The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “I see.” Hugh nodded and straightened from his relaxed posture. Crowder had painted a bleak picture of Guinevere's lonely childhood. It was no wonder she had sought solace in learning and company in her books. “So when Lord Mallory fell from the window, you and Mistress Tilly were in here. Did you hear anything?”

  “Oh, aye. We heard the scream,” Crowder stated. “Mistress Tilly shrieked, ‘ ’Tis my lady!’ and ran to my lady's chamber. Lord Mallory was in foul temper that night and as drunk as we’d ever seen him. My lady had angered him at dinner and we were all afraid of what he might do.”

  “Did she often anger him?”

  “She wasn’t afraid of him. And she wouldn’t let him touch the lassies. Wouldn’t let him go anywhere near them,” Crowder said with emphasis.

  “With good reason, it would seem.”

  “Oh, aye.” The steward nodded firmly.

  Hugh nodded just as the chapel bell rang for vespers. “I thank you for your time, Master Crowder.”

  “You won’t find any here who’ll say a word against my lady,” Crowder said, gathering his black gown around him. “Not even on the rack.”

  Hugh flung up his hands in disclaimer. “I trust you don’t think I’ve come armed with such instruments.”

  Crowder looked at him with unmitigated suspicion. “We don’t like snoops, my lord, and that man of yours has been asking questions all afternoon in the stables. I won’t say he needs to watch out for himself on a dark night, but he's not making any friends.” With that, he rustled out of the door.

  Hugh exhaled softly. Threatening one of the king's lords on the king's writ was treasonable. Either these Derbyshire folk had little understanding of the power and reach of the king's authority or their love for their mistress gave them a foolhardy courage.

  However, Crowder had confirmed Hugh's suspicions. Mistress Tilly had been lying about that night. But why, if Stephen Mallory's death had been a drunken accident, did the tiring woman think she needed to pretend that Guinevere was not alone with her husband at the time?

  Hugh left the steward's office and made his leisurely way to the chapel as the bells continued to peal.

  “My lord …” Jack Stedman called out as he came hurrying through the arched gateway into the lower court.

  Hugh stopped. “What is it, Jack?”

  Jack looked to be bursting with news. He ran to Hugh, panting breathlessly. “Some information, my lord. Important information.”

  Hugh glanced over his shoulder at the chapel. The bells had stopped ringing. The noon grace had been sufficient religion for Hugh for one day but the young could benefit from a second dose. Robin would have to stand in for him at the observance this evening.

  Hugh nodded to himself. Age had its privileges. “Let's go to the camp. You may tell me in private.”

  He strode out of the Hall with Jack at his side. They walked too quickly for conversation as they crossed the packhorse bridge and left the grounds through the stone gatehouse. The smell of the cooking fires was pungent in the warm air of early evening.

  A trestle table set for supper stood under a spreading beech tree and Hugh drank deeply from an ale jug before saying, “So, what is this information, Jack?”

  “Well, I was talkin’ to the torch men what were in the court the night the lord fell. One of ’em let slip that he seen someone at the window jest afore the lord fell, an’ then ’e seen a shadow there right after.”

  “Did he say who it was?”

  “No, ’e clammed up when I pressed ’im. Said as ’ow ’e could’ve been mistaken.”

  Hugh pursed his lips, frowning in thought. “Where was the man standing?”

  “In the southwest corner of the court, sir.”

  That was the corner where Hugh had stood and looked across to Guinevere's open window. He had had a clear view of the lamplit window. “Go and fetch this man, Jack. I would have speech with him myself. He might be more persuadable if he finds himself summoned for questioning.”

  “I’ll take a couple of men with me, make it look more official like,” Jack said.

  Hugh perched on a fallen log and stretched his legs out in front of him. The picture was beginning to draw itself. Guinevere had said she was in the garderobe when her husband came in. If it could be proved that she was lying, that in fact she’d been beside her husband at the window, then he would have sufficient justification for carrying her to London to answer a charge of murder.

