresaw this, didn’t you?’ I whispered.
‘I promised to shield and protect you. I will not encroach on your royal dignity. Or not until we have made our position clear before the Council.’
‘I’m sorry I challenged you as I did.’
Owen gave a bark of laughter. ‘Gan Dduw, Katherine! The faces of your women. They’ll have enough to pick over, and gossip about, to keep their tongues as busy as their needles as they stitch their never-ending altar cloths for the next twelvemonth. Your sanctimonious chaplain nearly choked on his ale.’ But beneath his apparent enjoyment I read the gleam of worry in his eyes, overlaid with sharp irritation.
‘I don’t think I can tolerate many more meals like that,’ I admitted. ‘Do you always use Welsh when you are angry?’
‘Not invariably.’ But at last the ghost of humour in his face was genuine. ‘As for the meals—we had better hope Gloucester travels fast.’
‘And when he does?’
‘Then we inform him of some changes to your household.’
It was all we could do. And yet: ‘Living like this is impossible.’
‘So we move to one of your dower properties.’
‘Will Gloucester forbid it?’
‘Short of locking us up, how can he? And that is what you will tell him. You will live where you choose.’
So I would. I would call on all the respect and honour I had worked for in my role at Young Henry’s side and I would challenge Gloucester. I would demand that Owen and I be left alone. How I wished I had never set eyes on Edmund Beaufort with all his worldly charm. But it was done and I must work with the consequences.
‘Will you stay?’ I asked him.
Owen lifted his chain over his head and cast it onto the bed. ‘I have no duties for the next hour, so pour me a cup of ale, woman.’ But as I walked past him with a little laugh to do just that, he caught me by the wrist and pulled me close. ‘And then I will kiss you,’ he murmured, his mouth against mine, ‘and I will unwrap for you the pleasures to be found in healing a disagreement between two lovers.’
And so he did. He turned to a new page, to a new bright illustration, that filled my mind with its beauty.
My son must be informed, I decided, and although Owen raised his brows, I took him with me from the Rose Tower to the royal apartments where Young Henry, at his lessons, smiled vaguely at Owen. He reluctantly took his attention from the book he held open on his lap, but he stood, laid the book down and bowed.
‘Good morning, maman.’ His manners were improving. He kissed my cheek.
‘I have married this man,’ I said without preamble. I had learned with Young Henry that to get straight to the point was good policy. He lost interest quickly.
‘Have you?’ he asked, looking at Owen. ‘I know you. You are Master Owen. You are Welsh.’
‘I am, my lord.’
‘I have never been to Wales. I wished to go to St Winifred’s well but they would not let me. Is Wales a wild place?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever lived there?’
‘Yes. And it is, my lord,’ Owen replied solemnly. ‘A land of mountains and rivers.’
That did not interest my son. ‘And do you speak Welsh?’ he asked. ‘I do not.’
‘I do, my lord.’
‘Say something to me in Welsh.’
Owen bowed very formally. ‘Yr wyf yn eich was ffyddlon, eich mawrhydi.’
Henry laughed in quick astonishment. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I am your loyal servant, Your Majesty.’
‘I like it. I like your new husband, maman.’ He turned back to his book. ‘I don’t think I will learn Welsh. I must know Latin and French. Perhaps I will send you a gift.’
We left him to his preoccupations. Henry was always generous with gifts.
‘You charmed him!’ I accused. ‘Just like you charmed me with a few Welsh words!’
‘Of course I did, annwyl.’ But although he slid an arm around my waist, his face was grim. ‘We might be in need of all the friends we can get. Even a nine-year-old boy, when he happens to be the boy-King.’
I sighed as Warwick eyed us with a disapproving air. It seemed that I would have to explain myself to every man at Court. Yes, I had known it would be like this but I felt that I must be constantly on the alert, quick with an answer. I was already weary of justifying myself and I had not been wed longer than a se’ennight. Warwick’s observation was trenchant.
‘Well, Katherine, this will stir up a hornet’s nest.’
‘Yes, Richard. I am aware of that.’ I raised my chin. ‘I do not regret it.’
‘I suppose there’s no point in me telling either of you that it would have been better not to do it.’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Better for whom, my lord?’ Owen added. His patience was also wearing thin but his demeanour held all its old dignity.
‘Richard.’ I touched his arm when he shrugged his incomprehension. ‘I know what I have done. I know that I must answer for it. Will you support me before the Council?’
‘It’s not my support you need.’ His tone was bleak. ‘It’s Gloucester’s. And I don’t see you getting that.’
‘Why would it matter so much?’ I glanced at Owen. ‘We would not draw attention to ourselves. It is my wish to live privately in one of my dower properties. I would not bring disgrace on the Crown or my son. I have little place in his life now.’
‘Gloucester won’t see it like that. You defied him, Katherine. He’ll not brook defiance, not from anyone. You saw the battle royal that developed between him and Henry Beaufort. He’ll not tolerate opposition to any degree.’
