The end of the festivities should have brought with it the end of the magic. Yet Twelfth Night was merely the prologue to a feast for all the senses. I was consumed by love. I fell willingly into its flames, disregarding the lick of pain when he flirted elsewhere, tolerating the searing heat of his proximity, because I would have it no other way. My eyes were filled with him, my mouth tingling with his sweetness as if I had sipped from a comb of honey.
Edmund Beaufort ordered the whole panorama of my solitary existence, and I willingly invited him in, keeping step with him as he made my lonely world a thing of beauty and desire. He had spun a silver web around me, but I was never seduced against my will. I was a joyful participant as he made himself lord of all my senses.
How bold we were. How shockingly daring in our pursuit of passion as the New Year bloomed. When his breath stirred my hair and his lips brushed against my nape, I cast aside my much-vaunted reputation. I was as wanton in my desire as any court whore, for his kisses were as intoxicating as fine wine, as heady as Young Henry’s favourite marchpane. The slide of his fingertips along my jaw to the sensitive hollow beneath my ear awoke desire in my belly.
How was it possible to conduct an affair of the heart under the eyes of the whole Court, in the midst of a royal palace where courtiers and servants, pages and bodyguards, scullions and royal nurses abounded? How was it possible for a sequestered woman, ordered to live out a life of nun-like chastity and respectability, to meet in secret a vital, dynamic man who stirred her cold heart to flame?
How was it possible to keep vulgar tongues from wagging, or for a determined man to seek out the company of the woman he desired when she was hedged about by the role she was forced to play? For Edmund Beaufort desired me. He left me in no doubt when his eyes smiled down into mine and our fingers dovetailed together.
How was it possible? It was not very difficult at all when James and his friends left us in the New Year. Did we not prove its simplicity? When a King’s household was no royal court at all but a close, muffled establishment tuned to the necessities of a young child, where there was no ceremony, no public appearance, no visits from foreign ambassadors, but rather a quiet nurturing atmosphere, it was so very easy.
No one looked for scandal or for gossip in so retired an existence. It was like looking to find a dangerous predator infiltrating a perfectly constructed nest, designed for the comfort and sustenance of only one precious chick. I was the perfect Queen Mother, steeped in respectability, Henry was the Young King who thrived and learned his lessons, and Edmund, the well-loved royal cousin, had every right to visit the Young King’s household as he wished, bringing gifts and a breath of the outside world from Westminster and beyond.
Young Henry looked for his coming with innocent pleasure, delirious when Edmund lifted him high, swinging him round until he shrieked in excitement. The gift of a silver ship, magnificently in full sail and usefully mobile on four wheels, proved the perfect toy. Young Henry adored his cousin Edmund.
And so did I.
So Edmund became a frequent visitor to Windsor, and we sought each other out with no words that could be misinterpreted by a casual observer. Merely a glance of eye, the touch of fingertips as he gave me a goblet of wine, or a carefully contrived brush of tunic against houppelande. We made no extravagant promises that could not be kept. Our love was conducted entirely in the present. All I wished for was to be with him, and he with me.
‘You are me and I am you,’ he murmured in my ear.
He chased the shadows from my mind with expert, knowing hands and mouth.
So I was older than he by a handful of years. Yet Edmund’s experience was so much greater than mine that I felt I was the younger. He was a true Beaufort, confident and ambitious, raised to see his strengths and develop them by every means possible. The royal blood, no longer denied but recognised by law, ran strong through his veins. And yet how subtle he could be for so young a man, when I might have thought that self-control would be overswept by pure, vibrant love of life.
His outrageous Twelfth Night schemes made me wary of my reputation, but I found there was no need. True, he carried me along, a leaf in a stream, refusing to allow me to linger in the eddy at the brook’s side, refusing to allow me to hold back and think, yet never did he put my reputation into harm’s way before inquisitive and prurient eyes.
Pouring out all the love in my arid existence, I thanked him silently, from the bottom of my newly awoken heart, for his ineffable compassion for my position. When his arms banded round me, shielding me against the world, I clung to him.
‘Don’t think,’ he said more than once. ‘Don’t worry that the world will condemn. Dance with me, Queen Kat. Laugh and enjoy all that life can offer.’