  Jack and his men reappeared in twenty minutes escorting a scared-looking youth in rough homespuns. “This ’ere's Arthur,” Jack said. “Where d’you want ’im, m’lord?”

  “Take him to my tent.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” the youth protested.

  “No one said you had,” Hugh responded. “I just have a few questions for you. Answer them truthfully and you may go on your way. But I’ll know if you’re lying so don’t try it,” he added with a ferocious frown. “Deceiving the king's envoy is treason and if you’re lucky you’ll only hang for it.”

  The young man trembled, his face ashen; his eyes full of dread blinked rapidly as he gazed at Hugh like a cornered animal. The punishment for treason for any but a nobleman involved hideous mutilation at the hangman's hands.

  Hugh gestured towards his tent and two men grabbed the youth's elbows and marched him off. Hugh disliked using intimidation to achieve his object but he didn’t shrink from it when it was expedient. He followed his men and their prisoner.

  “Now, tell me exactly what you saw the night of Lord Mallory's death. You were standing in the southwest corner of the lower court, is that correct?”

  “Aye, sir.” The young man nodded like a marionette in the hands of a demented puppeteer.

  “You were looking up at Lady Guinevere's chamber?”

  The nodding continued.

  “And …” Hugh prompted, folding his arms and fixing the youth with an intent stare.

  “Well, I see’d summat at the window,” his quarry mumbled.

  “Something or someone?”

  “ ’Twas a shadow.”

  “Of what?”

  There was a long silence and Hugh found it in him to feel sorry for the youth. “Come now,” he said brusquely. “Has someone told you not to tell what you saw?”

  Arthur shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again.

  “I am confused,” Hugh said aridly. “Yes, or no?” “I think I saw my lady at the window,” Arthur said in a rush. “It was ’er shadow. I thought nothin’ of it because she often stood there in the evenin’ jest lookin’ out. An’ then after my lord fell I saw the curtain move an’ jest a bit of ’er shadow again. I think it was, but I can’t be certain like.” He stared fearfully at his inquisitor. “Greene said I should forget it … ’e said I never saw any such thing.”

  Greene, the other member of Guinevere's household who had been with her from early childhood, had joined the closed ranks around their lady, Hugh reflected. And again the question arose, why, if it had been an accident, were they creating this web of lies?

  “All right, Arthur,” he said. “You may go.” Arthur scuttled off, shoulders hunched, head down. Hugh walked to the tent opening and stood there gazing around his orderly encampment. His men were at the supper table and after a minute he decided to join them. It was time to confront Guinevere with his findings and he would not, Judaslike, break bread with her first.

  7

  Robin wondered where his father was. He looked covertly over his shoulder at the back pews in the chapel in case Lord Hugh had slipped in after the service had started, but the familiar figure was not to be seen.

  Robin felt a stab of anxiety. His father was always very careful to tell him if his plans had changed or if he was to be delayed, but he hadn’t been seen since the noon meal.

  Robin had spent the afternoon finishing off his tasks with the armor and then, finding that Pen had been freed from her tutor for the afternoon and Pippa was closeted under the guardianship of the tiri
ng woman, he and Pen had walked dreamily and mostly tongue-tied along the riverbank among the water meadows. He’d picked her a bouquet of pale pink marshmallows. A bouquet, wilting a little now, that she still wore pinned to her gown.

  “Where's your father?” Pippa's penetrating whisper under the cover of her hand chimed accurately into his thoughts.

  He shrugged and Pen murmured, “I expect something delayed him.”

  “Perhaps he went hunting, I hope he didn’t fall from his horse … or get lost in the woods,” Pippa said in the same piercing whisper. “It happened to—”

  “Hush!” Pen hissed as Master Grice paused in the litany to glare repressively at the youngest daughter of the house.

