Except that it would. However hard it was for me to acknowledge it, I did not think I could live without Owen Tudor. The fundamental aching need that had touched me when I had seen him stride from the river had not lessened with the passage of time. It had grown until I had no peace.
I lifted my face to the Virgin and promised that I would make my peace, with him and with myself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I stared down at the lengthy document in my hand. The official script of a Westminster scribe raced across the page, interspersed with red capitals and hung about with seals. At least I recognised those—they were newly created for Young Henry to mark his forthcoming coronation. As for the rest—the close-coupled lettering, the close alignment—resentment was my primary emotion, with a thorough lacing of self-pity and a good pinch of embarrassment. I was not proud of myself. I could make a guess at its strikingly official content but guessing was hardly sufficient for so wordy a communication, and so of necessity I would have to admit my need to someone.
‘You look troubled, my lady.’
I started, like a doe in a thicket at the approach of baying hounds. Master Tudor had appeared, soft-footed, at my side. I had not heard his footfall, and I wished he was not there: I wished he had not seen whatever expression it was on my face that had alerted him. I did not want compassion. My own self-pity was hard enough to tolerate. Surely I could summon enough self-control to hide my discomfort. It was hardly a problem that was new to me.
I frowned at him, unfairly. ‘No, Master Tudor,’ I replied. His expression was dispassionate but his eyes were disconcertingly accommodating, inviting an unwary female to sink in and request help. ‘Merely some news from Westminster.’
‘Do you require my services…?’ he asked.
I snatched at a sensible answer. ‘No, no. That is…’ And failed lamentably. He was so close to me that I could hear the creak of the leather of his boot soles as he moved from one foot to another. I could see the blue-black sheen, iridescent as a magpie’s plumage, gleaming along the fall of his hair.
‘Perhaps a cup of wine, my lady? Or do I send for a cloak for you? This room is too cold for lingering.’
I could imagine his unspoken thoughts well enough.
‘No, no wine,’ I managed at last. ‘Or cloak. I will not stay.’
He was right, of course. I looked around and shivered as a current of cold air wrapped itself around my legs and feet. This was not a room—a vast and sparsely furnished audience chamber, in fact—to stand about in, without a fur-lined mantle. I was there only because I had just received an unnervingly official royal herald, complete with staff of office and heraldic tabard, dispatched to me by my lord of Gloucester. With all the formality that I had been instructed to employ when communicating with the outside world, attended by my damsels, clad impressively with regal splendour in silks and ermine, I had stood on the dais in this bleak chamber and accepted the document, before sending the messenger on his way and dismissing my women.
And now here was Owen Tudor, aware of my bafflement. I needed to escape, to hide my inadequacies. Taking in the fact that he was in outdoor garb, I seized my chance.
‘I must not keep you, Master Owen, since you clearly have a task.’
‘Was it bad news, my lady?’ he interrupted abruptly.
I must indeed have looked distraught. I returned his stare, breathing slowly.
‘No.’
My curt reply had the desired effect. ‘I will send your chamber servant to you, my lady.’ A brief bow and he turned away, abandoning me to my worries. Was that not what I wanted? I wondered what my lost, loving Michelle would have advised, what she would have done in similar circumstances.
‘Master Tudor,’
He halted. ‘Yes, my lady?’
‘Can you read?’ Of course he could. A Master of Household must read. ‘Do you read with ease?’
‘I do, my lady.’
‘Then read this to me, if you please.’
Before I could change my mind, I thrust the bulky weight of it towards him. He could not think less of me than he already did. Without comment, Master Tudor’s head bent over the script. Fearing to see his disdain, still I asked, held myself up for disparagement. ‘Do you despise me, that I cannot decipher it for myself?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘Where did you learn?’
He looked up. ‘In Sir Walter Hungerford’s retinue, when I first came to court, my lady.’ His eyes gleamed for a moment at some distant memory. ‘Sir Walter insisted. A clip round the ear could be very persuasive. And before that I could read my own tongue, of course.’
‘No one bothered whether I could read or not,’ I found myself saying.
‘The palace is full of people who will be pleased to do it for you, my lady,’ he replied.
