The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  Guinevere, still numb with shock, turned to the door when Hugh touched her arm. She allowed herself to be escorted from the chamber.

  “Whatever possessed you?” he demanded almost before they were outside. “What possessed you to anger the king? He's as ruthless as he's changeable. Do you not know the Lady Mary is out of favor? She refuses to yield to her father's demands that she admit her illegitimacy and it's almost treason to mention her name in his presence.”

  “I didn’t know. How could I?” she said bitterly. “I am not familiar with the deviousness of this miserable court.”

  “I would have thought someone as devious as yourself would have little difficulty adapting,” he said. “Why did you not tell me of that document?”

  “I could see little point.”

  “No, you chose to keep it and reveal it when I would be caught off guard and at a disadvantage,” he stated.

  “I chose to reveal it when it could do me the most good,” she returned.

  Hugh shook his head. “In the scheme of things it matters little now. Once you put the king's back up … for God's sake, Guinevere, I told you many weeks ago that you would be wise to moderate your tongue!”

  “I made a simple request,” she said, her spirit returning under the sting of this attack. “You told me yourself to bring up the matter of my lodging with the king or Privy Seal. I followed your advice.”

  “It was not advice meant seriously,” he said. “I never expected you to take me at my word. I would never seriously suggest you do something so foolish … so dangerous as to contradict the king.”

  He strode on in silence for a minute, then asked, making no attempt to conceal his hurt anger, “Why would you wish to lodge elsewhere? I realize my house is not as commodious or as comfortable as your own, but it's a damn sight better than the Tower.”

  “I cast no aspersions on your hospitality, my lord,” she returned, her voice low. “But you know why I cannot remain beneath your roof. I must fight you, Lord Hugh, not love you, if I am to remain alive for my children.”

  “You have no need to fight me,” he said quietly. “I do not seek your downfall, Guinevere.”

  She gave a little helpless shrug. “So you say. But in my eyes you are my enemy and I cannot grow close to the enemy. Therefore I will lodge in the Tower until such time as these matters are resolved.”

  With difficulty Hugh controlled himself. Such obstinacy was beyond mending. Abusing her would do no good. He marched beside her in grim silence, guiding her out of the palace and into the long, low, gray building that housed the king's guard.

  “This lady is to be escorted to the Tower,” he instructed the captain of the guard. He took the rolled parchment from his gown and handed it over. “Here are Privy Seal's orders.”

  The captain read them carefully, then he looked up at the still, black-clad figure standing behind Lord Hugh. He wondered what such a beautiful lady could have done to anger the king and Privy Seal. She was unquestionably a noblewoman. Only the nobility were lodged in the Tower at the king's pleasure. But the name Mallory was not familiar to him.

  Of course, she could be guilty of nothing, he reflected. It might simply suit Privy Seal's purposes to persuade the king to have her put away. Either way it was not his business to speculate.

  Hugh turned to Guinevere and said in an undertone, “I must leave you here. I’ll do what I can to plead your case. The king's mood is mercurial and when he's no longer angry with you I may be able to persuade him to be merciful if I can catch him in a good humor.”

  Guinevere shook her head. “It's better thus. Alone I will have nothing to distract me from my defense. But there is one thing I must ask you to do for me.” Her voice faltered, tears for the first time started in her eyes. She blinked them back.

  “You would ask that I care for your children,” he finished for her. “You have no need to ask me that, Guinevere. Whatever the outcome of this business you need have no fears for your daughters’ safety. I will ensure that their care falls to my hand.”

  “You are very good,” she said softly. “You will tell them now what will alarm them the least?”

  “You know that I will.” He took her hand and for a minute she let it lie in his clasp.

  “Will I be permitted my books, do you think?”

  “Nothing was said in Privy Seal's orders to forbid it. I’ll have your books and other necessities sent to you in the morning.”

  She withdrew her hand from his. “I thank you, Hugh. For that and for your care of my children. I know they will be safe with you.”

  “You trust me with your children but you will not trust me with yourself!” he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.

