Young Henry leapt. He capered. He could not process with stately presence for more than three steps together. Warwick hid his despair manfully and withdrew from the affray. I adopted stalwart patience and took my place in the circling procession. My damsels and my pages adopted avoidance tactics.
Young Henry tried again with awkward diligence until, in a lively round dance, losing his balance and his hold on his partner, he fell against me, standing on my skirts so that I too stumbled. Young Henry sprawled on the floor with a crow of laughter, I floundered, struggling not to follow him, and a firm hand grasped my arm. I was held upright against a solid body.
I looked up, laughter catching me, about to offer my thanks. And any remaining breath I had was driven from my lungs. My whole body stiffened.
‘You will not fall.’
No polite usage. Simply a statement of fact.
How close we were, our breath mingling, so close that I could see my reflection in his eyes. His hand slid down my arm to close round my fingers. And his voice, with all those soft and musical Welsh cadences, stroked over my skin like a fur mantle.
‘You are quite safe, my lady,’ Owen Tudor said, when I was struck dumb. ‘And your son has taken no hurt.’
My thoughts were not on Young Henry. My thoughts were on his palm against mine, his fingers coolly wrapped around mine, his other hand solid on my waist to give me support against the drag of my skirts under Young Henry’s weight. My thoughts were centred on the heat that leapt in my belly and spread to every inch of my skin.
Could he not feel it? Could he not sense the flames that licked over me? His hand was cool, but mine seemed to be as hot as the blood that beat heavily in my throat. Was he himself untouched by this urgent demand that pulsed through me like a stream in spate? Surely he could not mistake it? I felt my face flush from chin to hairline as embarrassment engulfed me, and, worst of all, my tongue refused to form any words to release the tension. My gaze was caught in his and I couldn’t think of a single word to say…
My damsels swooped in like a flock of maternal chickens to rescue Young Henry. Warwick strolled forward to deliver some advice, but I was held fast in a fine net of pure desire.
‘Can you stand, my lady?’ Owen Tudor murmured.
‘Yes,’ I managed. And as I opened my mouth to attempt some formal gratitude for my rescue, he released me, his hands sliding away as if he had been caught in some misdemeanour. Immediately he turned from me to help to pick up my laughing son from the floor, and I was standing alone. The whole seemed to me to last a lifetime. In truth it was less than the time it took to snuff out the flame of a candle.
Had anyone noticed his act of chivalry? Had anyone noticed my reaction? I think they had not. It was decided that Young Henry had enjoyed enough activity that night, and he was escorted to his bed and his prayers. The rest of my household sank into exhaustion and gossip. It had been, all in all, a good evening.
But as I sipped a cup of wine and ate the evening bread, I shivered at the memory of Owen Tudor’s hands holding me, preventing me from falling.
‘You are tense tonight, my lady,’ Guille observed as she removed my girdle and untied the laces of my houppelande.
‘Yes.’ I laughed softly. ‘Weary, I think. My son is not a natural dancer.’
The thick damask slid to the floor and I stepped out of it, lifting my arms so that Guille could attack the side lacing of my under-tunic.
‘You dance well, my lady,’ she said, head bent over her task.
I considered this.
I did not like the reply, which came in a style of forthright Alice.
I scowled at the invisible Alice. So I was. I glanced down at Guille.
