Owen’s brows rose. ‘Gloucester will be beyond rage.’

‘Yes, he will, won’t he?’ FitzHugh smiled. ‘Will you accept my offer?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Owen promptly, before I could open my mouth. ‘We’ll accept your offer. And with thanks.’

‘Excellent. A man of sense.’

The three men shook hands on the agreement without even asking me, Bishop Morgan making one final observation.

‘Are you aware, my lady, that the law, in fact, makes provision for you taking a new husband, with or without permission?’

No, I was not. My face must have registered shock, followed by bright anger.

‘Any children born of your union…’ he inclined his head to me and to Owen ‘… will be recognised as halfbrothers to the King.’

‘And Gloucester knew of this.’

‘Of course.’

I despised Gloucester even more, and as if my hatred called up his presence, Gloucester himself appeared, striding down the steps and halfway across the courtyard in the wake of the bishops. I saw him lift a peremptory hand to Owen, and I watched, narrow-eyed, as Owen, now mounted, nudged his horse in Gloucester’s direction, bending his head to hear the royal duke’s clipped delivery.

What passed between them I could not hear, but it was no friendly well-wishing. Gloucester had his hand on his sword hilt. Owen shook his head, raising a hand as if in denial, before hauling on his reins to leave Gloucester standing, frowning after him.

As Owen’s silence registered cold outrage I made no comment but, ‘What did Gloucester have to say?’ I asked at the first opportunity on the road to Much Hadham.

‘Nothing to disturb you, fy nghariad.’

I did not believe him. There was still fire in Owen’s eye and an obstinate set to his mouth but I had to admit defeat. His reticence was sometimes most infuriating.

Our son was born at Much Hadham without fuss, with only Guille and Alice in attendance. No withdrawal from society for me, no enforced isolation until I was churched. I was Owen’s wife, not Queen of England, and I was sipping ale in our chamber with Owen, idly discussing whether we should eventually move our household to my castle at Hertford or whether we would perhaps prefer the beautiful but damp environs of Leeds, on the morning that our son entered the world with lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows and a shock of dark hair.

Owen held him within the first hour of his life.

‘What do we call him?’ I asked, expecting a Welsh name.

‘Something indisputably English,’ Owen replied, much taken up with the tiny hands that waved and clutched. ‘Will he always bawl like this?’ ‘Yes. Why English?’ I asked.

‘As the wily bishop said, we want no question of his legitimacy or his Englishness.’ He slid a glance in my direction as Alice relieved him of our firstborn. ‘We’ll call him Edmund.’

‘We will?’ I blinked my astonishment. Why choose a name so uncomfortably reminiscent of my Beaufort indiscretion?

Owen’s expression remained beautifully bland. ‘Do you object? I think it a thoroughly suitable name for a royal half-brother. No one can possibly take exception to it.’

I could not argue against so shrewd a thought, and so Edmund he was. And the church remained our steadfast ally, for within the year our second child—another blackheaded son—was born at Hatfield, one of the Bishop of Ely’s estates. The church continued to smile on us, while Gloucester glowered ineffectually at Westminster.

‘And this one will have a Welsh name,’ I insisted, with all the rights of a new and exhausted mother. ‘A family name—but a name I can pronounce.’

‘We will call him Jasper,’ Owen pronounced.

‘I can say that. Is that Welsh?’

‘No,’ he said as cupped the baby’s head in his hand. ‘But it means bringer of treasure. Does he not bring untold blessings to us?’

The boys brought us joy and delight, and, unlike my firstborn, their father knew and loved them. I adored them, for their own sakes as well as for Owen’s blood that ran strong and true. My sons would never say that they were not loved.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The effect on my household in the Rose Tower was immediate, and in a manner that I had never considered. We gathered in my solar at noon before making our way in informal manner to eat in the inner hall. I walked to the table on the dais, as I had done a thousand times before, taking my seat at the centre of the board. The pages began to bring water in silver bowls and napkins, the servants bustling in with jugs of ale and platters of frumenty. I had not given even a moment’s thought to the practicalities of our new situation. Now forced to consider the reality of it, I felt my face pale with irritation. How thoughtless I had been for Owen in his new status, how blindly insensitive.

And Owen? He had envisaged it all, of course. He had known exactly the problems we had created for ourselves, and had made his plans without consulting me. Perhaps he thought he would save me the burden, the heartache that it would bring me. Or else he knew I would object. I discovered on that day that I had acquired a husband of some perspicacity.

For the question that must be addressed was so simple a decision, so full of uneasy pitfalls. Where was Owen to sit? As my husband he had every right to sit at my side on the dais.

As I sat I looked to my left and right. The stools and benches were apportioned as they always were, and occupied. I raised my hand to draw the attention of a passing page, to set a place at the table beside me, ruffled at my lack of forethought. To have to set a new place now simply drew attention to the dramatic change in circumstances and caused unnecessary comment. I had been remiss not to have anticipated it.

And where was Owen Tudor?

I saw him. Oh, indeed I did. He stood by the screen between the kitchen passageway and the hall, and he was clothed as Master of Household, even to his chain of office. I was not the only one to see him, and the whispers, the covert glances, some with the shadow of a delicious malice, were obvious, as was the well-defined expression on Owen’s face, so that I felt a little chill of recognition in my belly, nibbling at the edge of my happiness.

