‘I can’t do this.’ I was beyond sense, shot through with guilt that I might bring judgement against him. ‘I have behaved outrageously. You should know that there is bad blood in my veins. My mother…no handsome man was safe with her. I have to ask your forgiveness.’
‘No. No forgiveness is necessary between us.’ He tried to gather me into his arms. I wanted it more than life itself and for a moment allowed myself to be drawn close, before self-reproach re-ignited in an agony of despair.
‘I can’t stay…’ I struggled, overbalanced, so that he clamped me to his chest. ‘Oh!’ The sting of pain along my cheekbone shocked me into silence.
‘What is it?’
I shook my head. ‘Let me go!’
And now his voice was all ice, all understanding having fled. ‘So you do despise me as a servant, too lowly for you to lie with. You can lust after my body but my birth isn’t good enough for you.’
‘No! That’s not it.’
‘That is what it looks like to me.’
‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Please understand. You must let me go.’
‘Then go if you wish, my lady. There is no compulsion. I would not endanger your mortal soul by forcing you to share a bed with a man who is not fit to remove your shoes.’
The heavy formality, the harsh judgement, was my undoing.
‘You cannot possibly love me,’ I cried out in my anguish. ‘No man has ever loved me.’
And when Owen stood aside, I flung the door wide, hurrying down the corridors, through the rooms to my own, my hair loose, my face undisguised, praying helplessly that I would meet no one. I did not, but it was no relief. Despair drenched me from head to foot at what I had almost allowed myself to do.
And what I had thrown away.
Closing my door, I leaned back against it, willing my emotions to settle. Shame was a living entity, nasty and cruel, mocking my every breath with jeering contempt in every comment. Overcome with physical need, I had invited the intimacy. I had called him by his given name and agreed to the assignation, compromising my honour. I had drunk his wine, kissed him, and then I had fled for my life like a frightened child rather than a woman of almost thirty years. I had left my hood. I had run through the corridors like a court whore escaping from an importunate lover. Yet now, forced to accept my dishonour, I wished I was back in his room, sitting on his bed, allowing him to lead me in whatever path he chose.
And still my need for him would not release its hold on me. If he had come to my door at that moment, I would have opened it to him and bid him come in. I would have fallen at his feet in gratitude.
I sobbed. Why? Why had I run away?
Because I was afraid. Afraid of putting my life into the hands of a man I barely knew, who might not have care with it. Afraid that the line between servant and mistress was impossibly blurred and, in the end, I had not been able to take my fortitude in both hands and leap over that line. What would Beatrice say if she knew that I contemplated removing my shift for Owen Tudor? Or Madam Joanna? I don’t care, I had once said. But I did. I shivered at the thought of their reproof.
And what of Owen Tudor? I had denied him, rejected him, allowing him to believe that I thought him too far below me. A man of such self-esteem as he was would never forgive me for that. I was without honour: the blame was all mine.
Forcing myself to walk across the room, I picked up my reflecting glass. What would I see? Would I see the face of a slut? Would I recognise the woman who stared back at me? I looked, a quick glance. And was surprised. There was no imprint of the sin I had contemplated.
Then I looked again, carrying the glass to a candle. An unhappy woman stared back, a woman who had stood on the edge of grasping what she most wanted in life. There, enticingly before her, was the bridge over the chasm, there the helping hand stretched out, there the man who would give her her heart’s desire—and she had stepped back. She had leapt away, destroying any chance of taking that step again. He would despise her, her lack of valour, her lack of courtesy. It was hopeless.
I relived the moments again in all their glory and all their pain. He had called me Katherine. He had kissed me and I had pushed him away, when all I had wanted was to say, ‘Kiss me again!’ and make use of the bed with the bright woven cover.
Owen Tudor would despise me, but not as much as I despised myself.
