The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  What manner of men had these husbands been? He knew very little about any of them, not even the first who had had some kinship through marriage to Hugh's own father. Roger Needham had been a lot older than his sixteen-year-old bride. Maybe twice her age. Not a particularly pleasant prospect for a young woman. The marriage would have been arranged for her and she could not have expected any real say in the matter. But no one would have obliged her to marry any of the other three men. She had entered into those alliances entirely of her own volition. And she had drawn up her own marriage contracts. Learned noblewomen were not unheard-of. The king's bastard daughter the Lady Mary was a distinguished Latinist and scholar and it was said that her four-year-old sister the Lady Elizabeth was rigorously taught. But a legally trained mind was a rather different matter, Hugh reflected.

  There must be servants, old retainers, who had known the lady well over the years, who, with luck, had been with her through her marriages. The steward, for instance. The chief huntsman. A tutor, perhaps. A tiring woman, perhaps. In the morning he would throw his net wide and see what he caught.

  He put on a doublet of crimson velvet and fastened a tooled leather belt at his waist just as the chapel bell rang for vespers.

  “Come, Robin. ’Tis five already. We mustn’t keep our hostess waiting.” Hugh slipped his arms into a wide, loose gown of richly embroidered crimson silk lined with dark blue silk and slid his dagger into the sheath at his waist. He ran an appraising eye over his son's appearance, flicked a piece of lint from his shoulder, and ushered him out of the apartment.

  Robin sniffed hungrily of the rich aromas of roasting meat drifting from the kitchens as they crossed to the chapel where the bell was still ringing.

  All the senior members of the household were gathered for vespers on the long oak pews in the chapel in the upper courtyard. They glanced up as Hugh and Robin entered the dim vaulted space.

  “That boy must sit with us,” Pippa announced in her high clear voice from a box pew in the chancel. “Boy, come over here,” she called imperiously.

  “Pippa, don’t shout!” Pen said in a scandalized whisper. “You’re in the chapel! And his name is Robin.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” Pippa clapped one hand over her mouth even as she beckoned frantically with the other one.

  Hugh could see no sign of Lady Guinevere in the box pews as they walked up the aisle to the chancel. Perhaps a guilty conscience kept her from her prayers, he thought grimly.

  “Come and sit by me,” Pippa hissed, scrunching up on the pew, heedless of the creasing of her green silk gown as she made room for Robin.

  Hugh restrained a smile. It was clear to him that Robin would infinitely prefer to sit beside the elder sister, who was smiling her own much shyer invitation. He gestured that Robin should enter the pew with the girls and then turned to take the one across the aisle. There was a stir at the chapel door and he looked back.

  What he saw took his breath away for a minute. Lady Guinevere in a gown of amber velvet studded with blackest jet came up the aisle towards him. At her waist she wore a gold chain from which hung an enameled and gold pomander and a tiny watch studded with sable diamonds. She wore a diamond pendant on her breast and diamonds studded the high arc of her headdress that was set back so that her smoothly parted hair was visible on her forehead. Her pale hair in the candlelight seemed to shimmer beneath the bright glitter of the diamonds.

  “Lord Hugh, forgive me for keeping you waiting. There were some matters to discuss with the musicians for this evening. Pen has certain favorite dances. I wanted to be sure they were included in their repertoire.” Her voice was soft and musical, her smile damnable. It was full of warm promise, bewitching!

  He remembered the Bishop of Winchester's declaration that the woman must have used sorcery to bring so many men to their knees. Ordinarily Hugh had no time for such nonsense, but at this moment he came close to believing.

  Guinevere glanced over at the children. Robin jumped to his feet in the narrow box and bowed. She smiled at him. “I give you good even, Robin. Pippa, come and sit beside me, otherwise you’ll chatter throughout the service.” Smoothly she extricated her younger child, ignoring her protestations, and propelled her firmly into the far corner of the opposite pew, following her in.

  “Lord Hugh … there is more than enough room for three.”

