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.
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.’
