Dowager (Hand in Hand Chronicles)

Part 2 - the funeral

I'm going to have sex tonight.
And today if I can manage but also tonight. Things are looking well. It's a beautiful day.
I wake up. Wrapped in silk sheets dreaming of it. Pleasure. Actual pleasure.
And I'm free. They are putting that monster in the ground. Locked in a stone tomb he'll never escape from. And I'm free. A widow.
My body is ruined. I'm still thick from carrying his child, my breasts sag and ther'es lines on my pudgy belly and thick hips. But I'm alive. And it's over. It's a beautiful glorious day. I always thought I wouldn't know what to do with survival. And I still don't but I'm going to make the most of it.
I want to do everything that I never dreamed I could. Or ever would. Certainly not with him in the world.
First and foremost. I'm going to have an affair. I want to feel pleasure. I want to know what it's like. And there's nothing stopping me now. No, I'm already a widow. I've already born a child. I'm worthless I'm damaged goods. So I'll act like it.
My ladies come and bring me a fresh clean dress. It's a wonderful day. All of London is in mourning. But I'm not going. I don't even have to stay at Westminster more than a few days. I can already hear the baby crying. Somewhere it echoes through the halls. Like it's father, some latetent desire to make everything around it miserable. Father. Sire more like. He loved that child less than I do. I at least want to love it. He couldn't even do that.
But that's not my concern. I did my part. I upheld my end I gave them their precious heir.
And now it's my turn. My life is now mine for the living again. I don't have to save France anymore. It's saved. The monster is dead.
Sadly my co conspirator doesn't share my courage.
"Are you ready for this?"
"Oh god in heaven I thought that was a dream—should have known I didn't die I just agreed—yes," Owen winces, in broken french. Thankfully I understand enough english now to understand most of his words. Tall, intoxicatingly handsome with rich blue eyes and high cheekbones, I will never be cured of his damn smile.
"I am now a widow. There no sin left. And today is perfect everyone will be in mourning," I whisper. I cornered him in my wardrobe, which is his job to take care of.
"I do—I did—I just don't want to have my head cut off and put someplace weird that's my my goal," he stutters, face going red.
"I will protect you," I say, hand on his chest, "I'm the dowager queen."
"Are you sure?" He whispers.
"Yes I'm sure! Of course I'm sure I'll always protect you. What is it? Amser?" I ask.
"Bobamser," Owen whispers, nodding. The word for 'always' in Welsh. We've got three languages going in this relationship which is a secret. It gets very confusing. "Not that. This."
"Do I want to lie with you?" I ask.
He nods, blushing fiercely.
"Yes, Owen Tudor, I want nothing else," I say, twisting a hand in his tunic, "Where's your room?"
"I—one thing I think we should be in your room, which you can order people out of —another I'm in with someone else," he says, quickly, getting it all out in French but frowning as he he clearly goes through three languages in his head.
"On the floor above us it's just offices. In two hours," I say.
"Okay—I can do that—right," he says, blushing again.
I kiss his cheek quickly, then duck away.
It should be easy to slip away. After all I'm in mourning too. They're expected to believe that.  And Westminster is so small otherwise that it's easier to walk about unnoticed, a little. I have only stayed here once, before now. It's where Henry liked to live. So of course I wasn't wanted. Indifference was Henry's only form of kindness. It was so very far from enough.
I loiter for as long as I can stand before I make my move. My ladies are well aware I'm up to something but let that go because I'm clearly happy. Not their buisness so they let me just make a slim excuse I'm going to look for a new book.
I make it all the way up the stairs before I meet an obstacle.
A large black mastiff is lying sprawled out in the hallway, clearly half asleep. Big and black and evil looking, it has a thick red collar. One of Henry's miserable war dogs he used to let wander about. I didn't expect they'd let it be just lose.
I try to side step around it and it sits up, flopping its rat tail. The thing has grey in its face now.
"He called you Alexander didn't he?" I ask.
