‘Damned young fools!’ Owen addressed the watchers. ‘Could you not stop it getting to this pitch? Fists would have done the job just as well and with less damage to everyone.’
As he was speaking, he seized the sword from the scabbard of the nearest squire and a dagger from another, and waded in, steel flashing.
‘Put up your weapons,’ he commanded.
He struck one sword down with his own, the other he parried with the knife. Then, when he sensed the belligerence had not quite drained, he dropped his sword and gripped the wrist of one, who turned on him in blind fury. A wrench on the wrist and a fist to the jaw brought it all to a rapid if ignominious end, while I, a silent watcher, was more than interested to see how Owen would handle this. I had seen him marshal my servants, but I had never seen him in the throes of an altercation such as this with young men of high blood.
Breathless, hair in disarray, face afire and to my mind magnificent, Owen stood between them, one lad spread-eagled in the dust, the other still clutching his sword but no longer with intent to use it. Rounding on the rest, who were already putting distance between them and the culprits, he issued his instructions.
‘Go about your business. Unless you wish the Master or my lord of Warwick to hear about this disgraceful affair.’ Then to the two dishevelled combatants, first offering a hand to pull one of them to his feet: ‘You bring no credit to your families. Would you draw arms in the presence of the Queen?’ He gestured in my direction. ‘Make your bows!’
They did, shame-faced, one trying to brush the dust of the courtyard from his tunic. The rest of the conversation I did not hear. It proceeded for some time, low-voiced and mostly from Owen, monosyllabic and sullen from the lads. One such comment earned a cuff round the ear from Owen.
‘Do it now.’
Although his order was soft-voiced, there was an immediate, if reluctant, clasp of hands. They were not friends now, but perhaps would be by tomorrow.
‘There will be a penance for such stupidity,’ Owen announced. ‘You need to learn that the Queen’s Household will not be disturbed by such ill-bred behaviour. Use your wits next time before you decide to settle a minor squabble with cold steel. And as you are both as much to blame as the other.’
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.