  Guinevere, coming out of her intent reverie, added her own glare from the box pew across the aisle and Pippa subsided, nursing her bandaged arm.

  Guinevere's mind was not on vespers. She was still riding a wave of what she admitted was unholy pleasure in the afternoon's legal gymnastics. The disputed land was clearly named in the premarriage contracts between Roger Needham and his first wife. Guinevere had triumphed in this battle and Hugh of Beaucaire would be forced to acknowledge it. The fact that her victory was probably moot since there was a lot more at stake than a legal wrangle was one that in her present exhilaration she chose to ignore.

  She glanced around the lower court as they came out of the chapel at the end of the service and couldn’t conceal from herself the flicker of disappointment that there was no sign of Lord Hugh's powerful frame. “Is your father not supping with us, Robin?”

  “He didn’t say anything to me, madam.” Robin looked embarrassed at his father's unexplained absence. “Usually he tells me if his plans have changed. I expect he had some unexpected business to deal with.”

  Guinevere nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. Should we wait supper for him?”

  Robin shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t want that, my lady. He wouldn’t wish to cause any trouble.”

  Oh, really? Guinevere kept the cynical comment to herself.

  “I hope he didn’t get lost and fall from his horse like Josh Barsett,” Pippa said. “You remember, Mama, how no one could find him and he lay for hours and hours before the charcoal burner found him and his leg was all swollen up and blue? They thought they were going to have to cut it off only—”

  “Yes, I remember,” Guinevere interrupted dampeningly. “ But Robin's father, unlike Josh Barsett, knows the back end of a horse from the front.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to say anything bad about the Boy's father,” Pippa assured hastily. She turned anxious eyes to Robin. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  But Robin was so amused at the absurd picture of his father falling off a horse that he only grinned and tugged at her braid in brotherly fashion. “I didn’t hear a word you said. I’m learning not to listen to you.”

  “That's very rude,” Pippa said. “It's not my fault that the words just tumble out all by themselves.”

  “Well, maybe if you put food in your mouth it’ll keep the words in,” Guinevere said with a smile. “Let's go in to supper.” She swept Pippa before her into the house.

  As supper drew to a close, she cut off Pippa's minute and stomach-turning description of a lurcher raiding a vole's nest along the riverbank, swallowing squealing baby after squealing baby, “Just like little pink sweetmeats … all made of marchpane.” Pippa held up a marchpane-covered plum as example.

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” Guinevere said firmly, turning to Robin. “When you see your father, Robin, could you tell him that I’ll be walking in the garden in an hour if he's able to join me?”

  Robin nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, of course, madam. I’m sure he's in the encampment.”

  As soon as supper was over, Robin hurried to the bivouac.

  Hugh was chewing reflectively at a chicken drumstick when his son raced into the circle of tents. He took in Robin's breathless haste, his flushed cheeks, and said sharply, “Is all well?”

  Robin skidded to a halt in front of his father. “Yes, sir. I was worried, though. We missed you at supper.”

  “There was no need to worry.” Hugh smiled at his son. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Robin grinned.

  “I’ll make my apologies to Lady Guinevere later.” Not that the lady would be interested in such mundane apologies when he’d confronted her with his evidence of her lies, Hugh reflected.

  Robin pushed a flopping lock of hair off his damp forehead. It was a warm evening and he’d run fast. “She said I was to tell you that she’ll be walking in the garden in an hour if you could join her.”

  Hugh glanced up at the sky. The sun was low on the horizon; in about an hour it would have set completely. He nodded, his expression grim. “As it happens I have certain matters to discuss with Lady Guinevere myself. We’ll move into camp tonight. Do you go back to the house and pack up our traps. Take one of the men to help you carry the trunk here.”

  Robin hesitated. “Are we … are we leaving, sir?”

  “Yes,” Hugh said shortly. “As soon as may be. Go about your business.” He threw the clean drumstick onto the grass and brushed off his hands in a gesture of dismissal.