The dog wags its tail a little more, then lays it's head back down.
I feel a moment of sympathy. The dog doesn't know it's man was evil. It just knows the man who would feed it from his plate, is now gone.  It's got no idea of what he was.
I step to move again but the dog sits up. It's growled at me before but it seems friendly now.
"Is he bothering you? I'm sorry. Come on, big boy, movere te," a woman rushes past me to take the dog's collar. She's about my age or so, maybe a little older. She has long dark hair in a braid and is in a wool dress, fine but simple. I don't recognize her and I don't think she's staff. But there's a glint to her dark eyes' that's familiar.
"He bites—well he's mean he's growled at me," I say., "Don't."
"He's not going to bite are you, venit magna res —the king, he trained them in Latin, my lady," the woman explains, quickly, now fully tugging the dog out of the way. It half listens. 
"Do you work with the dogs?" I ask, frowning. I'd heard him command them in Latin. It didn't occur to me to try it.
"Basically—not really. Jane Beaufort. I'm Cardinal Beaufort's daughter—natural. Before he took orders. But I live with my father and I know the king's dogs," she admits. That's the familiar look. She has the same set, and hooded look, to her brown eyes. Same as Beaufort, and as Henry.
"Jane. He mentioned you," I say. He admitted it was an affair, after he'd taken orders. Well I'm not judging for that.  She is my age.
"He does—my father. I'm um, waiting about for him after the funeral," she says, petting the dog. It leans its big head against her leg, staring up adoringly.
"Not invited?" I ask.
"No just—I'm no good with funerals. I couldn't do it that long, and my father has to so one of us might as well be all right," she says, half laughing, but it's humor less.
"I wasn't required, so," I say, feeling a little bit odd. I'm clearly just going about my day.
"I wouldn't if I were you—I mean you weren't here a year. I understand," she says, quickly, "You didn't really know him."
"You did?" I ask. I knew him well enough. I knew he burnt people alive and slaughtered thousands for sport. That's really enough.
"Yes, I mean like I said I was around my father. The king he—well growing up he was always about. He'd let me play with dogs, always, and back when, well we'd do that during feasts he'd always come and play the harp and I'd play the lute with the minstrels. Even if he was king there's a bit of that you know, like an older brother or something," she says, there are tears in her eyes. Actual tears for him.  She wipes them away and the dog nudges her sadly.
"Yes," I think of the knights that used to come and look out for my brothers. The younger squires. I wasn't underfoot to play with dogs and things. But I knew them all by name. I could tell by the walk who was coming down the hall to come fetch us, escort us to mass, anything. Many of them left to fight Henry and never came back. The Varus cousins who Henry slaughtered in Meaux. They were some of those who used to guard my father. Henry cut off their heads after dragging them through the street.
"He was such a force and—I keep expecting him to come around a corner. Ask why I'm stealing him dog," she smiles without humor, looking down at the dog as she caresses its head.
"He likes you. I've seen him snap at hands," I say.
"Oh—no, not Alexander. He'd be pissed I'm telling you this story. That's what he gets for dying. Anyway. Henry bred mastiffs like you know. He'd wanted an Italian one for his line. A friend just gave him this one one day, don't know where he got it. This gorgeous black pup, male. Usually the bitches are the ones he'd let follow him most of the males coudln't be trusted out loose or the like. Well, he'd let Alexander follow him around to train it, because he liked the dog. Well Alexander turns out to be tame as a kitten. Nice to absolutely everyone not a mean bone in his body. The bitches don't like him so they won't breed which is fine he can stay out but, he's apparently a useless guard dog. Sure he'd do something if needed but he doesn't act it. But he's smart, so Henry taught him to growl and even pounce on people on command, so that they'd stay afraid of it," she says.
"Ah," he made his dog growl at me. How nice to find this out now. Ass.
