‘I’ll not be sorry to leave this place. Gloucester hovers over it like a bad smell. It smacks of English military aggression, not to mention dungeons and locked vaults where poor incarcerated fools never again see the light of day.’ Sometimes Owen was very Welsh. He stared at me. ‘Now, are you comfortable? Or do you wish to stay a night?’
‘We leave immediately.’ Suddenly my desire to depart was as strong as Owen’s.
‘Immediately, my lady.’ And he grinned at what had been a very imperious tone.
‘Master Tudor?’
A tall, lean man in clerical glory hailed us and approached from the wing of rooms behind us, and I smiled. It was the Bishop of London, who had spoken up for me, or at least not against me. Robert FitzHugh, a friendly face, all in all, and not one of Gloucester’s coterie. He was followed by another cleric I knew, Bishop Morgan of Ely. They ranged up beside us and bowed to me. And, interestingly, to Owen. I remarked it, but Owen’s face was implacable.
‘We will not stay, my lords,’ he said unequivocally.
‘I understand,’ FitzHugh replied. He looked across at Morgan, who nodded. ‘But just a word, sir, my lady.’
Owen scowled, and I saw the direction of his thoughts. What would these clerics want with us? ‘We’ll hear you—but I wish to make good time, my lord,’ Owen stated. ‘It will not be a comfortable journey for my wife.’
‘Where will you go?’ Morgan, as rotund as FitzHugh was lean, asked.
‘To Hertford. We’ll stay there until the child is born.’
FitzHugh merely nodded with a thin smile. ‘A suggestion, my lady. And an offer. To you and to your husband.’
Owen eyed him speculatively. ‘Is it possible that you’re of a mind to circumvent Gloucester’s plans, my lord?’
‘It might be. His ambitions gnaw at my conscience sometimes.’ The smile grew a little. ‘But here is my offer. Your marriage is legal, without any doubt. You have the proof of your priest and the Council can do nothing—neither do most of them wish to. Yet Gloucester still rails against you breaking the law. May I suggest that your child be born under the auspices of the church?’
‘I don’t see the need,’ I replied, uncertain.
‘May be there is none.’ Morgan took up the ecclesiastical view. ‘But if there should be—if the legitimate birth of the child is ever questioned…’
‘My offer would circumvent it,’ FitzHugh completed the thought. ‘I suggest that you smother yourselves—and the child—in righteous legality.’
‘I don’t understand why…’ I didn’t want to be here, to be involved in plots and counterplots. I was weary beyond measure. All I wanted was to settle into my own property, away from prying eyes, but a hand suddenly enclosing mine stilled my tongue.
‘My lord Bishop is right, my love.’ Owen’s voice was harsh with the acknowledgement of how the world might see our union. ‘Do you want our children to be called bastards?’
‘But they never will.’
‘It is best to be sure,’ Bishop FitzHugh advised, patient with my concerns. ‘One of my properties—Much Hadham Palace, not too far from your castle in Hertfordshire—is at your disposal. You may travel there as you please.’ He beamed. ‘Your child will be born in the bosom of Holy Mother Church, hedged about with ecclesiastical favour. It may be that you—and your child—will need friends. I am privileged to count myself as one of them.’ His eyes positively twinkled.
‘And I,’ added Bishop Morgan. ‘We were both close to the policies of your husband—King Henry, that is. We feel it our duty to support you at this time.’
Owen’s brows rose. ‘Gloucester will be beyond rage.’
‘Yes, he will, won’t he?’ FitzHugh smiled. ‘Will you accept my offer?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Owen promptly, before I could open my mouth. ‘We’ll accept your offer. And with thanks.’
‘Excellent. A man of sense.’
The three men shook hands on the agreement without even asking me, Bishop Morgan making one final observation.
‘Are you aware, my lady, that the law, in fact, makes provision for you taking a new husband, with or without permission?’
No, I was not. My face must have registered shock, followed by bright anger.
‘Any children born of your union…’ he inclined his head to me and to Owen ‘… will be recognised as halfbrothers to the King.’
‘And Gloucester knew of this.’
‘Of course.’
I despised Gloucester even more, and as if my hatred called up his presence, Gloucester himself appeared, striding down the steps and halfway across the courtyard in the wake of the bishops. I saw him lift a peremptory hand to Owen, and I watched, narrow-eyed, as Owen, now mounted, nudged his horse in Gloucester’s direction, bending his head to hear the royal duke’s clipped delivery.
What passed between them I could not hear, but it was no friendly well-wishing. Gloucester had his hand on his sword hilt. Owen shook his head, raising a hand as if in denial, before hauling on his reins to leave Gloucester standing, frowning after him.
As Owen’s silence registered cold outrage I made no comment but, ‘What did Gloucester have to say?’ I asked at the first opportunity on the road to Much Hadham.
