It was January, bleak and cold, and the court had slipped into its winter regime of survival: keeping warm; tolerating the endless dark when there was no light in the sky when we rose and it had vanished again by supper. But my blood raced hotly. The physical consummation of our love had to be. I wanted to be with him for I loved him with an outpouring of passion I knew not how to express. All I knew was that I loved him and he loved me.
And I had to take Guille into my confidence. She simply nodded as if she knew I could do no other, opening the door for him, closing it without a glance as she left us.
‘I’ll make sure you are not disturbed, my lady,’ she had promised. She did not judge me too harshly.
And there he stood, Owen Tudor, illuminated by a shimmer of candles because, perhaps out of trepidation at the last, I had lit my room as if for a religious rite. Dark-clad, hair dense as the damask I had given him, face sternly glamorous, his presence overwhelmed my bedchamber, and me. But not quite. I knew what I would do.
‘Will you run from me?’ he asked softly, not moving from the door, giving me all the time in the world.
‘Not this time.’ The words rasped a little on an indrawn breath.
He raised his chin a little. ‘I have nothing to give you but what you see.’
‘It is enough.’
He walked slowly around my chamber, dousing the candles as if it were a final task as my servant, leaving the one beside the bed to flicker and paint shadows on the entwined flowers embroidered on my chamber robe. Drawing back the curtains of my bed, he held out his hand to me. ‘My lady?’ There was just the hint of a query, still allowing me the freedom to choose.
I did not move. I could not take that final step just yet.
‘I have to say that I don’t know…’ I swallowed and tried again. ‘It is just that…’ And I raised my hands in despair. ‘I have no idea how I should make love with a man. How I should make myself desirable to him.’
His expression showed no pity. Owen took the step towards me and laid his fingers on my lips. ‘It is of no account. I will show you. I will lead and you will follow, as you will.’
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.’