"So he's perfectly friendly, I don't know where he's going to go. He's pretty old, so he's going to take it badly. He was with about four others Henry always had with him, two are pups so they'll adapt but," she sighs, looking down at the old dog, "I know the horses are all off their food as well."
Why did animals like this person?
"I realize he was probably a pretty poor husband," she says.
"Why do you realize that?" I frown, surprised.
"He was Henry—he—hated feasts and didn't go hunting or jousting, and fun was an account book and good cup of wine, good wine he wasn't going to share with any of us. I've known him all my life and that's enough to know he was a hard person to like. He wasn't any good at being kind, or sensative, and I know he didn't want to marry either," she says.
"You knew that?" I ask, "I thought everyone thought he longed for his—pretty young bride. His reputation had us so believe in France anyway."
"No. I mean like I said I knew him all my life so. I'm sure someone has told you this, maybe him but probably not, he was much more inclined to curl up with a book, or reading over back accounts, or maybe go spar with mates, than do anything like that. I was there at Oxford when he was, my father was there. I think his reputation was trying to sound grown up or something, him and his mates bragging, being men, you know? Like probably he should have told you but I know you didn't have much time."
"No," thank god. "So you know he didn't take women?"
She nods, "Like I said I lived there. He lived with us for periods, in Oxford and here in London."
"I never believed he wasn't in love with someone else. I just assumed he had a mistress," I say, "I've already been informed that—isn't quite the case."
"No. No. He wasn't like that, would have been disgusted you thought it actually. No. When he cared about people it was because he could stand how cruel he was. Because he could be at his worst and they'd love him anyway. Because he couldn't get away from his worst no matter what so he had to know you'd care for him at that. Even then he didn't bleieve it. It was a poison, the desire to drive us all away," she says, "I know that probably didn't translate well with you."
"He left me alone. I think he knew that was being kind," I say, diplomatically, "I don't see him like you do. I won't."
"No I mean. You wouldn't. None of us do really, do we? My father's my dad, no matter what his politics and all else don't mean much when he's the man who would carry me on his shoulders through oxford, or bring my mum lilies, or sat up late helping me practice Latin. Maybe that's a good thing, everyone remembers parts of us. Just like your son—someday he'll be grown up and making his own mistakes but we're always going to remember him crying and throwing tantrums, and telling him off for running too fast in the halls," she says, smiling fondly.
I don't know if I'll get there. No I see him as a man already. His father's son. I knew from the first time I held him he'd cause so many wars. It's in his blood.
"I hadn't thought of that," I say, thinking about my brother. Charles is grown now and married. But in my head I so easily think of him hiding in my room afraid of a storm. "My father's ill-you probalby know everyone knows so it's not—. My mother's always strong."
I don't know why I'm telling her all this.
"My little brother Charles is—past and present. I'll never see him again. But in my mind I imagine him as a man. One I won't get to meet," I say.
She nods. She knows he's a rebel. I'd guess she knows that. In hiding somewhere hopefully safe in France.  Now he should be safe.  The worst of them is gone.
"I don't know if anyone can understand us completely. Maybe it's better they do not. Or if we find someone who does we can't let them go. I'm not saying I understood King Henry at all I didn't need to. He was crown prince and then king. And yet he's also my cousin who when my father was gone, and his mates were all gone in France, had me brought over to Westminster and spent half the night showing me his crossbows and how to fire them," she says.
"He did?" I stare, trying to rationalize such a story with the callous man who said 'very good did you need anything else' when I told him I was carrying his baby.
"Yes," she nods, smiling a little, tears in her eyes, "I'm aware he was a lot of things. I wouldn't be surprised if you hated him. But he was kind to me. I feel like that should mean something."
"Why would you say I hated him?" I ask.
She shrugs a little bit, "Like I said. I doubt he was a very good husband. He wasn't very good at showing affection, at all actually. And arranged marriages aren't all that anyway, let alone a peace treaty. It's pretty clear you didn't want to come here, which I understand. But we're glad you are, you seem nice and—well the good part of him Henry would want you to as well. He would. So I hope you find your place, now."
