Hertford Castle, Summer 1428 #2
‘Not now,’ I tell him. ‘Never again. Countess Jacqueline is on her own now. The duke’ll never go after her, and parliament won’t defy Duke John, whatever the women of London say.’
‘Pity,’ he says shortly, and then his mouth comes down on mine, and that is the last time that I think of Jacqueline all night.
I WAKE IN his bed to hear the church bells ringing before Prime and the jackdaws spilling out of the bell tower and scolding in the dawn sunshine.
He is so delicious in the morning that I swarm over him, inhaling the warm male scent of his skin, rubbing my face against his naked chest. He twines my hair in his hands and pulls me closer until we are making love again.
‘No, no,’ he says, fending me off. ‘Release me, you witch! We are devout – we have to be at mass; the king demands that all his household and all his guests attend Prime.’
‘I’ll come back after,’ I say, sliding from his big bed. ‘And I have news for you.’ I wrap his linen sheet around me, and I look at him coquettishly over my naked shoulder, as if I were posing as a statue of a nymph surprised in Arcadia. ‘Important news.’
He throws himself back on his pillows. ‘God Almighty, you could tell me it was judgement day!’ he exclaims. ‘You could bring the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in and I would welcome them. I can’t say “no” to you – whatever it is.’
‘Nothing so dreadful,’ I say, thinking what a joy it will be, to marry to this man and see his smile every morning. ‘And I believe you’ll say “yes” gladly, without horsemen. It is about our future.’
He sobers at once, throwing back the covers and getting out of bed.
‘You remember this is love freely given and taken?’ he confirms. ‘You remember I am a poor man, a Welshman who cannot offer marriage to anyone? That is our agreement – you remember that? I have never offered you false coin and empty promises; I have always told you this was for love and love alone?’
‘That has been our agreement,’ I concede, ‘but I may want to change it.’
He laughs and pulls on his breeches, strides to his water jug and pours water to wash. He plunges his head in the ewer and comes out, shaking the water from his eyes. ‘Eleanor, I adore you. But I’m a poor Welshman! I own nothing in England. I can’t offer you more than my bed!’
The chapel bell starts to toll the single note that summons everyone in the castle to church.
‘Here—’ He bundles up my robe and ties my cloak around my shoulders. ‘Tell me later!’
AT brEAKFAST, THE duke, seated on the high table, nods to Owen, seated at the head of the table for the queen’s household, and says: ‘A word with you, ap Maredudd.’
Owen looks to the queen, and she makes a little gesture with her hand to release him. The duke steps down from the dais, and Owen follows him. Roger Bolingbroke and I come behind, and Duke Humphrey leads the way into a little room off the great hall.
It is cramped and hot, and I suddenly feel that this is not right. This should be announced in the hall, before everyone, like a trumpet blast. This stale little room feels like secrecy – even like a trap. I glance at Owen, and I am reassured by the confident smile on his handsome face.
The duke takes a seat in the big wooden chair by the empty fireside, like a judge on his throne, and Owen stands before him, respectful but not servile.
I take my place at Owen’s side, as if we were a young couple come to His Grace for his blessing, and I nod at Owen’s sideways glance.
Roger Bolingbroke drifts over to the window and leans against the stone window ledge.
He is an ordained priest: we could say our vows right now, and he could bless them, and dinner tonight could be our wedding feast. I wonder if Owen has already guessed why we are side by side before the duke.
I steal another glance at him; he is balanced on his feet, like a knife fighter, ready for anything.
‘I have a proposal for you, ap Maredudd,’ Duke Humphrey says pleasantly.
Owen nods, his thumbs in his belt, his face attentive.
‘I think it’s a very good one,’ the duke says with a smile. ‘Much to your advantage. You know that Mistress Cobham served the Countess of Hainault loyally and bravely, going with her to Hainault and coming home again under her orders?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Owen, looking from the duke to me. ‘Admirable.’
‘She’s been accused, completely wrongly, by a gaggle of idle London women, of deserting her mistress the countess and coming home with me in a state of sin.’
‘Adulterous sin,’ Roger Bolingbroke supplements from the window.
Owen throws a quick dark glance at the philosopher, but says nothing.
‘To preserve her unsullied reputation and save her good name, she must be married,’ the duke says.
Owen nods gravely, his eyes dark, but still, he says nothing.
