‘No.’ My hand was instantly released. ‘It is not appropriate, as you say.’
‘I should never have asked you.’
His eyes, blazing with impatience—or perhaps it was anger—were instantly hooded, his hands fallen to his sides, his reply ugly in its flatness. ‘No. Neither should I have offered you what you thought you wished to know, but had not, after all, the courage to accept. Too much has been said here today, my lady, but who is to know? The stitched figures are silent witnesses, and you need fear no gossip from my tongue. Forgive me if I have discomfited you. It was not my intent, nor will I repeat what I have said today. I have to accept that being Welsh and in a position of dependence rob me of the power to make my own choices. If you will excuse me, my lady.’
Owen Tudor strode from the room, leaving me with all my senses compromised, trying to piece together the breathtaking conversation of the past minutes. What had been said here? That he wanted to be with me. That he adored and desired me. I had opened my heart and thoughts to him—and then, through my lamentable spinelessness, I had retreated and thrust him away. He had accused me of lacking courage, but I did have the courage. I would prove that I did.
I ran after him, out of the antechamber and into the gallery, where he must have been waylaid by one of the pages who was scurrying off as I approached. Even if he heard my footsteps, Owen Tudor continued on in the same direction, away from me.
‘Master Tudor.’
He stopped abruptly, turning slowly to face me, because he must.
I ran the length of the gallery, queenly decorum abandoned, and stopped, but far enough from him to give him the space to accept or deny what I must say.
‘But the mistress wishes it too,’ I said clumsily. ‘The room and the locked door.’
He looked stunned, as if I had struck him.
‘You were right to tell me what was in your heart,’ I urged. ‘For it is in mine too.’ He made no move, causing my heart to hammer unmercifully in my throat. ‘Why do you not reply?’
‘Because you are Queen Dowager. You were wed to King Henry in a marriage full of power and glamour. It is not appropriate that I, your servant—’
‘Shall I tell you about my powerful and glamorous marriage?’ I broke in.
So I told him. All the things I had never voiced to anyone before, only to myself, as I had come to understand them.
‘I met him in a pavilion—and I was awestruck. Who wouldn’t be? That he, this magnificent figure, wanted me, a younger daughter, for his wife. He wooed me with the sort of words a bride would wish to hear. He was kind and affectionate and chivalrous when we first met—and after, of course.’ How difficult it was to explain. ‘But it was all a facade, you see. He didn’t need to woo me at all, but he did it because it was his duty to do so, because he wanted what I brought with me as a dower. Henry was very strong on duty. On appearances.’ I laughed, with a touch of sadness.
‘Did he treat you well, my lady?’
To my horror I could feel emotion gathering in my throat, but I did not hold back. ‘Of course. Henry would never treat a woman with less courtesy than she deserved. But he did not love me. I thought he did when I was very young and naïve, but he didn’t. He wanted my royal blood to unite the crowns and bring France under his control.’
‘It is the price all high-born women have to pay, is it not, my lady?’ He raised a hand, as if he would reach out to me across the space, the tenderness in his voice undermining my resolve to keep emotion in check. ‘To be wed for status and power?’
‘It is, of course. I was too ingenuous to believe it at first.’ I returned in my mind to those biting sadnesses of my first marriage, putting them into words. ‘Henry was never cruel, of course, unless neglect is cruelty. But he did not care. And do you know what hurt most? That when he was sinking fast in his final days, when he knew that death would claim him, he never thought of sending for me. He felt no need to say farewell, or even give me the chance to say goodbye to him. I don’t know why I am telling you all of this.’
I frowned down at my interwoven fingers, white with strain. ‘I thought I loved Henry, but it was an empty love, built on girlish dreams, and he destroyed it. Like a seed that withers and dies from lack of rain. He gave me nothing to help my love to grow—and so it died. I was very young.’ I looked up at my imperturbable steward. ‘I am not a very strong person, you see. I have had to grow into my strength.’
‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ he murmured, his eyes holding fast to mine. ‘I did not know.’
