The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  But a cooler temper followed swift on her hot anger. Rage would not help her here. Her fingers uncurled and her hand dropped to her side even as her mind raced. She had to buy herself some time. Time to think clearly.

  “You are arresting me?” she asked, turning the parchment over in her hands without looking at it. Her voice was neutral, almost indifferent, no hint of anger or apprehension.

  “Not as yet. I am here to investigate and then to escort you with my findings to London. There are people who wish to talk with you.” His brilliant gaze flickered over her, watchful and sharp. He had seen the movement of her fingers, read in her eyes the flash of murderous rage. It had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, but he had been ready for her, every muscle tensed.

  So there was to be only one result of this charade. They would take her away regardless of her supposed guilt or innocence.

  Guinevere knew that if once she left Mallory Hall for London under Hugh of Beaucaire's escort, she would not return. Once they had their hooks in her, they would not let go. The battleground was here. The enemy was here. If she couldn’t defeat Lord Hugh and his investigation while he was under her roof, she would be lost.

  She looked beyond Lord Hugh to where his men still sat their horses. There were ten of them, and the boy, Robin. Could her own men-at-arms defeat these men of Beaucaire? The Beaucaire men had the same hard-bodied, military demeanor of their master. Guinevere guessed that they were men who’d been honed on some battlefield across the Channel during the last wars with France and Spain.

  Her own men would have no chance against these in a pitched battle. But a night attack, perhaps, when the enemy were off guard? It would take months for the news of their disappearance to reach London. She could deny that they had ever arrived at Mallory Hall. Anything could have happened to them on such a long and hazardous journey.

  “Not a good idea,” he said softly, his narrowed eyes seeming to penetrate her skull.

  “What is not?”

  “What you were thinking,” he returned with a flicker of a smile that was far from humorous. “My men are more than a match for domestic men-at-arms. And you will find me more than a match for that little dagger you have up your sleeve.”

  Clearly she must school her thoughts more strictly in this man's company, Guinevere thought, furious with herself for being so transparent.

  “Mama … Mama …” Pippa's high voice broke the taut silence. The child came flying from the kitchen court. “Master Crowder says we have visitors.” She arrived panting at her mother's side and regarded the group of strangers with interest.

  The children must not be frightened, must not know what was happening. Not yet, at least. Guinevere put a hand on the child's shoulder and introduced her calmly. “My daughter Philippa, my lord. Make your curtsy to Lord Hugh of Beaucaire, Pippa.”

  Pippa obeyed even as the questions poured from her lips. “Have you come far? Where have you come from? Are those your men? Who's that boy? Is that a falcon on your coat of arms? I have my very own peregrine …” Before Hugh could respond to this flood, she had caught sight of her sister coming out of the house and called excitedly, “Oh, Pen … see here, we have visitors. I don’t know where they’ve come from but …”

  “Hush, Pippa,” Guinevere chided, as laughter sprang to life in Lord Hugh's eyes. Once again his countenance was transformed. And once again she was disconcerted. It was well nigh impossible to imagine plunging a dagger into this man's throat. His mouth … she seemed to notice it for the first time. It was full, sensuous, humorous. She noticed the deep cleft in his chin, the laugh lines etched around his eyes. And it came to her with a shock that this man's habitual expression was not the one of harsh, sardonic hostility he had directed towards her. That was not the way he regarded the world and life in general … only, it seemed, herself.

  “I only wanted to ask if they were to come to Pen's feast,” Pippa said righteously. “Pen, ask them to come to your feast.”

  Pen was looking at Robin. He smiled at her and she smiled back, remembering how he’d complimented her on her bravery when the boar had charged. “Yes, please come,” she said. “I would very much like you to come. The boar is big enough, isn’t it, Mama?”

  “Indeed, we wouldn’t impose on your birthday, Lady Pen.” Hugh spoke swiftly, his eyes warm. It took a minute for the warmth to die out as he turned to Guinevere. “My lady, we will leave you to your celebrations. We’ll make camp outside your gates and continue our business tomorrow.”

