Perhaps we became bold as the months passed. Queen Philippa’s chamber was hung with mirrors on all four sides. Here we dared fate, our two forms, melded into one in a passionate kiss, Edmund’s hands taking possession over the damask folds, smoothing down over the dip of waist, the swell of breast and hip, multiplied again and again from every side.
And all the other moments, the sweet taste, the scent of him kept me from sleep, when the excitement engulfed me and the recall of his touch made my belly clench and turned my blood to molten gold. The dancing chamber where in an impromptu revel, ordered up by Edmund for no reason at all but that he considered the court a dull place, we danced and touched because it was allowed.
A breathless, laughing dash up the stairs of the Round Tower to where King Edward’s weight-driven clock told the hours, its hands moving slowly, the gears clicking and groaning as we sighed and kissed and caressed. An audience chamber, deserted of all but us. The Spicerie Gate-house, a dangerously thronged place as the main entrance to the palace, could still afford us the chance of a gaze of such longing that my fair skin was suffused with colour. Or the covered walkway between Great Hall and kitchens, busy with maidservants and pages, but not so busy that we could not linger…
And then, when the weather was clement, the private garden with its low hedges and herbs, where we were caught up in the deep shadow of the massive bulk of Salisbury Tower. Edmund’s kisses became more possessive with tongue and teeth until my senses were awash with him.
Who could blame me for falling headlong into delicious love? Edmund Beaufort was the sorcerer who magicked my sad heart into joy. My winter melancholy, instead of returning at the turn of the year, vanished into oblivion, like smoke dispersed in a light breeze. A gesture as simple as the stroke of Edmund’s tongue across my palm banished it entirely until I no longer recalled the depths of misery into which I had once fallen.
In that year I lived in a world apart, anticipating the next moment when I would see him, and the next and the next. My skin tingling, breath short, appetite destroyed, I lived for each moment we were together, mourning him through his enforced absences. A feverish pleasure gripped me, for was it not a fever? If it was, I embraced it. I danced through those days.
When Young Henry was knighted, John of Bedford’s sword touching his four-year-old shoulder lightly, I could not contain my pride and delight. No doubt radiant with it, I smiled across the crowd to Edmund, deliriously happy to share my triumph with such a man as he. He was a Beaufort, a man of rank, of consequence. A man of potential in the English Court. He was truly worthy of my love.
Secrecy could not last. Intimate affairs must of necessity be discovered and come into the public domain. Endless discretion was not on the plate of a young man of barely twenty summers, or on the platter of a restless, widowed Queen, and so we ran the gauntlet of the Court and were eventually discovered. The rumours began, a whisper, an arch glance in our direction, then the soft hush of words that died away as I entered a room.
‘It’s not wise, my lady.’ Alice, the first to voice her disapproval, was severe.
‘It is glorious,’ I replied, standing at the window in my chamber, tucking an autumn rose, a gift, into the knot of my girdle, humming the verse that Edmund had sung, wallowing in the soft sentiments.
‘No good will come of it.’ Alice’s features remained reproachful, her tone uncompromisingly censorious.
‘How can you know that?’ I turned away, my loving eye following Edmund below in the courtyard where he had mounted his horse prior to leaving for London.
‘You must end it, my lady.’
‘But why?’ I could see no reason why I should. No reason at all.
‘I foresee unhappiness.’
‘But I am happy now.’
‘My lady, it is a mistake!’
I ignored her.
My Master of Household, habitually taciturn, seemed to my mind more sombre than usual when supervising the taking down of tapestries in the gallery for cleaning.
‘Is there a problem, Master Owen?’ I asked. Neither the efforts of the servants under his authority nor the state of the sylvan scene with ladies and gentlemen engaged in music and song should merit his scowl.
‘No, my lady.’
He bowed, then his hands were once more fisted on hips.
‘Do you foresee a difficulty in removing the dust?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘Or is it the moth?’ I walked closer to inspect for any tell-tale holes.
‘No, my lady. And if I might advise, perhaps you should stand clear.’
I left. What was biting Master Owen, I could not imagine. Or perhaps I could.
Edmund returned.
