‘He is hard to resist,’ Meg observed solemnly, as if she had read my thoughts.

Oh, my control was masterly, my sense of the dramatic superb. I lifted a glittering length of gold thread from my coffer and replied from my heart.

‘Here he is. Edmund, who wooed me and could have won me if he had had the backbone. One of the glittering Beauforts. He was cruel in his rejection of me.’ And I burnt the whole costly strand, not even snipping off a short length, as I smiled around the watchful faces. I think I had won their admiration, or at least their respect.

I left them, full of laughter as they considered the men of their acquaintance who failed to live up to their own high standards. I admired their light-heartedness, their assurance that one day they would marry and, if fortunate, know the meaning of love. I would always be lonely. I would remain isolated and unwed. I would never love again.

Anger kept me close companionship in those days.

Fired with my resolution to tread a solitary path, I embraced my new strength of spirit within the sharp confines created for me by his grace of Gloucester. I would be Queen Dowager, admirable and perfect in the role allotted to me.

I had grown up at last. And not before time, Michelle would have said.

‘I wish to visit some of my dower properties,’ I informed my little son. ‘And you must come with me.’

Young Henry’s glance slid from me to his beloved books. ‘Do I have to, maman?’

‘Yes, Henry. You do.’ I would not be swayed.

‘I would rather stay here. My lord of Warwick says that he will come and—’

I did not wait to hear what Richard might be planning. ‘You will come with me, Henry. I am your mother and my wish takes precedence over that of my lord of Warwick on this occasion.’

‘You could go, and I could stay here.’

‘No, I could not.’ No point in explaining why. I remained firm. ‘It will be good for you to be seen by your people, Henry. It is your duty as King to be seen.’

Which did the trick. I informed Warwick and Gloucester by a slow-riding courier that the King would not be at Windsor but at the Queen Dowager’s dower properties. I listed them, and we were on our way the following day, before either would hear of my decision. Not that they could complain. I simply took the King, servants, entourage and outriders—his household in effect—in full regal panoply, with me. We made a fine show as we visited Hertford, then on to Waltham and Wallingford.

And finally there was Leeds Castle, which Young Henry anticipated with joy and I with a residue of fear. Leeds, the beautiful scene of my abortive proposal of marriage, where I had been so full of joy for what the future might hold. All ground to dust beneath my feet. But this had to be done. I needed to make this visit to test the state of my heart.

I was cold with anxiety as we crossed the bridge, past the gatehouse into the inner courtyard. My feelings for Edmund had seemed strong enough to last a lifetime. Would there not be some shimmer of memory here to assail me? I took a deep breath and prepared to have my confidence shattered.

Did Edmund tread on my hem of my gown? No, he did not. Did his voice echo in the corridors and audience chamber? Hardly at all. My heart continued to beat with a slow and steady purpose, and I laughed aloud.

I was cured. How cruel the heart, to lead a woman into thinking she loved a man when quite clearly she did not. I did not need love, I did not need marriage. I felt as if I had cast off an old, worn winter cloak to allow the summer breeze to refresh my skin. Oh, yes, I was cured.

We returned to Windsor where I acknowledged Warwick’s caustic stare and consigned to the flames Gloucester’s letter of admonition that I should have asked permission from the Lord Protector if I intended to jaunt about the country. I settled into a period of calm, soothing to mind and body, with nothing to disturb the serenity of the pool in which I existed. This was what I wanted, was it not? So why was it that the summer weeks dragged themselves past with wearisome slowness?

Distant voices, heavy in the humid air, snatched at our attention from the direction of the river. Male voices, loud, crude in tone, sliced through with laughter and groans and—I suspected from the words that carried to us—much rude blasphemy. Whatever the occasion, it was one of raucous enjoyment and nothing to instil fear into us. Besides, who would harm us, walking as we were within shouting distance of the castle?

With my damsels in close attendance, I continued along our chosen path to the bend in the Thames where it was pleasant to sit and catch a breeze, for we had settled into a period of intense heat. The voices became more distinct, more strident, so that I caught a grin passing between our two armed guards and a meeting of glances between Meg and Cecily.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Some of the servants, I expect, my lady.’ Beatrice, fanning herself with a branch of leaves plucked from an over-hanging ash tree, was unmoved by the commotion. ‘The men swim in the river when it is hot.’ Her lip curled at the prospect of such wanton male behaviour. ‘You’d think they had nothing better to do.’

