‘My lady?’

Thomas was standing, waiting for instruction.

I folded the cloak and handed it to him.

‘Return this to Master Tudor,’ I instructed. ‘Express my thanks for his coming to my rescue.’

And the pin? I kept it. Just for a little while. It seemed to me that perhaps Owen Tudor had something of a dragon in him, in the display of brooding power I had just witnessed. I would not keep it long—just for a little while. To have something of him for myself.

I sat on his bed—for want of anywhere else. I had told no one of my intentions. Whom would I tell? Not even Madam Joanna could be a recipient of this wild step. My damsels were dismissed, Guille dispatched. I would put myself to bed, I stated. Was I not capable of it? When Guille showed some surprise, I claimed a need of solitude for prayer and private contemplation. Yet here I was, enclosed by dark shadows, alone in the room of the man I paid to supervise my household. An assignation with a servant. I swallowed convulsively, the nerves in my belly leaping like frogs in a pond on a summer’s night.

I was dressed in the plainest clothes I possessed. Anyone noting me as I had made my way by antechamber and stair would not have looked twice at the woman wrapped about in sombre hues, her hair secured, its fairness hidden from sight in a hood. I was nothing more than one of the royal tirewomen out and about on her own affairs. And if it was with a man who had caught her eye, then good luck to her.

So here I sat on Owen Tudor’s bed, my feet not touching the floor, and looked around. It was a surprise to me. Not the fact that it was small—Owen was fortunate to have a room of his own. It was barely large enough to contain the narrow bed, a plain stool, a coffer for small private items, a clothes press and a candle stand. If I had stood in the centre, with outstretched arms, I might almost have touched the opposite walls. The surprise was that it was as neat as a pin.

Owen Tudor took care of his possessions, making me realise again how little I knew of him. There were no garments strewn around, nothing where it should not have been. I slid my hand over the rough woven cover on the bed. Neither was there anything to indicate his status as the Master of Household. It could have been a monkish cell for all it might tell me of the man with whom I had made this liaison.

My eye travelled to the coffer and beside it the handsome slipware pottery bowl and ewer. And I smiled because I could not help it. Pottery cups and a flagon of what I suspected was wine stood there. A candlestick. And a book. Here was an item of value. He had left something for me to read to pass the time because he knew he might be late. How thoughtful! A book, a candle and a cup of wine. I laughed softly despite the stark beat of uncertainty in my mind. Had he known that I would be nervous, in spite of all my professed courage? Perhaps he had, and had done what he could to remedy it.

I opened the book—recognising it immediately as one of my own Books of Hours—how enterprising of him to give me comfort—and turning the pages, I discovered a well-loved illustration of the marriage feast at Cana, beautiful with its familiar depth of colour and lively participants. But I closed the book abruptly between my two hands. This was no sacred marriage I was contemplating. This was a sinful celebration of desire. And if Owen Tudor did not come soon, my much-vaunted courage would be naught but a puddle around my feet.

I heard his confident footsteps at the head of the stair. They drew nearer. Swift and purposeful, Owen Tudor sounded like a man spurred on by urgency. And I trembled.

This is a mistake…

When the door opened, I was on my feet, as if for flight. For a moment, there he stood in the doorway, blotting out the light from the corridor, as dark and solemn as always, as good to look at at the end of the day as he was at the beginning. If he saw my uncertainty, he gave no recognition, but smiled at me, and any thoughts of escape were thrust aside as the door was closed smoothly at his back.

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said, bowing as if we were meeting in public and our previous conversation had never happened. ‘I am late. My mistress had tasks for me. My time is rarely my own.’

His lips curved and his eyes gleamed, and I thought that it was the first time that he had shown any humour in my company. His face was lit by his smile, the cheekbones softening, and although my hands were clasped tightly together, I found that I had relaxed enough to respond in kind.

‘Does your mistress work you hard?’

‘You have no idea.’ He took two slow steps towards me. ‘Have you had wine?’

‘No.’

His actions were as neat and spare as his surroundings as he lit another candle and poured wine—just as if our meeting here was commonplace—whilst I stood unsure of what to do. I could not sit on his bed. I could not. He handed me a cup and raised his own.