  Hostility had taken her nowhere, Guinevere thought. It was time to try something else. And the man with the humorous mouth and the laugh lines around those vivid blue eyes was a man who surely could be charmed. Seduced, even. What in the world was she thinking? To make a bedfellow of the enemy? A shiver went down her spine, and her scalp prickled.

  “My daughter would like you and your son to come to her feast, my lord. We grant birthday wishes in our family.” She inclined her head and offered him a tiny smile.

  Hugh was suddenly confused as if his mind and his physical senses had somehow gone off in different directions. It was the most damnable smile. And her eyes! They were glowing like dark purple lanterns. A minute ago they had been filled with a savage rage, now he could read only invitation. What the devil was she playing at?

  He glanced at Robin who in his eagerness had already dismounted. He looked at the two girls and told himself that it was reasonable for their mother to wish to keep unpleasantness from them for as long as possible. He was not brute enough to ruin the child's birthday. But how in the name of grace was he to share a sociable, convivial evening with a woman he was investigating for murder?

  “Oh, yes, you have to come,” Pippa declared. “Pen wishes it and it's very unlucky to refuse someone's birthday wish. It will bring you months and months of ill luck, a whole year of it.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Pippa,” Pen said, flushing slightly. “And why have you got blood on your gown?”

  “Oh, it's from the boar. I was standing too close when they were skinning it and it spurted. Greene was very cross,” Pippa said blithely, brushing at the dark red spots on her muslin gown. “He called me something that I think was very rude, only it was under his breath so I couldn’t quite catch it and he wouldn’t say it again. He told me to go away … so you will come, won’t you, sir?” she went on in the same breath. “You and that boy.” She pointed at Robin.

  Hugh knew when he’d met an unmovable object. He was aware that Guinevere was regarding him with an ironically comprehending smile, reading his thoughts as clearly as he’d read hers earlier. He threw in the towel. It would be an uncomfortable evening, but once it was over nothing would stand in the way of his investigation.

  “We should be very happy to celebrate your sister's birthday,” he said. “Robin, come and be introduced.” He drew his son forward.

  “How old are you?” Pippa asked instantly. “I’m eight and Pen's ten.”

  “Twelve,” Robin replied with a slightly haughty air. “I am on campaign with my father.”

  “Oh, how grand,” Pippa said, quite unabashed by the loftiness. “I wish I was a boy, then I could go campaigning too. But why are you campaigning here? Where are the enemies?” She looked around with an air of inquiry, as if expecting to see an army pop out of the ground.

  “Pippa, that's enough,” Guinevere said. “Go inside and ask Nell to help you change your gown. You can’t attend the feast covered in boar's blood. Oh, and ask Master Crowder to come out, please.”

  Pippa was easily distracted and went off with a merry skip. Pen said feelingly, “I wish she’d swallow her tongue sometimes.”

  “Does she always talk that much?” Robin asked.

  “She never stops.” Pen gave an elder sisterly sigh.

  “You sent for me, madam.” The steward approached, his black gown wafting around him. He regarded the newcomers with an air of sharp curiosity.

  “Lord Hugh is here upon the king's business. He and
his son will be my guests for a few days,” Guinevere said. “Have them shown to the apartments in the west wing. Lord Hugh's men may be housed above the stables.”

  “My men will bivouac beyond the gates,” Hugh said firmly, a slightly mocking gleam in his eye. “ They will not thus be a charge upon your … your kindness, madam.”

  “As you wish, sir,” she said with a slight shrug.

  The steward bowed low. “If you would follow me, my lord.”

  Hugh nodded and called to his men. “Jack, have my trunk brought into the house.” He offered Guinevere a formal bow. “My thanks for your hospitality, madam. We must change our dress to do honor to your daughter's feast.”

