The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “He would prove that my husbands met untimely deaths at my hands,” Guinevere said with a little shrug.

  Tilly seemed to hesitate, then she said robustly, “What nonsense! I’ll fetch that ’ippocras now.”

  She hurried away on her errand but there was a worried frown on her brow. By any lights, it was an awkward business to lose four husbands to such accidents. It was ridiculous to imagine Lady Guinevere could have had a hand in any of those deaths, but it was an awkward business nevertheless. And few men had met a more deserved end than Lord Stephen. There was hardly a member of Lady Guinevere's household who hadn’t secretly rejoiced at the end to his drunken, violent tyranny. And no one who had served Lady Guinevere since her childhood would ask too many questions about what had happened that evening in her chamber.

  Hugh made his way thoughtfully to the guest apartments in the west wing. The house was quiet now but when he paused at a window in the gallery to look down into the lower court he saw the lights of the torch men stationed at the two far corners of the courtyard. There would have been torch men so positioned on the night Stephen Mallory fell to his death. They were the first to reach Mallory's body according to Guinevere. Her chamber windows were unshuttered that night and would have been well lit by candlelight.

  On impulse, Hugh retraced his steps and went back through the banqueting hall and once more outside. He crossed the court to where the torch man on the southwest corner stood holding his pitch flare. The man looked startled. He straightened from his slouch and stood to attention.

  “Can I ’elp, sir?”

  Hugh shook his head. “No, I thank you. Be at ease.” He stood with his back to the wall and looked up at the window of the chamber above the entrance. The shutters were still drawn back, the glow of candlelight still within. Anyone standing at the window would have been visible to the torch man in this corner.

  He made his way to the northwest corner by the arched entrance to the lower court from the driveway beyond. The torch man here regarded him in open puzzlement. Hugh looked up at Guinevere's window immediately above the man's station. The view was obstructed but if he stepped out a few paces from the wall he could see the window clearly. The torch man would have run to the body lying on the cobbles. If he’d looked up from there, the window would have been in full view. As Hugh looked up in frowning thought, the light in Guinevere's chamber was extinguished.

  With a word of good-night he returned to the house and the west wing.

  A candle burned low on the mantel in the guest chamber. Robin was sleeping on the truckle bed at the foot of the big bed but as his father came in he stirred and turned over.

  “Is that you, sir?”

  “Aye.” Hugh bent over him and ruffled his hair. “Go back to sleep, lad.”

  “Where were you?” Robin linked his hands behind his head. “I waited for you but then I fell asleep.”

  “I had some talk with Jack, and then some talk with Lady Mallory.”

  “Oh. I was trying to find something I could give to Pen for her birthday. I thought perhaps this would do.” He sat up and reached under his pillow to bring out a green and gold silk kerchief. “ ’Tis the one you brought me from Spain, but I thought if you wouldn’t mind …” He looked anxiously at his father.

  Hugh laughed. “No, I think it's a fine use for it. It will suit Pen to perfection.”

  “Yes, the colors will go with her eyes,” Robin said somewhat dreamily.

  First love, thought Hugh. Never easy, in present circumstances it was bound to be the very devil. “You enjoyed the feast then?” He shrugged out of his gown and hung it in the linen press.

  “Oh, yes, but that Pippa …” Robin raised his eyes heavenward.

  Hugh laughed again. “Yes, a regular jaybird. But a sweet little maid.”

  “She chatters so much. And she doesn’t mind what she says. She told me her stepfather was a drunken brute … she said she overheard some of the servants saying so. She should know better than to say such ill-considered things, particularly to a near stranger,” Robin declared from the superiority of his twelve years.

  “I doubt Pippa considers anyone to be a stranger,” Hugh observed as he unlaced his doublet. “Which of her two stepfathers was the drunkard, did she say?”

  “Oh, yes, Lord Mallory. He used to throw things and shout. She said everyone hated him.” Robin yawned and slid back under the covers. “How long will we stay here?”

  “A few days.”

  “Just a few days?” Robin couldn’t conceal his disappointment.