‘He never did approve of me, did he?’ I smiled a little sadly.
‘No, he didn’t. He acknowledged your usefulness, but he has no admiration for the Valois. But now you’ve made a bitter enemy of him.’
I thought about the three brothers. Henry, who tolerated me. Gloucester, who actively disliked me. And Bedford, the only one to show me and my plight any understanding.
‘I wish Lord John were back in England. He would not be unsympathetic. He might sway the Council,’ I hazarded.
‘No chance of that.’ Warwick grimaced. ‘Affairs in France are too crucial and not in England’s favour.’
So I was on my own.
But I was not. Owen was all the strength I needed. His arm was warm and strong around my shoulder. I needed it.
Gloucester arrived before the end of the week, travelling from Westminster in one of the royal barges, standing in the prow, hands braced on hips like a carved figurehead.
‘His face is as red as a winter beet, my lady,’ Guille remarked. We were watching from the old Norman gateway as he disembarked. ‘Neither is he wasting any time.’ He leapt from boat to landing like a scalded cat.
‘I expect it will be even redder after he’s said what he has come to say,’ I replied. ‘I’m tempted to refuse to see him if he demands that I wait on him. Which he will.’
Sure enough, as soon as he had marched from river landing to entrance hall, he had sent a page at a run to summon me to the main audience chamber. A summoning, not a request, forsooth. So it was to be a bitingly cold
and formal confrontation.
I spent a little time over my appearance, considering the ermine and cloth of gold then rejecting it as it would do nothing to assuage Gloucester’s fury. I did not run.
‘I think I should go alone,’ I said when I found Owen waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, neat and suave and authoritative in shin-length dark damask and chain of office. He was obviously, as Master of the Queen’s Household, out to make a statement.
‘Do you?’ he replied mildly.
‘As you said, it will only antagonise him. It might be worse if we see him together.’
Owen’s hand closed on the sable edge of my sleeve as I walked past him. There was no longer anything mild in his response. ‘And do you think I will allow you to face him alone?’
‘It would be for the best.’
‘But it will not happen. I will escort you.’
My relief was strong and for a brief moment I clasped his hand. ‘He might see reason, of course,’ I said consideringly, ‘and accept that what is done cannot be undone.’
I chose not to react to Owen’s jaundiced air.
It was a very brief meeting. There was no courtesy from Gloucester, no semblance of the good manners that he was so keen to see instilled into the Young King. He ignored Owen, addressing me as if he was not there, yet rampant hostility shimmered in the air between the two men.
‘So it’s true,’ he said, his delivery no less threatening for its extreme softness.
‘Yes.’
‘Words are wasted on you. You—both of you…’ now he glanced across with venom ‘… will present yourselves at Westminster. You are summoned to appear before the Royal Council to explain your aberrant behaviour.’
He looked me up and down, as if he could spy my thickening waist beneath the velvet pleating, yet there was no way of his knowing. I stood straight-backed, and kept my eyes fixed on Gloucester’s inimical regard.
‘I will agree to accompany you, of course,’ I replied, refusing to acknowledge that it had been a command. ‘I will explain to the Council. I know that I will be awarded a generous hearing.’
Gloucester left without further comment, enveloped in a cloud of ill humour.
‘Well, that went well,’ Owen observed, watching our guest stalk back to his river transport. ‘I think he saw reason, don’t you?’
How brave I had sounded, but in my heart was fear. I had always known that it would come to this.
Owen and I attended the Royal Council, as we were bidden. We were in no position to refuse, neither did we wish it. So there we were, with the proof of our marriage tucked in the breast of Owen’s tunic—Father Benedict had witnessed it with a disapproving scrawl at the foot of the document—and my belly still effectively disguised by the width of my skirts. The faces of those who sat in judgement on us were familiar to me, lords temporal and ecclesiastical come to condemn the Queen Dowager and her inappropriate lover.
And what a range of emotion slammed against us as we were announced into the Council Chamber, much as I had witnessed in my own household. Outrage and lascivious interest were uppermost. But some compassion, enough for one of the bishops to provide me with a stool. As I moved to sit, I looked up at Owen where he stood by my side, features well schooled into frozen courtesy, but then he smiled down at me, a sign of our love and one that I returned. Whatever they did, they could not destroy our union.
I might smile at Owen but fear hummed through my blood, and I knew he was not at ease. If he had worn a sword, he would have had a hand firmly on the hilt. Who was to know what Gloucester might persuade his fellow councillors to do? What if, deeming me untouchable, they took out their frustrations at my intransigence on Owen? A term in a dungeon in the Tower of London would not seem beyond the realms of possibility. As he too knew. We had talked about it late into the night.
‘What if they incarcerate you?’ I had asked.
‘They won’t.’
I did not believe him, but I let it lie, and loved him for his need to pluck troubles from my mind, as a blackbird gobbled the berries from a winter hawthorn. Would my consequence be sufficient to save him? I did not think it would. I had no consequence. Now I steeled myself, grasping what courage I could muster with both hands, to withstand the onslaught. When Gloucester had descended on Windsor, driven there by a gust of fury, he had been beyond words. He found them that day.
