‘And that is why we agreed that I should make our case,’ I said, with a little laugh. ‘Thank God you did not tell it to their narrow-minded, opinionated faces.’

Owen dragged in a breath, forcing himself to rein in his temper, but it still rumbled dangerously below the surface. ‘We’ll just have to wait.’ He thrust my mangled gloves back into my hands. ‘Take these before I destroy them!’ But at last he looked at me with a softer expression. ‘You were magnificent, you know.’

‘I was terrified.’

‘No one would have known it. How I didn’t use my fist against Gloucester’s smug face and his insinuations, I’ll never know.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Oh, I think you could. You have hidden depths, fy nghariad.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘And that from a despised Welshman.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘My love. And, fy nghariad, we still have our freedom and no compulsion to live anywhere than as you choose. Let’s go.’

‘It wasn’t very satisfactory, was it? Our marriage is recognised only in so far as they can do nothing to end it.’

‘It’s the best we can hope for.’

So it was. And perhaps it was enough. Yet I frowned.

‘Is it enough to stop you from standing behind my chair at every meal?’

Owen thought about it.

‘Yes, By God! It is enough.’

We decided to leave that very day, that very hour, Owen looking back over his shoulder as he was helping me into the litter, surveying the bulk of the Westminster palace that cast its shadow over us.

‘I’ll not be sorry to leave this place. Gloucester hovers over it like a bad smell. It smacks of English military aggression, not to mention dungeons and locked vaults where poor incarcerated fools never again see the light of day.’ Sometimes Owen was very Welsh. He stared at me. ‘Now, are you comfortable? Or do you wish to stay a night?’

‘We leave immediately.’ Suddenly my desire to depart was as strong as Owen’s.

‘Immediately, my lady.’ And he grinned at what had been a very imperious tone.

‘Master Tudor?’

A tall, lean man in clerical glory hailed us and approached from the wing of rooms behind us, and I smiled. It was the Bishop of London, who had spoken up for me, or at least not against me. Robert FitzHugh, a friendly face, all in all, and not one of Gloucester’s coterie. He was followed by another cleric I knew, Bishop Morgan of Ely. They ranged up beside us and bowed to me. And, interestingly, to Owen. I remarked it, but Owen’s face was implacable.

‘We will not stay, my lords,’ he said unequivocally.

‘I understand,’ FitzHugh replied. He looked across at Morgan, who nodded. ‘But just a word, sir, my lady.’

Owen scowled, and I saw the direction of his thoughts. What would these clerics want with us? ‘We’ll hear you—but I wish to make good time, my lord,’ Owen stated. ‘It will not be a comfortable journey for my wife.’

‘Where will you go?’ Morgan, as rotund as FitzHugh was lean, asked.

‘To Hertford. We’ll stay there until the child is born.’

FitzHugh merely nodded with a thin smile. ‘A suggestion, my lady. And an offer. To you and to your husband.’

Owen eyed him speculatively. ‘Is it possible that you’re of a mind to circumvent Gloucester’s plans, my lord?’

‘It might be. His ambitions gnaw at my conscience sometimes.’ The smile grew a little. ‘But here is my offer. Your marriage is legal, without any doubt. You have the proof of your priest and the Council can do nothing—neither do most of them wish to. Yet Gloucester still rails against you breaking the law. May I suggest that your child be born under the auspices of the church?’

‘I don’t see the need,’ I replied, uncertain.

‘May be there is none.’ Morgan took up the ecclesiastical view. ‘But if there should be—if the legitimate birth of the child is ever questioned…’

‘My offer would circumvent it,’ FitzHugh completed the thought. ‘I suggest that you smother yourselves—and the child—in righteous legality.’

‘I don’t understand why…’ I didn’t want to be here, to be involved in plots and counterplots. I was weary beyond measure. All I wanted was to settle into my own property, away from prying eyes, but a hand suddenly enclosing mine stilled my tongue.

‘My lord Bishop is right, my love.’ Owen’s voice was harsh with the acknowledgement of how the world might see our union. ‘Do you want our children to be called bastards?’

‘But they never will.’

‘It is best to be sure,’ Bishop FitzHugh advised, patient with my concerns. ‘One of my properties—Much Hadham Palace, not too far from your castle in Hertfordshire—is at your disposal. You may travel there as you please.’ He beamed. ‘Your child will be born in the bosom of Holy Mother Church, hedged about with ecclesiastical favour. It may be that you—and your child—will need friends. I am privileged to count myself as one of them.’ His eyes positively twinkled.

‘And I,’ added Bishop Morgan. ‘We were both close to the policies of your husband—King Henry, that is. We feel it our duty to support you at this time.’

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 SIXTEEN

Danger! Danger ripe with blood and terror. Bright as sunlight on a frozen pond, sharp as the taste of too-early pippins. I had not expected it. How would I, taken up as I was with my own concerns?

We were travelling back from France, in the depths of a frozen February, after the momentous occasion when the crown of France, my father’s crown, had been lowered onto Young Henry’s brow. The culmination of all Henry of Agincourt’s ambitions. What power did the old prophecy have now on the life of my son?

Henry born at Windsor shall long reign and all lose.

None, I decided, even though Lord John was ill with the strain of war, and my brother Charles had claimed the French Crown for himself in Rheims Cathedral the previous year. My son’s inheritance was secure. I knew I would never return to France, and Young Henry’s future had passed into stronger hands than mine. My future was with Owen. I knew I carried another child for Owen.

And so I drowsed as we pushed on with a small escort to Hertford—for this was now where Owen and I had established our home—where Edmund and Jasper waited in Alice’s care. It was cold enough to turn our breath to clouds of white and the ground was rock hard with frost. I travelled in a litter against the icy wind, the leather curtains drawn, with every frozen rut and puddle jarring my body. I longed to be home, and as if reading my mind, the curtain was twitched back, and Owen leaned down from his mount to peer in.

‘Are you surviving?’ His words were snatched away by the wind.

‘Just about.’ I grimaced, weary to my bones. ‘The bits of me that are not frozen are battered into submission. How long?’

‘Not long now.’

He reached out to grip my hand and was about to drop the curtain back into place when his head whipped round. And I too heard it. Approaching hooves from ahead and behind, shouts that seemed to come from the undergrowth beside the road to our right and a cry of warning from one of our escort.

‘Footpads, by God!’ Owen snarled. ‘Sit tight!’

As my litter came to a juddering halt, he hauled on his reins, shouting orders to our escort—a little band of half a dozen men well armed with sword and bow. I pushed the curtain aside again to see a motley collection of riff-raff leap from their hiding places in the undergrowth, daggers and swords to hand, at the same time as armed assailants descended from front and rear. And then all was full-scale battle.

In the midst of it, I was aware of Owen. For a moment he sat motionless on his horse then spurred it forward towards a thief who, dagger drawn, was grappling with one of our men. And I realised. Owen had no weapon, neither sword nor dagger. He was helpless. Insanely, recklessly, he spurred his horse back into the fray.

‘Owen!’ My voice croaked soundlessly in my throat as Owen swung round, ducking to avoid a blow, yet still he caught a glance of a sword on his arm that made his breath hiss between his teeth. And I heard him call out above the mêlée…

‘A sword. Give me a sword, man!’

Immediately one of our escort hefted his weapon in Owen’s direction. Owen caught it and wielded it as if he had been born with a sword in his hand, so that his attacker was beaten back. And I forced myself to watch as, cutting to left and right, managing his horse with skill, he lunged and parried even as his sleeve darkened with blood. With every clash and scrape of metal, every grunt and groan, I held my breath and dug my fingers into the litter supports until my nails cracked and splintered.