  Hugh made no answer. He wasn’t ready to tell Robin that Lady Mallory and her daughters would be accompanying them to London. It was for Guinevere to explain that to her daughters and her household in her own time. How long the true circumstances of the journey could be kept from the children remained to be seen. But Hugh would not hasten the revelation.

  He peeled off his hose, discarded his shirt, and climbed naked into bed. The cool clean linen was soft on his skin. It had been many weeks since he’d slept in a bed. He closed his eyes and the image of Guinevere swam unbidden into his internal vision. Such a mobile countenance, such a graceful figure, such a razor-sharp wit. He could feel her hair rippling beneath his hand as he’d brushed it, each shining strand gleaming white-gold under the candles. He saw the deep cleft of her breasts, the soft white of her skin against her chemise that showed in a delicate mass of lace above the low neck of her gown.

  And his body stirred as it had not stirred in many months. It seemed the sheets were imbued with her scent, warmed by her skin. He could almost feel her lying long beside him, the fluid curves of her body alive to his touch.

  Had she thus bewitched four husbands? But he remembered the fear in her eyes at the mention of witchcraft, the shadow that had fallen across her face, leeching it of all color. It was the first time he had seen fear, seen through the cool courage to the desperation beneath her apparent composure, beneath the swift antagonism that had met his every dart with one of her own.

  Of course she understood her danger.

  He threw himself onto his side and pulled the covers up over his ears. Guinevere Mallory had made her own bed. She must lie in it.

  5

  Tis a bad business and no mistake, Master Crowder,” Tilly confided, sieving a pan of barley water into an earthenware jug. “What's them folks from London got t’ do wi’ the likes of us? Askin’ questions, pokin’ around. That there Jack from the lord's men is askin’ in the kitchens all about Lord Mallory, what manner of man ’e was.”

  Crowder was counting the silverware that had been used for Pen's feast back into the big chest where it remained between ceremonial occasions. “And I daresay he's getting an earful,” he remarked. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what I say.”

  “Aye, but ye’d best not say it too loudly,” Greene declared from the far end of the long table in the pantry where he was eviscerating rabbits for the delectation of the hawks in the mews.

  “What's that supposed t’ mean?” Tilly visibly bristled, her white-coiffed head bobbing vigorously.

  “You know what he means, Mistress Tilly,” Crowder said, holding up a ladle to the light as he looked for smears. “Four husbands is a lot t’ go through in twelve years. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Ye’d best not be suggestin’ …”

  “No, no, of course I’m not. You know full well that I was with Lady Guinevere's father and her uncle after that … just like you, and Greene here. I’ve known my lady since she was no more than a babe in arms. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Unless the fly was about to ’urt one of ’er babbies,” Greene muttered. “There was times when I saw murder in ’er eye when Lord Mallory tried to raise an ’and to the little lasses.”

  “If ’e’d ’ave laid a finger on ’em I’d ’ave taken a skillet to ’is ’ead meself,” Tilly stated, setting the jug of barley water on a slate shelf with something of a thump. “ ’Twas bad enough what ’e did to my poor lady wh
en ’e was in the drink. There was times when I saw ’er in the mornin’, I’d ’ave put rat poison in ’is ale if I’d had ’alf a chance.”

  “Who's this ye’d ’ave poisoned, Mistress Tilly?” a seemingly jovial voice inquired from the doorway between the pantry and the buttery. Jack Stedman, Lord Hugh's lieutenant, regarded the pantry's occupants with a deceptively benign air.

  “None o’ your business, my fine sir,” Tilly said, her worn cheeks rather flushed. “You an’ your lot would do best to get back where you come from and leave respectable folks to themselves.”

  “Ah, but we’re ’ere on the king's writ,” Jack said, bringing his large frame fully into the pantry. He stood before the range, one foot on the andiron, surveying his companions genially. “Doin’ the king's biddin’ like.”

  “What's the king t’ do wi’ our lady?” Greene demanded.

