by Anne O'Brien
I had not expected to have to fight a battle with him over status quite so soon, or quite so publically. But I would. I was resolute. My husband would not act the servant in my household. And so I, who never willingly drew attention to herself, stood, drawing all eyes. I raised my voice. If he would force me to challenge him under the eye of every one of my household, then so be it.
‘Master Tudor.’ My voice held a ringing quality that day, born out of a heady mix of anger and fear.
Owen walked slowly towards me until he stood before me, of necessity looking up at me on the dais.
‘My lady?’
His eyes met mine, his face a blank mask of defiance. I knew why he felt the need, but I would not accept it. Last night I had been wrapped in his arms, our love heating the air in my chamber. I would not tolerate this.
‘What is this?’ I asked, clearly.
His reply was equally as crisp. ‘I have a duty to your household, my lady.’
‘A duty? You are my husband.’
‘That does not absolve me from the tasks for which I am employed. And for which I still draw a wage from you, my lady.’
The pride of the man was a blow to my heart, a pride that bordered on arrogance. But I did not flinch.
‘My husband does not work for me as a servant.’
‘We wed outside the restrictions of the law, my lady, without permission. Until we have stood together before his grace of Gloucester and the Royal Council and made our change of circumstances known, and it is recognised, I will continue to serve you.’
‘You will not!’ I was astonished, senses shattered by this reaction in him that I could never have anticipated. I would not allow him to demean himself, and yet I suspected his will was as strong as mine.
‘And who else do you suggest will do it, my lady?’
‘I will appoint your successor. You will not serve me and you will not stand behind my chair.’
‘I will. I am still Master of the Queen’s Household, my lady.’
‘I don’t approve.’ I was losing this argument, but I could see no way to circumvent his obstinacy.
‘You do not have to. This is how it will be. I will not sit at my wife’s table when there is still doubt as to my status.’
At my side Father Benedict chose to intervene. ‘Indeed, there is no doubt that your marriage is legal, Master Owen.’
But I waved him to silence. This was between Owen and I.
‘There is no doubt,’ I said.
‘Not with you. Not with you, annwyl. But look around you.’
I did, refusing to be touched by him calling me his beloved in public, and I realised that we—Owen and I—stood at the centre of a concerted holding of breath. I looked at those who sat at my table, at those who waited on me. At my damsels and my chaplain. We had a fascinated audience. I read prurient interest from those who hovered to see who would win this battle of wills: some pity for me in the conflict I had naïvely created for myself; more than a touch of rank disapproval for the whole undignified exchange between mistress and servant. Even envy in the eyes of my women who had not been untouched by Owen’s charms. But all waited to hear what I would say next.
I looked back at Owen in horror.
‘Well, my lady?’
His voice rasped but his eyes were so full of compassion that I was almost overcome. And I retreated from the battle, admitting defeat. His will had proved stronger than mine, and to exhibit our differences in public on the first day of our marriage was abhorrent.
‘Very well. But I don’t like it.’
Owen bowed, as rigidly formal as the perfect servant. ‘Is it your pleasure that the food is now served, my lady?’
‘Yes.’ I sat down, my face aflame.
And Owen? He merely proceeded to beckon in the bread and meat as if it were an uneventful, commonplace breaking of our fast. A more silent meal I could not recall, with Owen, my husband of less than a day, standing behind my chair.
Never had the servants scurried as they did to serve that repast. Never had we been served with such efficiency or such speed. Never had the bread and ale been consumed so smartly. The usual chatter was almost silent, and what little there was in furtive whispers. Eyes glanced from me to Owen and back again. I tried to keep a flow of trivial comment with Beatrice and Father Benedict about something I cannot even recall.
When I could tolerate the atmosphere no longer, I stood and without excuse I marched from the room, Owen still ordering the dispensing of the remains to the poor.
I waited for him in my chamber, knowing that he would come. And if he did not, I would send for him. But things were not as they had been. By the time he opened the door with quiet precision, anger ruled.
‘How could you do that to me?’ Owen had barely closed the door on the hastily departing Guille. I was rarely roused to such passion but the very public audience to our difference of opinion had shaken me, and his inflexible intransigence had stirred up an unusual temper. I would tolerate neither my humiliation nor his. I would not! How could he have made me the object of such interest in the first meal we had shared together? ‘How dare you put our marriage on display in that manner?’ I demanded.
Owen stopped just within the door, arms folded, nothing of servitude in his stance, as I launched into my justifiable complaint.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ I noted with some surprise that my hands were clenched into fists. I squeezed them tighter. ‘You had enough to say an hour ago. It will have set the tongues wagging from here to Westminster and beyond.’
He walked slowly across the room, his eyes never leaving my face.
‘Is this our first quarrel, annwyl?’ he asked mildly, but his eyes were not mild.
‘Yes. And don’t call me that! And certainly not in public.’
‘So what do I call you? Is it to be my lady?’
I ignored that. I ignored the bitterness behind the innocuous question, as if I would so demean him after I had wed him. ‘Do you intend to stand behind my chair at every meal?’ I demanded.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Is your pride so great? So great that you cannot accept your new status through marriage to me?’
‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘My pride is not so great. But my care for you is.’
‘Your care for me?’ In my anger, my voice rose. ‘How is it possible that this public exhibition of disagreement would denote a care for me? You drew every eye, and made an issue of something that should never have been an issue. I did not appreciate being centre of attention in that manner. And I will not—’
‘Katherine.’ He took a step closer so that he could clasp my shoulders and stop my words with his mouth, notwithstanding my automatic resistance. I was thoroughly kissed. And then when he released me: ‘We’ll not rouse Gloucester to more anger than we have already. If he found me lounging at your side in silks and jewels, ordering ale and venison with all the authority that you would undoubtedly give me, can you imagine what he would do?’
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 t
hat 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.