by Jane Feather
“Make free of the fire,” he offered, gesturing to the blazing hearth. “You won’t wish to disturb the girls in your chamber.”
“No,” Guinevere agreed. But she hesitated, wondering if it would be wise to formulate strategies for her defense in the public hall of her jailer's house.
“You need have no fear you’ll be overheard,” Hugh said with an ironical glitter in his eye as he read her thoughts. “I will promise to make a great clatter with my boots to give you fair warning of my return.”
Guinevere turned away from his gaze. She said to the magister, who was bobbing at her side, “I’ll fetch the books we’ll need, Magister. Make yourself comfortable at the fireside.” She gave Hugh a cool nod of farewell and glided to the stair, her back straight as a ruler, her dark velvet gown over its cone-shaped farthingale swaying gracefully with her smooth step.
She felt a surge of optimism as she sorted through the crate of books in her chamber. At last she and the magister would be able to test their theories against the legal facts. Her books had always provided answers. Surely they would help her now.
She hurried downstairs with her selection. The magister was seated on the settle, his skinny shanks in their wrinkled black hose stretched to the fire. “Oh, this is comfort indeed,” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “Lord Hugh has ordered extra light for us. See, we have two extra lanterns and there are new candles in the sconces.” He gestured to the greater illumination by the fireside. “So considerate of him, I thought.”
“Indeed,” Guinevere agreed dryly, depositing her books on the opposite settle. She got straight down to business. “As we’ve discussed, Magister, the issue is one of evidence. They have no evidence, no hard evidence, to link me to any of my husbands’ deaths.” She paused, staring into the fire, frowning fiercely.
What had he discovered at Matlock? If she didn’t know the evidence against her, she couldn’t formulate a defense.
She shook her head. She had to work with what she had. “We know Lord Hugh can bear witness to some contradictions in my statements and in Tilly's concerning Lord Mallory's fall. If they wish to make something of those contradictions, then we are in difficulties.”
“I think it safe to assume that they will,” the magister said, pursing his lips and sucking in his cheeks. He asked hesitantly, “You are convinced that Lord Hugh will tell of these contradictions?”
Guinevere continued to stand staring into the flames, her hands pressed against the folds of her gown. What had he discovered at Matlock?
“Yes,” she said after a minute. “He will give his evidence as he sees it.” She shrugged and sat down on the settle beside the books. “My task will be to convince the lords that those contradictions do not constitute hard evidence.”
“We should examine the common law on circumstantial evidence,” the magister said. “A conclusion drawn by inference from known facts that have no clear explanation is a weak one. We must find an alternative persuasive explanation for those facts.”
“Aye,” Guinevere agreed. “But what of charges of witchcraft? I see no way to refute those charges if they’re leveled. Only my husbands could deny that they were bewitched, and my husbands no longer walk this earth.” She pressed her steepled fingers to her lips.
“I beg you, madam, let us take one issue at a time,” the magister said with a worried frown. “We have hard evidence supporting your claim to the land Lord Hugh lays claim to. That's one big issue in our favor. No one can dispute the legality of the premarriage contract with Roger Needham, and if you’re on solid legal ground there, a reasonable man might assume that you are on the other issues.”
“A reasonable man, yes. But is Lord Privy Seal a reasonable man?”
“Come now, madam, let's not prejudge the case,” the magister begged. “The law will have an answer for us, it always does. Let us take a look at Fortescue's De laudibus legum Angliae.” He leaned over and selected the book in question.
An hour later, the magister yawned deeply and shifted on the settle, trying to ease his aching bones. “God's mercy, but I doubt I’ll ever have ease again,” he muttered. “Riding like that, day after day.”
“We’ll cease our discussion for tonight.” Guinevere closed the book. “You need your rest, Magister.”
“I’m an old man, madam. Not made for travel,” he said.
“I should not have brought you,” Guinevere said remorsefully. “ ’Twas not kind in me to force such privations upon you.”
