by Jane Feather
“Aye, her tiring woman and Magister Howard. I sent them with some necessities for her.”
“I gave them leave to remain with her for an hour.” The lieutenant sounded as if he was seeking approval for his clemency.
“I’m sure Lady Mallory was grateful.”
“Aye. My lady wife took a fancy to her last even. She supped at our table. I had a fire lit in her chamber.”
Hugh merely nodded, hiding his impatience.
The lieutenant rose to his feet. “Come, my lord, I’ll take you to the prisoner. I trust you’ll find she has not been ill-housed.”
They crossed the Tower green where the ravens were gathering for the night along the ramparts and in the deep shadows of the high walls. They climbed the steps to the tower where Guinevere had her cell.
She was sitting by the still sullenly smouldering fire, her cloak draped around her shoulders, an open book on her lap. But she hadn’t read a word in several hours. The visit from Tilly and the magister had cheered her but now, as the shadows of night closed in upon her prison, all optimism left her. She could see no point at all in still trying to marshal a legal defense. No one would listen. They might pay lip service but in the end they would take from her what they wanted.
She turned her head lethargically at the sound of the key in the lock, expecting to see one of the uncommunicative guards with a supper tray.
“Hugh?” She rose from the stool, automatically closing the book over her finger to keep her page. “What brings you here?”
The lieutenant hovered in the doorway and Hugh said quietly, “Leave us, if you please.”
The man bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him. He did not turn the key.
“Do you bring me news of the girls?” Guinevere asked, laying down her book upon the stool. Her face was drawn and anxious. “Tilly and the magister brought me all else that I need, for which I thank you. How … how are they?”
“Impatient to see you. Their questions have gone beyond my ability to answer.” He stood by the door making no attempt to approach her. His eyes raked her face, took in every line of strain, read there every moment of the fear that had haunted her since he’d left her in the guardhouse at Hampton Court. His heart leaped towards her but he held himself still. He could feel the wall she’d thrown up between them, it was almost as solid as the door at his back.
“They cannot come here,” she said, gesturing emphatically to her grim surroundings.
“But you may go to them,” he said. “I have the king's orders for your release, as long as you’re willing to accept my hospitality.”
“How did you manage that?” Her eyes were suddenly narrowed, her posture as graceful and erect as ever.
Hugh shrugged. She’d find that out eventually but he was in no hurry to make the disclosure. “Henry is changeable. He can be manipulated with the right tools. I had them.”
Guinevere did not press for further information. “But to leave here I must accept you as my jailer?”
“In essence.”
She turned away, back to the fire. She felt so vulnerable, so aware of his body behind her, of the piercing light in his wonderful eyes that seemed to see into her very soul. She yearned for his arms, for his mouth upon hers, for the strength his loving would give her. And yet she was so afraid that in the end it was not strength but weakness that she would draw from him. This man was going to stand as witness against her and he would weaken her with every touch he laid upon her body.
She turned back to him, making her voice hard and bitter. “And must I expect to have my body violated by my jailer in exchange for his hospitality?”
The color drained from his face. His nose was suddenly pinched, a blue shade around his mouth. He raised a hand in an involuntary gesture, then it fell immediately to his side. His fingers curled into his palms as if only thus could he keep them from her.
Guinevere took a shuddering breath. She looked away, saying in a low voice, “Forgive me. I don’t know why I said such a thing.” She had wanted to hurt him, to drive him from her, but now she felt only self-disgust at the words that still rang in her ears.
Hugh said nothing for a minute. He was too angry to find instant forgiveness. He turned back to the door. “The bells will ring for curfew in a very few minutes. You have until then to make your decision. If you choose not to come with me, then I will have your children brought to you here. They may share with you the king's hospitality. I can’t hide the truth from them any longer myself. I suggest you decide what you wish to tell them.” He opened the door. “I’ll return for your answer when the bells ring.”
“Hugh?”
“Well?” He didn’t turn back to her but remained with his hand on the door latch.
“I will come with you.” What choice did she have? He had known that she could not subject her children to the Tower. Just as she could not allow them to suffer her absence without explanation.
“Then let us waste no more time,” he said, his voice still cold. “I’ll send someone for your things when we get home.”
Guinevere clasped her cloak at her throat. She glanced around the small room. Would they bring her back here after her trial? After she’d been found guilty? Would she await her execution here?
Then vigorously she dismissed the black thoughts. Her earlier depression receded, her natural optimism flooding back. While she had her freedom, anything was possible. She was going back to the girls. She’d need all her energies finding a way to explain the truth to them.
She glanced up at Hugh as she walked past him through the door. His expression was still grim. “Forgive me,” she said again. “It was a terrible thing to say.”
