Owen said he had not.
“You will. The whole Court will be talking about it. He is a very happy man today. Do you know, a treaty has been signed between the Scots and the English? He is going back to Scotland with the Lady Jane.”
“That is wonderful news,” said Owen. “Indeed, the King of Scotland must this day be a very happy man.”
“Happiness shines out of them both. I am afraid I am a little envious of them.”
“All the world is envious of lovers.”
“You too?”
“Everyone, madam.”
“I am ashamed of myself.”
“Your Grace should not be.”
“But I am, Owen. I say to myself, why should this happen to them when I…oh…I think Jane Beaufort is one of the truly fortunate women.”
He was standing before me, and suddenly he put out his hand and touched mine.
“I understand,” he said.
I said in an embarrassed voice: “You see…I was never loved wholeheartedly. Henry loved his battles more.”
“He was a great king.”
“James is a king.”
“It is different.”
I shook my head. “No, Owen, it is just true love and…half love. That is the difference. I have never been loved as Jane is. I have never been loved as my little Henry is loved. My mother gave me no love. I and my brothers and sisters were just encumbrances in her life to be sent off to live in near squalor…out of her life…out of her thoughts. We were of no importance to her. Then I was married and I was happy. I had dreams…but dreams are…only dreams. What was I to Henry? A means of bringing harmony between our two countries…a line in a treaty.”
“It was not so,” said Owen. “He cared for you deeply.”
“He cared for his conquests more. James cares nothing for anything but Jane. That is how I would be loved.”
Then he said a strange thing! “My lady, perhaps you are.”
I looked at him in silence. Then suddenly he bowed and, turning, left me alone in that room.
After that I thought a great deal about Owen. It would be foolish of me to pretend I did not know he harbored a special feeling toward me, as I did to him. I was content with my life as it was at this time. I wanted it to go on and on. I wanted Henry to remain a baby while I went on seeing Owen frequently.
It was absurd, of course. Owen was a handsome young man about my own age; he was brave, good, kind, understanding and clever. But what was he? A squire from some wild country beyond the borders. I did not know very much about the geography of my new country, but I had heard that there were certain remote parts which gave trouble from time to time and that they were inhabited by races not entirely English.
I wanted to learn more about the Welsh.
Guillemote, because she had actually come with me from France and was French herself, understood me well and, being inclined to speak more frankly to me than the others, plucked up courage to comment on what was becoming obvious to them all.
“Do you think you see a little too much of your Wardrobe Clerk?” she asked.
“Owen Tudor!” I cried, taken off my guard.
“That was the man I was thinking of, my lady.”
“See too much of him! But there are certain matters which I have to discuss with him.”
“They seem to be very long and animated conversations.”
“I think, Guillemote, that you are …”
“Forgetting my place. Forgetting that I am speaking to the Queen. Oh, I know what you mean. But I do not forget also that I looked after you as a baby. Who was it you came to when you cut your knees…when you saw bogeys in the night? Tell me that. It was Guillemote. You may be a great queen, but you are still my little one…to me. And let me tell you this, there are greater dangers when you grow up, my lady. And when I see you walking into them, I shall say so…and if that means stepping out of place…if it means talking to the Queen as though she is a child…then I will talk.”
I smiled at her lovingly—Guillemote, my comfort in the dark days in that dismal and often frightening Hôtel, Guillemote who had come into my bed to cuddle me and keep me warm, Guillemote who, I think, would have given her life for me.
“I’m sorry, Guillemote,” I said. “I know you love me. I know that everything you do is for my good. You do not have to tell me that, Guillemote.”
“So now I will speak. It is true that you are shut away at Windsor. But people notice. They say how friendly you are becoming with the Clerk of the Wardrobe. Do you need to talk so much of silks and brocades? He is a very handsome young man, and his manner…and yours…is not quite that of a queen and her wardrobe clerk.”
“I like the man, Guillemote.”
“That much we know.”
“I find him interesting to talk to. He comes from a fascinating background. I did not know anything about the Welsh until I came to this country.”
“There are other ways of learning. I think of you as my little one still. You have always been precious to me. If I saw you running into danger, I would be after you. I would take you up in my arms …”
“I know, Guillemote, but I am not a child anymore.”
“No. You are not a little princess. You are on more dangerous ground. You are a queen…and a queen in a strange land.”
“It is my land now, Guillemote. I became the queen of this country because my husband was king and now I am still a queen.”
“That is what I say. So take care.”
“Why should you see danger, Guillemote?”
“Because I know you well. When you talk of that man I hear in your voice and I see in your eyes…what he is becoming to you.”
“I admit, I enjoy talking to him.”
“That is clear to see.”
My lips quivered as she put her arms around me. She rocked me to and fro as she used to do when I was a child.
“I understand…I understand,” she murmured. “But you must take care. A queen could never mate with a wardrobe clerk, and a Welsh one at that.”
“What does his country matter?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
I went on: “I did not know of these other races here. I thought they were all English. We did not hear of the Welsh in France.”
“There is much we did not hear of. And it is not only the Welsh in him. Think of it. He is a soldier from nowhere. What could come of this? Nothing…nothing…but misery. That is why I say, dear Princess, my dear, dear Queen, take care.”
I put my arms about her and clung to her for a few seconds. Then I withdrew myself.
“What are you thinking of, Guillemote? How could you ever think I would have such a thing in mind!”
She looked relieved. “It was silly of me. Of course you would not. It was merely that…oh yes, it was foolish of me.”
“Guillemote,” I said, “we will forget this nonsense.”
I knew the peaceful days must soon come to an end.
It was a year since Henry had sat on my lap and we had ridden through the streets of London. I often smiled to remember how quiet and solemn he had been, listening with what seemed like pleasure to the shouts of the people.
There came a message from the Council. The King’s presence would be needed at the opening of Parliament.
He was now nearly two years old and had grown considerably since he had made his first public appearance. He was not the docile infant he had been.
Preparations to leave for London began.
I did not see Owen Tudor before we left. I had avoided him after my conversation with Guillemote.
Her remarks had made me assess my feelings more honestly. I saw that I had allowed myself to slip into a very pleasant relationship without realizing that it would be noticed and might be misconstrued by those about me.
It had been so comforting to be with him, to discover something of his background and to talk to him about my early life and his. He had listened with great attention and sympathy and made me see those days less grimly than I had before. I would find something to laugh at, though previously I should have thought that impossible.