‘You were just a witless female.’ He kissed me, stopping my words when I would have objected. ‘How could you know? Beaufort could charm the carp out of the fish pond and onto the plate, complete with sauce and trimmings.’ A little silence fell. ‘He did not charm me. But
‘What does—?’
His mouth captured mine, his body demanded my obedience to his and I gave it willingly.
We never spoke of Edmund Beaufort again. He was no part of my life now, and never would be again.
‘When did you first love me?’ I asked, as any woman must when first deluged in emotion.
‘When I first came to your household. I cannot recall a time when I did not love you.’
Drowsing, we knew our snatched moment together was rushing to a close. The daily routine at Windsor, the final service of Compline to end the day, claimed us back from our bright idyll.
‘How did I not know?’ I asked, trying to remember Owen in those days after Henry’s death.
His lips were soft against my hair, my temple. ‘Your thoughts were trapped in desolation. Why would you notice a servant?’
I pushed myself so that I could read his face. ‘And yet you were content to serve me, knowing that I did not
Owen’s smile was wry, so were his words. ‘Content? Never that. Sometimes I felt the need to shout my love from the battlement walk, or announce it from the dais, along with the offering of the grace cup. But there was no future in it, or so I thought. I was simply there to obey your commands and—’
I stopped his words with my fingers. ‘I am ashamed,’ I whispered.
Owen’s kiss melted the shame from my heart.
I glowed. I walked with a light step as my heart sang. Light of his life, he had called me. I could not imagine such happiness.
‘He makes you content, my lady,’ Beatrice observed carefully.
‘Yes.’ I did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Is there gossip?’
‘No.’
I thanked the Holy Mother for her inexplicable kindness as I lived every day for the time when Owen would blow out the candle and we would be enclosed in our world that was neither English nor French nor Welsh.
‘What is our future?’ I asked one morning when, in the light of a single candle and before the household was awake, Owen struggled, cursing mildly, into tunic and hose.
‘I don’t know. I have no gift for divination.’ Applying himself to his belt in the near darkness, he looked across to where I still lay in tangled linens, and seeing the gleam of fear in my eyes, he abandoned the buckle and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We will live for the present. It is all we have, and it is enough.’
‘Yes. It is enough.’
‘I will come to you when I can.’
He took my lips with great sweetness. I loved him enough, trusted him enough, to put myself and our uncertain future into his care. How foolish we were to believe that we could control what fate determined.
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.
‘
