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 THIRTEEN
I kept early hours in the summer months when the sun drew me from my bed. The next morning, before we broke our fast, as was customary my whole household—damsels, pages and servants who were not immediately in employment—congregated in my private chapel to celebrate Mass. As the familiar words bathed the chapel in holy power, my fingers might trip over the beads of my rosary but my mind practised the words I would use to explain to Owen Tudor that I desired him but must reject him, that we must continue in the rigid path of mistress and servant.
At the end when I turned my thoughts to Father Benedict’s blessing I had made at least one decision. I would meet with Owen in the Great Hall. I did not think my words would please him, but it would be public enough to preserve a remote politeness between us. I offered up a final prayer for strength and forgiveness, rose to my feet, preparing to hand my missal and my mantle—essential against the cold in the chapel—to Guille and—
He was waiting for me by the door, and there was no misreading the austere expression: his mood was as dark today as yesterday. Neither did he intend to allow me to escape, but I would pre-empt him, seizing the initiative despite trembling knees. The drawing of a line between us which neither of us would cross again would be on my terms.
‘Our celebration for the Feast of St Winifred,’ I said, a small, polite smile touching my lips. ‘We must talk of it, Master Owen. Perhaps you will walk with me to the Great Hall.’
‘Here will do, my lady.’
To order him away would draw too much attention. I waved my damsels through the door before me and shook my head at Guille that I did not need her. Then we were face to face. Father Benedict would be sufficient chaperone.
‘Master Tudor—’ I began.
‘I bruised your face. And you would not receive me.’ His eyes blazed in his white face, his voice a low growl.
‘Well, I thought—’ Unexpectedly under attack, I could not explain what I had thought.
‘I marked you—and you refused to see me!’
‘I was ashamed.’ I would be honest, even though I quailed at his anger.
‘
I took a step back from the venom, but I was no longer so sure where his fury was directed. I had thought it was at me. Still, I would say what I thought I must.
‘I ask that you will understand—and pardon my thoughtlessness.’
‘
‘The blame does not lie with you,’ I tried.
He inhaled slowly, regaining control, of himself and of his voice. So he had a temper. I was right about the dragon in him. I feared it, yet at the same time it stirred my blood.
‘I regret—’
‘No. You have no need to regret.’ Briskly he took my mantle from my hands, shaking out the folds and draping it round my shoulders, the second time he had felt a need to protect me from the elements. ‘It is too cold without, my lady.’ The control was back, the passion harnessed, but the words were harsh. ‘I think the blame does lie with me in that I asked something of you that you were not capable of giving. I should have understood it, and not put you in that impossible position. My judgement was at fault. And because of that I harmed you.’
It hurt. It hurt that I had made him think me so weak.
‘I was capable,’ I retorted, but softly, conscious of Father Benedict still kneeling before the altar. ‘I
‘Then why did you run from me?’
‘I shouldn’t have.’
His blood was running hot again, the dragon surfacing. ‘What happened between us, Katherine? One moment I thought you were of a mind with me—and the next you fought me as if I were endangering your honour. You came to me willingly. You allowed me to touch you and kiss you. You called me Owen. Not Master Owen or Master Tudor, but Owen. You allowed me to call you Katherine. Can you deny it? Did you think I would hurt you?’
‘Never that. But making a choice was too much to bear.’
‘What choice? To seize happiness in each other’s arms?’ There was anger simmering beneath the bafflement. ‘That was what I offered. I thought that was what you wanted too. And why did you accuse me of not being able to love you?’
‘Because no one ever has!’
I covered my mouth with my hands, horrified at hearing my admission spoken aloud.
