I knew he was not always unapproachable. I had seen his ease of manner, smiling when the maids passed a coy remark, making light conversation with one or another of my household. Neither was he slow to come to the aid of even the clumsiest of servants. I had seen him leap to rescue a subtlety—a device of a tiger, accompanied by a mounted knight holding the tiger’s cub, all miraculously contrived from sugar—the work of many hours and much skill in my kitchens—with no remonstration other than a firm hand to a shoulder of the page who had not paid sufficient attention. My cook would have laid the lad out with a fist to the jaw if he had seen the near-catastrophe, but Owen Tudor had made do with an arch of brow and a firm stare.
As for the women…Once I saw him slide a hand over a shapely hip as he passed, and the owner of the hip smile back over her shoulder, eyes bright in anticipation, and I knew jealousy, however ill founded.
‘Owen Tudor knows his place, my lady.’
I read the implication in the plain words. ‘Do you think that I do not?’
And Alice reached forward to touch my hand with hers. ‘It will not do, my lady.’
I thought of launching into a denial. Instead, I said, ‘Am I so obvious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ And I thought I had been so clever. ‘What if…?’ But I could not say it.
‘You are too far above him, my lady. Or he is too far below you. It comes to the same thing—and you must accept that.’ She frowned at me, a little worried, a little censorious. ‘And it would be wise if your thoughts were not quite so open.’
‘I did not think I was…’
Alice sat back, refolding her hands. ‘Then how is it that I can read your interest in this man, as clearly as the page your son is reading now?’
I gave up, and we turned our conversation into more innocuous channels. Until she left.
‘He is a fine man. But he is not for you.’
Her wisdom was a knife with a honed edge.
‘I never thought that he was.’
‘There is a way, my lady,’ Guille whispered in my ear as I dressed for Mass the next morning.
‘To do what exactly?’ Regretful of what I had revealed, ill grace sat heavily on my shoulders, exacerbated by the knowledge that I would have to make some confession to Father Benedict.
‘To meet with Master Owen.’
‘I have changed my mind.’
‘Perhaps that’s for the best, my lady.’ She began to brush and coil my hair. I watched her face, waiting to see if she would say more. She didn’t, but busied herself with the intricate mesh of my crispinettes and a length of veil lavishly decorated with silk rose petals.
‘What would you suggest?’
‘That you meet him in disguise, my lady.’
‘And how would you suggest that I do that?’ I asked. Had I not, in my fanciful meanderings in my dreams, already considered such a scenario—and discarded it as a plan that could only be composed by an idiot? Temper bubbled ominously.
‘The only way I can see is for me to dress as a servant and waylay him—he talks to servants, does he not? But how would that be possible? He would recognise me. Do I have to meet him in a dark cupboard, my face swathed in veiling? Do I have to be mute? He would recognise my voice. And even if I did accost him as some swathed figure, what would I say to him? Kiss me, Master Owen, or I will fall into death from desire? And by the way, I am Queen Katherine!’ I laughed but there was no humour in it.
‘He would despise me for tricking him, for the shallow woman that I undoubtedly am, and that I could not bear. What’s more, I would look nothing more than a wanton. Am I not already suspect, that I am too rapacious, too caught up in sins of the flesh?’ I stood, too agitated to sit, and prowled, my petal-covered veils still half-pinned.
‘I suppose my lord of Gloucester would say that.’
‘Of course he would. And not only Gloucester. What would my damsels say? The Queen Dowager, clothing herself as a kitchen maid, to waylay a hapless servant who had no wish to be waylaid? It would be demeaning for me and for him. I’ll not have trickery. I’ll not lay myself open to ridicule and humiliation.’
‘Forgive me, my lady.’
Instantly remorse shook me, so that I returned to where Guille stood and placed my fingers on her wrist. ‘No. It is I who should ask forgiveness.’ I tried a smile. ‘I have no excuse for ill humour. I promise I will confess it.’
‘Do you care what Lady Beatrice says, my lady?’ Guille asked after a moment of uncomfortable reflection for both of us.
I thought about that. ‘No, I don’t think I do. But I would not court infamy.’
‘Some would say better infamy than a cold, lonely bed. Try him, my lady.’
‘I cannot.’
‘I can arrange it. I can make an assignation for you.’
‘It is not possible. We will forget this conversation, Guille. I am ashamed.’
‘Why should a woman be ashamed that she desired a handsome man?’
‘She should not—but when the handsome man has no feelings for her, and his birth and situation put him far beyond her grasp, then she must accept the inevitable.’