"Looks like it's here, my son is," I say.
"Here can mean all sorts of things. London. Windsor. King Henry liked it here in Westminster but. Feels a bit too full of ghosts now doesn't it?" She asks.
"I'm used to being watched," I say.
"You would be. I'm sorry I won't keep you," she says, petting the dog.
"What are you doing?" I ask. And what rooms are you going to be going in?"
"Just gathering a few of the king's things that my father might want, or your son might want someday, that don't matter but don't want them getting lost. Notes. That type of thing, the men are likley going to sort out the dogs and find them jobs to do, I know Porter's going to be down with the horses—Will Porter, red hair, his wife is the Anges who works for you," she explains.
"Oh right, that's probably a good idea, I'm just having a turn about," I explain.
"Keeps me busy anyway, I'll get this one out of our way," she says, taking the huge dog's collar.
"Thank you," I say, walking on, and resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder and see if she's watching me. She seemed genuine though. And Beaufort while unnerving has never actually been cruel to me. Guessed I was pregnant upsettingly early but he has always been kind enough. I don't know what that'll mean now.
I find Owen hidden in one of the rooms, clearly terrified.
"Change of plan," I say, walking up and kissing him, "We're doing this in my room. Yes I know you suggested it to begin with."
"Right okay," he nods, clearly sweating.
"Are you afraid?" I ask, frowning.
"Yes but that is not stopping me," he says.
"Go have a drink or something. I'll clear my room you be going about your work come in thorugh the wardrobe," I say, kissing his lips quickl.
"Do not think sack will help but am willing to try," he breath, slowly, like still tasting me on his mouth.
I smile, and back away, leaving him there in the darkened room. I hope it was one of Henry's offices. I hope his ghost is off in some field in france. Or in the cathedral watching their nice party for him. He can't touch me anymore.
I go back to my room fully prepared to swear I have a headache and ask everyone to leave. However, unfortunately, the halls are echoing with my child's cries. Because he doesn't want me to be happy any more than his father did.
I have never once statisfied hte little creature's mewling. But it's worth a try I want to get on with my day.
The nursery is fully staffed, as sparse as when I last came in. The baby is sitting in a nurses' arms, crying pitifully. The staff are also crying.
"He's been at it since the funeral started my lady. He doesn't know why his father didn't come to see him," the governess is dabbing at teary eyes.
Because he didn't want to. His father didn't want to meet him. Brought him into this world couldn't be bothered to come and look upon his child. And it's his child. We both knew it wouldn't be mine. That slim smirk of pleasure when I told him it kicked at the sound of his voice. Knowing he'd engendered another miserable war loving creature like him.
"Well this won't do," I say, looking at the red faced sobbing baby, "That's it. He likes men doesn't he?"
"Yes," one of them says.
"Yes right go and summon some of the men on staff they're taking turns till he goes to sleep," I say.
They hurry to obey. Soon most of our footmen and unfortunately Owen have been rounded up to take turns.
"When he finds someone he likes it's your job to rock him till he's asleep your queen thanks you," I say, "Now Harry I've got loads of men for you your father hired most of them so you'll like them too."
The baby merely looks at me and sobs.
The men line up, a little hesitantly, clearly surprised at the errand. The first couple baby Harry screams inconsolably, so they pass him to a burly man who takes the boy rather expertly, holding him tightly in one thick arm and bouncing him. After a moment my spawn ceases wailing and simply sniffles.
"And you are?" I ask. I don't recognize him.
"Balne, your grace, I work in the kitchen," he says.
"Well he seems to like you," I say, "Do you ahve children?"
"A son, but I'm used to being handed fussing puppies," he says. His eyes look red from crying. "Eh? Feeling better now little lord?"
My son whimpers a bit.
"Yeah, I know," he says, softly. But there's genuine affection in his eyes, "You've not got teeth or I'd make you something to cheer you up eh?"
