‘I think they would be quick to condemn me for my ignorance.’
Owen Tudor shrugged mildly. ‘Why would they?’ And strode to the window where the light was good, and allowed his eye to run down it, whilst I breathed more easily. Perhaps I had been wrong in expecting censure.
‘It is the best of news,’ he reported. ‘My lord Henry is considered old enough to be crowned as King at Westminster next month. And at some point in the following year—not yet decided—he will travel to France and be crowned as King of that country too.’
It was good news, was it not? Young Henry crowned and anointed. And he would travel to Paris, to sit, child that he was, on my father’s throne and wear my father’s crown. And suddenly I was tipped back into the past, to when I had last stepped ashore in my own country, when I had still been a wife, still hopeful for a reconciliation—except that Henry had died, and I had not known of it. All that had been left to me had been that I should accompany his body home, locked in stunned grief.
The cold anxieties of that journey, my own hopelessness, my abject misery and sense of abandonment, struck deep, astonishing me with the keenness of the remembered pain, so much so that my hands clenched involuntarily to crease the fragile weaving of my skirts. I had thought I had tucked away Henry’s ultimate rejection of me, but it still lurked on the perimeter of my life, a wound that would not heal.
‘You will accompany the Young King, will you not, my lady?’
I dragged myself back to the present, taking back the document. Master Tudor’s question helped me to thrust Henry away.
‘To London, yes.’
‘And to Paris.’
Another worry to gnaw at me. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied honestly. It was no secret, not even from the servants. The restrictions on my life, and the reasons for them, must be the talk of kitchen and stable and undercroft, wherever they met to gossip. ‘It will be at Gloucester’s will whether I do or not. It might depend on my good behaviour. Or he might think I would choose to stay in France and refuse to return to England if he allows me to go. He would never risk that.’
I managed a smile but made no attempt to hide the bitterness. ‘Although why that should matter, I know not. I no longer play any role in my son’s life.’ I bit down on my tongue as I heard my words. What had made me bare my soul so explicitly? Fearing to expose myself further, I walked a little distance away, turning my back to him.
‘You will certainly go to Paris, my lady.’ Master Owen addressed my shoulder blades.
‘But Henry is considered old enough to stand on his own,’ I observed bleakly. ‘Once he is crowned King, then Warwick will give him all the guidance he needs. Valois guidance is not considered to have any value.’
‘You are of the greatest value, my lady,’ Owen Tudor responded. ‘Even my lord of Gloucester knows that.’
I turned my head sharply, glancing back over my shoulder. ‘You seem to be very well informed, Master Owen.’
‘It is my duty to be well informed, my lady.’ He was quite unperturbed. ‘You will be with Lord Henry in Paris, proclaiming to all his royal Valois blood.’
‘And I am beyond weary of being a vessel of royal Valois blood,’ I snapped, my hands clenching on the document, to its detriment. My emotions were far too quick to escape my control this morning, so I must bring this conversation to an end. With a controlled breath and a tight smile, I swung round briskly to face him again.
‘Thank you for your concern, Master Owen. You are probably right, of course. My Valois blood is of great significance. And as you said—it is far too cold to stand around in here, and you have your own duties.’ I gestured towards his heavy cloak and outdoor boots.
‘My duties are complete, my lady. I merely ensured that the herald had all he needed for his return to Westminster. Now my concern is for
‘There is no need.’ I was already putting distance between us.
‘I think there is every need, lady.’
‘I have no needs.’
‘You do, lady, if you will admit it.’
He did not move. It was I who came to a halt and looked back. Suddenly our exchange had taken an unsettling turn, everything around me leaping into sharp focus. The carved panelling, the intricate stonework, the tapestries, all glowed with brighter colour. It was as if the quality of the air itself had changed, taking on a chill far deeper than the cold rising from the floor tiles. My skin felt sensitive, tight-drawn over my cheekbones, the texture of the manuscript brittle beneath my fingertips.
Neither could I take my eyes from Owen Tudor’s face, as if I might read something of significance in the flat planes and sculpted mouth that I had missed in the inflexion of his reply.
Without a word, Owen Tudor approached. He unfastened the brooch at his neck, swung the cloak from his shoulder and with a smooth gesture, without asking permission, he placed the heavy fall of fabric around me and fastened the simple pin at my throat. All very deft, thoroughly impersonal, but I knew it was not.