  There was something unreal about this formal exchange of pleasantries, but Guinevere merely smiled agreeably and said, “I trust you will find our guest apartments comfortable, sir. We attend chapel for vespers at five.”

  Hugh bowed again and putting a hand on his son's shoulder, eased him towards the house in the wake of the steward.

  “Who are they, Mama?” Pen asked, putting her hand in her mother's with a sudden little flutter of anxiety.

  “They come from the king. Lord Hugh has some estate business to transact with me.” Guinevere smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “It would please me if you would entertain Master Robin, Pen. Since I must entertain his father.”

  “I will try to keep Pippa from plaguing him,” Pen declared.

  “Then I wish you luck, love. You should change your gown too. You wish to look your best for the feast.”

  Guinevere stood in the court, watching her daughter run into the house. The Beaucaire men were withdrawing from the courtyard. Safely away from a surprise attack in the night. Damn the man's mockery! He seemed to be able to read her thoughts as clearly as if they were written down for him.

  But what was she to do?

  It was her life at stake. If he found her guilty of murder, she would lose her head. Or even worse, she would die at the stake. Murder of a husband was a petty treason and burning was the punishment for such a crime. Her children would be made wards of the court to be disposed of at the will of the king. Her estates would be confiscated, the revenues poured into the royal exchequer, after those like Hugh of Beaucaire had taken their share.

  And there was nothing she could do to stop the process, if they were determined. Her guilt or innocence was irrelevant. They would take what they wanted from her as they had done from so many others.

  For a moment she felt utter despair at the futility of pitting her puny wits against the might of the state. But the weakness vanished under a cold wash of anger. She could not give in without a fight. It was not only her own future at stake, but her daughters’. For their sakes, she could not assume the inevitable and yield without a defense.

  Guinevere turned and walked slowly into the house and up to her own apartments. Her jaw was set, her eyes bright with purpose. She would fight them with whatever weapons were at her disposal. They would have to make some gesture towards the law, towards finding proof of her supposed crimes. They would have to try her on whatever charges they brought. They would manufacture evidence, scare up witnesses, but she knew the law. Better than most lawyers. She could defend herself even to the lords in the Star Chamber. There was no factual evidence linking her to her husbands’ deaths. How could there be? Her ankle twitched of its own volition. Her foot had had a life of its own on the night of Stephen Mallory's death, but that was something only she knew.

  She could not fight them with physical means, but she could use her head, her learning.

  She stood frowning in the middle of her bedchamber, listening to the rooks cawing in the poplar trees alongside the river. She thought of Lord Hugh. Of what she had detected beneath the harsh exterior. She might loathe and despise a man who would trump up charges against a person for his own greedy ends, but that needn’t prevent her using the other weapons at a woman's disposal.

  Thoughtfully she opened the linen press and drew out an Italian gown of a rich amber velvet embroidered with black knots of a most intricate design. The square neck was studded with jet and the gown opened over an underskirt of gold-embroidered black silk. She examined it with pursed lips. Then nodded slowly. It would serve her purpose very nicely.

  “Lord, chuck, such a to-do.” Tilly bustled in. “Oh, is that the gown you’ll be wearing, eh? Well, it's a right grand one. So who are these visitors then, that you’d wear such a gown to honor them?”

  “They’re from the king,” Guinevere said, laying the gown on the bed.

  “From the king!” Tilly exclaimed. “What's the king got to do with us then?”

  “You may well ask,” Guinevere said grimly. “Help me unlace, Tilly.” She turned her back for Tilly's deft fingers at the laces of her stomacher.

  Hugh looked around the large well-appointed apartments in the west wing. The window shutters were fastened back and the scent of roses wafted up from the garden below.

  Robin was kneeling upon the window seat. “There's a wonderful topiary garden, sir. Peacocks and serpents and stags. I have never seen its like.”

  Hugh came to stand behind his son, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder. Beyond the topiary garden could be seen the river, flowing gently through a meadow dotted with grazing sheep. Everything about Mallory Hall was prosperous and orderly.

