‘My loved one. My brightest star of the firmament. Heart of my heart.’

Owen talked to me, even when his voice was ragged, his breathing under duress. His endearments shook me as the slide of his mouth from throat to breast awakened all the senses I had not known I possessed. Beyond control I cried out. And then again there was no need for words for we were flooded with the reality of what we had created between us.

His hair was a tangle of black silk against my breast and I wept with the wonder of it, and when it became too much for me to bear I buried my face against his shoulder that was wet with my tears.

‘Sleep now,’ he murmured against my mouth. ‘You have travelled far and long, and you have travelled alone. You are no longer alone, my beautiful Katherine. You are at rest.’

My heart settled. I could not contemplate the superlative wonder of being together.

‘What are you thinking?’ I asked when sense and some semblance of control had returned to us. My eyes were dry at last, but I was thankful for the concealment provided by the bed hangings. Owen’s eyes were closed, his face once more austere in repose, but then his mouth curved and his fingers linked with mine.

‘That if I were a man of substance, I would carry you off from here, across Offa’s Dyke.’

‘What is Offa’s Dyke?’

‘The old border between Wales and England, marked by banks and ditches constructed by King Offa to keep the Welsh out of England.’ His smile glimmered in the candlelight. ‘Not that it worked. The Welsh have always had a habit of raiding across the border and enjoying the benefits of English livestock.’

‘Would I like it? Across Offa’s Dyke?’

‘Of course. It is my home. And once we were there I would wed you.’

I thought it was said carelessly, Owen tottering on the edge of sleep. ‘No, you would not,’ I murmured.

‘Why would I not?’

‘Because if you were a man of substance, you would lose everything you owned.’

Which woke him. Eyes open, dark with emotion, his lips tightened, thinned. ‘And of course, as you well know, I have nothing to lose.’

I had not intended to spur so bitter a reaction, and did not fully understand it, but regretful of my thoughtlessness I sought for a less contentious issue. ‘Tell me what it is like to be Welsh, living in England. Is it any different from being French and living here?’

But he would not say beyond ‘I expect the English regard us all as foreigners out of the same disreputable bag’. I couldn’t persuade him further.

‘Then tell me about your family,’ I said. ‘You know all about mine. Tell me about your Welsh ancestors.’

It was a question destined to curtail even the mildest of confidences. He would not.

‘It is like searching for meat in a Lenten pie!’

‘Let it lie, Katherine,’ he whispered. ‘It is not important. It has no bearing on us.’

Nothing about his life before his arrival at Henry’s Court could be squeezed out of him. I gave up and lived in the moment, sinking into the joy of it, except that there was one issue I was compelled, against all sense, to raise. I placed my hand on his chest, where his heart beat.

‘You did not like Edmund Beaufort, did you?’

It was a ghost between us, maliciously hovering, that I felt the need to exorcise, even if it resulted in Owen condemning me for my lack of judgement. I recalled the disdain that had clamped Owen’s mouth on a former occasion when I had not understood. And as if he sensed my trepidation, Owen rolled, gathering me up into his arms so that he could look at me, his initial response surprising me by its even-handedness.

‘He is a man of ability and wit with a powerful name and inheritance. I expect he will be a great politician and a first-rate soldier and an asset to England.’ Then his arms tightened round me. ‘I detested him. He saw your vulnerability and the chance for his personal gain, and he laid siege.’

Held tight against his chest, I turned my face into him. ‘I am sorry.’

His arms tightened further. ‘I don’t blame you.’

‘But I do. I should have seen what he was, what he wanted. I was warned often enough.’

‘You were just a witless female.’ He kissed me, stopping my words when I would have objected. ‘How could you know? Beaufort could charm the carp out of the fish pond and onto the plate, complete with sauce and trimmings.’ A little silence fell. ‘He did not charm me. But you do, ngoleuni fy mywyd.’

‘What does—?’

His mouth captured mine, his body demanded my obedience to his and I gave it willingly.

We never spoke of Edmund Beaufort again. He was no part of my life now, and never would be again.

‘When did you first love me?’ I asked, as any woman must when first deluged in emotion.

‘When I first came to your household. I cannot recall a time when I did not love you.’

Drowsing, we knew our snatched moment together was rushing to a close. The daily routine at Windsor, the final service of Compline to end the day, claimed us back from our bright idyll.

‘How did I not know?’ I asked, trying to remember Owen in those days after Henry’s death.

His lips were soft against my hair, my temple. ‘Your thoughts were trapped in desolation. Why would you notice a servant?’

I pushed myself so that I could read his face. ‘And yet you were content to serve me, knowing that I did not see you.’

Owen’s smile was wry, so were his words. ‘Content? Never that. Sometimes I felt the need to shout my love from the battlement walk, or announce it from the dais, along with the offering of the grace cup. But there was no future in it, or so I thought. I was simply there to obey your commands and—’

I stopped his words with my fingers. ‘I am ashamed,’ I whispered.

Owen’s kiss melted the shame from my heart.

I glowed. I walked with a light step as my heart sang. Light of his life, he had called me. I could not imagine such happiness.

‘He makes you content, my lady,’ Beatrice observed carefully.

‘Yes.’ I did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Is there gossip?’

‘No.’

I thanked the Holy Mother for her inexplicable kindness as I lived every day for the time when Owen would blow out the candle and we would be enclosed in our world that was neither English nor French nor Welsh.

‘What is our future?’ I asked one morning when, in the light of a single candle and before the household was awake, Owen struggled, cursing mildly, into tunic and hose.

‘I don’t know. I have no gift for divination.’ Applying himself to his belt in the near darkness, he looked across to where I still lay in tangled linens, and seeing the gleam of fear in my eyes, he abandoned the buckle and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We will live for the present. It is all we have, and it is enough.’

‘Yes. It is enough.’

‘I will come to you when I can.’

He took my lips with great sweetness. I loved him enough, trusted him enough, to put myself and our uncertain future into his care. How foolish we were to believe that we could control what fate determined.

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.’