by Jane Feather
“But is it ours?”
Guinevere repeated gently, “Sweeting, at this point I can’t discover a legal way of proving to whom it belongs. But I am trying.”
Pen stood up, her hazel eyes intense. Both her daughters had their father's eyes, Guinevere thought, the shadow of the old grief touching her anew.
“But why won’t you just give it to them, Mama? You have lots of land,” Pen demanded.
“Why should I, Pen? Just because they come with great trumpets blaring and a show of arms, should I meekly yield something that legally could as well be mine as theirs?”
Pen chewed her lower lip and Guinevere saw by the ragged condition of her lip that the child had been chewing and nibbling for several hours.
“Magister Howard is good with the law,” Pen said finally.
“Yes. He taught me what I know.”
“I wish he hadn’t!” Pen said suddenly. She pushed a stool aside and ran from the room, brushing past her mother who still stood at the table, the knife and quill in her hand.
Guinevere laid down the knife and quill. She couldn’t blame Pen. The child was ten and yet older than her years in many ways. She had known, as Pippa had not, what hell her mother had endured with Stephen Mallory. Pen had been Stephen's preferred victim. Pippa had always eluded him. Guinevere had protected her daughter at her own expense, and she knew that Pen had understood that, however hard her mother had tried to insulate her from that knowledge.
Maybe Pen believed that if her mother had submitted herself to Lord Mallory, if she’d behaved as women were supposed to behave, then the bad things wouldn’t have happened.
Guinevere sighed. She and she alone had picked Stephen Mallory for her fourth husband. The responsibility for that choice was only hers. If she’d known what kind of man he was, she would never have entertained his suit.
But she had Mallory Hall. In the end she had Mallory Hall. Pen would eventually understand that a woman could take care of her own.
And then she wondered how, even for a minute, she had forgotten that she was about to lose everything she had striven for. That if she didn’t do something her daughters would lose their mother, be disinherited, thrown upon the mercy of the king's council. What price learning, determination, a willingness to fight for one's own, now? Hugh of Beaucaire would get the land one way or another. And yet she would not, could not, give it up without a fight. She would find a way to assert a legal claim so that if he took the land he would know he had stolen it. The knowledge of ill-gotten gains should diminish his triumph.
“That Lord Hugh and ’is men ’ave been snoopin’ around askin’ questions, my lady,” Tilly announced when Guinevere entered her bedchamber a few minutes later.
“I warned you they would be.” Guinevere poured barley water from the jug into a shallow bowl. “You have only to tell the truth, Tilly.” She dampened a soft cloth in the barley water and held it to her cheeks. It was cool and refreshing and slightly astringent.
“Aye,” muttered Tilly, bending her head over her mending.
“Is something wrong?” Guinevere, patting under her eyes with the cloth, turned towards her tiring woman. Tilly didn’t seem as composed as she usually was.
Tilly shook her head and muttered, “I don’t know what's to be done about that Pippa.”
“Oh, Pippa!” Guinevere shook her head in agreement. “Did you dress her arm?”
“Aye, I put a poultice of mallows on it and bound it up. If I thought it would do any good I’d have cauterized it just to teach her to keep away from the dogs.”
“No, you wouldn’t have done,” Guinevere said with a smile. She dropped the cloth into the bowl and went to her mirror, leaning forward to peer at her reflection. She thought she looked heavy-eyed, her complexion somehow dulled. Hardly surprising in the circumstances, she reflected.
She straightened with an almost unconscious sigh. She could think of one possible way of saving herself and the girls, but it was desperate enough to be considered only as a last resort.
The chapel clock struck noon and Guinevere hastened to the door. “I’ll be working with Magister Howard this afternoon, Tilly. Would you watch Pippa for me. She can practice her embroidery. I don’t want her running around with that arm in case it becomes inflamed.”
“Aye, not that she’ll take kindly to sittin’ still,” Tilly returned.
