‘Are you well, Lady?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I am perfectly well,’ I croaked through dry lips.
‘It is very hot,’ she said, handing me a feather fan. ‘It will be cooler when the sun goes down.’
‘Yes. Yes, it will.’
I shivered uncomfortably in the heat, my cheeks flushed despite the breeze from the feverishly applied peacock feathers. If Beatrice knew what was in my mind, she would not be so compassionate.
‘Perhaps you have a fever, my lady,’ Meg suggested solicitously.
‘Perhaps I do.’
Fever! For that was what it was, a passing heat of no importance, I decided. I was victim of an unfortunate attack of lust, of base physical longing for a handsome man, brought on by the hot weather and a lack of something better for my mind to focus on. Such obsession died. It must. If it did not die of its own accord, I would kill it.
Out of sight, out of mind. Was that not the best remedy? At Gloucester’s command I travelled to Westminster with Young Henry, leaving my own household, and Owen Tudor, at Windsor. For a se’ennight I enjoyed the festivities, the bustle and noise of London. Every day I rejoiced in the sight of my little son growing more regal under Warwick’s tuition. I gloried in the fine dresses and even finer jewels, something I had forgotten in my quiet, retired existence.
And every day I erected bulwarks against any encroaching thoughts of Owen Tudor. I would not think of him. I did not need him. I smiled and danced and sang, laughed at the antics of the Court Fool. I would prove the shallowness of my attraction to the man who had ordered the details of my daily life since Henry’s death.
When I could exist a whole day in which he barely stepped into my mind, I sighed in relief at my achievements. My obsession was over. The wretched loneliness that fuelled my dreams was of no account. My infatuation was dead.
But we must, perforce, return to Windsor.
The hopeless futility of my plan was cast into bright relief not one hour after our return. My household met briefly for livery, the final mouthful of ale and bread at the end of the day and the giving out of candles. It was served under the eye of Master Tudor with the same precise and efficient self-containment that he showed in my company, whatever the task.
He handed me my candle. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’ The epitome of propriety and rectitude. ‘It is good to have you back with us.’
For me the air between us burned. Every breath I took was fraught with a longing to touch his fingertips as they held the candlestick. To brush against him as I handed back my cup. My absence had done nothing to quench my thirst.
‘May God and His Holy Saints watch over you, my lady,’ he said, with a final inclination of his head.
Did he feel nothing for me? Obviously not. He regarded me simply in the light of Queen Dowager.
But I recalled, as I shielded my candle from the draughts on my way to my bedchamber, that our eyes had met very much on a level. And at night the Welsh Master of my Household crept into my mind, even when I denied him access. He stalked through my dreams. With the coming of dawn I wept at my frustration.
How could this be, that I desired him, when he showed no awareness of me as a woman? I railed at the unfairness of it, even as I despised my inability to deny him.
I could not contemplate it.
I tried not to watch Owen Tudor. I tried not to let my eyes track his progress across the Great Hall—much as Young Henry’s gaze fixed on the approach of his favourite dish of thick honey and bread purée at the end of a feast. I tried not to be aware of the explicit contours of his body beneath his impeccable clothing.
It was impossible. Whether he was clad in dark damask and jewelled chain for a feast or his habitual plain wool and leather when we dined informally, I knew the slide of muscle beneath his skin, the whole line and form of him. Owen Tudor had taken up residence, a thorn in my heart.
I found myself searching through the little I knew of him. How long had he run my affairs now? Six years, I supposed, but since he had not been of my choice, I had paid little heed to him and knew nothing of his family or background. Recipient of the patronage of Sir Walter Hungerford, steward of Henry’s own household, Master Tudor had been in France in Henry’s entourage when I was first wed.
After Henry’s death, when my entire household was composed of Henry’s people, he had been appointed Master of Household. All I knew was that he undertook his role to perfection without any interference from me: he had learned his skills from a master of the art.