‘You have broken the terms of a legal statute, madam. You have defied the law of the land.’
I was barely seated, still disposing the folds of my skirts and removing my gloves.
‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied. ‘I have.’ Owen and I had discussed at length how we would manage this confrontation. Even though he did not touch me, I felt the tension in him, vibrating like a strummed lute string.
‘You knew the terms of the law.’
‘I did, my lord.’ Nothing would shake me.
‘And yet you were determined, wilfully determined, to flout it!’
I stood, handing my gloves to Owen. I would stand and face them. How could I argue for my greatest desire from a position of inferiority?
‘Wilfully?’ I said, strengthening my voice, but not too much. I had a role to play here, and I allowed my gaze to range over the ranks of those who would judge me. ‘I did not fall in love by intent, my lords. Thus, it was not my intent to break the law. But when my emotions were engaged and I desired marriage—then yes. Perhaps I was wilful. Or perhaps I would say that I was pragmatic. My son is too young to give his consent—and will be so for at least another seven years.’
‘Could you not wait? Could you not wait to indulge your physical needs until the King is of age?’
I felt my skin flush, cheeks and temple hot as fire. There was no mistaking this innuendo or Gloucester’s displeasure as his eye swept over my figure. So the rumours had spread, suspicions ignited. Beside me I could feel Owen straining to hold his temper. We had known it would be like this, and that Owen’s participation would do nothing but harm. The burden was on me. I prayed that he could keep a still tongue.
I drew myself up, and with all the pride of my Valois blood I marshalled the arguments that we had talked of.
‘How long would you wish me to wait, my lords? I am thirty years old. If I wait for the Young King’s blessing, I may be beyond the age of childbearing.’ I let my gaze move again, lightly, over the assembly. ‘Would you condemn me to that, my lords? How many of you are wed and have an heir to inherit your title and lands? Is it not a woman’s role to bear sons for her husband?’
I saw the nodding of some heads. Pray God they would listen and understand…
‘You have a son.’ Gloucester had his response at his fingertips to destroy any strength my words might have with the august gathering. ‘A fine son, who is King of England. Is that not sufficient?’
‘But my husband, Owen Tudor, has no son to follow and bear his name. He has no one to continue his line. Do I deprive him of children? And for what purpose I do not understand. My marriage to Owen Tudor does not, as I see it, detract from the King’s authority. My son is now crowned. The ties of childbirth have been loosened and he is, as he should be, under the tuition of men. Why should the Queen Dowager not wed again?’
Once more I surveyed the faces.
‘I am a woman, my lords. A weak woman, if you will, who has had the misfortune to fall in love. Would you condemn me for that? I did my duty by my husband, King Henry. I brought him the crown of France and an heir to wear it. I have been a vital part of my son’s childhood years. Now I wish for a more private life as the wife of a commoner. Is it too much to grant me that, or do you compel me to live alone?’
I pushed on, repeating the salient points, finding no favour with what I had to say, but if I had to plead on my knees to achieve my heart’s desire then I would do it.
‘My son is now nine years of age. He has not needed his mother’s constant care for many years. Those appointed to his education—by yourselves, sirs—are men of ability and go
od character, such as my lord of Warwick.’ I inclined my head towards him. ‘That is how it should be. But my womb has been empty for those years. Would you condemn me to a barren life? The Holy Mother herself would not. She bore other children after the Christ Child.’
How did I find the courage? I did not even look at Owen, not once, for I did not need to, conscious throughout of the strength of his love, urging me on. When I felt an almost overwhelming need to seek his hand with mine, I did not. I must stand alone and make my plea, for this attack was directed at me, not at Owen.
A new, harsh voice intervened. ‘It is blasphemy for you to draw comparison with the Blessed Virgin.’ I recognised the disparaging features of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘It is no blasphemy, my lord,’ I replied. ‘The Blessed Virgin became a mother in a human sense. Her sons were brothers of Our Lord Jesus Christ and recognised by him. She would understand my need. Do not you, my lords?’
There was some murmuring.
‘There might be something in what you say, madam.’ Was this a possible ally in the smooth intervention of the Bishop of London? I thought he might be stating a position in opposition to the Archbishop rather than in support of me, but I would snatch at any vestige of hope.
‘The Holy Mother is full of compassion, my lord,’ I said, turning a smile of great sweetness on him. And on all the councillors.
‘Amen to that,’ the bishop intoned.
So what now? I shivered as a little silence fell on the proceedings, and again, astonished at my own temerity, I forced the issue.
‘Well, my lord of Gloucester? I have stated my case. Are we free to go? To live together, united by God, as we most assuredly are?’
And I sighed silently when Gloucester picked up my challenge without hesitation.
‘We are not finished here. Any man who weds you without permission will forfeit his property. You transgressed the law, and so must pay the penalty.’