If that was what I wanted. Even if he was a servant.

And if I did not want it, I should not have responded to him in the first place. Had he not given me the space to withdraw after my first foolish admission?

You need fear no gossip from my tongue.

The fault was undoubtedly mine, and I deserved his ire.

The meal proceeded. We ate, we drank. We gossiped—or my damsels did. The pages, well-born boys learning their tasks in a noble household under Owen’s direction, served us with silent concentration. Owen’s demeanour was exactly as it should be, a quiet, watchful competence. But he did not eat with us, taking his seat along the board as was his wont. Instead, he stood behind my chair in austere silence, a personal and reproachful statement to me, as if to broadcast the difference in our ranks.

I deserved that too.

I had no requests of him. My whole awareness was centred on the power of his stare between my shoulder blades. It was as if I was pierced by a knife.

I put my spoon down on the table. The pastry sat heavily in my belly, and I breathed a silent prayer that the meal would be soon over and I could escape back to my room. Except that when the puddings were finished and the board cleared, I had no choice but to walk past him since he had not moved. His eyes were rich with what I read as censure, when I risked a glance.

‘Was the food not to your satisfaction, my lady?’ he asked. He had noticed that I had eaten little.

‘It was satisfactory. As always.’ I made no excuse but my reply was brusque.

He bowed. I walked past him, my heart as sore and as wounded as my cheek.

‘Master Owen is come to see you, my lady.’ It was the hour after dinner and Guille entered my chamber where I sat, unseeing, my Book of Hours closed on my knee. ‘To discuss the arrangements for the celebration of the Young King’s birthday.’

‘Tell Master Owen that I am indisposed,’ I replied, concentrating on the page that I had suddenly seen a need to open. ‘There is time and more to discuss the tournament. Tell him to see my Lord of Warwick if there are difficulties.’

My eyes looked with horror at the penitential psalm on the open page, expressing sorrow for sin.

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.

Before God, I needed His mercy, and Owen Tudor’s, for I had indeed sinned.

‘Master Owen wishes to know if you will mark the day of St Winifred with a feast, my lady. He needs to make the funds available. It should be on the third day of November.’ Guille again. Another hour had crawled by and my self-disgust was no less sharp. Neither was my self-immolation.

‘Who is St Winifred?’ I demanded crossly.

‘A Welsh saint, Master Owen says.’ Guille shrugged her lack of interest. ‘He says that she was a woman who showed herself capable of integrity and fortitude under duress. He says that such qualities are rare in womankind.’

I stiffened at so pointed a comment from my Master of Household.

‘Tell Master Owen that I am at prayer.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

How dared he? Did he think to discountenance me even more? Kneeling before my prie-dieu, I covered my face and ignored Guille’s speculative stare.

The hour arrived, before we would all meet again for supper.

‘Master Owen has returned this, my lady.’ It was my hood, carefully folded. ‘He says that you must have left it in the chapel.’

‘Yes, I must have. Thank him, if you will, Guille.’ Taking it from her, I buried my face in the soft velvet when she left the room. I could not face my own thoughts.

Our paths must of necessity cross at supper. I considered shutting myself in my room with some feeble excuse but was that not the way of the coward he thought me? I had played my part in this situation and thus I must see it through to the end. I must have the fortitude of the venerated St Winifred. I took my seat, hands folded, appetite still impaired, and set myself to suffer.

And, oh, I did. Not once did he look at me. He stalked about the chamber as if he had the toothache, then became as before, a thunderous brooding presence behind my chair. If he was angry before, he was furious now. I ate as little as I had previously and at the end walked past him as if I had no knowledge of him.

That night I knelt once more at my prie-dieu but after the briefest acknowledgement of the Virgin’s grace I turned my thoughts inward. I must make recompense, I must admit my fault, undertaking what I could to smooth out this tangled mess of fear and desire. After Mass next morning I would summon Owen Tudor and explain that. But what would I explain? I did not understand the turmoil in my heart and mind. But I would explain that the mistake had been mine, and accept that his attraction to me had died a fast death.

