by Anne O'Brien
And Owen knew what it was, still draped as it was, the moment I held it out. His eyes darkened, his face taking on the rigidity of a mask, and I read there the pride of ownership, rapidly displaced by rejection in the name of what he saw as good sense. Would he listen to me? Would he listen to the voice of inheritance and family honour that I was sure beat in his mind, against every denial he made?
I held it out like a holy offering.
He did not take it. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.
‘From our chamber at Hertford.’
‘And you brought it with you?’
‘Yes.’
Still I held it out, offering it on the palms of my hands.
‘Wear it,’ I said.
I knew his argument against it. I knew his pride in Llewellyn, his magnificent ancestor, just as I understood that, discriminated against by law and rank, he felt himself a man without honour, reluctant to don the weapon of so great a man. But I also knew the fire that burned in his blood.
‘I care not what the Council says,’ I told him. ‘We did what we could. We know your lineage to be as noble as that of any one of those men sitting in judgement against you. You have nothing to prove to me. Wear it, because it belonged to a great warrior and does not deserve to be packed away in a chest at Hertford. Wear it for me, because without it you put yourself into danger. I cannot bear that, even now, Gloucester might be sending men against you, and you not be armed.’
How long I seemed to wait. The low winter sun emerged, slanting coldly through the high windows, then dipped behind a cloud again. I let the cloth slip partially from the blade so that its lethal edges glowered.
‘Wear it, Owen.’ I put my whole heart into that plea. ‘Wear it for me because I cannot live with fear that you cannot defend yourself.’
And at last he took it from me, allowed the cloth to slip wholly to the floor. He held the sword up so that the pale sunshine, well timed in its reappearance, glimmered along its length and played on the furled wings of the dragon hilt. Running his hand reverently along the chased blade, he pressed his lips to the cross of the hilt.
‘I have brought the sword belt too.’ I smiled. ‘You have no excuse, you know. You have a new son. You cannot lay yourself open to Gloucester’s vengeance. You can’t refuse me.’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No, I cannot.’
And taking it, Owen strapped the belt around his hips.
Light-headed with relief but still hesitant, I touched his arm. ‘I thought you would refuse.’
His gaze lifted to mine. I could not mistake the emotion in the glitter of defiance. ‘I will not refuse,’ he said. ‘As you say—I have a new son to protect. And a wife who is very precious to me.’ And he gently wiped my tears away with the pad of his thumb. ‘I’ll fight against Gloucester and the whole world to protect you.’
My tears became a torrent. The monks, a silent audience through all of this, not realising the drama of it, nodded and smiled.
‘We have enjoyed your stay, with the children.’
‘We have not seen such events since the celebrations for Agincourt.’
‘And a new birth.’
‘Thank you,’ I said to them, holding out my hands to them, thinking that they might enjoy the return to their previous tranquillity. Edmund and Jasper had filled the rooms with their laughter. And to Owen I said, ‘Now I am ready. Now we will go. And I think I will never return here.’
‘Then it is good that I have caught you—’
I turned at the brisk voice, dread flooding back.
‘No!’
Was this what I had feared, an escort of armed men, a document of intent, some makeshift infringement of the law that Owen could not answer? Owen had already spun round, shoulders braced, his hand sliding to his sword hilt as he stepped by instinct to stand between me and any danger. I heard the rasp of the steel as he loosed it in its scabbard in the quiet room, then I laughed on a little sigh for our fears were unnecessary. It was Warwick, and there was no force at his back. No Gloucester, crowing with sour delight.
‘I see you’ve been busy here.’ He grinned as he surveyed Alice with our new son, but his attention was on Owen. ‘I have something for you, Tudor.’ But his eye had followed Owen’s instinctive movement. ‘It seems my news is too late,’ he added. ‘You have pre-empted the issue.’ In his right hand he held a sword with a fine jewelled hilt. ‘I brought this for you. You have the right to it.’