I had not expected to have to fight a battle with him over status quite so soon, or quite so publically. But I would. I was resolute. My husband would not act the servant in my household. And so I, who never willingly drew attention to herself, stood, drawing all eyes. I raised my voice. If he would force me to challenge him under the eye of every one of my household, then so be it.

‘Master Tudor.’ My voice held a ringing quality that day, born out of a heady mix of anger and fear.

Owen walked slowly towards me until he stood before me, of necessity looking up at me on the dais.

‘My lady?’

His eyes met mine, his face a blank mask of defiance. I knew why he felt the need, but I would not accept it. Last night I had been wrapped in his arms, our love heating the air in my chamber. I would not tolerate this.

‘What is this?’ I asked, clearly.

His reply was equally as crisp. ‘I have a duty to your household, my lady.’

‘A duty? You are my husband.’

‘That does not absolve me from the tasks for which I am employed. And for which I still draw a wage from you, my lady.’

The pride of the man was a blow to my heart, a pride that bordered on arrogance. But I did not flinch.

‘My husband does not work for me as a servant.’

‘We wed outside the restrictions of the law, my lady, without permission. Until we have stood together before his grace of Gloucester and the Royal Council and made our change of circumstances known, and it is recognised, I will continue to serve you.’

‘You will not!’ I was astonished, senses shattered by this reaction in him that I could never have anticipated. I would not allow him to demean himself, and yet I suspected his will was as strong as mine.

‘And who else do you suggest will do it, my lady?’

‘I will appoint your successor. You will not serve me and you will not stand behind my chair.’

‘I will. I am still Master of the Queen’s Household, my lady.’

‘I don’t approve.’ I was losing this argument, but I could see no way to circumvent his obstinacy.

‘You do not have to. This is how it will be. I will not sit at my wife’s table when there is still doubt as to my status.’

At my side Father Benedict chose to intervene. ‘Indeed, there is no doubt that your marriage is legal, Master Owen.’

But I waved him to silence. This was between Owen and I.

‘There is no doubt,’ I said.

‘Not with you. Not with you, annwyl. But look around you.’

I did, refusing to be touched by him calling me his beloved in public, and I realised that we—Owen and I—stood at the centre of a concerted holding of breath. I looked at those who sat at my table, at those who waited on me. At my damsels and my chaplain. We had a fascinated audience. I read prurient interest from those who hovered to see who would win this battle of wills: some pity for me in the conflict I had naïvely created for myself; more than a touch of rank disapproval for the whole undignified exchange between mistress and servant. Even envy in the eyes of my women who had not been untouched by Owen’s charms. But all waited to hear what I would say next.

I looked back at Owen in horror.

‘Well, my lady?’

His voice rasped but his eyes were so full of compassion that I was almost overcome. And I retreated from the battle, admitting defeat. His will had proved stronger than mine, and to exhibit our differences in public on the first day of our marriage was abhorrent.

‘Very well. But I don’t like it.’

Owen bowed, as rigidly formal as the perfect servant. ‘Is it your pleasure that the food is now served, my lady?’

‘Yes.’ I sat down, my face aflame.

And Owen? He merely proceeded to beckon in the bread and meat as if it were an uneventful, commonplace breaking of our fast. A more silent meal I could not recall, with Owen, my husband of less than a day, standing behind my chair.

Never had the servants scurried as they did to serve that repast. Never had we been served with such efficiency or such speed. Never had the bread and ale been consumed so smartly. The usual chatter was almost silent, and what little there was in furtive whispers. Eyes glanced from me to Owen and back again. I tried to keep a flow of trivial comment with Beatrice and Father Benedict about something I cannot even recall.

When I could tolerate the atmosphere no longer, I stood and without excuse I marched from the room, Owen still ordering the dispensing of the remains to the poor.

I waited for him in my chamber, knowing that he would come. And if he did not, I would send for him. But things were not as they had been. By the time he opened the door with quiet precision, anger ruled.

‘How could you do that to me?’ Owen had barely closed the door on the hastily departing Guille. I was rarely roused to such passion but the very public audience to our difference of opinion had shaken me, and his inflexible intransigence had stirred up an unusual temper. I would tolerate neither my humiliation nor his. I would not! How could he have made me the object of such interest in the first meal we had shared together? ‘How dare you put our marriage on display in that manner?’ I demanded.

Owen stopped just within the door, arms folded, nothing of servitude in his stance, as I launched into my justifiable complaint.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ I noted with some surprise that my hands were clenched into fists. I squeezed them tighter. ‘You had enough to say an hour ago. It will have set the tongues wagging from here to Westminster and beyond.’

He walked slowly across the room, his eyes never leaving my face.

‘Is this our first quarrel, annwyl?’ he asked mildly, but his eyes were not mild.

‘Yes. And don’t call me that! And certainly not in public.’

‘So what do I call you? Is it to be my lady?’

I ignored that. I ignored the bitterness behind the innocuous question, as if I would so demean him after I had wed him. ‘Do you intend to stand behind my chair at every meal?’ I demanded.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Is your pride so great? So great that you cannot accept your new status through marriage to me?’

‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘My pride is not so great. But my care for you is.’

‘Your care for me?’ In my anger, my voice rose. ‘How is it possible that this public exhibition of disagreement would denote a care for me? You drew every eye, and made an issue of something that should never have been an issue. I did not appreciate being centre of attention in that manner. And I will not—’