‘He does not talk to me,’ I admitted sadly. ‘He does not sing to me.’

I knew he was not always unapproachable. I had seen his ease of manner, smiling when the maids passed a coy remark, making light conversation with one or another of my household. Neither was he slow to come to the aid of even the clumsiest of servants. I had seen him leap to rescue a subtlety—a device of a tiger, accompanied by a mounted knight holding the tiger’s cub, all miraculously contrived from sugar—the work of many hours and much skill in my kitchens—with no remonstration other than a firm hand to a shoulder of the page who had not paid sufficient attention. My cook would have laid the lad out with a fist to the jaw if he had seen the near-catastrophe, but Owen Tudor had made do with an arch of brow and a firm stare.

As for the women…Once I saw him slide a hand over a shapely hip as he passed, and the owner of the hip smile back over her shoulder, eyes bright in anticipation, and I knew jealousy, however ill founded.

‘Owen Tudor knows his place, my lady.’

I read the implication in the plain words. ‘Do you think that I do not?’

And Alice reached forward to touch my hand with hers. ‘It will not do, my lady.’

I thought of launching into a denial. Instead, I said, ‘Am I so obvious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ And I thought I had been so clever. ‘What if…?’ But I could not say it. What if I were not Queen Dowager? In the end I did not need to—Alice knew me only too well.

‘You are too far above him, my lady. Or he is too far below you. It comes to the same thing—and you must accept that.’ She frowned at me, a little worried, a little censorious. ‘And it would be wise if your thoughts were not quite so open.’

‘I did not think I was…’

Alice sat back, refolding her hands. ‘Then how is it that I can read your interest in this man, as clearly as the page your son is reading now?’

I gave up, and we turned our conversation into more innocuous channels. Until she left.

‘He is a fine man. But he is not for you.’

Her wisdom was a knife with a honed edge.

‘I never thought that he was.’

‘There is a way, my lady,’ Guille whispered in my ear as I dressed for Mass the next morning.

‘To do what exactly?’ Regretful of what I had revealed, ill grace sat heavily on my shoulders, exacerbated by the knowledge that I would have to make some confession to Father Benedict.

‘To meet with Master Owen.’

‘I have changed my mind.’

‘Perhaps that’s for the best, my lady.’ She began to brush and coil my hair. I watched her face, waiting to see if she would say more. She didn’t, but busied herself with the intricate mesh of my crispinettes and a length of veil lavishly decorated with silk rose petals.

‘What would you suggest?’

‘That you meet him in disguise, my lady.’

‘And how would you suggest that I do that?’ I asked. Had I not, in my fanciful meanderings in my dreams, already considered such a scenario—and discarded it as a plan that could only be composed by an idiot? Temper bubbled ominously.

‘The only way I can see is for me to dress as a servant and waylay him—he talks to servants, does he not? But how would that be possible? He would recognise me. Do I have to meet him in a dark cupboard, my face swathed in veiling? Do I have to be mute? He would recognise my voice. And even if I did accost him as some swathed figure, what would I say to him? Kiss me, Master Owen, or I will fall into death from desire? And by the way, I am Queen Katherine!’ I laughed but there was no humour in it.

‘He would despise me for tricking him, for the shallow woman that I undoubtedly am, and that I could not bear. What’s more, I would look nothing more than a wanton. Am I not already suspect, that I am too rapacious, too caught up in sins of the flesh?’ I stood, too agitated to sit, and prowled, my petal-covered veils still half-pinned.

‘I suppose my lord of Gloucester would say that.’

‘Of course he would. And not only Gloucester. What would my damsels say? The Queen Dowager, clothing herself as a kitchen maid, to waylay a hapless servant who had no wish to be waylaid? It would be demeaning for me and for him. I’ll not have trickery. I’ll not lay myself open to ridicule and humiliation.’

‘Forgive me, my lady.’

Instantly remorse shook me, so that I returned to where Guille stood and placed my fingers on her wrist. ‘No. It is I who should ask forgiveness.’ I tried a smile. ‘I have no excuse for ill humour. I promise I will confess it.’

‘Do you care what Lady Beatrice says, my lady?’ Guille asked after a moment of uncomfortable reflection for both of us.

I thought about that. ‘No, I don’t think I do. But I would not court infamy.’

‘Some would say better infamy than a cold, lonely bed. Try him, my lady.’