Splashing and bellowing continued ahead.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ I heard, sotto voce.

‘Perhaps we should go on!’

‘It might not be seemly…’

I had seen the gleam in their eyes, and understood since there was little to entertain them at Windsor. Or—the thought struck me as a burst of invective assaulted my ears—were they truly trying to protect my royal dignity from the sight of naked servants cavorting in the Thames? I would not be so tender, and I continued to walk steadily.

‘We will go on. I have seen a man unclothed before. I will not faint at the sight.’

We came to the riverbank, where it curved beside a willow with a vast spread of shallow roots, perfect for a shady resting place—and stopped.

‘There! As I said. Nothing better to do with their time!’ Beatrice looked down her elegant nose. ‘I still think we should go back.’

‘Not yet.’ I raised my hand to still them.

A handful of the castle servants were making the most of their escape from palace duties, either sitting on the rough, close-cropped grass where it sloped into the water or immersed in the river itself. It was the most inviting of stretches, the bank worn away to create a deep pool, ideal for swimming in summer, equally good for skating, as I knew, when the water froze in a wide, flat expanse.

Some of the men I recognised: there was my cup-bearer and my carver. Quite unaware of their audience, they were stripped to the waist as they lounged and slaked their thirst from pottery ewers. Some were entirely naked.

We stood, motionless, and gazed our fill at a sight to entice, so much male flesh slick with sun and water. My damsels were engaged, eyes keen as if a platter of gilded almonds had just been presented for their delectation.

‘So, if we are not to forswear all men, which one of these fine examples of manhood would we consider taking to our beds?’ Meg asked, her solemnity belied by a catch in her breath.

I looked round, to smile and reply to her. And my words dried in my mouth as one figure with a flex of muscle in thigh and shoulder pushed himself to his feet, to stand for a moment on the riverbank, turning his head to laugh at some ribald comment, then dived into the water with barely a ripple, skin gleaming as he moved through the water with speed and agility of a salmon. Emerging some yards further into the gentle flow, he stood, drops of water bright as diamonds on his shoulders and in his hair.

I inhaled slowly to fill my lungs.

Owen Tudor. Master of the Queen’s Household.

Water lapping around his waist, he raked his hair back from his face so that its black mass fell heavily onto his shoulders, the sparkling drops flung away into the sun in an arc of crystal. To my shame, I could not look away. I was enthralled, my gaze riveted, and I exhaled slowly as I had been holding my breath.

And all there was for me to do was to admire the physical attributes of a well-proportioned man, the flex of sinew and firm flesh, the definition of muscle that gave form to his chest and shoulders. And his face…Ah! I took another breath. His face was lit with such careless, unreserved joy, his eyes as dark as jet, his wet hair as polished as Venetian silk.

He was beautiful.

I realised that my loquacious damsels were silent around me.

‘Well,’ Lady Beatrice observed at last, breaking the spell.

But not for me. Not for me. For me, the spell had been irrevocably cast.

My Master of Household swam to the shallows, from where, unconscious of his lack of covering, he waded through the little wavelets. I discovered, dry-mouthed, that my eye, of its own volition, followed the line of black hair from chest to stomach and on. His belly was flat and taut, his thighs smooth with muscle. I was sorry when he scooped up and pulled on a pair of linen drawers to hide his masculinity—or perhaps it enhanced it, as the cloth clung damply. There was an exhalation around me.

This splendid man was so far from Master Owen Tudor who determined daily which dishes should be presented at my table. The dour, silent, stern Master Owen who ensured that the floors were swept and the candles replaced, who controlled the state of my finances and the quality of wine served in my parlour. How could clothing and a studied demeanour of cool discretion cover so much that was spectacularly attractive?

His smile struck a note in my chest, like the single toll of a bell.

‘The Queen!’

We had been detected.

The little group, to a man, scrambled for clothing, all attempting something resembling a bow, incongruous given their state of undress, but their expressions were not hard to read. They resented my presence, my interference in a time that should have been their own, and free from surveillance. Owen Tudor pulled a shirt over his head as if clothing could restore his position, as perhaps it did for it brought home to me that although I might admire, I should not have been there. I should not have stayed. It was demeaning for me to be spying, and equally for them to be spied upon. A breath of conscience undermined my innocent appreciation.