  He took his seat, still searching for composure. The scent of her surrounded him. A scent of verbena and lemon and rose water. He disliked the heavy perfumes women used at court to mask the riper odors of their heavily clad bodies. But this was a delicate fragrance that sent his senses reeling. He found himself glad that he had bothered to wash away his own travel dirt and put on fresh linen. And the reflection infuriated him. He was not here to be entranced by Guinevere Mallory.

  The priest began the evening service, a form that everyone present knew by heart. Guinevere made the ritual responses while her mind was elsewhere. The effect of her appearance on Lord Hugh had been all that she had intended. However swiftly he had tried to disguise it, she had seen the pure masculine response in his eyes as she’d come up the aisle. And she could feel that same response in the taut upright figure on the pew beside her. He was utterly and totally immersed in her presence.

  A little smile of satisfaction touched her lips as she bowed her head for the benediction.

  The bells pealed jubilantly in the Lady Pen's honor as the family and guests left the chapel. Members of the household congratulated Pen and gave her flowers and little trinkets they had made for her. She smiled and skipped a little with pleasure and Pippa kept up a running commentary for Robin's benefit on every gift her sister received and on the identity of the giver.

  “That's such a pretty pomander, did you see it? It was given to her by the stillroom keeper. I expect she's put all sorts of sweet-smelling herbs in there…. Can I smell it, Pen? D’you think it’ll ward off the plague, Boy?”

  “There is no plague in these parts,” Robin said. “And my name is Robin.”

  “Oh, I’ll try to remember,” Pippa said blithely. “I forget because we don’t see many boys here … not your kind of boy. Servants and grooms and people, but not real ones. So I just seem to think of you as Boy.”

  “How does anyone put up with you?” Robin said in an undertone. “D’you never stop talking?” He was wishing he had something to give Pen, searching his memory for the contents of the trunk he shared with his father, wondering if he had anything that would serve as a gift.

  Then he realized that Pippa had fallen most uncharacteristically silent. He looked down at her and saw that she was looking dejected. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be unkind,” he said. “I was trying to think and you kept interrupting me.”

  Pippa immediately beamed up at him. “I know I talk too much, everyone says so. But there's always so much to say. Don’t you find?”

  Robin shook his head. “Not really.”

  Guinevere walking just behind the children overheard this exchange. She glanced involuntarily at her companion whose expression was once again warm and amused, the laugh lines deeply etched around his eyes.

  “Was that little maid born talking?” he inquired, laughter lurking in the deep melodious voice.

  “She was certainly born smiling,” Guinevere responded, unable to help a flicker of answering amusement. “She has the sunniest temper.”

  An elderly man dressed in the furred gown that denoted his scholar's status, the lappets of his black cap tied firmly beneath his pointed chin, hurried up behind them. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, I so much wanted to be among the first to congratulate Pen, but Master Grice detained me in the chapel over the construction of some devotional text and now I find I’m almost the last,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t have the dear child think I was neglectful.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t, Magister Howard,” Guinevere said. “Lord Hugh, allow me to present Magister Howard. He is the girls’ tutor. But he was also my own.” Her eyes flashed as she met his gaze. “I imagin
e you will wish to talk with him in the course of your …” She hesitated, frowning, as if searching for the right word. “Your …”

  “My investigations,” Hugh supplied blandly. “I think that's the word you’re looking for, Lady Guinevere.” He gave a friendly nod to the elderly man.

  “Oh, my goodness!” the magister said. “What could you be investigating, sir?”

  “ ’Tis not a matter to be discussed during a celebration,” Hugh said as blandly as before, standing aside to allow Guinevere to precede him into the house. He followed her into the banqueting hall through the opening in the carved screen that separated the hall from the passageway.

  The long table on the dais in the hall was spread with a shimmering white damask cloth in honor of the occasion.

  Above in the minstrels’ gallery musicians were playing a cheerful air and pages stood behind the chairs of family and guests with white napkins and flagons of wine to fill the goblets that this evening graced the table instead of the usual horn cups.

