I was cured. How cruel the heart, to lead a woman into thinking she loved a man when quite clearly she did not. I did not need love, I did not need marriage. I felt as if I had cast off an old, worn winter cloak to allow the summer breeze to refresh my skin. Oh, yes, I was cured.
We returned to Windsor where I acknowledged Warwick’s caustic stare and consigned to the flames Gloucester’s letter of admonition that I should have asked permission from the Lord Protector if I intended to jaunt about the country. I settled into a period of calm, soothing to mind and body, with nothing to disturb the serenity of the pool in which I existed. This was what I wanted, was it not? So why was it that the summer weeks dragged themselves past with wearisome slowness?
Distant voices, heavy in the humid air, snatched at our attention from the direction of the river. Male voices, loud, crude in tone, sliced through with laughter and groans and—I suspected from the words that carried to us—much rude blasphemy. Whatever the occasion, it was one of raucous enjoyment and nothing to instil fear into us. Besides, who would harm us, walking as we were within shouting distance of the castle?
With my damsels in close attendance, I continued along our chosen path to the bend in the Thames where it was pleasant to sit and catch a breeze, for we had settled into a period of intense heat. The voices became more distinct, more strident, so that I caught a grin passing between our two armed guards and a meeting of glances between Meg and Cecily.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Some of the servants, I expect, my lady.’ Beatrice, fanning herself with a branch of leaves plucked from an over-hanging ash tree, was unmoved by the commotion. ‘The men swim in the river when it is hot.’ Her lip curled at the prospect of such wanton male behaviour. ‘You’d think they had nothing better to do.’
Splashing and bellowing continued ahead.
‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ I heard, sotto voce.
‘Perhaps we should go on!’
‘It might not be seemly…’
I had seen the gleam in their eyes, and understood since there was little to entertain them at Windsor. Or—the thought struck me as a burst of invective assaulted my ears—were they truly trying to protect my royal dignity from the sight of naked servants cavorting in the Thames? I would not be so tender, and I continued to walk steadily.
‘We will go on. I have seen a man unclothed before. I will not faint at the sight.’
We came to the riverbank, where it curved beside a willow with a vast spread of shallow roots, perfect for a shady resting place—and stopped.
‘There! As I said. Nothing better to do with their time!’ Beatrice looked down her elegant nose. ‘I still think we should go back.’
‘Not yet.’ I raised my hand to still them.
A handful of the castle servants were making the most of their escape from palace duties, either sitting on the rough, close-cropped grass where it sloped into the water or immersed in the river itself. It was the most inviting of stretches, the bank worn away to create a deep pool, ideal for swimming in summer, equally good for skating, as I knew, when the water froze in a wide, flat expanse.
Some of the men I recognised: there was my cup-bearer and my carver. Quite unaware of their audience, they were stripped to the waist as they lounged and slaked their thirst from pottery ewers. Some were entirely naked.
We stood, motionless, and gazed our fill at a sight to entice, so much male flesh slick with sun and water. My damsels were engaged, eyes keen as if a platter of gilded almonds had just been presented for their delectation.
‘So, if we are not to forswear all men, which one of these fine examples of manhood would we consider taking to our beds?’ Meg asked, her solemnity belied by a catch in her breath.
I looked round, to smile and reply to her. And my words dried in my mouth as one figure with a flex of muscle in thigh and shoulder pushed himself to his feet, to stand for a moment on the riverbank, turning his head to laugh at some ribald comment, then dived into the water with barely a ripple, skin gleaming as he moved through the water with speed and agility of a salmon. Emerging some yards further into the gentle flow, he stood, drops of water bright as diamonds on his shoulders and in his hair.
I inhaled slowly to fill my lungs.
Owen Tudor. Master of the Queen’s Household.
Water lapping around his waist, he raked his hair back from his face so that its black mass fell heavily onto his shoulders, the sparkling drops flung away into the sun in an arc of crystal. To my shame, I could not look away. I was enthralled, my gaze riveted, and I exhaled slowly as I had been holding my breath.