“You’ll manage to persuade her.” Guinevere laughed and left the chamber, but her expression became somber as she closed the door. Tilly had not seemed herself. It wasn’t just concern for Pippa; Tilly always took the children's misadventures in her stride. Was it something to do with Hugh and his questions? It was understandable that the household would be disturbed by the newcomers and their undeniably menacing presence. Such an investigation would be bound to cause dismay and trepidation.
Occupied with these thoughts, Guinevere had to force a smile of greeting when she met Hugh and Robin downstairs, just entering the house. Robin bowed punctiliously, Hugh stepped aside so that she could precede him through the screen into the banqueting hall.
“That's a very pretty kerchief you gave Pen for her birthday, Robin,” Guinevere said. “Such lovely colors.”
Robin blushed. “I hope she likes it, madam.”
“She was wearing it when I saw her just a few minutes ago.” Guinevere opened the door to the more intimate family dining parlor at the back of the great hall. It was an oval chamber, paneled in warm mahogany with a big bay window opening onto the garden. Hugh glanced up at the beautifully molded ceiling, its panels painted with flowers in deep, vivid colors. Stephen Mallory may have been a brute, but it seemed he had some artistic leanings.
Unless, of course, the decorations reflected his widow's taste, which seemed more likely.
His eyes rested on the straight slim back as she walked in front of him, her elegant velvet skirts swaying around her. He noticed for the first time the length of her neck, and he had a sudden image of that white neck stretched upon the block on Tower Hill … of the headsman's axe raised. Sweat suddenly beaded his forehead and he closed his eyes to dispel the image.
Pen and Pippa were already standing by their stools at the table with the magister; Master Grice, the household chaplain; and Master Crowder, who always ate with the family.
Pen didn’t look at Robin but her cheeks were a little pink. She gave her mother an anxious glance, wanting to say something about what had happened earlier but unwilling to speak in front of everyone else. Guinevere smiled and gave her a little nod of reassurance and Pen visibly relaxed.
Pippa flourished her bandaged arm and announced importantly, “See what happened to me, Boy Robin. I got scratched by a dog and your father threw water all over me.”
“There was good and sufficient reason for doing so,” Hugh stated aridly. “However you seem none the worse for it. Does your arm pain you?”
Pippa frowningly examined the limb in question as if debating her answer. “Just a little but I think it's because Tilly bandaged it very tightly so it throbs.”
“This afternoon you must sit quietly with Tilly,” Guinevere said, standing at the carved chair at the head of the long table. She invited Hugh to take the chair beside her. “Robin, you will be next to Pen. Master Grice, we will hear the benediction.”
It was an unnecessarily long grace to Hugh's way of thinking but it gave him time to reflect that Guinevere's fate was not in his hands. If she’d sent Stephen Mallory to his death, she must pay the price. The law which she manipulated for her own ends was a two-edged sword.
Pen cast Robin a sidelong glance as he took the stool beside her when the interminable grace had ended.
“Are you still quarreling?” Pippa inquired with interest. “What did you quarrel about?”
“It was nothing to do with you,” Pen said.
“No,” agreed Robin, presenting a united front to the inquisitive Pippa. He offered Pen a tentative smile and she returned it shyly, moving her sleeve so that the rich colors of th
e kerchief caught the sunlight slanting through the unshuttered window.
“And it's all finished with now anyway,” Guinevere stated firmly as she saw Pippa's mouth open in protest. “Master Crowder, we’ll broach a flagon of the burgundy, since we have guests.”
“I’ll drink no wine, my lady,” Hugh demurred. “I have need of a clear head this afternoon.”
Guinevere thought of Tilly's troubled air and turned to look at him, a cool smile flickering over her lips, her eyes blatantly mocking. “Of course one must keep one's wits about one when questioning kitchen maids and scullions … I, on the other hand, will take wine, Master Crowder. I too have need of my wits this afternoon and I find a little wine merely sharpens them.”
The air seemed to crackle. Pen and Robin glanced at each other, and then Hugh smiled blandly. “We are all different, madam. A matter for gratitude rather than otherwise, don’t you think?” He raised an eyebrow.