“Yes, it was,” he agreed. “I wish I knew what I’d done to deserve it.” He took her arm and directed her down the stairs to the green as the bells for curfew rang out.
London Bridge was quiet now as they were rowed beneath it. At curfew the bridge was closed to traffic between the north and south banks of the river. The city itself, though, was still very much alive, lights and noise drifting across the river from the taverns along its banks. The brothels that lined the South Bank were brilliantly lit and Guinevere could see the women hanging around the doors, calling raucously to the men who scrutinized them as they walked by.
“The Bankside brothels do a roaring trade,” Hugh observed, following her gaze.
“Only on the South Bank?”
“Mostly.”
They lapsed into silence. Guinevere wondered when if ever he would forgive her. But she had wanted to put a distance between them so maybe she shouldn’t try to heal the breach.
They left the barge at Blackfriars and in the same silence walked to Holborn. Guinevere's step quickened as they entered the grounds of Hugh's house. The door was flung wide and she was engulfed in her children's welcome.
“Mama … Mama … we missed you so!” Pippa shouted into her ear as she bent to embrace her. “Why were you in a jail? We talked to the king and he said we could see you … didn’t he, Pen?”
Pen, clutching her mother's free hand tightly, nodded, her emotions in such a turmoil of anxiety and relief that she couldn’t speak.
“You spoke to the king?” Guinevere looked at them in bewilderment. She glanced up at Hugh for explanation.
He gave a tiny shrug as if to say, Well, what would you have had me do?
Guinevere knew that whatever he had done, it had been the only possible way to achieve her release. And as she held her children to her, she could only be grateful.
17
Hugh came out of his house, absently stepping over Nutmeg who was playing intently with a fallen leaf on the step. The kitten's sister batted at a worm in a puddle on the driveway. The creatures were so pampered they hadn’t had to learn the difference between leaves, worms, and mice, Hugh reflected, but without too much rancor.
He strode down the drive towards the orchard where he knew Guinevere and the magister were walking. As always they would be intently discu
ssing the finest points of legal argument. In the three days since he’d brought her from the Tower, Hugh had never been alone with Guinevere. There was always someone with her; if not the girls, or the magister, it would be some member of her household. She retired to her chamber immediately after they had supped and remained closeted there until daybreak, when she would appear, polite but withdrawn, to continue reading with her children or working on her defense. She had surrounded herself with an impenetrable wall, protecting herself from the enemy.
It was driving him to distraction, not helped by his own confusion. After his afternoon in Matlock, he knew enough about her marriage to Timothy Hadlow and the circumstances surrounding his death to have a firm opinion; not so with Stephen Mallory's death. But he did know that a trial before the king's council would never get at the truth. He knew that his evidence, inconclusive though it was, would be all the grasping Privy Seal would need to condemn her.
He couldn’t blame her for retreating from him and yet he could feel whenever he was within a few feet of her how much she needed his support and friendship, how much she craved the loving that brought them both so much joy. But she would not yield. In her eyes, he and her own longings were the enemy, inextricable.
He heard them talking before he saw them as he turned under the trees. Magister Howard was expounding a point of law with meticulous detail.
Hugh called out before he came up with them, unwilling that she should even consider that he had been listening to their conversation. “Lady Guinevere?”
“Lord Hugh.” She greeted him with a cool smile as he stepped in front of them. The smile was cool but as always her eyes burned when they fell upon him.
Hugh wondered how long she could keep it up. He wondered how long he could keep his hands and his mouth from hers. At the moment he knew that if Magister Howard had not been bobbing beside her, he would have taken her in love, there on the damp, sweet-smelling grass beneath the gnarled branches of the apple trees, and she would have cried her passion and her need against his mouth as their bodies joined in that one long sweep of union. And he saw in her eyes that she knew it too. She moved infinitesimally closer to the magister, as if instinctively seeking protection.
Guinevere looked away. The power in his gaze was too much to bear. It was brighter and hotter than the sun; would, like the sun's rays, scorch her own eyes if she stared into them.
Magister Howard coughed behind his hand. Hugh greeted him. “I give you good morning, Magister.” He turned to Guinevere, said neutrally, “My lady, I have this last hour received notice from Privy Seal that you are commanded to appear before the king's council in the Star Chamber on the morrow.”
Her eyes darted to his. The color rushed into her cheeks and then drained as quickly. She put out a hand and instinctively he took it, his fingers tightening around hers.
“Tomorrow?”
“Aye.”
“I see.” She slipped her hand from his. Her color returned to normal, her voice when she spoke was steady. “Well, ’tis better to face the devil than anticipate him, I believe. May I have the magister's counsel in the Star Chamber?”
Hugh shook his head. “You must appear alone.”