“Bless you, madam, I’d not leave you to face this alone.” Magister Howard threw up his hands in horrified disclaimer. “But we’ve made some progress I believe.”
Guinevere was less sure of this but she agreed with a smile, unwilling to distress her old mentor. “Seek your bed, sir. We’ll continue on the morrow.”
The elderly man rose creakily to his feet. “I’ll not be sorry to lie down among feathers again,” he said. “I give you good night, my lady.”
“Good night.” She watched him go, leaning her head against the high carved back of the wooden settle. Legalistic arguments seemed so empty, so pointless, and yet they were all she had. That and her own eloquence. Would it be enough to sway a man of Privy Seal's complexion?
She heard the clatter of booted feet on the flagstones beyond a doorway at the rear of the hall that she assumed led to the kitchen quarters and the stables. Lord Hugh spoke from the doorway. “Did I make sufficient noise?”
“Your consideration, my lord, overwhelms me.”
Hugh came into the hall. He strode to the fireplace and stood looking at her, one hand resting on the back of the opposite settle. “You have finished? Is the magister gone to his bed?”
“We’ve finished for this evening. The magister is tired after the journey.” She remained with her head against the back of the settle, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, her eyes half shut. But she could feel his steady gaze upon her.
“You look exhausted yourself.” He turned as the front door opened. Jack Stedman came in on a blast of autumnal night air.
“Eh, ’tis gettin’ right parky out there,” he commented, pulling off his cap. “Weather's turned around, I shouldn’t wonder.” He didn’t see Guinevere who was hidden from the door by the high back of her seat. “Privy Seal's usher took the message an’ kept me kickin’ me ’eels for close on two hour afore ’e come back, m’lord.” Jack sounded apologetic for the delay. “ ’Twas such a crush in ’is antechamber a man couldn’t ’ardly move.”
“Is there a message?” Hugh inquired.
“Aye, m’lord. Y’are summoned with the Lady Guinevere to attend at ’ampton Court tomorrow at three in the afternoon.”
Hugh nodded and glanced involuntarily to the settle where Guinevere sat unmoving, her eyes still half closed. “That will be all for tonight, Jack. At sunup I’ll need a barge at Blackfriars Steps. Make sure it's one with some shelter from the elements. You’ll accompany us, together with two of the men.”
“Aye, sir. And Master Robin?”
“He may stay here. Tell him he may have a holiday … if keeping company with young Pippa can be so described,” Hugh added dryly.
Jack grinned. “Aye, sir. Good night.” He touched his forehead in a half salute and left, cramming his cap back on his head.
“So soon,” Guinevere said. She rose slowly to her feet and faced him. “Could you not have granted me a few days of respite, my lord, before sending your message?”
He answered quietly, “A delay would have been no respite. ’Tis better to do what has to be done.”
“But I am not ready yet.”
“There will be no trial tomorrow,” he said. “There will be questions, but no trial.”
“I am afeard,” she said in a low voice. “Do not tell me I have no cause to be.”
“I would not tell you that.”
She looked up at him, her face naked and vulnerable, her eyes haunted with fear.
The fire crackled behind her, the only sound in the now
still house. She could hear her quickened breath, softly sibilant as it left her parted lips. She could hear the blood in her ears.
“Come to me,” Hugh said. It was part plea, part command.
Guinevere stood still, feeling the warmth of the fire at her back. The glow of the lanterns, the bright light of the candles streaming upwards from their sconces cast a circle of light around them. Beyond the circle the hall was in shadow.
“Come to me,” he said again. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the delicacy of the bones beneath his fingers.
She didn’t move, neither away from him nor towards him. This night she needed what he would offer her more than she had ever needed anything. The comfort of connection, the strength that came from knowing one was not alone. The power of loving that, for however short a time, would quiet her fears, soothe her fearful soul. But still there niggled the knowledge that if she took Hugh she would take that comfort from the man who had caused this agony of despair.