‘They have decided?’ But Owen knew the answer, and I saw the light grow in his eye.
‘In their wisdom,’ Warwick replied dryly. ‘It should have been done long ago, if they had had any compassion for you.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Thank God.’ Then opened them as Warwick’s words sank in. ‘Are you certain about this?’ I asked, needing confirmation to destroy the anxiety that had lived with me for so long.
‘Your argument drove it home. The Council has instructed the next Parliament—a matter of weeks now—to recognise your rights, Tudor, and your status as an Englishman.’ Warwick produced a scroll from his tunic with the flourish of a royal herald. ‘This is more important than the sword. Here are your letters of denizenship.’
‘So I have you to thank for it?’ Owen asked.
‘A little. And others. You have friends at Court, however difficult it might be sometimes to believe.’
They clasped hands, and Owen took the gift from Warwick, tucking the document into the coffer at our feet. His features might be controlled but I saw the strain, the struggle to command every response against the news that had stunned him to the core.
I placed my hand on his arm. ‘We have done it.’
‘So we have.’ Owen covered my fingers with his own, his eyes searching my face. ‘I would not have done it if it had not been for you.’
I shook my head in denial. To shield me from a renewed onset of emotion, Owen addressed Warwick. ‘My thanks for the sword, my lord. Once I was forbidden to own one. Now I have a surfeit.’
‘Give it to your son.’ Warwick nodded to indicate Edmund, who had escaped supervision to come and investigate the delay.
‘He is young yet.’ Owen hoisted him into his arms.
‘But one day…’ Warwick smoothed the untidy thicket of my son’s hair. ‘Edmund Tudor. Who knows what you will be?’
Edmund grasped the costly jewelled hilt, making the stones glint and catching my attention. My little son, the high blood of both France and Wales running strong in his veins. A little presentiment touched me, but not of fear, rather one of power, of rank. The gems glittered in my son’s clasp, and my son was a man with fire in his eye and determination in the set of his mouth. And then the moment was gone. He was a child again, and a weary one, close to fretting.
‘You are a free man, Edmund Tudor,’ I heard Warwick say. ‘Your father’s heir. Free to own land and bear arms. And to marry as you choose.’
‘I want a horse,’ Edmund announced, unimpressed.
Owen looked across at me and smiled. What would be the future for our son, with the law of England on his side and the King, his half-brother, well disposed towards him? I wept again in a flood of emotion, part joy, part exhaustion—tears seemed so close in my weariness—prompting the Benedictine brothers to pat my shoulder and offer me a linen sheet to dry my cheeks.
‘Don’t forget. The little lad. We’ll make a fine monk of him.’
And I laughed through my tears. ‘I’ll send him to you. Unless he has the inclination to be a military man, I will send him to you when he is grown.’
I took the baby in my arms, smiling round at them. Then I looked at Owen, who was looking at me.
‘Let us go home, my husband.’
‘It is my wish, annwyl.’
Owen was restless, a difficult disquiet that took hold of him. I saw it, building day after day, even though he tried for my sake to hide it. Were we not happy? Had we not made for ourselves the life we wished for, when to spend time in each other’s company was ult
imate fulfilment, to be apart bleak wilderness?
The death of my mother, Queen Isabeau, touched us not at all, and although we mourned the passing of Lord John with real grief for so great a man, the happenings in London and in France no longer had any bearing on our tranquil existence. But I saw Owen’s frustrations at the end of the day, when we sat alone in our private chamber or relaxed with company after a more formal meal, replete with food and wine, a minstrel singing languorously of times past.
Owen’s gaze turned inward as the plangent notes and tales of heroes and battles wove their glamorous mystery in the chamber, and I knew he was thinking of the days when his forebears had had wealth and status and land. When glory had shone on them and they had fought and won.
Owen, although free, had nothing of his own.
