Only then, when it was done, did he say, ‘Permit me, my lady. It will keep out the cold.’
He had—quite cleverly, I decided—not given me the opportunity to refuse.
The thick wool was warm with the heat of his own body, its folds settling around me, the over-wrap of its collar snug against my neck. But I shivered, for in the doing of it, the fastening of the pin, Owen Tudor’s hands had brushed my shoulders and rested lightly at the base of my throat. I shivered even more when he readjusted the cloth against my neck, causing me to raise my eyes to his.
‘You are very kind.’ I said.
‘It is my position, as Master of Household, to do all that I can to smooth your path in life, my lady. That is why you employ me.’
How formal he was, his voice as solemn as his face—but at the same time how generous. And I understood in that moment that his gentleness had nothing to do with the terms of his employment or the duty expected of him. It was far more personal than that. To my horror, tears gathered in my eyes, in my throat. And to my disquiet, he took a square of linen from the breast of his tunic and without more ado blotted the tears on my cheeks. At first I flinched, then stood unmoving to allow it. My heart was beating so hard I thought he must surely feel its vibration.
‘I would do anything to spare you grief,’ he murmured softly as he finished his task, using the edge of the linen to dry my lashes.
‘Why would you? I am nothing to you.’ When had anyone ever dried my tears, simply because they cared or wished to guard me from grief?
‘I would because you are my mistress. My Queen.’
And I laughed, a little harshly, lifting my chin, refusing to acknowledge my disappointment at his denial of anything more particular. I had been mistaken in my reading of the tension between us: it existed only in my tortured mind. ‘My thanks for your loyalty, Master Tudor. Wiping her tears away is only what any servant might be expected to do for his lady.’
‘And because,’ he continued as if I had not spoken, at the same time taking one of my hands lightly in his, ‘because, my lady, you matter to me.’
My breath vanished.
‘Master Tudor…’
‘My lady?’
We stared at each other.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘What is there not to understand? That I have a care for you? That your well-being is a concern to me? How could it be otherwise?’
I took an unsteady breath. ‘This should not be,’ I managed.
‘No, of course it should not,’ he replied, the lines that bracketed his mouth deepening, his voice unexpectedly raw. ‘The Master of Household must never step beyond the line of what is proper in his dealings with his mistress, on pain of instant dismissal. He must be the epitome of discretion and prudence.’
What was this? I hesitated, considering so disquieting a statement, before falling without difficulty into the same role.
‘Whereas the Queen Dowager must be aloof and reserved at all times,’ I observed cautiously, not taking my regard from his face.
‘The servant’s role is to serve.’ If I had been embittered over the value of my Valois blood, it was nothing to the scathing tone Owen Tudor applied to the word ‘servant’. There was pride in him, I realised, and loathing of his servitude that I could never have guessed at.
‘The Queen Dowager must ask only what is appropriate from her servant,’ I replied. ‘She must be just and fair and impersonal.’
Our eyes were locked. His fingers tightened around mine.
‘The Master must feel no affection for his mistress.’
‘The Queen Dowager must not encourage her servant to have any personal regard for her.’
‘Neither must the servant ever allow it.’
‘To do so would be quite wrong.’
‘Yes.’ For a moment I thought he would say no more. And then: ‘It would, my lady. It would be unutterably wrong,’ he said gently, the passion controlled.
How perturbing this conversation, how unsettling, and yet with a strange glamour that made me breathless. We had dropped into this observation of what was proper and improper, exchanging opinions in a carefully constructed distance from reality, as if it had no connection to us, to the world in which we lived. And indeed, as I realised, it had freed us to say some things we would never have spoken directly to each other. Had I been lured into this dangerous exchange? Owen Tudor had a way with words, it seemed, but I felt no lure. He was bound under the same intoxicating power as I. Imprisoned and helpless, mistress and servant, we were drawn together.
I must have moved involuntarily, for he let my hand slip from his and retreated one step. Then another. He no longer looked at me, but bowed low.
‘You should return to your chamber, my lady.’
His voice had lost all its immediacy, but I could not leave it like that. I could not walk out of that chamber without another word being spoken between us, and not know…
‘Master Tudor, it would be wrong in a perfect world…to have a personal regard, as we both agree. But…’ I sought again for the words I wanted. ‘In this imperfect world, what does this hapless servant feel for his mistress?’
