And I did, allowing him dominion over me, following into undreamed-of paths of delight. It did not matter if my responses were clumsy and untutored. If he noted my ignorance, it made no difference. Between the caress of his two palms I came alive and learned what I did not know, that the physical bond between a man and a woman could be more than duty and necessity. It could be something dearly sought and much enjoyed. It could be blinding, blazing with a need that seared and consumed, then rekindled in driving passion. It could be a wordless bond of shared laughter and intimate caresses to enclose us in our own private world, a universe of two people. It could be as soft as a dove’s breast, as tender as my kitten’s paw. I could not have guessed at the half of it. I revelled in Owen Tudor’s smooth skin and firm flesh, the experienced fingers and lips that stole my soul.
‘My loved one. My brightest star of the firmament. Heart of my heart.’
Owen talked to me, even when his voice was ragged, his breathing under duress. His endearments shook me as the slide of his mouth from throat to breast awakened all the senses I had not known I possessed. Beyond control I cried out. And then again there was no need for words for we were flooded with the reality of what we had created between us.
His hair was a tangle of black silk against my breast and I wept with the wonder of it, and when it became too much for me to bear I buried my face against his shoulder that was wet with my tears.
‘Sleep now,’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘You have travelled far and long, and you have travelled alone. You are no longer alone, my beautiful Katherine. You are at rest.’
My heart settled. I could not contemplate the superlative wonder of being together.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked when sense and some semblance of control had returned to us. My eyes were dry at last, but I was thankful for the concealment provided by the bed hangings. Owen’s eyes were closed, his face once more austere in repose, but then his mouth curved and his fingers linked with mine.
‘That if I were a man of substance, I would carry you off from here, across Offa’s Dyke.’
‘What is Offa’s Dyke?’
‘The old border between Wales and England, marked by banks and ditches constructed by King Offa to keep the Welsh out of England.’ His smile glimmered in the candlelight. ‘Not that it worked. The Welsh have always had a habit of raiding across the border and enjoying the benefits of English livestock.’
‘Would I like it? Across Offa’s Dyke?’
‘Of course. It is my home. And once we were there I would wed you.’
I thought it was said carelessly, Owen tottering on the edge of sleep. ‘No, you would not,’ I murmured.
‘Why would I not?’
‘Because if you were a man of substance, you would lose everything you owned.’
Which woke him. Eyes open, dark with emotion, his lips tightened, thinned. ‘And of course, as you well know, I have nothing to lose.’
I had not intended to spur so bitter a reaction, and did not fully understand it, but regretful of my thoughtlessness I sought for a less contentious issue. ‘Tell me what it is like to be Welsh, living in England. Is it any different from being French and living here?’
But he would not say beyond ‘I expect the English regard us all as foreigners out of the same disreputable bag’. I couldn’t persuade him further.
‘Then tell me about your family,’ I said. ‘You know all about mine. Tell me about your Welsh ancestors.’
It was a question destined to curtail even the mildest of confidences. He would not.
‘It is like searching for meat in a Lenten pie!’
‘Let it lie, Katherine,’ he whispered. ‘It is not important. It has no bearing on us.’
Nothing about his life before his arrival at Henry’s Court could be squeezed out of him. I gave up and lived in the moment, sinking into the joy of it, except that there was one issue I was compelled, against all sense, to raise. I placed my hand on his chest, where his heart beat.
‘You did not like Edmund Beaufort, did you?’
It was a ghost between us, maliciously hovering, that I felt the need to exorcise, even if it resulted in Owen condemning me for my lack of judgement. I recalled the disdain that had clamped Owen’s mouth on a former occasion when I had not understood. And as if he sensed my trepidation, Owen rolled, gathering me up into his arms so that he could look at me, his initial response surprising me by its even-handedness.
‘He is a man of ability and wit with a powerful name and inheritance. I expect he will be a great politician and a first-rate soldier and an asset to England.’ Then his arms tightened round me. ‘I detested him. He saw your vulnerability and the chance for his personal gain, and he laid siege.’
Held tight against his chest, I turned my face into him. ‘I am sorry.’
His arms tightened further. ‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But I do. I should have seen what he was, what he wanted. I was warned often enough.’
