For the question that must be addressed was so simple a decision, so full of uneasy pitfalls. Where was Owen to sit? As my husband he had every right to sit at my side on the dais.
As I sat I looked to my left and right. The stools and benches were apportioned as they always were, and occupied. I raised my hand to draw the attention of a passing page, to set a place at the table beside me, ruffled at my lack of forethought. To have to set a new place now simply drew attention to the dramatic change in circumstances and caused unnecessary comment. I had been remiss not to have anticipated it.
And where was Owen Tudor?
I saw him. Oh, indeed I did. He stood by the screen between the kitchen passageway and the hall, and he was clothed as Master of Household, even to his chain of office. I was not the only one to see him, and the whispers, the covert glances, some with the shadow of a delicious malice, were obvious, as was the well-defined expression on Owen’s face, so that I felt a little chill of recognition in my belly, nibbling at the edge of my happiness.
I had not expected to have to fight a battle with him over status quite so soon, or quite so publically. But I would. I was resolute. My husband would not act the servant in my household. And so I, who never willingly drew attention to herself, stood, drawing all eyes. I raised my voice. If he would force me to challenge him under the eye of every one of my household, then so be it.
‘Master Tudor.’ My voice held a ringing quality that day, born out of a heady mix of anger and fear.
Owen walked slowly towards me until he stood before me, of necessity looking up at me on the dais.
‘My lady?’
His eyes met mine, his face a blank mask of defiance. I knew why he felt the need, but I would not accept it. Last night I had been wrapped in his arms, our love heating the air in my chamber. I would not tolerate this.
‘What is this?’ I asked, clearly.
His reply was equally as crisp. ‘I have a duty to your household, my lady.’
‘A duty? You are my husband.’
‘That does not absolve me from the tasks for which I am employed. And for which I still draw a wage from you, my lady.’
The pride of the man was a blow to my heart, a pride that bordered on arrogance. But I did not flinch.
‘My husband does not work for me as a servant.’
‘We wed outside the restrictions of the law, my lady, without permission. Until we have stood together before his grace of Gloucester and the Royal Council and made our change of circumstances known, and it is recognised, I will continue to serve you.’
‘You will not!’ I was astonished, senses shattered by this reaction in him that I could never have anticipated. I would not allow him to demean himself, and yet I suspected his will was as strong as mine.
‘And who else do you suggest will do it, my lady?’
‘I will appoint your successor. You will not serve me and you will not stand behind my chair.’
‘I will. I am still Master of the Queen’s Household, my lady.’
‘I don’t approve.’ I was losing this argument, but I could see no way to circumvent his obstinacy.
‘You do not have to. This is how it will be. I will not sit at my wife’s table when there is still doubt as to my status.’
At my side Father Benedict chose to intervene. ‘Indeed, there is no doubt that your marriage is legal, Master Owen.’
But I waved him to silence. This was between Owen and I.
‘There is no doubt,’ I said.
‘Not with you. Not with you,
I did, refusing to be touched by him calling me his beloved in public, and I realised that we—Owen and I—stood at the centre of a concerted holding of breath. I looked at those who sat at my table, at those who waited on me. At my damsels and my chaplain. We had a fascinated audience. I read prurient interest from those who hovered to see who would win this battle of wills: some pity for me in the conflict I had naïvely created for myself; more than a touch of rank disapproval for the whole undignified exchange between mistress and servant. Even envy in the eyes of my women who had not been untouched by Owen’s charms. But all waited to hear what I would say next.
I looked back at Owen in horror.
‘Well, my lady?’
His voice rasped but his eyes were so full of compassion that I was almost overcome. And I retreated from the battle, admitting defeat. His will had proved stronger than mine, and to exhibit our differences in public on the first day of our marriage was abhorrent.
‘Very well. But I don’t like it.’
Owen bowed, as rigidly formal as the perfect servant. ‘Is it your pleasure that the food is now served, my lady?’
‘Yes.’ I sat down, my face aflame.
And Owen? He merely proceeded to beckon in the bread and meat as if it were an uneventful, commonplace breaking of our fast. A more silent meal I could not recall, with Owen, my husband of less than a day, standing behind my chair.
