‘No, no.’
‘Then will you?’
I struggled to put my thoughts into words. ‘I must think, Edmund.’
‘Then think of this too.’
He stood, pulled me into his arms and kissed me long and thoroughly. I did not resist. He was mine, and I was his.
That night, alone in my room, curled on the cushions in the window embrasure with a single candle and the lap dog for company, I thought about what it would be like to be married to Edmund Beaufort. There would never be a dull moment, I decided with an unexpected wide smile that was reflected back at me cruelly refracted by the fault lines in the glass. It would be a highly respectable marriage, with a man at the forefront of politics and national events. Edmund would be a man I could be proud of and admire.
And it would be reciprocal. Did he not tell me that he admired me? I was his golden queen. I trembled at the thought of learning physical love in Edmund’s masterful arms.
But would our life continue at this madcap rate? Would he continue to shower me with poetry and extravagant compliments, luring me into breath-stopping kisses in secluded corners? Real life is not like that, I informed my reflection seriously. You cannot be breathless for ever.
But why not? He loved me. He turned my limbs to water.
‘Well? Will you wed me, Queen Kat?’
Edmund was waiting outside my chamber next morning, shoulders propped against the wall. How long he had been waiting I knew not, but of course it would have been no difficulty to discover the pattern of my days at Leeds Castle. He was dressed to perfection, linen pristine, boots polished, thigh-length tunic impressive in its richness, as he had intended. He bowed low, as I knew he would. The peacock feathers in his cap swept the floor.
‘I beg you to put me out of my misery. Wed me and I will be the most attentive husband you could ever desire.’ He cocked his head, his hair gleaming in the morning light. ‘Must I kneel again?’
‘No,’ I replied slowly, all my thoughts of the previous night crystallising in my mind. ‘Don’t kneel.’ I took a little breath. ‘Yes, Edmund. I will. I will wed you.’
His mouth curved in a smile, his eyes glowed, and from the purse at his belt he took out a gold and enamelled brooch, which he pinned to my bodice, where it glittered in blue and red and gold on my breast. Not a jewelled confection such as a man might give to the woman he loved but a coat of arms, a badge of ownership. I did not recognise it.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It is a family piece—a livery badge. The Beaufort escutcheon.’ He traced with his fingertip the portcullis and the lion rampant. ‘I thought I would like you to wear something so personal to me.’
‘It is beautiful. I will gladly wear it.’ And I turned his hand and kissed his palm.
‘I adore you, my beautiful Katherine.’
As we knelt together to hear Mass in the chapel, and my priest, Father Benedict, elevated the host, my blood ran hot with joy. The man at my side adored me. That was what he had said. And what a particular piece of jewellery he had given me, marking me as a Beaufort possession. Wearing it as I did that morning made a very clear statement of my intent. When Mass was complete, Edmund whispered:
‘Can I ask you to be discreet in your wearing of the brooch?’
I looked my surprise.
‘Just for a little time. Until I can announce to the whole world that you will be my wife.’
I agreed. Why would I not? Edmund would need to inform his family. When we returned to Windsor I would be free to wear the Beaufort portcullis and lion as openly as I pleased.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Why should we not declare our love?’ I was eager, wanting to shout it aloud to the whole world.
We had returned to Windsor, Edmund travelling openly with me as one of my escort, my preferred companion. Why should he not? His protection, as cousin to my son, was quite unexceptional. It was impossible not to watch his lithe figure astride his burnished mount as he paced beside my litter. I was so full of exuberance that it was hard to pretend that there was nothing between us but family ties, friendship and formal courtesy.
This was the man I would marry. Why should we not be seen to love and be loved? Was it not now more than a year since Edmund had wooed me at Windsor in a frenzy of evergreens and old traditions made new, cloaked in velvet and winged in silver?
‘What need for secrecy?’ I demanded. ‘Who would possibly object?’
Edmund was well born. His blood could be no better, the slur of illegitimacy having long since been laid to rest. Who could take exception to his wooing of the Queen Dowager?
‘Wait a little, my love,’ he murmured against my temple, his lips a fleeting caress when he tucked me into my litter for the return journey.
But I gripped the front of his tunic. ‘I don’t understand why.’