  Robin hurriedly obeyed, leaving his father to pace the grassy circle around the campfire, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gown, while he waited for the sun to go down.

  He wasn’t looking forward to the coming interview. To his surprise he took no satisfaction in having been proved right. Guinevere Mallory had done away with a drunken violent brute who probably deserved what he’d received. But Hugh of Beaucaire carried the king's writ, and his own sympathies, if such they were, were not relevant.

  He watched Robin racing like a young colt back to

  Mallory Hall, one of Hugh's men following at a more sober pace. Now Robin would inherit rich land that would enable him to establish his own dynasty. Such wealth would give him access to court, to the favors that brought high place, influence, and yet more wealth. Robin would not have to be the soldier of fortune his father was.

  And the land, God rot, did not belong to Guinevere Mallory. It had not been Needham's to cede away.

  The outcome was just.

  Guinevere strolled through the rose garden, a basket over her arm, scissors in her hand. She paused now and again to smell the fragrance of the flowers as she cut them, to gaze out over the sweet landscape lying now under dusk's shadows. The sound of cooing came from the dovecote; behind her rose the mellow stone walls of the Hall.

  She couldn’t lose this. She couldn’t lose it at the whim of a greedy king and a rapacious Privy Seal. There had to be some justice in the world.

  From the moment she had understood the joys of an analytical mind and could read and speak Latin as well as the common tongue, she had become fascinated by the law. Under Magister Howard's able tutoring she had learned the legal rules and rotes of justice. She believed in justice. It was the cornerstone of her world.

  She could not in law lose what was hers simply because someone else desired it.

  And yet she knew that she could. Justice was a movable feast in King Henry's England.

  The scissors slipped on the tough stem of a white rose in bud and nicked the tip of her finger. She sucked at the bead of blood, tasting its saltiness. What was losing her land compared with losing her life?

  She heard a step behind her. A familiar step, firm and yet light. A usurper's step.

  The step of a man who could make her blood sing.

  “Lord Hugh.” She turned, a taut smile on her lips.

  “Have you pricked yourself?”

  “No. The scissors slipped. ’Tis nothing.” She put the basket of roses on a stone bench beside the path.

  He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and without asking permission deftly dabbed the blood from her finger, observing calmly, “For some reason, fingers bleed out of all proportion to the wound.”

  “Yes, I’ve notice
d.” She watched his own fingers, brown, thick, strong, yet so astonishingly neat in their movements. She could feel the warmth of his touch on her hand, a tactile, malleable warmth like melted candlewax.

  Then abruptly he dropped her hand. “We have matters to discuss, madam.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but he swept on, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “Ever since I arrived here, you have lied to me. I am surrounded by lies. Those I speak to twist and turn the facts in an effort to conceal the truth.”

  Guinevere was now very pale. “What truth, my lord?”

  “The truth that you pushed your husband from the window.”

  “Who so accuses me?” Her lips were bloodless.

  “I do. Your tiring woman says she was in the chamber with you and Stephen Mallory that night, but your steward tells me she was with him in his office. You tell me you were in the garderobe when Mallory fell, but one of the torch men saw you standing at the window both before and immediately after your husband's death. If you were not implicated in his death, why am I being lied to?”

  Fury now made her complexion ashen. She understood now why Tilly had been so distressed. Her eyes were purple fires in her white face. “You have dared to bully my servants! I told them to cooperate with you, to tell you what they knew. There was nothing for them to hide. You must have terrified Tilly into lying to you! You go creeping around like some viper trying to trap my people, people who are loyal to me, who’ve been with me since childhood, you try to trap them into betraying me.” Forgetting the scissors she still held, she jabbed at him in emphasis.

  Hugh grabbed her wrist. “In the devil's name, what do you think you’re doing?”

  She looked down at her captive hand and slowly her fingers opened; the scissors dropped to the ground. “I didn’t realize I was still holding them.”