‘To your health, my lady.’

‘To yours, Owen Tudor.’

I sipped, almost choking. I had no idea what to say. My awareness of him within these close walls traced a path over my skin from head to toe.

‘I told you that I admired you,’ he said softly. And when I looked blankly at him: ‘I was right to do so. You had all the courage I expected of you.’

‘I don’t feel brave.’

‘The door is not locked,’ he stated.

‘No.’

And I realised he was allowing me a choice, even at this late hour. Seeing my hands shaking, he took the cup from me and placed both on the coffer, so that his back was to me, inviting me to slide a hand over the fine material of the tunic he had worn for supper, to take cognisance of the firm shoulder beneath. But I couldn’t touch him. I wouldn’t touch him.

And as if aware of my difficulty, Owen took the decision out of my hands, for he approached, enclosed my hands in his and drew me towards him.

‘Do I have permission to kiss the once Queen of England?’

‘If you wish it.’

He filled my vision as he bent his head and placed his lips on mine. Gently. A promise rather than possession. And fleetingly. Barely had I registered the warmth of it than he had lifted his head and was looking down at me.

‘I’ll not ask permission again, Katherine. Is this what you want?’

I could not reply, unable to find the words to express the army of uncertainties that battered my mind, but I did not need to. Framing my face with his hands, his lips again claimed mine, and it was my undoing. How different this embrace! His mouth hot and hungry, body powerful, hands holding me so that he could take and take again, I was swept away with heat and the longing that built within me. He lifted his head again, hands still cradling me, his thumbs caressing my temples—until with a brusque movement he pushed back my hood so that it fell to the floor.

My hair free and released, it now tumbled over my shoulders to lie on my breast, and his, allowing him to curl his hand within it so that it wound round his wrist like a living shackle. My breath shuddered out between my lips in a sound of pure wordless pleasure.

‘Call me by my name. Call me Owen.’ There was the urgency.

‘Owen.’ A breath of delight.

‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The most desirable. And I should know better than to have you here—but what man can stand aloof from a woman who fires his blood? I have wanted you for years. I can no longer resist you.’

His arms anchored me against him, and his fervent avowals slid through my blood like wine as he kissed me and I clung, my senses cast adrift, robbed of all will, all thought, only knowledge that here was a man who said he desired me and always had. An explosion of heady feeling swept through me. Owen Tudor wanted me, and I wanted him beyond all reason. I would let him take me. His hands moved to the lacing of my gown—

No!

Suddenly the desire was shot through with pure panic.

‘No,’ I said.

I pushed against his chest, and when he released me I buried my burning face in my hands. What was I doing? Horror bubbled through my blood, and a capering terror that tripped and hopped to its own rhythm. I looked at the man I would have taken as my lover, distraught, suddenly seeing Edmund’s laughing face before me. Edmund had seduced me with laughter and song and carefree youth, making me think that I was a girl again without responsibilities, before abandoning me when he could not use me to climb his particular ladder of power.

This was no light-hearted seduction, but an explosion of passion that swept me along, dragging me down into a whirlpool of longing. I wanted it—but could not allow it, for it would bring nothing but humiliation for me, ignominy and dismissal for Owen. If Gloucester discovered…if the Council knew. A liaison with a servant? But I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me again. I wanted his mouth on mine.

Ah, no. It must not be!

And in that moment I was swamped by past hurts. Owen Tudor could never want me. Did I not have proof? No one else, neither Henry nor Edmund, had wanted me, except for what the Valois name or my position of Queen Dowager could bring them. Owen Tudor could not love me. Perhaps it was pity in his heart. Yes, that was it. All my confidence was undermined by terrible uncertainty…

I became aware that Owen was frowning as if trying, and failing, to read the morass of thoughts chasing through my mind. His hands fell away from my shoulders, yet he smoothed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, and my fears were almost overthrown.

‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I must not give in. I must not. ‘It’s not that. I should not be here.’

And I saw justifiable exasperation glitter in his eye as he sighed. ‘It’s a bit late for that.’