And his reply was destructively abrupt. ‘It would be unwise for him to tell her, my lady. Her blood is sacrosanct, whilst his is declared forfeit because of past misdemeanours of his race. It could be more than dangerous for the lady—and for him.’
Danger. It gave me pause, but we had come so far…
‘And if the mistress orders her servant to speak out, danger or no?’ I held out my hand, but he would not take it. ‘If she commands him to tell her, Master Tudor?’ I whispered.
And at last his eyes lifted again to mine, wide and dark. ‘If she commands him, then he must, my lady, whatever the shame or disgrace. He is under her dominance, and so he must obey.’
Deep within me a well of such longing stirred. My scalp prickled with heightened awareness. It was as if the whole room held its breath, even the figures in the tapestries seeming to stand on tiptoe to watch and listen.
‘So it shall be.’ I spoke from the calm certainty of that centre of that turbulent longing. ‘The mistress orders her servant to say what is in his mind.’
For a moment he turned, to look out at the grey skies and scudding clouds, the wheeling rooks beyond the walls of Windsor. I thought he would not reply.
‘And would the lady wish to know what is in his heart also?’ he asked.
What an astonishing question. Although the tension in that freezing room was wound as tight as a bowstring, I pursued what I must know.
‘Yes, Master Tudor. Both in his mind and in his heart. The mistress would wish to know that.’
I saw him take a breath before speaking. ‘The mistress has her servant’s loyalty.’
‘That is what she would expect.’
‘And his service.’
‘Because that is why she appointed him.’ I held my breath.
He bowed, gravely. ‘And she has his admiration.’
‘That too could be acceptable for a servant to his mistress.’ Breathing was suddenly so difficult, my chest constricted by an iron band. ‘Is that all?’
‘She has his adoration.’
I had no reply to that. ‘Adoration.’ I floundered helplessly, frowning. ‘It makes the mistress sound like a holy relic.’
‘So she might be to some. But the servant sees his mistress as a woman in the flesh, living and breathing, not as a marble statue or a phial of royal blood. His adoration is for her, body and soul. He worships her.’
‘Stop!’ Shocked, my reply, the single word, lifted up to the rafters, only to be absorbed and made nothing by the tapestries. ‘I had no idea. This cannot be.’
‘No, it cannot.’
‘You should not have said those things to me.’
‘Then the mistress should not have asked. She should have foreseen the consequences. She should not have ordered her servant to be honest.’
His face, still in profile, could have been carved from granite, the formidable brow, the exquisitely carved cheekbones, but I saw his jaw tighten at my denial of what he had offered me. The formality of servant and mistress dropped back between us, as heavy as one of those watchful tapestries, whilst I was still struggling in a mire of my own making. I had asked for the truth, and then had not discovered the courage to accept it. But I had been weak and timid for far too long. I spoke out.
‘Yes. Yes, the mistress should have known. She should not have put her servant at a disadvantage.’ I slid helplessly back into the previous heavy formality, because it was the only way in which I could express what was in my mind. ‘And because she should have been considerate of her servant, it is imperative that the mistress be honest too.’
‘No, my lady.’ Owen Tudor took a step back from me, all expression shuttered, but I followed, astonished at the audacity that directed my steps.
‘But yes. The mistress values her servant. She is appreciative of his skills.’ And before I could regret it, I went on, ‘She wishes he would touch her. She wishes that he would show her that she is made of flesh and blood, not unyielding marble. She wishes he would show her the meaning of his adoration.’
And I held out my hand, a regal command, even as I knew that he could refuse it, and I could take no measure against him for disobedience. It would be the most sensible thing in the world for him to spurn my gesture.
I waited, my hand trembling slightly, almost touching the enamelled links of his chain of office, but not quite. It must be his decision. And then, when it seemed that he would not, he took my hand in his, to lift it to his lips in the briefest of courtly gestures. His lips were cool and fleeting on my fingers but I felt as if they had branded their image on my soul.
‘The servant is wilfully bold,’ he observed. The salute may have been perfunctory, but he had not let go.
I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘And what, in the circumstances,’ I asked, ‘would this bold servant desire most?’
The reply was immediate and harsh. ‘To be alone, in a room of his choosing, with his mistress. The whole world shut out behind a locked door. For as long as he and the lady desired it.’
If breathing had been difficult before, now it was impossible. I stared at him, and he stared at me.
‘That cannot be…’ I repeated.