‘I cannot.’

‘I can arrange it. I can make an assignation for you.’

‘It is not possible. We will forget this conversation, Guille. I am ashamed.’

‘Why should a woman be ashamed that she desired a handsome man?’

‘She should not—but when the handsome man has no feelings for her, and his birth and situation put him far beyond her grasp, then she must accept the inevitable.’

‘His birth has no influence on her female longings.’

This offered no answer to my dilemma. What do I do, Michelle? I received no reply. I was alone to trace my uncertain path through an impossible maze.

Dismiss him!

Before God, I could not.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stared down at the lengthy document in my hand. The official script of a Westminster scribe raced across the page, interspersed with red capitals and hung about with seals. At least I recognised those—they were newly created for Young Henry to mark his forthcoming coronation. As for the rest—the close-coupled lettering, the close alignment—resentment was my primary emotion, with a thorough lacing of self-pity and a good pinch of embarrassment. I was not proud of myself. I could make a guess at its strikingly official content but guessing was hardly sufficient for so wordy a communication, and so of necessity I would have to admit my need to someone.

‘You look troubled, my lady.’

I started, like a doe in a thicket at the approach of baying hounds. Master Tudor had appeared, soft-footed, at my side. I had not heard his footfall, and I wished he was not there: I wished he had not seen whatever expression it was on my face that had alerted him. I did not want compassion. My own self-pity was hard enough to tolerate. Surely I could summon enough self-control to hide my discomfort. It was hardly a problem that was new to me.

I frowned at him, unfairly. ‘No, Master Tudor,’ I replied. His expression was dispassionate but his eyes were disconcertingly accommodating, inviting an unwary female to sink in and request help. ‘Merely some news from Westminster.’

‘Do you require my services…?’ he asked.

I snatched at a sensible answer. ‘No, no. That is…’ And failed lamentably. He was so close to me that I could hear the creak of the leather of his boot soles as he moved from one foot to another. I could see the blue-black sheen, iridescent as a magpie’s plumage, gleaming along the fall of his hair.

‘Perhaps a cup of wine, my lady? Or do I send for a cloak for you? This room is too cold for lingering.’

I could imagine his unspoken thoughts well enough. What in God’s name are you doing, standing about to no purpose in this unheated place, when you could be comfortable in your own parlour?

‘No, no wine,’ I managed at last. ‘Or cloak. I will not stay.’

He was right, of course. I looked around and shivered as a current of cold air wrapped itself around my legs and feet. This was not a room—a vast and sparsely furnished audience chamber, in fact—to stand about in, without a fur-lined mantle. I was there only because I had just received an unnervingly official royal herald, complete with staff of office and heraldic tabard, dispatched to me by my lord of Gloucester. With all the formality that I had been instructed to employ when communicating with the outside world, attended by my damsels, clad impressively with regal splendour in silks and ermine, I had stood on the dais in this bleak chamber and accepted the document, before sending the messenger on his way and dismissing my women.

And now here was Owen Tudor, aware of my bafflement. I needed to escape, to hide my inadequacies. Taking in the fact that he was in outdoor garb, I seized my chance.

‘I must not keep you, Master Owen, since you clearly have a task.’

‘Was it bad news, my lady?’ he interrupted abruptly.

I must indeed have looked distraught. I returned his stare, breathing slowly.

‘No.’

My curt reply had the desired effect. ‘I will send your chamber servant to you, my lady.’ A brief bow and he turned away, abandoning me to my worries. Was that not what I wanted? I wondered what my lost, loving Michelle would have advised, what she would have done in similar circumstances.

‘Master Tudor,’

He halted. ‘Yes, my lady?’

‘Can you read?’ Of course he could. A Master of Household must read. ‘Do you read with ease?’

‘I do, my lady.’

‘Then read this to me, if you please.’

Before I could change my mind, I thrust the bulky weight of it towards him. He could not think less of me than he already did. Without comment, Master Tudor’s head bent over the script. Fearing to see his disdain, still I asked, held myself up for disparagement. ‘Do you despise me, that I cannot decipher it for myself?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Where did you learn?’

He looked up. ‘In Sir Walter Hungerford’s retinue, when I first came to court, my lady.’ His eyes gleamed for a moment at some distant memory. ‘Sir Walter insisted. A clip round the ear could be very persuasive. And before that I could read my own tongue, of course.’