  “Why do we lay claim to Lady Mallory's land, sir?” Robin looked up at his father, his blue eyes perfect mirrors of Hugh's. “If she has the deeds, I mean.”

  “She has the deeds, but she has no right to them, my son. The land was not Roger Needham's to will away. It belonged to his first wife, a distant cousin of ours. Lady Mallory contrived with some legal juggling to persuade Needham to cede the land to her at his death. But it was not his to will away. It belonged to his first wife's family and should by rights have been returned to them.”

  He moved away from Robin back into the chamber. “The land in dispute is particularly rich in lead. Lady Mallory understandably is loath to give it up, since she has been mining it very lucratively for years. It will form the foundation of a considerable fortune for you, Robin.”

  Robin got off the window seat. “Will it be easy to get it back?”

  Hugh gave a short laugh, remembering the expression Privy Seal had used. “From what I’ve seen of Lady Mallory, very difficult, I should imagine. But there's more than one way to skin a cat.” He opened the wooden, iron-bound chest that had been brought up for him. “Now, what finery shall we choose to honor Pen's feast?”

  “She's very pretty,” Robin said. “Don’t you think she is?”

  “Who, Pen?” Hugh looked up with a smile.

  “Yes … yes, she is, but I was thinking of Lady Mallory.”

  “Ah.” Hugh nodded and returned to the contents of the chest. “Pretty is not the word I would have chosen for her ladyship. Will you wear the blue doublet with the silver gown? Or the yellow and red?”

  “The blue.” Robin took the garments his father passed to him and shrugged out of the serviceable short woolen gown and linen doublet he’d worn for riding. “What will you wear?”

  “I haven’t decided as yet.” Hugh stripped off his doublet, shirt, and hose. He strode to the washstand and splashed water over his face. “You will need to change your shirt and hose, too.”

  Robin examined his shirt doubtfully. “ ’Tis not overly soiled. I changed it but a week ago.”

  “And you have been riding hard every day since,” Hugh pointed out. “You reek, my son, and if you wish to make an impression on young ladies, ’tis best to make a sweet-smelling one. A good wash won’t hurt you.” He tossed a wet towel to the boy.

  Blushing, Robin caught it.

  Hugh laughed and sat down on the bed to put on clean hose. Whenever he was not on some military mission for the king he had been deeply involved in his son's care since the boy was five. Robin's mother had died giving birth to a stillborn baby and Hugh had buried his grief in caring for their son. Robin was so
like his mother; sometimes an expression, a gesture, reminded Hugh so vividly of Sarah that it would take his breath away and the grief at her loss would be as sharp and poignant as it had ever been.

  Now that the lad had almost reached maturity, he could accompany his father on his campaigns. This long journey into Derbyshire had been the first they had taken together and it had brought them even closer.

  He fastened jeweled garters at the knee, covertly watching his son's own preparations. He had sensed that Guinevere felt for her daughters the same passionate love he had for Robin. Did they too remind her of the dead partner? Had she perhaps loved Lord Hadlow as he had loved Sarah?

  Hadlow had fallen victim to a huntsman's arrow. A mysterious arrow that no one would own. It had carried nothing to identify it as belonging to one of the huntsmen present at the chase. Most arrows carried their owner's mark, so that there would be no dispute over who had brought down the prey. An unmarked arrow had killed Lord Hadlow and left his wife in possession of all the land between Matlock and Chesterfield. Land rich in coal and iron. Forested land, well stocked with game, surrounded Hadlow's manor house at Matlock. The woman now owned so many manors and hunting forests in the county, she could progress from one to the other without repeating a visit in a six month.

  Hugh went to the window, lacing his shirt as he looked out again across the lush gardens to the water meadows beyond. Looking upon the softness of the mellow stone of the Hall and its flower-rich terraces, Hugh could understand how she might prefer Mallory Hall over all the others. Had she married Stephen Mallory just to get her hands on the Hall?