The family lands in Wales had not been restored to him with his recognition under English law: how it rankled with Owen that he had no property in his name, to administer and nurture. No house, no land, nothing to pass down to his heirs with hopes and pride for future generations. How degrading for a man of his birth. Neither was it a good thing for a man’s esteem that he be dependent on his wife.
Oh, he masked it well. He was a master of dissimulation, born of the long years in servitude, but sometimes it rubbed him raw and his eyes were dark with a depth of yearning that I could not plumb.
‘Tell me what eats away at you,’ I begged.
‘It is nothing, my love,’ he invariably replied, the crease between his brows denying his reassurance. ‘Unless you mean our second son’s determination to throw himself under the hooves of every animal in the stables.’
And I smiled, because that was what he wanted me to do. Our son’s obsession with horseflesh had its dangers.
‘Or it may be that I regret my wife not having found the time to favour me with even one kiss this morning.’
So I kissed his mouth, because it pleased him and me.
I might lure him into my bed. I might put before him a plan to drain the lower terrace and build a new course of rooms at Hertford to improve the kitchens and buttery. He would always respond, but his heart was not in it. It was not his own.
Well, it could be put right. I should have seen to it years ago.
I summoned a man of law from Westminster, and consulted with him. And when he saw no difficulty, I had the necessary documents drawn up and delivered into Owen’s hands. I made sure that I was there when they arrived and Owen opened the leather pouch. I watched his face as he read the first of them. As he looked up.
‘Katherine?’ His face was expressionless.
‘These are for you,’ I stated.
I was very uncertain. Would his independence be too great to receive such a gift from a woman, a gift of such value? And yet it was given with all my heart. I wished I could read something in the sombreness of his eyes, in the firmness of mouth and jaw, but I could not, not even after four years of marriage.
‘It is to commemorate the day that we were wed,’ I said, as if it had been a light decision to make the gift. As if it were no more than a pair of gloves or a book of French poetry.
‘It was a bold move, for you to wed me,’ he said. His eyes were on mine, the first documents of ownership still in his hand, the rest yet to be removed from their pouch. ‘To choose a penniless rebel was foolhardy, and yet you did it.’ He smoothed the deed with his hand. ‘Some would say that this is a bold move too.’
I still did not know if he would refuse or accept it with the grace it was given. ‘I consider it a decision showing remarkable business acumen on my part,’ I responded lightly.
And his mouth curved a little. ‘I did not see business dealings as one of your strengths when I wed you, annwyl.’
‘Neither did I.’ I paused. ‘But now I have considered. These are mine. It is my desire that you have them. They need a master to oversee them and ensure their good governance. It would please me.’ I thumped my jewel casket down onto the table—for I had been engaged in selecting a chain of amethysts to wear with a new gown. ‘Stop staring at me and put me out of my misery. Will you accept?’
‘Yes. I will.’ In the end there was no hesitation. ‘Did you think me too arrogant?’
‘It had crossed my mind—yes.’
‘I’ll not refuse so great a gift.’ The smile widened, encompassing me in its warmth. ‘I am honoured.’
And removing the companion documents, he sank to the settle to read through them all. The custody of all my dower lands in Flintshire. I sat beside him. Waited until he had finished and replaced them in their pouch.
‘Well?’
‘I will administer them well.’ ‘I know you will.’
‘Now I have a dowry to provide for a daughter. As well as three fine sons.’
I had carried a girl. Tacinda. A Welsh child with a Welsh name, all dark hair and dark eyes like Owen. Another confirmation of our love.
‘You are a gracious and generous woman, Katherine.’
His kiss was all I could ask for.
I had another motive for giving Owen overlordship of my Welsh dower lands. Our idyll was magnificent—but with a lowering cloud of ominous destruction gathering force on my horizon. Like a sweet peach, full of juice and perfume, but with a grub at the heart that would bring rot and foul decay. How fate laughs at us when we think we have grasped all the happiness that life can offer us.
I was afflicted.
