I ran after him, out of the antechamber and into the gallery, where he must have been waylaid by one of the pages who was scurrying off as I approached. Even if he heard my footsteps, Owen Tudor continued on in the same direction, away from me.

‘Master Tudor.’

He stopped abruptly, turning slowly to face me, because he must.

I ran the length of the gallery, queenly decorum abandoned, and stopped, but far enough from him to give him the space to accept or deny what I must say.

‘But the mistress wishes it too,’ I said clumsily. ‘The room and the locked door.’

He looked stunned, as if I had struck him.

‘You were right to tell me what was in your heart,’ I urged. ‘For it is in mine too.’ He made no move, causing my heart to hammer unmercifully in my throat. ‘Why do you not reply?’

‘Because you are Queen Dowager. You were wed to King Henry in a marriage full of power and glamour. It is not appropriate that I, your servant—’

‘Shall I tell you about my powerful and glamorous marriage?’ I broke in.

So I told him. All the things I had never voiced to anyone before, only to myself, as I had come to understand them.

‘I met him in a pavilion—and I was awestruck. Who wouldn’t be? That he, this magnificent figure, wanted me, a younger daughter, for his wife. He wooed me with the sort of words a bride would wish to hear. He was kind and affectionate and chivalrous when we first met—and after, of course.’ How difficult it was to explain. ‘But it was all a facade, you see. He didn’t need to woo me at all, but he did it because it was his duty to do so, because he wanted what I brought with me as a dower. Henry was very strong on duty. On appearances.’ I laughed, with a touch of sadness.

‘Did he treat you well, my lady?’

To my horror I could feel emotion gathering in my throat, but I did not hold back. ‘Of course. Henry would never treat a woman with less courtesy than she deserved. But he did not love me. I thought he did when I was very young and naïve, but he didn’t. He wanted my royal blood to unite the crowns and bring France under his control.’

‘It is the price all high-born women have to pay, is it not, my lady?’ He raised a hand, as if he would reach out to me across the space, the tenderness in his voice undermining my resolve to keep emotion in check. ‘To be wed for status and power?’

‘It is, of course. I was too ingenuous to believe it at first.’ I returned in my mind to those biting sadnesses of my first marriage, putting them into words. ‘Henry was never cruel, of course, unless neglect is cruelty. But he did not care. And do you know what hurt most? That when he was sinking fast in his final days, when he knew that death would claim him, he never thought of sending for me. He felt no need to say farewell, or even give me the chance to say goodbye to him. I don’t know why I am telling you all of this.’

I frowned down at my interwoven fingers, white with strain. ‘I thought I loved Henry, but it was an empty love, built on girlish dreams, and he destroyed it. Like a seed that withers and dies from lack of rain. He gave me nothing to help my love to grow—and so it died. I was very young.’ I looked up at my imperturbable steward. ‘I am not a very strong person, you see. I have had to grow into my strength.’

‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ he murmured, his eyes holding fast to mine. ‘I did not know.’

‘Nor should you. I hid it well, I hope. I am just telling you so that you know. There was no glamour in my marriage.’ In the face of his compassion my eyes were momentarily blinded by tears, but I wiped them away with the heel of my hand, determined not to allow this moment to escape me. ‘My courage tends to die when I feel unloved, unwanted, you see. When I cannot see a path for my feet to follow, when I feel that I am hedged in by thistles and thorn trees that sting and scratch. But today I have the courage to say this to you. What is in your heart is in mine too. What you desire, I too desire.’

Owen Tudor slowly retraced his steps to stand before me, reclaiming my hand, but not in the manner of a servant. I thought it was the way in which a man would approach a woman he desired, for, turning it within his, he pressed a kiss to my palm. His salute was no longer cold.

‘It could be a wish that the mistress might regret for the rest of her life,’ he stated.

‘How would she know unless she allowed herself the means to savour it?’

‘Perhaps the servant was wrong to accuse his lady of lacking courage.’

‘I think he was.’

Slowly, he linked the fingers of one hand with mine, his regard intense, reflecting none of the bright light that flooded through the gallery windows to illuminate us.

‘Have you enough bravery, Katherine,’ he asked, ‘to snatch at what you desire?’

He had called me by my name. If I would stop this, it must be now.

‘Yes, Owen,’ I said. ‘I have enough.’

‘Would you come to me? To that locked room?’

‘Yes. Would you invite me?’

He lifted our joined hands to touch my cheek in reply, and his mouth curved in a vestige of a smile. ‘What would be the punishment for a disenfranchised Welsh servant meeting privately with Queen Katherine?’

‘I don’t know.’ Selfishly, I did not care.

‘Do we risk the penalties? Will you come to me?’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

My heart thundered, but I would not step back. ‘Where?’

‘To my room.’

And pulling me close, so that my silks whispered against the wool of his tunic, he bent his head as if he would kiss me on the lips.

I froze. Footsteps at the end of the gallery were announcing the return of Thomas, my page, bearing a covered ewer and a cup. Before the lad had covered half the length of the room, Owen was no longer standing near me.

‘It will be as you wish, my lady,’ he said, as if some business between us had been completed. ‘I will send your request to the Young King. And if you will consider my suggestion…?’

There was nothing here that was not proper. ‘I have considered it, Master Tudor. I think it has merit and will act upon it.’ I looked across at my page with a smile. ‘Good morning, Thomas. Had you come to find me?’

‘Master Owen sent me to fetch wine for you, my lady, in the audience chamber.’

So he had thought of me, even when he had been so angry.

‘That was kind—but I have changed my mind. You can accompany me back to my chamber and you can tell me…’

Later I could not recall what small matter I had talked of with my page. I had done it. I had agreed to meet with Owen Tudor. There was a connection between us impossible to deny despite the unbridgeable rift between us. I had stepped over that rift and could find nothing but exquisite joy in the stepping.

At the door to my chamber I discovered that I was still wearing his cloak, redolent of the scent of him, of horses, and smoke from an applewood fire. Of maleness. I drank it in, before reluctantly I unfastened the pin, allowing the enveloping weight to slip from my shoulders as I examined the brooch. It was silver and of no great value, a little worn from long polishing and without gems, but when I looked closely I could see that its circular form was that of a creature I supposed was a dragon. Its wings were only half-furled as if it might take to flight at any moment, if its tail were not caught in its mouth. It had an aura of power, of mystical authority in the skilful carving of it. I thought it had no great value—how would a servant own jewels of any value?—but the little dragon had the essence of something old and treasured. Perhaps it had once belonged to his family, passed down through the generations. I traced the lines of the silver wings with my finger. It was a far cry from the Beaufort escutcheon with its enamelling and glittering stones, and yet…

‘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.