  “I cannot,” she said quietly but firmly.

  He regarded her in unsmiling silence for a minute, then with an almost defeated shake of his head, turned on his heel and left her.

  The captain of the guard regarded his prisoner with renewed interest. He hadn’t heard more than a word or two of the murmured exchange but its intensity had been obvious. Tears glittered in the lady's eyes, although that was only to be expected in one facing the terrors of imprisonment in the Tower.

  “We are ready to depart, madam,” he said. “The barge awaits us.”

  Guinevere nodded and drew her cloak tightly about her. A troop of soldiers fell in around her and she was escorted back down the path to the water steps through the now pouring rain. The river was flecked with rain, the gray sky lowered, and it was hard to imagine the long hot days of summer in Derbyshire, with the sweet valleys and rolling hills basking in the sun's heat. Here was all dark and dirt and damp.

  She stepped into the barge, grateful for the awning that would keep off some at least of the rain. She sat on the bench beneath the scant shelter and the rain dripped off her hooded cloak. She shivered in the chill dankness as the oarsmen took up their oars and pulled the barge into midstream.

  Hugh would be on his way home to fires and supper, the chatter of children. She was on her way to prison. But she would be well away from the temptations of Hugh's bed, she told herself. It was what she had wanted, she told herself.

  But it was hard to maintain her resolve as after long hours in the dark and the wet the barge approached the great gray edifice of the Tower. Instead of pulling up at the dock of the Lion Gate, it went on a few yards. Inset into the wharf at water level Guinevere saw a heavy gate, like a portcullis, that led into the Tower through a narrow tunnel. The gate was opened and the barge pulled under the wharf and into a small pool. Huge water gates opened as they crossed the pool and the barge drew alongside a shadowed dock. Green slime coated the steps and landing stage and dripped from the walls of the great bastion towering above the dock. Four yeoman warders of the king's guard stood on the landing stage waiting to receive the prisoner.

  Traitors’ Gate! she realized. She had entered the Tower by the gate through which it was said no prisoner ever left. The reputation of Traitors’ Gate had reached even the farthest wilds of Derbyshire. Terror swamped her. She would never see her children again.

  Her hands were icy cold in their gloves as she stepped out onto the slimy landing stage. The captain of the king's guard handed Privy Seal's rolled parchment to one of the yeomen then offered Guinevere a formal salute before stepping back into the barge.

  “This way, madam.” The king's yeomen fell in around Guinevere and she was escorted up a narrow flight of stone steps within the great wall of the bastion and out onto a rampart. She could hear ravens croaking somewhere below. She was escorted down another flight of stone stairs and into a large grassy inner courtyard. The high walls of the Tower rose on four sides, broken at several points by round turrets reached by stone staircases and ramparts.

  Guinevere was ushered across the green to a low building that looked disconcertingly like an ordinary house. The ravens hopped across the green, croaking their melancholy tune in the rain. A yeoman knocked with his staff on the front door and it opened instantly.


  “Prisoner, Lady Mallory, for the Lieutenant of the Tower,” the guard intoned.

  “Who is it? I wasn’t told to expect anyone this evening.” A stout man, a napkin tied around his neck, emerged from a door to the right of the hall. His rich dress denoted a man of some importance. He took the parchment and read it swiftly, then subjected Guinevere to a steady scrutiny.

  “So, Lady Mallory, you are to be my guest for a while,” he said with a courtly bow. “We will do what we can to make you comfortable.”

  “Who is it, Oliver?” A plump woman came into the hall. “Oh, my poor lady, you’re chilled to the bone!” she exclaimed, bustling over to Guinevere. “Come to the fire. You must sup with us while the lieutenant has your chamber prepared.”

  Chamber! Surely she meant “cell.” Guinevere was totally bewildered. It felt as if she was being welcomed to a particularly hospitable tavern instead of the Tower prison. She was not to know that since all their prisoners were noble, the lieutenant and his lady treated them as equals with all due courtesy and deference. Unless, of course, there were instructions to the contrary.