I denied my symptoms at first, hiding them as much from myself as from Owen for they were fleeting moments, soon passed, merely a growing unease, I told myself, brought on by a dose of ill humours as winter approached with its cold grey days and bitter winds. Had I not been so afflicted in the past? I need not concern myself.
Some days, on waking, my mind scrabbled to grip the reality of where I was, what was expected of me. Some days I found myself just sitting, unseeing, without thoughts, not knowing how long I had been so engrossed in nothingness except for the movement of sun and shadow on the floor.
I felt a tension tightening in my chest, like a fist drawing in the slack on a rope, until I feared for my breathing.
And then such feelings receded, my mind snapping back into the present, and I forgot that I had ever been troubled, except for the faint, familiar flutter of pain behind my eyes that laid its hand on me with more frequency. I forgot and pretended that nothing was amiss. Owen and I loved and rode and danced, enjoying the unfettered freedom that had become, miraculously, ours. Had I not experienced such symptoms in the days following Edmund’s conception? Although I had been afraid then, fearing the worst, they had vanished. Would they not do so again?
Our children ran and thrived in the grass beside the river and I watched them.
But then the darkness closed in again. Minutes? Hours? How long it engulfed me I could not tell. I saw it approaching and, leaving my children in the care of Joan or Alice, I took to my room, my bed, pleading weariness or some female complaint as I had done once before to ensure no questions were asked. Only Guille was aware, and she kept her own counsel.
I managed it well.
And what was it that I hid? A space widening in my mind, a vast crater that filled to the brim with dark mist. I did not know what happened around me in those hours. It could be a black billowing cloud, all-encompassing, or a creeping dread, like river water rising, higher and higher, after a downpour. My hands and fingers no longer seemed to be mine. They did not obey my dictates. My lips felt like ice, clear speech beyond me. My servants, my family were as insubstantial as ghosts emerging from an impenetrable mist. I must have eaten, slept, dressed. Did I speak? Did I leave my room? I did not know.
Was Owen aware of my travails? He suspected, even though he was often away, busy now with his own affairs. How could he not know, when I became increasingly detached from him and our world? He said nothing, and neither did I, but I knew he watched me. And perhaps he told Guille to have a care for me, for she was never far from my side.
‘Are you well?’ he asked
whenever we met. A harmless enquiry but I saw the concern in his sombre gaze.
I smiled at Owen and touched his hand, the mists quite gone. ‘I am well, my dear love.’
When he took me to his bed, I forgot the whole world except for the loving, secret one we were able to create when I was in his arms. I denied my inner terrors, for what good would it do to bow my head before them? They would engulf me soon enough.
Alice knew, but apportioned the blame for my waywardness, my increased awkwardness to my pregnancy with Tacinda. When I dropped a precious drinking goblet, the painted shards of glass spreading over the floor, splinters lodging in my skirts and my shoes, she merely patted my hand and swept up the debris when I wept helplessly.
Four children in as many years, she lectured. Why was I surprised that sometimes I felt weary, my body not as strong as it might be, my reactions slow? She dosed me on her cure-all, wood betony, in all its forms—powdered root or a decoction of its pink flowers or mixed with pennyroyal in wine—until I could barely tolerate its bitter taste.
‘It’s good for you,’ Alice lectured. ‘For digestion. For every ache and pain under the sun. And for the falling sickness too.’
My minutes of dissociation concerned her, but it was not the falling sickness. I took the doses, and wished that wood betony might indeed cure all, but my mind went back to my father and his delusional existence. My father, who had sometimes recalled neither his own name nor the faces of his wife and children, who could be violent, running amok as he once had with a lance, killing those unfortunates who had stood in his way and tried to restrain him for his own good.
I tried to shut out the memories but I failed. They muscled their way into my consciousness, forcing me to acknowledge my father’s constant attendants, more gaolers than servants. His guards: to protect him and others from him, as he became more and more divorced from reality and in the end had to be restrained.