He handed a sword back to one with a punch to the shoulder, gave a rough scrub to the hair of the other. ‘A thorough cleaning out of the dovecote will give you pause for thought for the rest of the day.’ A ripple of laughter touched me. He had chosen a noisome punishment, but there was no dissent from either. ‘Now go. And show your belated respect to the Queen.’
They bowed again.
As I acknowledged them I saw Warwick, alerted by the raised voices, standing in the entrance from the Lower Ward. He had chosen not to intervene, but now walked forward stern-faced. The lads bowed rigidly and left through the same doorway at a run. Warwick grinned. The two men exchanged opinions, watching the squires disappear in the direction of the dovecote. I observed for a moment then left them to it.
The little scene stayed with me as I walked slowly back to join my damsels. It had piqued my interest: nothing out of the ordinary for a household of so many diverse souls, where conflict was frequent and often bloody in its outcome, but it had answered all my inner questions. Physical desire for a man could reduce a woman to terrible weakness, driving her to commit any number of irrational acts. But to desire and respect that same man? Owen Tudor had called to my soul in that moment of strict authority and grave compassion, as if he had known what it was to be the underdog, or the one unfairly accused, both injustices driving the boys to fight it out. Owen had meted out firm-handed but fair retribution.
Even more impressive, Owen Tudor had enough of a reputation in Young Henry’s court to be obeyed instantly. Authority sat well on him. The lads had accepted his punishment, obeyed his commands, even though they might see the ultimate hand of judgement over them as Warwick’s. They had vanished in the direction of the dovecote with alacrity, resigned to the rigours of the acrid, dusty toil apportioned to them.
Out of nowhere, I considered something I had never even thought about. My husband, Henry, had ignored his squires, young lads lifted out of their families and dropped into this strange world of the royal court where the demands on them were great. Sometimes they were lonely and homesick in the first years. Henry had barely noticed them, other than as young men to train up into knighthood. Edmund Beaufort had had no time for them, unless he had a need for their labours, co-opting them into some scheme for rough play or celebration. He had no patience when they did not obey instantly. Owen Tudor had known the lads by name. He had dealt with them with patience, with compassion. With a depth of understanding such as he had shown to me.
I had thought I did not know him well enough to share his bed. Now I was beginning to learn. And, yes, he was a man I could admire.
What path did we travel together, having reached this level of acknowledgement between us?
First St Winifred came between us. Young Henry was fascinated by the story of the virtuous lady, decapitated at the hands of the Welsh Prince Caradoc who had threatened her virtue, followed by her miraculous healing and restoration to life. Young Henry expressed a wish to visit the holy well in the northern fastnesses of Wales. I explained that it was too far.
‘My father went on pilgrimage there. He went to pray before the battle of Agincourt,’ Young Henry said. How had he known that? ‘I wish to go. I wish to pray to the holy St Winifred before I am crowned King.’
‘It is too far.’
‘I will go. I insist. I will kneel at the spring on her special day.’
I left it to Warwick to explain that the saint’s day on the third day of November and young Henry’s coronation on the fifth day would not allow for a journey across the width of the country.
So we celebrated St Winifred at Windsor instead—earlier than her special day—but Owen’s preparations filled Young Henry with the requisite excitement. We prayed for St Winifred’s blessing, commending her bravery and vital spirit, and my coffers bought a silver bowl for Young Henry to present to her. Father Benedict had looked askance at making such a fuss of a Welsh saint—and a woman at that—but if King Henry, the victor at Agincourt, had seen fit to honour her, then so would we.
It was a magnificent occasion.
And then within the day all was packed up and we were heading to Westminster for the crowning of my son. Would Owen and I ever find the opportunity to do more than follow the demands of travel and Court life? It seemed that I would need all of Winifred’s perseverance.