  Servers ran from the kitchens with steaming platters of roasted meats and a cook stood at the carving table to one side of the hall. As he sliced the boar onto a platter held by a server, the rich juices were captured in the grooved runnel around the table and tipped into a bowl.

  A large silver saltcellar stood in the center of the table that ran the length of the hall below the dais and members of the household took their accustomed places at the board, those of lower status sitting below the salt.

  Guinevere moved to the center of the high table and invited Lord Hugh to the seat at her right.

  Pen, as the older child of the house, was about to take her place on her mother's left when she realized that she could then have only one person to sit on her other side.

  Pippa would expect to sit there. She always did, and on a birthday it was a particularly important place. Pen looked at her sister. Then she looked at Robin. She knew she could not choose Robin over her sister, even though it was her birthday. Pippa would be utterly miserable, and she wouldn’t understand either.

  “Robin, pray sit on my left,” Guinevere said with instant comprehension. “Pen, you won’t mind giving up your place to our honored guest, I know. You may sit beside Robin, and Pippa will sit on your other side.”

  It was an arrangement that solved Pen's dilemma and would not incidentally serve to separate both Hugh and Robin from the proximity of Pippa's chatter. Pippa looked momentarily disconsolate at being separated from the novelty of the boy's company but it was her sister's celebration and she didn’t argue.

  They took their places and the rest of the company sat down. The clatter of knives, the hum and buzz of voices rose above the music from the gallery. Guinevere found herself noticing her companion's hands. Noticing how square and workmanlike they were. Nothing of the effete aristocrat in the thick knuckles, the strong wrists, the large fingers. He wore a gold signet ring with a great winking sapphire; that and a ruby in the brim of his dark velvet hat were his only adornments. His richly decorated garments needed no jewels to set them off, however. She had the feeling that he wore these clothes uncomfortably, or at least with less ease than he would wear the more serviceable riding garments of a soldier.

  “Does something interest you?” he inquired, one eyebrow lifted. “I should count myself flattered.” There was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. Once more she was in the company of Hugh of Beaucaire who regarded her with undisguised hostility.

  “Don’t be,” she said, reaching for her goblet. It held a deep red wine from Aquitaine. She glanced at her companion, waiting for him to sample his own goblet.

  Instead, Hugh took hers as she set it on the table and drank from it very deliberately. As the page behind him leaned forward to place sliced boar on the gilded platter before him, he waved the boy aside.

  Guinevere stared at him in momentary confusion.

  He smiled his cold unpleasant smile and drank again. “We drink from one goblet, madam, and we eat from one platter.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Men die in your company,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face as he pushed the goblet towards her.

  3

  Guinevere's fingers curled around the slender stem of the goblet. For a second she was afraid the fine Venetian crystal would snap between her fingers as she fought for composure. She must appear indifferent, show no hint of vulnerability to his insults and taunts.

  She ignored his statement, inquiring coolly, “How do you find the wine, my lord?” She carried the goblet once more to her lips.

  “As fine as any from the region,” he returned. “I was forgetting, of course, that you inherited some vineyards in Aquitaine from your …” He frowned as if considering. “Your third husband, wasn’t it?” Casually he leaned over and forked a piece of roast boar from her platter. His eyes resting on her pale countenance were as sardonic as his tone.

  “Yes, he bequeathed me the vineyards among other estates,” Guinevere agreed calmly, meeting his eye.

  “And what exactly was it that sent this particular husband to his eternal rest? I forget.” He chewed his meat, swallowed, reached again for the goblet to wash down the mouthful.

  “The sweating sickness that killed so many in London, my lord, took its toll in the north some months later,” she replied. She had been hungry after the day's hunting but now all appetite had deserted her. The meat on her plate looked gray and greasy instead of rich and succulent and the wine seemed to have acquired a metallic tang.

  Hugh said nothing for a minute, leaning back as the page behind his chair refilled the shared goblet and placed a spoonful of parsnip fritters on the platter together with a heap of small sausages.

