‘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.
Never had the servants scurried as they did to serve that repast. Never had we been served with such efficiency or such speed. Never had the bread and ale been consumed so smartly. The usual chatter was almost silent, and what little there was in furtive whispers. Eyes glanced from me to Owen and back again. I tried to keep a flow of trivial comment with Beatrice and Father Benedict about something I cannot even recall.
When I could tolerate the atmosphere no longer, I stood and without excuse I marched from the room, Owen still ordering the dispensing of the remains to the poor.
I waited for him in my chamber, knowing that he would come. And if he did not, I would send for him. But things were not as they had been. By the time he opened the door with quiet precision, anger ruled.
‘How could you do that to me?’ Owen had barely closed the door on the hastily departing Guille. I was rarely roused to such passion but the very public audience to our difference of opinion had shaken me, and his inflexible intransigence had stirred up an unusual temper. I would tolerate neither my humiliation nor his. I would not! How could he have made me the object of such interest in the first meal we had shared together? ‘How dare you put our marriage on display in that manner?’ I demanded.
Owen stopped just within the door, arms folded, nothing of servitude in his stance, as I launched into my justifiable complaint.