  “I own I’d be glad of some fire, madam,” she said, allowing herself to be drawn into a firelit parlor.

  “You must take off that wet cloak. What a miserable night it is. Winter draws close, I fear.” The lieutenant's lady rattled on as she helped Guinevere out of her cloak and urged her close to the fire.

  “You have nothing with you, I see. No dry clothes.” Despite her comfortable tones, her brown eyes were shrewd. She guessed correctly that the lady's imprisonment had been unexpected. It was often thus in these days when Privy Seal guided the king in the paths that suited himself.

  “They will be brought,” Guinevere said. “In the morning.” She bent to the fire, warming her numbed hands at the blaze.

  “I’ll see what I can find for you … just until your own things arrive,” the lady said. “You’ll take a bite of supper now, won’t you?”

  “If it's not too much trouble, madam. You’re very kind.”

  “Not a bit of it,” the lady said cheerfully, vigorously ringing a copper bell. A maidservant appeared in answer.

  “Lisa, bring a bite of supper for our guest. A bowl of broth and a slice of that venison pasty and a mite of cheese.”

  The maid curtsied and withdrew. The lieutenant's lady excused herself for a moment and Guinevere was left alone at the fire. Some of her fear abated under this strangely friendly welcome, but it felt unreal and she was convinced that matters couldn’t continue in this unthreatening fashion.

  Outside the parlor door, the lady was talking earnestly to her husband. “The poor thing is frozen to the bone, Oliver. You must house her with a fire, at least for tonight,” she said vehemently. “She has no clothes, no possessions. It must have been very sudden.”

  “Privy Seal is often precipitate,” the lieutenant said.

  “But it seems from the order that Lady Mallory is here on the king's command.”

  His wife shivered slightly. “Another poor woman imprisoned on the king's orders,” she murmured. “How has this one offended His Highness, I wonder? Did she refuse his bed, perhaps?”

  “Hush your loose talk,” her husband said in an undertone, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard.

  “Well, ’tis to be hoped she doesn’t face the same fate as the other he put in here,” his lady said. “The poor Queen Anne.”

  “Was an adulteress; she betrayed the king's bed,” her husband reminded her.

  “ ’Twas what they said,” his wife agreed with a sniff.

  “It's not for us to question,” her husband told her firmly. “I will have this lady housed in the White Tower. The chamber there is quite commodious and I will have a fire kindled. There are no orders to the contrary.”

  “Then I am satisfied. She will sup here first, before she is taken away.” His lady nodded and returned to the parlor where Guinevere waited.

  The maid brought supper and Guinevere found to her surprise that she could eat. The broth warmed her, the pasty and cheese put heart into her, and the cup of wine cheered her spirit a little. She tried not to wonder how Hugh was explaining her absence to the girls. If she dwelled upon that she would weep and that would only make matters worse.

  Her hostess regarded her with kindly concern as she ate. “Are you new come to London, madam?”

  “As of yesterday,” Guinevere answered, setting her spoon down in her empty bowl.

  The lady waited, clearly hoping for enlightenment, but Guinevere didn’t offer it. She finished the wine and said sincerely, “You are very kind, madam. I was in sore need.”

  “Aye, I could see that,” the woman said. She turned as her husband entered the parlor.

  “If you’ve supped, my lady, you’ll be taken to your lodging now,” he said.

  “Yes, indeed. Your good lady has been most kind,” Guinevere said, getting at once to her feet. She reached for her still-wet cloak.

  “I’ll fetch you a night robe, just to tide you over until your own things are brought.” Her hostess hurried from the parlor, returning in a very few minutes with a woolen robe lined with fur. She handed it to Guinevere. “ ’Twill keep the night chill away.”

  “My thanks.” Guinevere draped the garment over her arm.

  “If you’re ready …” The Lieutenant of the Tower moved to the door. She followed him, her heart beating uncomfortably fast now that this strange interlude was over.

