I did not believe him, but I let it lie, and loved him for his need to pluck troubles from my mind, as a blackbird gobbled the berries from a winter hawthorn. Would my consequence be sufficient to save him? I did not think it would. I had no consequence. Now I steeled myself, grasping what courage I could muster with both hands, to withstand the onslaught. When Gloucester had descended on Windsor, driven there by a gust of fury, he had been beyond words. He found them that day.
‘You have broken the terms of a legal statute, madam. You have defied the law of the land.’
I was barely seated, still disposing the folds of my skirts and removing my gloves.
‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied. ‘I have.’ Owen and I had discussed at length how we would manage this confrontation. Even though he did not touch me, I felt the tension in him, vibrating like a strummed lute string.
‘You knew the terms of the law.’
‘I did, my lord.’ Nothing would shake me.
‘And yet you were determined, wilfully determined, to flout it!’
I stood, handing my gloves to Owen. I would stand and face them. How could I argue for my greatest desire from a position of inferiority?
‘Wilfully?’ I said, strengthening my voice, but not too much. I had a role to play here, and I allowed my gaze to range over the ranks of those who would judge me. ‘I did not fall in love by intent, my lords. Thus, it was not my intent to break the law. But when my emotions were engaged and I desired marriage—then yes. Perhaps I was wilful. Or perhaps I would say that I was pragmatic. My son is too young to give his consent—and will be so for at least another seven years.’
‘Could you not wait? Could you not wait to indulge your physical needs until the King is of age?’
I felt my skin flush, cheeks and temple hot as fire. There was no mistaking this innuendo or Gloucester’s displeasure as his eye swept over my figure. So the rumours had spread, suspicions ignited. Beside me I could feel Owen straining to hold his temper. We had known it would be like this, and that Owen’s participation would do nothing but harm. The burden was on me. I prayed that he could keep a still tongue.
I drew myself up, and with all the pride of my Valois blood I marshalled the arguments that we had talked of.
‘How long would you wish me to wait, my lords? I am thirty years old. If I wait for the Young King’s blessing, I may be beyond the age of childbearing.’ I let my gaze move again, lightly, over the assembly. ‘Would you condemn me to that, my lords? How many of you are wed and have an heir to inherit your title and lands? Is it not a woman’s role to bear sons for her husband?’
I saw the nodding of some heads. Pray God they would listen and understand…
‘You have a son.’ Gloucester had his response at his fingertips to destroy any strength my words might have with the august gathering. ‘A fine son, who is King of England. Is that not sufficient?’
‘But my husband, Owen Tudor, has no son to follow and bear his name. He has no one to continue his line. Do I deprive him of children? And for what purpose I do not understand. My marriage to Owen Tudor does not, as I see it, detract from the King’s authority. My son is now crowned. The ties of childbirth have been loosened and he is, as he should be, under the tuition of men. Why should the Queen Dowager not wed again?’
Once more I surveyed the faces.
‘I am a woman, my lords. A weak woman, if you will, who has had the misfortune to fall in love. Would you condemn me for that? I did my duty by my husband, King Henry. I brought him the crown of France and an heir to wear it. I have been a vital part of my son’s childhood years. Now I wish for a more private life as the wife of a commoner. Is it too much to grant me that, or do you compel me to live alone?’
I pushed on, repeating the salient points, finding no favour with what I had to say, but if I had to plead on my knees to achieve my heart’s desire then I would do it.
‘My son is now nine years of age. He has not needed his mother’s constant care for many years. Those appointed to his education—by yourselves, sirs—are men of ability and good character, such as my lord of Warwick.’ I inclined my head towards him. ‘That is how it should be. But my womb has been empty for those years. Would you condemn me to a barren life? The Holy Mother herself would not. She bore other children after the Christ Child.’
How did I find the courage? I did not even look at Owen, not once, for I did not need to, conscious throughout of the strength of his love, urging me on. When I felt an almost overwhelming need to seek his hand with mine, I did not. I must stand alone and make my plea, for this attack was directed at me, not at Owen.
A new, harsh voice intervened. ‘It is blasphemy for you to draw comparison with the Blessed Virgin.’ I recognised the disparaging features of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