“It certainly makes life more interesting,” returned Guinevere, taking up her napkin. Servants moved forward to fill the horn cups with ale and set the meat on the table, and the tension eased. It was a simpler meal than the previous night's feast but it was still lavish in the variety and number of the dishes.
“So, whom are you intending to interrogate this afternoon, my lord?” Guinevere inquired, her voice low, her conversational tone belying the inflammatory word. She sipped her wine and smiled at him.
“I intend to interrogate no one,” he responded quietly in the same tone, laying several thick slices of mutton on a bread trencher. “But I do intend to talk with various people. I’ve already had some conversation with your tiring woman, although I would like to talk further with her later.” He watched her, watched for some sign of wariness, of discomfort, but her expression gave nothing away.
So he had questioned Tilly. And something about the questions had upset the tiring woman. Guinevere continued to smile placidly through her racing thoughts. Tilly had been far away in some other part of the house when Stephen had fallen. She had had nothing to do with that evening. There was nothing she could tell Lord Hugh that would be relevant to his inquiry. She believed Guinevere had been in the garderobe, she had seen her come out. No one would suspect the moment when Guinevere's foot had caught her charging husband's ankle.
But had she done it on purpose? It was a question that had haunted her since that night. And it was one to which she could find no honest answer.
Hugh went on, “I would have some speech with Master Crowder, if that's possible?” He looked down the table at the steward who was noisily supping broth. Hugh raised his voice slightly and said, “Will you be able to spare me a few minutes, Master Crowder?”
Crowder set down his bowl. His expression was immediately guarded. “I can’t think how I can be of help to you, my lord.”
“No, but I can,” Hugh said coolly. “And the magister too. You will be free, I trust, later this afternoon, Magister Howard?”
“I am working with my lady, sir,” the magister said, his brown eyes sharply assessing in his thin intelligent face. “When she no longer needs me, I could be available.”
“After vespers then,” Hugh agreed with a pleasant smile. “If that will suit Lady Guinevere.”
Guinevere's smile was tight. She was aware of Pen's anxious look. She said, “You have the king's writ, my lord, not I.”
“How true,” Hugh agreed.
“What's the king's writ?” Pippa asked, her eyes shining with curiosity. Her sister too looked intently at her mother.
Guinevere hesitated. How to answer the question without frightening the children? “The king's authority,” she said. “Lord Hugh is here with the king's authority. You could say he has been commanded to come.”
“Did the king tell him to take our land?” Pen demanded.
“No, Pen, the land in question is merely a matter of a legal dispute between your mother and myself,” Hugh said. “Such disputes are not uncommon as your mother will tell you. It's certainly not something that should trouble either you or Robin or Pippa. Isn’t that so, Lady Guinevere?”
“Yes, indeed,” Guinevere agreed, wondering how he could be so seemingly sensitive to the children's anxieties while coldly contemplating taking their mother, their home, their future away from them. The man was an enigma, a confusing mélange of paradoxes. A ruthless, cold, calculating individual with a warm, merry smile, a wonderful sense of humor, and such an easy confidence with children … how could a man who so obviously loved children, who in turn trusted him without question, be the heartless arm of the terrible Lord Privy Seal?
How could such a man cause the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck to lift, the little pulse in her belly to beat, when his brilliant eyes met hers? How could such a man remind her of the glories she had shared with Timothy Hadlow?
She set down her wine cup with a hand that was not quite steady and said, “I must ask you to excuse me, Lord Hugh. I have much to do this afternoon.” She rose from the table and everyone automatically rose with her. “Please don’t let me interrupt your dinner. Magister, I’ll be in my inner chamber when you’re ready. Pippa, you must find Tilly as soon as you’ve finished eating.”
She left the dining parlor with measured step, ignoring her small daughter's incipient protest, and went to her own apartments knowing that as always she would find peace and distraction in her books. Her step quickened with her mind as she anticipated the excitement of finding the legal answer she sought to her present problem.
The inner chamber was her workroom. A sparsely furnished room with a long table piled with books, some leather bound, some with wooden covers and silver or gilt binding at the corners. There were also pamphlets, printed for the most part in English. Of all Guinevere's possessions, her books were the most potent evidence of her wealth, and the source of her legal knowledge that furnished that wealth.