I would accept it, as I had accepted Henry’s coldness and Edmund’s betrayal in the face of ambition. It would be no worse. I had weathered those storms well enough. My marriage to Henry had brought me a much-loved son, and I rarely thought about my Beaufort suitor except to wish that I had been a little older and wiser. To lose Owen before I had even known him would be no worse.

Except that it would. However hard it was for me to acknowledge it, I did not think I could live without Owen Tudor. The fundamental aching need that had touched me when I had seen him stride from the river had not lessened with the passage of time. It had grown until I had no peace.

I lifted my face to the Virgin and promised that I would make my peace, with him and with myself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I kept early hours in the summer months when the sun drew me from my bed. The next morning, before we broke our fast, as was customary my whole household—damsels, pages and servants who were not immediately in employment—congregated in my private chapel to celebrate Mass. As the familiar words bathed the chapel in holy power, my fingers might trip over the beads of my rosary but my mind practised the words I would use to explain to Owen Tudor that I desired him but must reject him, that we must continue in the rigid path of mistress and servant.

At the end when I turned my thoughts to Father Benedict’s blessing I had made at least one decision. I would meet with Owen in the Great Hall. I did not think my words would please him, but it would be public enough to preserve a remote politeness between us. I offered up a final prayer for strength and forgiveness, rose to my feet, preparing to hand my missal and my mantle—essential against the cold in the chapel—to Guille and—

He was waiting for me by the door, and there was no misreading the austere expression: his mood was as dark today as yesterday. Neither did he intend to allow me to escape, but I would pre-empt him, seizing the initiative despite trembling knees. The drawing of a line between us which neither of us would cross again would be on my terms.

‘Our celebration for the Feast of St Winifred,’ I said, a small, polite smile touching my lips. ‘We must talk of it, Master Owen. Perhaps you will walk with me to the Great Hall.’

‘Here will do, my lady.’

To order him away would draw too much attention. I waved my damsels through the door before me and shook my head at Guille that I did not need her. Then we were face to face. Father Benedict would be sufficient chaperone.

‘Master Tudor—’ I began.

‘I bruised your face. And you would not receive me.’ His eyes blazed in his white face, his voice a low growl.

‘Well, I thought—’ Unexpectedly under attack, I could not explain what I had thought.

‘I marked you—and you refused to see me!’

‘I was ashamed.’ I would be honest, even though I quailed at his anger.

‘You were ashamed!’

I took a step back from the venom, but I was no longer so sure where his fury was directed. I had thought it was at me. Still, I would say what I thought I must.

‘I ask that you will understand—and pardon my thoughtlessness.’

‘I pardon you? It is unforgivable that I should have despoiled your beauty.’ He partially raised his hand as if he would touch my cheek, then, as Father Benedict shuffled about the sanctuary, let it fall to his side. ‘I deserve that you dismiss me for my actions. And yet for you to bar me from your rooms, and refuse to see me—it is too much.’

‘The blame does not lie with you,’ I tried.

He inhaled slowly, regaining control, of himself and of his voice. So he had a temper. I was right about the dragon in him. I feared it, yet at the same time it stirred my blood.

‘I regret—’

‘No. You have no need to regret.’ Briskly he took my mantle from my hands, shaking out the folds and draping it round my shoulders, the second time he had felt a need to protect me from the elements. ‘It is too cold without, my lady.’ The control was back, the passion harnessed, but the words were harsh. ‘I think the blame does lie with me in that I asked something of you that you were not capable of giving. I should have understood it, and not put you in that impossible position. My judgement was at fault. And because of that I harmed you.’

It hurt. It hurt that I had made him think me so weak.

‘I was capable,’ I retorted, but softly, conscious of Father Benedict still kneeling before the altar. ‘I am capable.’

‘Then why did you run from me?’

‘I shouldn’t have.’

His blood was running hot again, the dragon surfacing. ‘What happened between us, Katherine? One moment I thought you were of a mind with me—and the next you fought me as if I were endangering your honour. You came to me willingly. You allowed me to touch you and kiss you. You called me Owen. Not Master Owen or Master Tudor, but Owen. You allowed me to call you Katherine. Can you deny it? Did you think I would hurt you?’