And all there was for me to do was to admire the physical attributes of a well-proportioned man, the flex of sinew and firm flesh, the definition of muscle that gave form to his chest and shoulders. And his face…Ah! I took another breath. His face was lit with such careless, unreserved joy, his eyes as dark as jet, his wet hair as polished as Venetian silk.
He was beautiful.
I realised that my loquacious damsels were silent around me.
‘Well,’ Lady Beatrice observed at last, breaking the spell.
But not for me. Not for me. For me, the spell had been irrevocably cast.
My Master of Household swam to the shallows, from where, unconscious of his lack of covering, he waded through the little wavelets. I discovered, dry-mouthed, that my eye, of its own volition, followed the line of black hair from chest to stomach and on. His belly was flat and taut, his thighs smooth with muscle. I was sorry when he scooped up and pulled on a pair of linen drawers to hide his masculinity—or perhaps it enhanced it, as the cloth clung damply. There was an exhalation around me.
This splendid man was so far from Master Owen Tudor who determined daily which dishes should be presented at my table. The dour, silent, stern Master Owen who ensured that the floors were swept and the candles replaced, who controlled the state of my finances and the quality of wine served in my parlour. How could clothing and a studied demeanour of cool discretion cover so much that was spectacularly attractive?
His smile struck a note in my chest, like the single toll of a bell.
‘The Queen!’
We had been detected.
The little group, to a man, scrambled for clothing, all attempting something resembling a bow, incongruous given their state of undress, but their expressions were not hard to read. They resented my presence, my interference in a time that should have been their own, and free from surveillance. Owen Tudor pulled a shirt over his head as if clothing could restore his position, as perhaps it did for it brought home to me that although I might admire, I should not have been there. I should not have stayed. It was demeaning for me to be spying, and equally for them to be spied upon. A breath of conscience undermined my innocent appreciation.
‘We will leave them to their leisure,’ I said, turning my back on the river and the unsettling figure of Owen Tudor, black hair dense as satin in the sun. ‘Their pleasures should not be a matter for our entertainment.’
‘More pleasures for us if we had stayed, my lady!’ Meg chuckled as we returned.
‘Yes, for you,’ I replied, surprised at the coldness of my tone. ‘But it would not be correct for me to stay.’
‘No, my lady, they would not want you there.’
It was a shock—although it should not have been. How could any Valois princess or English queen not be aware? But Meg’s light-hearted remark and the rapid reclothing of my servants had proclaimed the unbridgeable chasm that existed between me and those with whom I lived more clearly than any sermon preached at me about female decorum or the sanctity of royal blood. My damsels could have stayed and enjoyed the scene; and the men, sensing their admiration, would have appreciated the audience. But to be watched by the Queen Dowager? That was not the order of things. They were servants and I was anointed by God and holy oil. I had shared the King’s bed and now lived out my life in sacred chastity. It was not for me to peek and pry into their entertainments.
For men of rank, for Henry or Edmund Beaufort, it would have been accepted. They would have joined in, at sport or play. Men amongst men, the difference in status would have been swept aside in the competition or challenge of the moment. Even Young Henry, child as he was—they would have welcomed him, moderated their language and perhaps encouraged him to swim and play the man. But I was a woman, royally isolated, and my position sacrosanct, not far removed from that of the Virgin. I must be kept in a state of grace and innocence.
I retraced my steps, my damsels silent around me, striving to control an astonishing spurt of anger. Did they think I did not know the contours and specifics of a man’s body? How did they think I had conceived a child? I was a woman and had the desires and needs of any woman. But that would not be accepted. If I had ever thought my royal status would not matter, that I was simply another woman amongst my damsels, I had been shown to be entirely wrong.
There had been no mistake: when Owen Tudor had bowed low, his body once more shielded from my stare by seemly linen, it had been as if a mask had fallen into place, all his earlier vivacity quenched. He thought I had no right to be there, perhaps he even despised me for admitting to the needs of mortal women.
