I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I do not doubt it. And they would be right.”
It was enough. It was the spark which set light to the fire.
We stood close, smiling at each other. There was no need for words in that moment. His arms were about me and he held me tightly.
Then I heard him say: “For so long I have loved you, Katherine…Queen of England.”
And I replied: “I love you too, Owen Tudor.”
That night we became lovers. It was reckless. I am amazed now, looking back, at our courage. I was in a state of despair. I was going to lose my child. I was not the sort of woman who could live without a husband. Moreover, I was in love. This was different from what I had experienced with Henry. I had believed I was in love with him. I had been fond of him. I had found life with him fulfilling to a certain extent, even enjoyable. But it could not be compared with the feelings I experienced with Owen.
This was reckless love…love which refused to be denied, which had not been arranged for the benefits it would bring to both sides in a war. This was different. This was dangerous, unsanctified love…love which was so overwhelming as to be irresistible.
And having tasted it, there was no going back.
He told me how he had loved me from the beginning, how he had contemplated asking that he might be relieved of his post, and how he could not bring himself to do that.
I listened avidly, drinking in every word, reveling in this wild passion which I vowed I would never lose.
It was my due. It was the due of every woman. They had taken my child from me; they should not deny me my lover.
We were both fully aware of the dangers.
“I have good and faithful women about me,” I told him. “They would never betray me.”
“You are too gentle, my love, too trusting. You expect everyone to be as kind and good as you are.”
“Dear Owen,” I assured him, “I can trust my Joannas and Agnes, and Guillemote would die rather than betray me.”
“I have noticed their devotion and have often rejoiced in it.”
We talked of little that night but our love for each other…how it delighted and alarmed us at the same time.
“No one can love where people want them to because it is convenient,” I said. “Love is not like that. It is there…one does not say it is suitable…therefore we will love.”
“You have suffered so much,” he said.
“My dear Owen, all our troubles will be shared from now on.”
“Katherine…is it possible…do you think …?”
“Have I a timid lover?”
“Not timid…the only anxiety I have is what trouble this may bring to you.”
I put my fingers over his lips.
“I will not listen to such talk,” I said. “For tonight in any case we are together. It is wonderful. At last we have broken through the barriers of convention and admitted our love. Nothing must spoil this night.”
Nor did it. That was for later. On this night we had found each other.
That was enough.
DANGEROUS LOVE
I knew I had changed. I knew that Agnes and the Joannas looked at me incredulously and that there was a hint of fear in Guillemote’s eyes.
But they said nothing. Nor did I.
I was happy…as happy as Jane on her journey to Scotland. I was happy as I had never thought to be in the whole of my life.
I could think of nothing but Owen. I wanted to hear about his life, of those early days in Wales. I wanted to hear about Cadwaladr, an ancient ancestor who had defended Wales from King Henry II. I wanted to hear more of his father, the outlaw, who had fled from the neighborhood when he had killed a man. It all seemed so wildly romantic and I loved to hear him recount those stories in his beautiful musical voice.
I was obsessed by Owen.
“We must not show our feelings,” he warned me.
“You must not look at me as you do when people are present,” I admonished him.
“Do you not like it?”
“I adore it. No, no, forget what I said. I care not. Please look at me like that.”
“How do I look at you?”
“As though you love me.”
“Which is no more than the truth.”
Lovers’ talk. Lovers’ ways. I could not help it. Life was wonderful suddenly.
I was losing my baby, but I had my love to comfort me. Owen was making life wondrously happy for me.
I will not lose all, I reasoned with myself.
Guillemote was strangely silent. She seemed a little aloof. I had betrayed too much and she was wondering what would come out of this. She would guess the truth, I knew. I had been so desolate at losing my child; and she would know that I must have something in my life to help me replace that loss.
She said nothing, though I knew the time must come when she would.
The household had been taken over now. Dame Alice Butler and Mrs. Astley were in charge of it. There was no place for me. Henry’s Court moved to Windsor, and I stayed on in Hertford.
It was easier here for Owen and me to meet, for the King must necessarily be under constant scrutiny; and it would be more so now that he had his own household. Thus I could live more or less privately, for a time at least. I should be grateful for that.
I became more and more aware of that anxiety in the looks which my dear ladies cast in my direction, and they appeared to be a little embarrassed when Owen’s name was mentioned.
Guillemote could contain herself no longer.
She came to me one day and I guessed what was on her mind, because for the first moments she was silent and she looked at me in a puzzled sort of way.
“My lady,” she said solemnly at length, “are you aware that you have changed and that it is…noticeable?”
“Changed? In what way, Guillemote?”
“Something has happened. I knew it…and what matters is that others know it.”
“We all know that the King has his own establishment now. That is certain to make change.”
“After all your sorrow, you seem to have accepted that separation. Is that because …?”
“Because, Guillemote?”
“Because you have found consolation?”
“Consolation,” I mused. “Oh, Guillemote, it is more than that.”
“It is Owen Tudor, is it not?”
I nodded. It was no use pretending with Guillemote. She was too good a friend and she knew me too well.
She said: “This is…reckless.”
“I know.”
“Have you thought what it might lead to?”
“Listen, Guillemote…I married once to please them. This time I suit myself.”
“But it is not a question of marriage. A queen cannot mate with a …”
“A brave soldier,” I cried. “My husband thought Owen was one of the finest men in his army.”
“But you cannot …”
“I cannot help it, Guillemote.”
“Well, it was understandable. You were overwrought. You saw Jane with the King of Scotland. Your baby has been handed over to his nurse. I knew it. It happened. But now there must be no more.”
I felt suddenly confident to manage my own life. I laughed at her. I said: “Guillemote, it is for me to decide what there shall be…for Owen and me.”
“He is the Clerk of the Wardrobe.”
“He was the companion of my late husband.”
“He is a penniless Welsh squire.”
“And I am the Queen who loves him.”
“Holy Mother of God, has it gone as far as that?”
“It has, Guillemote.”
“They will discover.”
“They?”
“The Duke of Bedford, the Bishop of Winchester…the Duke of Gloucester. Gloucester…now he is a mischievous one. I would not want him to know. You are placing yourself in danger, my lady.”