‘I have granted her a dowry, and I propose her as a wife for you,’ the duke says grandly.
‘I don’t think you could ask for better.
I will grant you denization on marriage; you will become an Englishman, and you can own lands in England.
She is a Cobham of Sterborough Castle; through her, you will be connected to some of the best families in Surrey and Kent.
I need not speak of her beauty, which is evident.
I need not speak of her virtue, which is unsullied.
It is a great favour I am granting you when I offer you her hand in marriage. ’
The duke rises to his feet and takes my right hand as if to pass it to Owen, as a father would hand over his daughter to a bridegroom before an altar.
But Owen fails to play his part in the ritual.
He does not take my hand from the duke. He stays just where he is, his thumbs in his belt, looking both relaxed and poised.
I am frozen and the duke and I are handfast, as if we are about to begin a dance. We both look at him.
There is a silence. It lasts so long that I can hear a bee buzzing against the little panes of the window and the noise of the king’s companions running and shouting at playtime in the yard.
‘Unexpected,’ Roger Bolingbroke observes.
The duke still holds my hand towards Owen, but the bridegroom steps neither forward nor back.
‘I am deeply grateful for the honour.’ Now that Owen finally speaks, his Welsh accent is stronger than usual, his words come slowly. ‘Deeply grateful, but I am so sorry, I must decline.’
The duke says nothing; but I feel his grip tighten on my fingers. I feel as if the floor is sinking beneath me and only his hand is holding me up. Nobody says anything.
‘But why?’ Bolingbroke demands from the window, as curious as if this is one of his experiments. ‘You are forbidden as a Welshman to marry any Englishwoman; but my lord will grant you denizenship of England and Mistress Cobham’s dowry. This is an extraordinary chance for you.’
‘It’s not that,’ Owen says slowly.
I look at him. His mouth is a little bruised from where I bit him in the lust of last night, when we hardly slept but woke each other and turned again and woke again all through the night. His bed is still rumpled from our lovemaking; I am sore but still desirous.
‘I have a prior engagement,’ Owen says stiffly. ‘I am so sorry. I thought—’ He looks directly at me. ‘I thought you were aware that I will not marry? I thought I had mentioned that I cannot?’
‘What?’ I say quietly, like a little moan. I could curse the duke and Bolingbroke for putting Owen in this situation where he can refuse me; but I cannot demand an explanation. ‘I know what you said – but I thought that we were . . . that we were such . . . friends.’
‘We are,’ he says swiftly. ‘I’m honoured that you stoop to consider me. But I am . . .’ He drops his gaze to his booted feet that shift awkwardly in the rushes on the floor. ‘I have given my word that I will not marry. I am bespoken.’
‘Betrothed?’ the duke asks.
‘Some slut in Wales?’ I gasp.
He bows, his face burning with embarrassment. ‘I am so sorry. I can say nothing more. No, I’m not betrothed exactly; but I’m not free to marry.’ He looks directly at me. ‘Forgive me. I thought we had an understanding.’
‘You have an understanding with this man?’ The duke rounds on me, quick to blame anyone but himself.
‘Not at all,’ I say inaudibly. My lips are numb and my mouth dry; I am as cold as if I had been plunged like a witch into the moat.
‘Not at all. We only know each other through your service. You named Owen ap Maredudd as a suitable husband for me. I never asked for him. It was your advice, my lord. You said he was suitable.’
‘And so I thought him!’ the duke says crossly. ‘Ap Maredudd, you are a Welsh dog to bind yourself without telling me.’
Owen bows his head – but, of course, he has no obligation to tell anyone but the queen – he is in her service, not the duke’s.
All this is probably her fault. She probably gave him permission to visit Wales while we were all distracted by the dangers at Leicester.
He probably slipped away to Anglesey and got himself caught by a pregnant girl with an angry father carrying a billhook.
‘Forgive me,’ he says to the floor. ‘I cannot tell you, Mistress Cobham, how sorry I am that I cannot have the honour.’ The duke and I are still handfasted as Owen ap Maredudd bows, turns on his heel, and goes out of the room.
I AM FROZEN for a moment, and then I pull my hand from Duke Humphrey’s grip and walk to the door, without a word to him or to Dr Bolingbroke. I have nothing to say. I open the door and go out, closing it quietly behind me.