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.’
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.’