And so she made no move towards him, but when he drew her against him, cupping her chin to lift her face, she offered no resistance.
He kissed her, gently and then with increasing pressure as if he would wake her up, bring forth from her the passionate response that he knew waited for release.
“Come to me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Guinevere, come to me.” He held her strongly now so that she could feel his strength, feel it encompassing her, offering surcease, the chance for the first time since Timothy's death to lay down her own burdens for however brief a moment and nourish herself at the wellspring of a power and energy not her own.
Her mouth opened for his probing tongue and she leaned back into the strong hold, opening her throat, her breast, in an instinctive movement of surrender. He moved his mouth to the porcelain column of her throat, kissed the fast-beating pulse, trailed his lips to her breast, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fine lace of her chemise. He felt her passivity, not a negative passivity but one that came from an active decision to receive him, to draw from him.
A river of delight washed through him. She was more truly his at this moment than ever during the wild madness of that night in his tent.
“Come,” he said softly, taking her hand. He picked up a lantern with his free hand and led her to the stairs. She gathered her skirts and stepped up beside him, her body slim and tall and straight as they ascended the stairs.
He turned to the dark passage that led to the left of the stairs, holding his lantern up high. Her hand in his was cool, the fingers curled around his own.
He lifted the latch on the door at the very end of the passage and pushed it wide. A candle burned on a small table and a banked fire glowed in the hearth. The light from his lantern threw back the shadows as they entered the chamber.
It was as neat and orderly as his tent had been. The poster bed was uncarved, the coverlet a simple quilt. An iron-bound chest and a plain armoire held his possessions.
“ ’Tis plain, I know,” he murmured.
Guinevere smiled and spoke for the first time. “I expected nothing else of its occupant.”
“You have an understanding of me, it seems.” He set the lantern on the mantelpiece and gazed at her as she stood in her dark velvet, one hand resting on the wooden bedpost.
“A little,” she agreed.
“Come to me.” He held out his hands and this time she stepped across the waxed floor towards him. She stood before him, making no other move, her eyes fixed upon his.
“I will try to give you what you wish,” he said, his voice suddenly husky, coming from deep in his throat. He reached for the jeweled headdress and she bowed her head to make it easier for him.
He withdrew the pins slowly, one by one, laying each one on the small table, then lifted the silver fillet from her head. He took the pins from her hood and then her coif and then her hair, releasing the coiled braids. He had no brush but used his fingers to loosen the coils, playfully flipping the long strands out until they framed her face. Her earlier pallor had gone and her ivory skin glowed.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, kissing her warm mouth. “You must tell me if there's anything you want of me. I would not fail you, Guinevere.”
“You will not,” she said with perfect truth. She caressed his cheek, ran the pad of her thumb over his mouth. He would not fail her … not in this at least. She turned her back.
He unlaced her gown, slowly this time, lifting it away from her, letting it fall to the chest at the foot of the bed. He unlaced the bodice of her chemise and slid his hands inside to cup her breasts, then her shoulders. Her skin was so warm and soft and fragrant.
“Show me something of yourself first,” she said with a languid smile. “I would see you naked.” She ran her flat palm over his cheek, tracing his mouth with her little finger. His hand came up to grasp her wrist as he sucked her probing finger into his mouth, delicately nibbling the tip. Her entire body seemed to come alive under the exquisite sensation.
He drew back, his brilliant eyes glittering with desire. He began to undress for her. Guinevere watched him with lustful greed as slowly he revealed himself to her. He slipped off his gown, his doublet, unlaced his shirt, removing each garment with deliberate care, laying them over a stool beneath the window.
Guinevere's gaze dwelled on the broad expanse of his chest, lightly dusted with gray curls, the tight little buds of his nipples, the span of his waist … so narrow when compared with the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She gazed with uninhibited lust as he unfastened his garters and peeled off his hose. He stood straight and looked at her with a quizzical little gleam in his eye. She gazed at the concave belly, the hard muscular thighs, the vigorous jut of his penis from the wiry tangle of graying hair.
