Westminster Palace, Summer 1436 #3
‘Nearer to your tender heart,’ I say, taking his hand.
‘Your mother has broken the law of the land and made a false marriage with her servant, the groom of her household,’ my husband says slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a deaf child.
‘Worse, she has had three bastard children by him. Even worse, she is lying-in now with a fourth bastard. I arrested her, in your name, last night. Tudor escaped, but we will get him and hang him for treason.Your mother must be imprisoned for life. I am sorry for your shame, Your Grace.’
The king is fourteen years old – but has been raised as gently as a nun.
He looks at me as if I might defend his mother, and then his eyes slide away.
He knows that the two of us should not have kept her secret: he should have announced her marriage and faced everyone down years ago.
He knows it is his weakness that is to blame for her looking steeped in sin and his stepfather named as a criminal.
‘I am sorry too,’ I say, my voice low with tears. ‘You are an orphan twice over.You don’t have the family you wanted.You have lost them all. Don’t blame yourself.’
He chokes on a sob and beckons me away from Humphrey. ‘Didn’t you tell your husband that I knew of the marriage?’ he whispers to me. ‘He looks so angry.’
‘I couldn’t tell him because you swore me to secrecy! So I said nothing – it has cost me many sleepless nights. But I couldn’t betray you. You wanted it kept secret. So I did.’
He puts his hand to his head, as if his thoughts are whirling and he is dizzy. ‘I was going to say later,’ he says wretchedly. ‘I thought she might live as she liked?’
‘How could she leave you to face this terrible moment alone?’ I break out. ‘So shamed, so mired in sin, so tainted by her lust and quite alone?’
His self-pity shakes him with silent sobs. He takes a gulp and turns to my husband. ‘I didn’t order her arrest,’ he says weakly. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted either of them arrested. You shouldn’t have done it in my name.’
‘I do all the work in your name, Your Grace,’ my husband says, smiling. ‘I’ve just got back from saving Calais so you could stay here at peace in England. It’s just another part of my duty to care and protect you.’
The youth takes a long-legged stride to the crucifix in the corner of the room and rests his hand on the pierced feet for courage. ‘Owen Tudor is not to be pursued.’
‘As you wish, Your Grace,’ my husband says slowly. ‘If you’re sure. Is this a general pardon for all rapists? Remember that he has openly broken the law and shamed a queen of England as well.’
‘My mother’s not shamed!’ he bursts out.
I go to his side and take his trembling hand. ‘My dear, she is lying-in again, for the fourth time. They must be constantly . . . they must be incontinent . . .’
‘Incontinent!’ he repeats. ‘No!’ His eyes are dilated dark; he is breathless and sweating. I watch him narrowly; I think he might fall down in a fit if we spur him on.
‘You should not have arrested her without my command!’ he says wildly to my husband. ‘I am the king. I will not have my mother arrested and my step . . . my step . . .’
‘He’s not your stepfather,’ my husband shouts in a genuine fury, and the youth rears back in terror. ‘You insult your father! Your father was the greatest king that England and France has ever known, and this man is a maggot on a battlefield corpse, feeding on his dead flesh.’
The boy cries out, standing still as a frightened horse, shuddering with distress.
‘If your mother consented to vile acts of dishonoured lust with him, then he’s her lover! If he tricked her with a false marriage, then he’s her rapist – but one that she likes! Owen Tudor is either a rapist, or she is maddened with lust.’
‘Don’t speak . . .’ He is becoming frantic. ‘Don’t say such things! I forbid it! I am king! I am king! You cannot say . . .’
I follow him and take his hands; his palms are wet with sweat; he is shaking like a terrified foal.
He grips my hands, and I hold him to keep him from breaking away to the safety of his own rooms. My husband nods to the guards, and they throw open the doors.
Everyone waiting outside in the presence chamber can see the king held fast and screaming at my husband, ‘Don’t say it!
Don’t say it!’ He is pulling away, but I hold him so that everyone can see his collapse.
‘I won’t hear it! I won’t think of it! I was at my prayers – you should not have interrupted me! ’
‘D’you want me to take care of it all?’ my husband asks, loud enough for everyone to hear.
People are peering into the royal privy chamber, horrified at the extraordinary spectacle of the king’s collapse.
‘Save her!’ the boy begs us. ‘Do everything!’ he says to my husband.
‘My mother!’ He pulls from me to run back to his inner rooms, and as he turns, I let him go, and he sways and falls.
Neither of us catch him, and he crashes down on the ground at our feet, writhing as if struck by St Valentine into the falling sickness.