Westminster Palace, Autumn 1439
Westminster Palace, Autumn
THIS AUTUMN, WHEN parliament opens, I move into the queen’s rooms at Westminster Palace, and my ladies – many of them women who looked down on me when I first came to court – have to sit with me and sew and study and make music as they did when a French princess was on the throne.
Now she is dead, and I have taken her place, and I revel in their resentful service.
They gossip, low-voiced, among themselves, whispering that Owen Tudor has been finally and completely pardoned for his marriage to the king’s mother.
It is one of the first things the king does on his birthday when he takes his full powers.
The writ says that Owen is forgiven all offences – no crimes are specified, it is a completely open pardon – Owen can never be accused, hunted, or imprisoned ever again.
The sheriffs who let him escape are pardoned: no reason given, no punishment set. The king did it without advisors – on his own word, on his own decision – and when Owen is cured of his gaol fever, he will be welcomed to court for Christmas: the recognised widower of the dowager queen.
I will have to see him; I will not be able to avoid him.
He will look into my face and know that I had him imprisoned and left him to die in in darkness.
He will know that I tried and failed to kill him.
I prepare myself for the day of our meeting.
I stand before my mirror and practise expressions of distant indifference, of remote beauty like an ancient enchantress.
If I could, I would be Circe and turn him into a pig that would leap from a cliff and drown itself.