  They crossed the court and went up a flight of stone stairs and through a door set into one of the round towers. A great oak door was set into the heavy stone opposite the entrance to the tower. Her companion had a key, a massive iron key. He turned it in the keyhole and pushed the door open. It swung inwards with a creak.

  “If you would enter, Lady Mallory,” he said politely, stepping aside.

  Guinevere walked past him into her prison cell.

  “I give you good night, my lady.” The door closed and she heard the key turn in the massive lock.

  She stood in the center of the small round chamber until her heart had stopped its wild racing. It was cold and dank despite a sullen fire in the small hearth. She touched the thick stone walls. They were icy to the touch. The floor beneath her feet was of the same thick uneven stone. A small square window was set into the wall high up above her head. There was no other outside light.

  A tallow candle burned in a sconce above the door. That and the fire provided the only illumination. There was a narrow cot with a straw mattress, a pillow, and a thin blanket. There was a low stool, a lidless wooden pail, and a jug of cold water on the floor beside the fire. That was all the chamber contained.

  She went to the fire. There was a scuttle of coals, so for as long as she stayed awake she could keep the fire burning. She shivered in her damp cloak and with a brisk movement flung it from her, wrapping herself instead in the borrowed furred night robe.

  From somewhere beyond the stone walls of her prison cell came the lonely frustrated roaring of a lion in the royal menagerie. The miserable beast was as much a prisoner as herself, Guinevere thought. More so, perhaps, because he had no understanding of what had brought him to his cage.

  She dragged the mattress off the narrow cot and set it before the fire, then lay down, covering herself with the blanket. Cold and damp were her two worst enemies. She was not going to let them kill her off with an ague. If the king and Privy Seal wanted her dead, they were going to have to fight for it.

  16

  But where is our mother, Lord Hugh?” Pen fixed him with a steady stare from intent hazel eyes. “She said she would be coming back last night.”

  “Yes, and she hasn’t,” Pippa chimed in. “Where is she? We want to see her.” A tremulous note entered her voice.

  Hugh lifted Pippa and held her in the crook of his arm. “The king wished to talk some more with your mother. She asked me to explain that to you and to say that she loves you and she’ll be back very soon.”

  “If sh
e thought that was going to happen, she would have said,” Pen declared. “She would never have gone away without telling us.”

  “No, but this was rather unexpected,” Hugh explained patiently. “She couldn’t have known that matters would have taken this course. She wants you to stay here with Tilly, the magister, Crowder, and Greene until she's able to come back to you.”

  “But I want to see her!” Pippa shrilled, patting his face with impatient little taps. “We want to see her. Don’t we, Pen?”

  “Yes,” said Pen flatly. “Where is she, sir?”

  Hugh wondered how much these children knew of the

  Tower of London. It was possible they’d never heard of it and so to tell them the truth wouldn’t alarm them any more than they already were. He glanced over Pen's head and saw his son's solemn countenance. Robin knew all there was to know about that dread prison. He couldn’t be expected to conceal his impressions under the inevitable flood of questions from Pen and Pippa.

  Hugh chose his words carefully. “Your mother is in one of the king's houses. It was her choice to stay there. She has work to do on this estate business and this morning I must arrange for her to have her books and other things she’ll need.”

  “But she would have told us if she wanted to stay somewhere else,” Pen stated. “And besides, she always works with Magister Howard. Will you take him to her?” Her voice took on an unwonted edge of hostility.

  “And if the magister can go then so can we,” Pippa added. “She’d much rather see us than the magister.”

  “Yes. Why can’t we go to her?” Pen demanded. “If she's staying in this place because she wants to, then she’d say she wanted to see us.”

  This was turning out to be more difficult than Hugh had bargained for. Guinevere's children were not the kind to accept something simply because they were told it. Clearly they had not been taught an unquestioning acceptance of authority, which, knowing their mother as he did, should not have surprised him.

  “For the moment I’m afraid you cannot go to her,” Hugh stated firmly. “Your mother knows this, which is why she hasn’t arranged for you to visit her.”