She bent over the books, looking for the tome containing the Statute of Uses.
There was a scratch at the door and without looking up, she called, “Pray enter, Magister.”
The magister came in, rubbing his hands together so that the dry skin rasped like sandpaper. “How can I assist you, my lady?”
“I had a sudden thought,” she explained somewhat distractedly. “If Roger Needham's ownership of the lands he ceded to me after our marriage appears in the public record then no man can cause it to be put aside. Isn’t that so, Magister?”
“That is so.” He came over to the table. “But it is not so registered, madam. If it were, Lord Hugh could not make his claim.”
“Yes, I know that, but if I can argue from the Statute of Uses that intent was clear … Ah, here it is.” She lifted the heavy book and carried it over to the high reading pulpit that stood beside the deep window embrasure. The magister followed her and together they pored over the tome.
“See … it says here: If circumstances prevented registration but intent to register can be proven, then the ceding may be considered under the Statute of Uses to have been legally binding on all parties. See.” She pointed with a well-manicured fingernail at the Latin. “Have I read it aright?”
Magister Howard peered closely, his lips moving soundlessly as he read. After a minute he pronounced, “It would appear so, my lady.”
“Good,” Guinevere said. “Now, Roger Needham came into possession of the land through his first wife, who was a distant cousin of the same branch of the family as Lord Hugh's father. When she died the land fell to the survivor, her widower. Lord Hugh is claiming the land for himself because he maintains that the widower was only entitled to hold the land in his lifetime. He had no right to cede it to a second wife. But if the land Lord Hugh is claiming is actually mentioned by name in the premarriage contracts between Roger Needham and his first wife and there are no stipulating articles about its disposal, then that would indicate intent to make that land over in perpetuity to Roger Needham, and the Statute of Uses gives him the right to dispose of it how he wishes.”
Magister Howard adjusted the laces that tied his black cap tight over his head. He pursed his lips and considered the argument, sucking at his cheeks in a manner that made him look like the giant carp in the fishpond and always made his pupils struggle with suppressed laughter. Guinevere was hard pressed even now to contain her amusement. But she had too much respect for his learning and intelligence to hasten his opinion despite her impatience.
Finally he spoke. “It could be so argued, my lady.” “Good. Now all we have to do is look up the premarriage contract and pray that the land is named.”
She went over to an iron-bound chest that stood against the far wall and knelt on the floor to open it.
Hugh leaned casually against the stone mantel of the fireplace in the steward's small office behind the pantry. “Thank you for sparing me the time, Master Crowder.”
“My lady said we were to assist you, my lord,” the steward said stiffly. He shuffled his feet with every sign of impatience and looked up pointedly at the brass clock on the mantel.
“I won’t keep you long,” Hugh said. “I have but one question at this point. Where were you at the time Lord Mallory fell from the window?”
Crowder frowned. It seemed an innocuous enough question. “Why, I was in here with Mistress Tilly.”
“Mistress Tilly was here with you?” Hugh asked quietly.
“Aye. We were talking about the evening. There’d been guests for dinner and much drinking. Lord Stephen had been …” His expression darkened and he shrugged. “Not to speak ill of the dead.”
“Quite so. Although that doesn’t seem to be the general attitude. It seems freely acknowledged that Lady
Guinevere's husband didn’t treat her with due respect and consideration.”
“That he didn’t.” Two spots of color glowed on Crowder's angular cheekbones. “A saint she is. She bore it like a saint. I’ve known my lady since she was a baby. When Lord and Lady Ashbourne died and left her an orphan, her uncle, Lord Raglan, was appointed guardian and she moved under his roof. I went with her, with Greene and Mistress Tilly. We were her household in Lord Raglan's castle, and when Magister Howard was made her tutor he joined us. We occupied one wing of the castle and Lord Raglan, who was a widower, left us pretty much to ourselves. I doubt my lady saw her guardian more than twice a year, on her birthday and at Christmas. When Lady Guinevere was married to Sir Roger, we all accompanied her.”