The Forbidden Queen полностью

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.

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.

No! No, no, no!

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 lust was no more than a physical attraction to a fine body and a well-moulded face. He was the Master of my Household, a man I had known for all the years of my widowhood. This was a wayward, immature emotion. Had I not proved that such superficial desire, however powerful in the moment, was quick to fade and die?

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 Morte D’Arthur, where women were invariable too silly for their own good and men too chivalrous to know when a woman desired more than a chaste kiss on her fingertips.

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 servant?

It is degrading. He is a servant. It is not a suitable liaison.