‘Nor should you. I hid it well, I hope. I am just telling you so that you know. There was no glamour in my marriage.’ In the face of his compassion my eyes were momentarily blinded by tears, but I wiped them away with the heel of my hand, determined not to allow this moment to escape me. ‘My courage tends to die when I feel unloved, unwanted, you see. When I cannot see a path for my feet to follow, when I feel that I am hedged in by thistles and thorn trees that sting and scratch. But today I have the courage to say this to you. What is in your heart is in mine too. What you desire, I too desire.’
Owen Tudor slowly retraced his steps to stand before me, reclaiming my hand, but not in the manner of a servant. I thought it was the way in which a man would approach a woman he desired, for, turning it within his, he pressed a kiss to my palm. His salute was no longer cold.
‘It could be a wish that the mistress might regret for the rest of her life,’ he stated.
‘How would she know unless she allowed herself the means to savour it?’
‘Perhaps the servant was wrong to accuse his lady of lacking courage.’
‘I think he was.’
Slowly, he linked the fingers of one hand with mine, his regard intense, reflecting none of the bright light that flooded through the gallery windows to illuminate us.
‘Have you enough bravery, Katherine,’ he asked, ‘to snatch at what you desire?’
He had called me by my name. If I would stop this, it must be now.
‘Yes, Owen,’ I said. ‘I have enough.’
‘Would you come to me? To that locked room?’
‘Yes. Would you invite me?’
He lifted our joined hands to touch my cheek in reply, and his mouth curved in a vestige of a smile. ‘What would be the punishment for a disenfranchised Welsh servant meeting privately with Queen Katherine?’
‘I don’t know.’ Selfishly, I did not care.
‘Do we risk the penalties? Will you come to me?’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
My heart thundered, but I would not step back. ‘Where?’
‘To my room.’
And pulling me close, so that my silks whispered against the wool of his tunic, he bent his head as if he would kiss me on the lips.
I froze. Footsteps at the end of the gallery were announcing the return of Thomas, my page, bearing a covered ewer and a cup. Before the lad had covered half the length of the room, Owen was no longer standing near me.
‘It will be as you wish, my lady,’ he said, as if some business between us had been completed. ‘I will send your request to the Young King. And if you will consider my suggestion…?’
There was nothing here that was not proper. ‘I have considered it, Master Tudor. I think it has merit and will act upon it.’ I looked across at my page with a smile. ‘Good morning, Thomas. Had you come to find me?’
‘Master Owen sent me to fetch wine for you, my lady, in the audience chamber.’
So he had thought of me, even when he had been so angry.
‘That was kind—but I have changed my mind. You can accompany me back to my chamber and you can tell me…’
Later I could not recall what small matter I had talked of with my page. I had done it. I had agreed to meet with Owen Tudor. There was a connection between us impossible to deny despite the unbridgeable rift between us. I had stepped over that rift and could find nothing but exquisite joy in the stepping.
At the door to my chamber I discovered that I was still wearing his cloak, redolent of the scent of him, of horses, and smoke from an applewood fire. Of maleness. I drank it in, before reluctantly I unfastened the pin, allowing the enveloping weight to slip from my shoulders as I examined the brooch. It was silver and of no great value, a little worn from long polishing and without gems, but when I looked closely I could see that its circular form was that of a creature I supposed was a dragon. Its wings were only half-furled as if it might take to flight at any moment, if its tail were not caught in its mouth. It had an aura of power, of mystical authority in the skilful carving of it. I thought it had no great value—how would a servant own jewels of any value?—but the little dragon had the essence of something old and treasured. Perhaps it had once belonged to his family, passed down through the generations. I traced the lines of the silver wings with my finger. It was a far cry from the Beaufort escutcheon with its enamelling and glittering stones, and yet…
‘My lady?’
Thomas was standing, waiting for instruction.
I folded the cloak and handed it to him.
‘Return this to Master Tudor,’ I instructed. ‘Express my thanks for his coming to my rescue.’
And the pin? I kept it. Just for a little while. It seemed to me that perhaps Owen Tudor had something of a dragon in him, in the display of brooding power I had just witnessed. I would not keep it long—just for a little while. To have something of him for myself.