  It was true, he reflected, that the sweating sickness had swept the country in the year that Lord Kirk had supposedly died of a wasting disease. He cast a sidelong look at Lord Kirk's widow.

  Guinevere turned her head and met his eyes. A cold smile touched her mouth as she inquired with a delicately raised eyebrow, “You are wondering, my lord, if I might have done away with my third husband under the guise of the epidemic?”

  He shrugged, crimson and dark blue silk rippling across his square shoulders. “I am here to look for answers, madam.” He speared a sausage and ate it off the point of his knife.

  “Answers, not evidence?” she inquired, her smile taut, but her sloe eyes clear and seemingly untroubled.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “I think so.” Suddenly despite her underlying desperation Guinevere found that she was enjoying this battle of wits and tongues. She had always reveled in sharpening her wits in discussion or verbal sparring. Magister Howard would engage in legal and logistical arguments as a purely mental exercise, but only her second husband, the girls’ father, had enjoyed the thrust and parry of a two-edged discussion. Timothy Hadlow had been a most unusual man: he had not considered it beneath him to lose an argument to a woman.

  She said, “Evidence tends to imply a belief in some wrongdoing. Answers merely look for explanations to a puzzle. There are no puzzles to be unraveled in the deaths of my husbands. Each and every one has a simple explanation.” Her appetite had come back and she gestured to a page to serve her from a brace of woodcocks he held on a charger.

  She pulled the bird apart with her fingers and nibbled one of the small crisp legs, watching her opponent as he considered his answer.

  Hugh said in measured tones, “Then it is true that I look for evidence of suspicious circumstances in those so-convenient four deaths.”

  Guinevere drank wine before she said sharply, “Tell me, Lord Hugh, are you here to look for such evidence or to ensure that you find it?”

  He made no answer for a moment, then said with a flash of anger, “You impugn my honor, madam.”

  Finally she had stung him. She could see it in the slight flush beneath the weathered bronze of his complexion, in the rigidity of his mouth, the set of his jaw.

  “Do I?” she said sweetly, se
tting down the now clean bone before delicately licking her fingers one at a time.

  Hugh found his gaze abruptly riveted to the tip of her tongue between her warm red lips, the contrasting glimpse of white teeth. He didn’t think he had ever seen such a sensual gesture and for a moment his anger at her insult faded.

  “Mama … Mama …” Pippa's piping voice suddenly ruptured the closed tense circle that contained them. Unconsciously they both relaxed as their intense privacy was invaded.

  “What is it?” Guinevere smiled at her daughter, whose small face was brightly flushed with excitement beneath the plaited golden crown of her hair.

  “Can I ask the boy to dance with me? They’re playing a galliard and I practiced the steps just this morning.”

  Guinevere caught Pen's dismayed countenance, Robin's sudden blush as he realized that he’d been so busy satisfying his ravenous appetite that he’d neglected a social duty to his hostess, not to mention missing a perfect opportunity.

  “It's Pen's birthday, Pippa, she must lead the dancing,” Guinevere said gently.

  Robin coughed, scrubbed at his mouth with his napkin, and said in a throaty rush as he jumped to his feet, “Lady Pen, will you permit me …” Hastily he wiped his hand on his thigh in case there was any residue of boar grease before extending it to Pen in invitation.

  Pen blushed delicately and rose from her stool, giving Robin her hand. He led her down from the dais to a smattering of applause from the diners who rose in couples to join them in the stately moves of the dance.

  Pippa bit her lip and made a valiant attempt at a smile as she joined the applause.

  Hugh tossed his napkin aside and stood up. “Come, little maid, let us see how well you’ve mastered the gal-liard.” He offered his hand with his warm and humorous smile and Pippa jumped eagerly to her feet, sending her stool spinning.

  “Oh, I’m very good, my dance master told me so. Actually, I’m better than Pen,” she confided in an unsuccessful whisper. “I have more rhythm and I’m lighter on my feet. I wonder if that boy will notice.”