  Jack shrugged. “That I dunno. I jest does what my lord tells me. An’ he's mighty interested in talk of poison an’ such.”

  “Oh, take no notice of a foolish old woman,” Master Crowder said. “Mistress Tilly doesn’t know what she's saying most of the time. Isn’t that so, Greene?”

  “Aye,” Greene agreed, filling a bowl with the bleeding fruits of his labors. “Poor old soul, daft in the ’ead she is sometimes.” He winked at Tilly and shouldered his way past Jack and out of the pantry.

  “I’ll wager that's not so, Mistress Tilly.” Jack grinned at her.

  “Oh, I’m daft as a brush most o’ the time,” Tilly said, picking up the jug of barley water. “Outta my way, now. My mistress is waitin’ on this.”

  Jack stood aside as she went out, then he came over to the table where Crowder was still at work with the silver. “That's a king's ransom,” he remarked appreciatively. “I’ve seen less fine silver on the tables at Hampton Court Palace.”

  Crowder's gaze flicked upwards. “ Y’are telling me ye’ve sat at the king's table?” he demanded scornfully.

  “My master ’as. I seen what I seen.”

  Crowder made no response and after a minute Jack said casually, “An’ what ’ave you seen, Master Crowder? From what I ’ear, that Lord Mallory was a right brute. What was all this about rat poison then?”

  “Rats in the kitchen court, that's what,” Crowder said. “Overrun we are with them. More than the dogs and cats can handle.”

  “An’ ye think poisoning their ale will do the trick.” Jack laughed uproariously. “Never ’eard of an ale-drinkin’ rat before. But strange things go on in these parts from what folks say.” He regarded the steward with a malicious gleam in his pale eyes.

  “Oh, is that so, Master Stedman?” Crowder closed the great chest and locked it with the key that hung around his neck. He looked at Jack with undisguised dislike. “A word to the wise. We don’t like snoops around here. Even if they are on the king's writ.” He brushed at the fox fur edging his black gown with a fastidious air as if removing something distasteful then stalked from the pantry.

  Jack looked after him thoughtfully. If they had nothing to hide why did they behave as if they had?

  Tilly, carrying the jug of barley water that Guinevere used as a tonic for her complexion, stalked muttering out of the pantry and ran straight into the tall, square figure of Lord Hugh. He was standing, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his short gown of plain gray velvet trimmed with marten, looking idly around the small open court that connected the main kitchens with the pantry and buttery. No one would guess from his casual posture that he had his own reasons for being there. One could pick up a lot of interesting facts by strolling around areas where servants talked freely among themselves. The conversation he had just overheard in the pantry was a case in point. Their reaction to Jack's appearance had been particularly revealing.

  “Good morning, Mistress Tilly.” He greeted the tiring woman with a smile. “Could you spare me a minute?”

  Tilly looked flustered. She propped the jug on her hip and wiped her brow with her free hand. Lady Guinevere had told her household to cooperate with Lord Hugh and his men if they asked questions but Tilly found herself unaccountably anxious under this lord's seemingly friendly brilliant blue gaze.

  Hugh continued to smile. “I was wondering if anyone saw Lord Mallory fall from the window. You were not in the chamber with Lady Guinevere at the time, I believe.”

  Tilly tried to see around the question. What was he implying? “Who said I wasn’t?” she asked with a touch of belligerence.

  Hugh shrugged. “No one,” he said calmly. “I was assuming that Lady Guinevere was alone with her husband at the time.”

  “I don’t know why ye’d think that, sir. I’m ’er tiring woman. I always attends my lady after she's retired fer the night.” Her faded eyes shifted away from Lord Hugh's intense scrutiny.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “Were you there when Lord Mallory fell, then? I understand Lady Guinevere was in the garderobe at the time.”

  “Aye, that's right,” Tilly said, relieved to be able to verify this. She had seen her mistress come out of the privy just after the lord fell. “My lady was in the garderobe.” She nodded in vigorous emphasis.

