‘Is that an omen?’ I asked, momentarily distracted. ‘He blessed us both.’
‘He would not have done it if he knew what was in my mind,’ Owen replied, the unmistakable heat of desire like rich velvet in his eyes, making my heart bound. ‘I have a longing for you. Even in sleep I know no respite.’
‘And I long for you,’ I said. I scrubbed at my cheeks, wincing at the abrasion. ‘I wish I had not wept.’
‘You are beautiful even when you weep.’
‘You are beautiful too.’
Owen Tudor laughed and held out both hands. ‘And practical, so your priest says. I can deal with St Winifred. I can handle the money. Will you allow me to solve your problems too? To give you happiness?’
He was smiling at me, and I knew that this was a moment of vast consequence. Whatever decision I made now would set my feet on a different road. Would Owen Tudor give me the strength, the audacity to take hold of the happiness he offered? If I took that step it would be irrevocable, but I would not be travelling along that road alone. I looked at the hands held out to me, broad-palmed, long-fingered, eminently persuasive.
I closed my eyes, allowing the silence to sink into my mind, my heart, bringing me its peace. And I made my decision.
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ Abandoning the missal, I placed my hands in his. Warm and firm, they closed around mine as if they would never release me. ‘I want to be with you, Owen Tudor,’ I said.
‘So it shall be,’ he promised. ‘We shall be together. You will be my love for all eternity. In this place I make it a sacred vow. I will never allow us to be parted, this side of the grave.’
And there in that holy place, the grace of Father Benedict’s blessing lingering in the air, I had no qualms. I gripped his hands tightly as he drew me towards him and touched his lips to my damaged cheek.
‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ he murmured.
‘I do,’ I whispered back. ‘I will go to the ends of the earth with you, Owen Tudor.’
‘And I will guard you well.’
For a moment I leaned into his embrace, my head resting on his shoulder. ‘But I have another sin to confess if I am to bare my soul.’
‘Another one? How many sins can the beautiful Katherine have committed?’
His face was alight with laughter as I freed my hand from his and sought the recesses of my sleeve.
‘I kept this.’ And I lifted the silver dragon on my palm.
A strange expression crossed his face. ‘There it is.’ He took it from me, rubbing his thumb over the worn carving. ‘I thought I had lost it—and regretted it.’ He looked quizzically at me. ‘Why did you keep it?’
‘Because I wanted something of you, something that was yours and that you valued. I did not steal it,’ I assured him. ‘I would have returned it. I think you do value it.’
Still he held it in his palm, its dragon mouth swallowing its tail in whimsical beauty.
‘I do value it. You have no idea.’ Stern-faced, he pinned it to my bodice. ‘There. The dragon looks very well.’
‘But I must not.’ I remembered another brooch, another time. I must not take it.
‘It is what I wish. The Welsh dragon will guard you from all harm. There is no one I would rather have own it than you, the woman I love.’
And Owen Tudor kissed me, very gently, on my lips. It moved me to the depths of my soul.
We walked together from the chapel into the sun-barred enclosed area of the Horseshoe Cloisters, all that we had said and done and promised creating a wordless bond of delight between us. Until it was shattered. Usually a quiet place, the graceful arches stood witness to the scene of a fracas, causing us to halt to observe the group of young men who had joined the household to polish their knightly skills in the company of my son, under the tutelage of Warwick and the royal Master of Arms. They were invariably a boisterous fraternity, quarrelsome in the way of young men with too much unchannelled energy. Today raised voices echoed across the space, shouts, curses, some coarse laughter. A few punches would be thrown before the matter was settled.
But then came the dangerous rasp of steel as a sword was drawn from a scabbard. This was no formal passage of arms, controlled and supervised under Warwick’s eagle eye, but rather an outburst of temper, the climax of an argument. In a blink of an eye the dispute spun from crude name-calling to a dangerous confrontation with the gleam of inexpertly wielded weapons. The two lads circled, swords at the ready, their comrades encouraging with cat-calling and jeering. A lunge, a grapple, a cry of pain. There was little skill—they were too impassioned—but they hacked at each other as if they had every intention of murder.
‘They’ll kill each other by pure mischance,’ Owen growled, before he sprinted across the space to erupt into the rabble of an audience.
‘Stop this!’ His voice was commanding. The crowd fell instantly silent but the two combatants were too taken up with their quarrel to even hear.
