For what had he seen in my face? I had no skill in the art of dissimulation. Had he seen my naked desire? I shuddered that I might have revealed far too much, and as I strode back to the castle, where I might hide my flushed cheeks, I could not banish the image of him from my imagination. The line of thigh and leg, the curve of buttock and calf, the shimmering moisture caught in the dusting of dark hair on his chest, and I knew exactly what it was that had intoxicated me most in that little display of male power.
Henry, always royal, always the king, had been conscious of the impression he must make, knowing that I could only pay homage before his superb majesty. Edmund had been wilfully, magnificently seductive, intent on sweeping me off my feet, energised when I could do nothing but respond to him.
And Owen Tudor? Owen Tudor, even when he had known I was there, had had no desire at all to engage my emotions. But, by the Virgin, he had. My skin heated at the bright memory. And the horror, the shocking reality of it struck my breast with the force of a Welsh arrow.
I would have covered my face with my hands if I had not been in the public eye. The words, repeated over and over again, beat in my head. I did not want this. I would not have it! Had I learned nothing from my experience with Henry? From my rapid falling in love with Edmund? Oh, I had learned, and learned bitterly. I would never again allow my heart and mind to be at the beck and call of any man. I would not have my will snatched from me by a futile desire to discover love.
This
I marched back to the castle, furious with my own weakness. So much for my forswearing men. So much for my foolish drama with coloured silks. I had been hooked, like a carp from one of my own fish ponds, by the sight of a beautiful man rising from the waters of the Thames, a scene worthy of one of the romantic stories from the
My women marched with me, uncomplaining, until, with a cry, Mary stumbled on the rough path and I moderated my speed. Flight was useless, since I could not escape my thoughts, or my sudden unfortunate obsession. Owen Tudor remained firmly implanted in my mind.
Was I really contemplating leaping into a liaison with Owen Tudor, my
It might not be suitable, but I knew a craving to touch him, imagining what his arms might feel like around me. My cheeks were as hot as fire, my thighs liquid with longing, even as my heart ached with shame. Was this how I would spend my life? Lusting after servants because they were beautiful and young?
Returned to my parlour, I ordered Cecily to fetch wine and a lute. We would sing and read of true heroes. We would engage our minds in higher things. Perhaps even a page from my Book of Hours would direct my inappropriate thoughts into colder, more decorous channels. The Queen Dowager must be above earthly desires. She must be dull and unknowing of love and lust.
And if she was not?
Think of the gossip, I admonished myself, the words deliberately harsh to jolt myself into reality. If nothing else will drive Owen Tudor from your thoughts, think of the immediate repercussions. How could you withstand the talk of the Court with its vicious darts and sly innuendo? To succumb to my longings would brand me as a harlot more despicable than my mother. What was it that Gloucester had said of me? A woman unable to curb fully her carnal passions. A wanton child of Isabeau of Bavaria, the Queen of France, who everyone knew could not keep her hands and lips from seducing young men.
No, I could not bear the knowing looks from my damsels, the judgemental stares when I accompanied Young Henry to Court. My reputation, already tattered and shabby in some quarters, would be in rags. And would it not be so much worse if I looked at Owen? At least my mother, lascivious as she might well be, drew the line at seducing her servants.
I stifled a groan. How shaming. Gloucester would lock me in my bedchamber at Leeds Castle and drop the key into the river.