"I'm sure he's keepers might appreciate something or good wine," I say.
The baby starts sobbing again.
"He is his father's boy, started crying when there was wine being given out," the cook is amused, passing him on to the next man.
Little Harry keeps sobbing, face red, little hands knotted in fists, until of course Owen takes him. Owen for his part accepts the baby gingerly, clearly unsure how to hold him. I watch amused. Then sad.
Owen holds the baby in the crook of his arm, very carefully trying to support his neck. My son leans against Owen's chest, letting out a little sigh as he keeps sobbing. Finally content as he knots his hands in Owen's tunic. Owen looks down at him in obvious concern, then smiles slowly as he realizes the little royal is nodding off.
And I feel weirdly discontent. It's so perfect. I do want to be someone's mother. I just want it to beOwen's baby. I want him holding our child like that.
I step forward looking down at my sleeping son. Owen smiles down at him, gently like he doesn't know he's doing it.
"Rwyt ti'n well," I whisper. You're doing better, in Welsh. Or something close. My welsh is very poor I'm afraid. Owen's been teaching me.
"byddaf yn dweud wrthych," he says, I think that means he'll tell me something. Later? I don't know. I smile though. My son paws at his tunic contentedly. I do want this. I just want it with him. I want it to be real not some mask for the world.
Then the baby shifts a little, gagging spit up onto Owen's tunic.
It's so sudden and ridiculous we both laugh.
"Here, he's settled now," one of the nurses comes to take him.
I smile, looking at Owen with baby sick on his tunic. He smiles a little too.
"Go get changed," I say to him.
He nods, ducking his head. The others all shift to go. The ladies are murmuring and crying. That it's true the little king did want his father. I think the baby is just stubborn.
I go back to my room and complain of a headache, clearing it. Everyone is glad to go about their chores now that we can hear ourselves think.
Owen materializes, predictably, still covered in baby sick, from my wardrobe. He smiles and bows, so pleased with himself.
"You do seem better," I say, sitting at the edge of the bed, "Still not  thinking you'll die?"
"Oh no. I still think that. However, i realized, there's no one I would rather lose my head for. Than you. I still think I'll die. But I don't mind dying for you," he says.
"You don't die, Owen Tudor," I say, taking him by the front of the tunic, "you can't. Not just yet."
"Okay," he says, letting me strip his tunic off. I put my hands on the muscles of his chest. Yes this is good. Very good.
"Not until what we just had is real. I have your baby and we stand there and watchi it sleep. And no one else is around. And we both get to be safe," I say.
"As you wish it," he says, kissing my cheek very slowly.
"No argument?"
"No will. I'm yours. I just don't want to hurt you," he says.
The words echo strangle in my head. "You will never do that."
We kiss our way back to the bed. He's never seen me like this before, and I feel his eyes rove along me as he strips my dress, so expertly. He handles clothes now he knows how to strip mine off as I pin him to the bed.
"Tell me you're sure," he whispers.
"I've never been so sure of anything in my life,' I say. No fear in my belly. Just deep longing. I want him here wanting me. I need it. Our secret world. it's all I want.
He lays back on the bed, taking me in his arms. He's a little clumsier than I am, but not much. My past experience was hardly for pleasure. Now there's no time constraint and certainly no fear. We laugh, tangled up together. He smells of linen, and fresh starch, and somehow the ocean, his sweat rich and salty as I press my face into his shoulder.
Rain is pattering the windows, and it's growing dark, by the time Owen leaves. Neither of us want to rise yet time is not on our side. Kissing him still he dresses and goes.
"The bed," he whispers.
"Go they'll look for you, I'll fix it," I say.
He kisses me again, face still flushed. I wait for him to go then go back to the bed. My mother''s nightshade waiting hidden behind a post. I put a hand over my belly. Not today. Someday though. Someday it will all come true. Today this was enough.
I drink as much of the bitter poison as I dare before lying back down. Someday I won't lie here in the dark alone. I'll be free.