Gloucester arrived before the end of the week, travelling from Westminster in one of the royal barges, standing in the prow, hands braced on hips like a carved figurehead.
‘His face is as red as a winter beet, my lady,’ Guille remarked. We were watching from the old Norman gateway as he disembarked. ‘Neither is he wasting any time.’ He leapt from boat to landing like a scalded cat.
‘I expect it will be even redder after he’s said what he has come to say,’ I replied. ‘I’m tempted to refuse to see him if he demands that
Sure enough, as soon as he had marched from river landing to entrance hall, he had sent a page at a run to summon me to the main audience chamber. A summoning, not a request, forsooth. So it was to be a bitingly cold and formal confrontation.
I spent a little time over my appearance, considering the ermine and cloth of gold then rejecting it as it would do nothing to assuage Gloucester’s fury. I did not run.
‘I think I should go alone,’ I said when I found Owen waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, neat and suave and authoritative in shin-length dark damask and chain of office. He was obviously, as Master of the Queen’s Household, out to make a statement.
‘Do you?’ he replied mildly.
‘As you said, it will only antagonise him. It might be worse if we see him together.’
Owen’s hand closed on the sable edge of my sleeve as I walked past him. There was no longer anything mild in his response. ‘And do you think I will allow you to face him alone?’
‘It would be for the best.’
‘But it will not happen. I will escort you.’
My relief was strong and for a brief moment I clasped his hand. ‘He might see reason, of course,’ I said consideringly, ‘and accept that what is done cannot be undone.’
I chose not to react to Owen’s jaundiced air.
It was a very brief meeting. There was no courtesy from Gloucester, no semblance of the good manners that he was so keen to see instilled into the Young King. He ignored Owen, addressing me as if he was not there, yet rampant hostility shimmered in the air between the two men.
‘So it’s true,’ he said, his delivery no less threatening for its extreme softness.
‘Yes.’
‘Words are wasted on you. You—both of you…’ now he glanced across with venom ‘… will present yourselves at Westminster. You are summoned to appear before the Royal Council to explain your aberrant behaviour.’
He looked me up and down, as if he could spy my thickening waist beneath the velvet pleating, yet there was no way of his knowing. I stood straight-backed, and kept my eyes fixed on Gloucester’s inimical regard.
‘I will agree to accompany you, of course,’ I replied, refusing to acknowledge that it had been a command. ‘I will explain to the Council. I know that I will be awarded a generous hearing.’
Gloucester left without further comment, enveloped in a cloud of ill humour.
‘Well, that went well,’ Owen observed, watching our guest stalk back to his river transport. ‘I think he saw reason, don’t you?’
How brave I had sounded, but in my heart was fear. I had always known that it would come to this.
Owen and I attended the Royal Council, as we were bidden. We were in no position to refuse, neither did we wish it. So there we were, with the proof of our marriage tucked in the breast of Owen’s tunic—Father Benedict had witnessed it with a disapproving scrawl at the foot of the document—and my belly still effectively disguised by the width of my skirts. The faces of those who sat in judgement on us were familiar to me, lords temporal and ecclesiastical come to condemn the Queen Dowager and her inappropriate lover.
And what a range of emotion slammed against us as we were announced into the Council Chamber, much as I had witnessed in my own household. Outrage and lascivious interest were uppermost. But some compassion, enough for one of the bishops to provide me with a stool. As I moved to sit, I looked up at Owen where he stood by my side, features well schooled into frozen courtesy, but then he smiled down at me, a sign of our love and one that I returned. Whatever they did, they could not destroy our union.
I might smile at Owen but fear hummed through my blood, and I knew he was not at ease. If he had worn a sword, he would have had a hand firmly on the hilt. Who was to know what Gloucester might persuade his fellow councillors to do? What if, deeming me untouchable, they took out their frustrations at my intransigence on Owen? A term in a dungeon in the Tower of London would not seem beyond the realms of possibility. As he too knew. We had talked about it late into the night.
‘What if they incarcerate you?’ I had asked.
‘They won’t.’