  “And you were in the chamber … putting away your lady's clothes perhaps?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Maybe you were busy at the linen press … you had your back to the window …”

  “Aye,” Tilly agreed. It wasn’t a lie to let him believe something that was untrue. She hadn’t actually stated that she had been in the chamber at the time, but it certainly looked better if her inquisitor believed that Lady Guinevere had not been alone with her husband.

  “ ’Tis strange,” Lord Hugh mused, “that when I talked with Lady Guinevere about that evening she didn’t mention that you were there at the time.” He watched Tilly closely.

  “Mayhap she forgot,” Tilly said. “She was in the garderobe herself.”

  “Yes, that seems to be agreed,” Hugh murmured. “Well, my thanks, Mistress Tilly. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

  Tilly bobbed a curtsy and hurried off, her heart pounding. She could almost feel his eyes on her back, boring into her as if they would ferret out the truth. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she told herself. But it was best for everyone to think that her lady had not been alone.

  Hugh turned at the sound of a booted step on the cobbles behind him. Jack Stedman, emerging from the pantry, slapped his hands together as if at a job successfully completed. “Well, that Lord Mallory sounds like a fine piece o’ work,” he confided. “Used to mistreat his lady summat chronic, so the servants say. No one shed tears when ’e died.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “But there's summat else, summat they’re not sayin’, sir, I’d swear to it.”

  “Some say too little, others say too much,” Hugh commented thoughtfully. “I’d like you to talk to the torch men who were on duty in the lower court the night Mallory died. Ask them what they were doing before their lord fell from the window. Were they looking around, or dozing against the wall? Could they have looked up at Lady Mallory's chamber window? Were the lamps lit? See if you can get them to recall exactly what they saw. And then talk to their fellow torch men and the grooms. They all share living quarters and there may have been some talk, some gossip … speculation. See what you can pick up.”

  “Right y’are, sir.” Jack offered a salute and hastened from the court.

  Hugh walked across the upper courtyard and through the door in the south wing that led out into the gardens that surrounded the high crenellated walls of the Hall. They were beautifully tended, gravel walks meandering between flower beds and under rose-covered trellises. At the very edge of the gardens the land fell away to the banks of the River Wye and the lush water meadows.

  Hugh stood and looked out over the verdant countryside. Mallory land for as far as the eye could see, and farther up the valley would be found the lead-rich lands between Great Longstone and Wardlow. Lands that were Robin's birthright.

  Hugh was no lawye
r but the lawyers he had consulted in London all agreed that the marriage contract between Guinevere and Roger Needham and its later addendum where he ceded her title to the disputed land were foolproof, as long as the lands had actually been in the gift of Roger Needham. If it could be proved that they had not been his to dispose of, then Hugh had a legitimate claim.

  But this was proving hard to make. There appeared to be no documents to bolster Hugh's claim that those estates were the rightful property of his father's side of the family. But by the same token no documents had been produced to prove they belonged to Needham. It came down to two competing and apparently unprovable claims. But if possession was nine tenths of the law, then the Lady Guinevere had the advantage. As she knew damn well! The woman had left not the tiniest loophole in her impeccably legalistic documentation.

  If he was to wrest this land from Lady Guinevere he was going to have to find a route that didn’t lead through the courts.

  He grimaced, hearing again her ringing, bitter scorn as she accused him of intending to manufacture evidence against her for his own ends. As if he would ever contemplate such a dishonorable act! But through his anger at such an insult lurked the uncomfortable knowledge that he had no need now to do anything more than bring her to London. Privy Seal would do the rest. Hugh had set the process in motion by bringing Guinevere's wealth to the notice of the king and his servant. The wheel would turn without his further assistance and he would gain his reward when the spoils were distributed.

  He pulled at his chin as he stared down at the green-brown curves of the river below. He had not considered there to be anything amiss with his original action. He had believed in his right to take back his property however he could from a greedy thieving woman who had arrived at her vast wealth through suspicious means. But he hadn’t met Guinevere then. Hadn’t seen her with her daughters. Hadn’t considered the human consequences of his actions for the three of them. Names on a page were so much easier to dispose of than warm living flesh.