The Forbidden Queen

Was this what I had feared, an escort of armed men, a document of intent, some makeshift infringement of the law that Owen could not answer? Owen had already spun round, shoulders braced, his hand sliding to his sword hilt as he stepped by instinct to stand between me and any danger. I heard the rasp of the steel as he loosed it in its scabbard in the quiet room, then I laughed on a little sigh for our fears were unnecessary. It was Warwick, and there was no force at his back. No Gloucester, crowing with sour delight.

‘I see you’ve been busy here.’ He grinned as he surveyed Alice with our new son, but his attention was on Owen. ‘I have something for you, Tudor.’ But his eye had followed Owen’s instinctive movement. ‘It seems my news is too late,’ he added. ‘You have pre-empted the issue.’ In his right hand he held a sword with a fine jewelled hilt. ‘I brought this for you. You have the right to it.’

‘They have decided?’ But Owen knew the answer, and I saw the light grow in his eye.

‘In their wisdom,’ Warwick replied dryly. ‘It should have been done long ago, if they had had any compassion for you.’

I closed my eyes. ‘Thank God.’ Then opened them as Warwick’s words sank in. ‘Are you certain about this?’ I asked, needing confirmation to destroy the anxiety that had lived with me for so long.

‘Your argument drove it home. The Council has instructed the next Parliament—a matter of weeks now—to recognise your rights, Tudor, and your status as an Englishman.’ Warwick produced a scroll from his tunic with the flourish of a royal herald. ‘This is more important than the sword. Here are your letters of denizenship.’

‘So I have you to thank for it?’ Owen asked.

‘A little. And others. You have friends at Court, however difficult it might be sometimes to believe.’

They clasped hands, and Owen took the gift from Warwick, tucking the document into the coffer at our feet. His features might be controlled but I saw the strain, the struggle to command every response against the news that had stunned him to the core.

I placed my hand on his arm. ‘We have done it.’

‘So we have.’ Owen covered my fingers with his own, his eyes searching my face. ‘I would not have done it if it had not been for you.’

I shook my head in denial. To shield me from a renewed onset of emotion, Owen addressed Warwick. ‘My thanks for the sword, my lord. Once I was forbidden to own one. Now I have a surfeit.’

‘Give it to your son.’ Warwick nodded to indicate Edmund, who had escaped supervision to come and investigate the delay.

‘He is young yet.’ Owen hoisted him into his arms.

‘But one day…’ Warwick smoothed the untidy thicket of my son’s hair. ‘Edmund Tudor. Who knows what you will be?’

Edmund grasped the costly jewelled hilt, making the stones glint and catching my attention. My little son, the high blood of both France and Wales running strong in his veins. A little presentiment touched me, but not of fear, rather one of power, of rank. The gems glittered in my son’s clasp, and my son was a man with fire in his eye and determination in the set of his mouth. And then the moment was gone. He was a child again, and a weary one, close to fretting.

‘You are a free man, Edmund Tudor,’ I heard Warwick say. ‘Your father’s heir. Free to own land and bear arms. And to marry as you choose.’

‘I want a horse,’ Edmund announced, unimpressed.

Owen looked across at me and smiled. What would be the future for our son, with the law of England on his side and the King, his half-brother, well disposed towards him? I wept again in a flood of emotion, part joy, part exhaustion—tears seemed so close in my weariness—prompting the Benedictine brothers to pat my shoulder and offer me a linen sheet to dry my cheeks.

‘Don’t forget. The little lad. We’ll make a fine monk of him.’

And I laughed through my tears. ‘I’ll send him to you. Unless he has the inclination to be a military man, I will send him to you when he is grown.’

I took the baby in my arms, smiling round at them. Then I looked at Owen, who was looking at me.

‘Let us go home, my husband.’

‘It is my wish, annwyl.’

Owen was restless, a difficult disquiet that took hold of him. I saw it, building day after day, even though he tried for my sake to hide it. Were we not happy? Had we not made for ourselves the life we wished for, when to spend time in each other’s company was ultimate fulfilment, to be apart bleak wilderness?

The death of my mother, Queen Isabeau, touched us not at all, and although we mourned the passing of Lord John with real grief for so great a man, the happenings in London and in France no longer had any bearing on our tranquil existence. But I saw Owen’s frustrations at the end of the day, when we sat alone in our private chamber or relaxed with company after a more formal meal, replete with food and wine, a minstrel singing languorously of times past.