“Do I please you, madam?”
She nodded, her tongue moistening her lips. “Oh, yes.”
He turned to place his hose on the stool with his other garments, offering his taut buttocks to her gaze. She came up behind him, placing her hands on his backside, kneading the muscled flesh. He remained still for her caress, for the stroking finger that slid between his thighs, then he put his hands behind him and clasped her hips. She leaned into his back, nuzzling the sharp points of his shoulder blades. His hands slipped to her backside, stroking the flesh beneath her chemise.
“I think it's time for a little equity,” he said with a soft laugh, turning to face her. “I would feast my eyes upon you now, my lady.”
He pushed her chemise off her shoulders, down to her waist. The soft mounds of her breasts, the nipples hard and erect, disappeared into his warm palms. He held them, glorying in their weight and fullness. Her eyes closed on a deep shudder of pleasure as his fingertips teased the rosy crowns. He ran his hands down the narrow rib cage, feeling the shape of her as he had not done in the crazy haste of their last loving. He took a step back to look at her, bared to the waist, her silvery hair shimmering against her skin that glowed pink with her growing arousal. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breath.
Reaching forward, with slow deliberation he pushed the loosened chemise from her hips. It slithered to her ankles, leaving her naked but for her silken hose and garters.
He looked at her, drinking in the mature fullness of her graceful form. This was no girl. He could see the tiny silver stretch marks on her thighs and belly where she had carried her children, the rich blue-veined heaviness of her breasts that had fed her babies, the almost imperceptible thickening of her waist. But she was more beautiful, he thought, for these imperfections than she would have been in the unflawed youthfulness of her girlhood.
Putting his hands on her hips, he turned her, felt her shiver at his touch, at the warm imprint of his hands. He ran a flat finger down her spine. Her skin rippled. Holding her shoulders, he bent his head and his tongue followed the path of the finger. Guinevere bit back a moan at the burning sensuality of the hot moist stroke. Her feet shifted on the bare boards.
He caressed the curve of h
er hips, the firm rise of her backside, the supple length of her thighs. Then he turned her around again.
She reached her arms around his neck, pressing her nakedness against his. She kissed his mouth, her loins pressed hard against him in eloquent desire. Hugh took a step to the bed, holding her to him, her mouth still locked with his. She fell back as the edge of the bed caught her behind the knees and he came down with her.
He stretched himself beside her, and raised himself on one elbow. She lay on her back looking up at him, and with a curious little gesture of abandon, she stretched her arms above her head, crossing her wrists, yielding up her body to their mutual pleasure.
He smiled slowly, then bent to kiss the base of her throat as his hand smoothed over her belly. He tickled a fingertip in her navel, noting with a secret delight how deep it was. He touched the line of her body, from below her ear to her hip, feeling the tender curves, the deep indentations, and she moaned beneath his hand, whispering his name. His mouth moved to her breasts, his teeth lightly grazed her nipples.
She writhed on the bed, feeling her sex swell with pleasure, her loins filled with a liquid urgency. No longer able to control her responses, she brought her hands down. One slid to his buttocks, the other clasped the turgid flesh of his penis. The blood in the corded veins pulsed strongly against her palm. With a delicate fingertip she pushed back the little cap of skin at its tip, circled the smooth roundness, even as with the finger of her other hand she slid between the cleft of his buttocks, lightly tickling the hard, heavy globes.
Hugh groaned softly under the knowing caress. He moved down the bed and her hands slid away from him. She felt his flat palms inside her thighs, pressing them open. She spread them for him, once more giving her body over to him. He kissed the inside of her thighs, lifted her legs and kissed the hollow behind her knees, stroking down her calves, his fingers cleverly massaging. His tongue trailed along the backs of her thighs; his mouth pressed kisses into the soft creases where her thighs met her bottom. He spread her legs wide and buried his mouth in the hot sea-scented furrow of her body.