Magister Howard put a hand on her arm, his own face drawn and tight. She laid her hand over his. “I am well prepared, Magister. I could not have had better preparation.”
“I don’t think we’ve left a stone unturned,” he muttered. “I can think of nothing, madam, that we’ve neglected.”
“Neither can I,” she said. “So let's talk no more of this for today. I’ll let my mind lie fallow.”
“Aye, madam. ’Tis always good to rest the mind before a challenge.” But the magister didn’t look any happier.
Guinevere was aware of a great calm. Her mind was a clear, cool space. There was no fear now, only relief. At last she was to go face-to-face with the demons that were Privy Seal and King Henry of England. She would win. She would admit no possibility of failure.
“You will be there, Lord Hugh?” she asked neutrally. “You will bear witness.”
“I am so commanded.”
“Of course.” She turned to follow the magister who had moved away through the trees.
Hugh put out an arm, resting his flat palm on the trunk of an apple tree, blocking her path. He spoke with some urgency. “A moment, Guinevere. There's something we have to discuss. It's not easy but it must be addressed.”
She stopped; his arm rested against her breast. Her nipples hardened. She said steadily, “Must it be here? Surely we can talk in the house.”
“No, we need to talk about this away from any other ears.” After a second he let his arm fall so that she was free to leave if she wished. He would not give her the opportunity to accuse him again of coercion.
Guinevere stayed where she was. She crossed her arms over her breast and looked out across the orchard where the neat alleys between the trees stretched towards the house. Whatever he had to say that was so private had to be personal. She didn’t want to hear it, but felt that she must.
Hugh felt for words. He had rehearsed this speech so many times in the last several days but now, when faced with the reality, his carefully chosen words flew to the four winds.
“Guinevere, I think it would be wise for you to draw up some document that will make clear your wishes for the girls.”
She drew a deep breath. “You think I will fail to prove my innocence? I assure you I do not intend to fail.”
He said with difficulty, “Some things you must take into account.”
She was silent. She knew he was right, but admitting it weakened her. Finally she said in a flat voice, “I don’t know what provision I’ll be permitted to make. Do you?”
He shook his head. “No, but I believe that if you make some provision, if you state your wishes, then there's some chance that I might be able to fight for them.”
“And you would fight for them.” It was a statement, not a question, and he took it as such.
“I would wish to make provision for their education, for dowries.” She steepled her fingers against her mouth, smelling the faint musky scent of her soft doeskin gloves, forcing herself to say out loud what had tormented her innermost thoughts since Hugh of Beaucaire had ridden into her courtyard at Mallory Hall. “Will this be allowed, do you think?”
“I don’t know. You can but try.” He hesitated, clapping his hands together as if there was a chill in the air, but the September day was mild. “I believe that if you put your daughters under my guardianship, that will not be contested.”
Guinevere looked down at the ground. She noticed how a blade of grass sparkled in a ray of sunshine that caught the drop of dew at its tip. She noticed the silvery gray trail of a slug across a fallen leaf. She felt the faint warmth of the autumnal sun on the back of her neck, penetrating the silken folds of her pale hood.
“You would care for them,” she said softly, her eyes still on the ground. “But you would have little means to provide for them. I know how important it is for you to gain my lands to provide for Robin. How can you supply the needs of my daughters when they’re left destitute?”
He spoke steadily, evenly, as if he was a neutral counselor giving her advice. “I believe that if you designate some reasonable part of your estates to provide for your children you’ll not find the king hostile. And Privy Seal must follow his king's instructions.”
Guinevere raised her head but she didn’t look at him. “I’ll consult with the magister. We’ll draw up a document that's legally sound. But it will need a notary's seal.”
“I will have it notarized for you before your trial. Give it to me in the morning.”
She nodded. “My thanks. I had hoped not to worry about this until afterwards, but you were right to remind me that the outcome is probably inevitable. Optimism is foolish, isn’t it?” She gave him a taut and bitter smile, then glided away through the trees.
It was inevitable, Hugh thought. It was right that she should ackn
owledge it. She had to make such decisions now, before the chance to do so was lost. He would not stand her friend if he didn’t point it out to her. So why did forcing the brutal truth upon her make him feel like her betrayer?
That night, Guinevere sat late with Magister Howard. He wrote at her dictation, his expression dark as the grave. He asked no questions, merely checked on legal points as they came up and occasionally offered a suggestion as to wording.
“And in conclusion,” Guinevere said, staring into the fire in the hall, “I leave to my faithful servants who have been with me since earliest childhood, the small manor of Cauldon in Derbyshire to dispose of as they see fit.”
“Madam, there is no need …” The magister held his quill above the parchment.
She smiled. “Yes, Magister, there is every need. I’ve no idea whether my wishes will be honored, but Lord Hugh has said he’ll do his best to ensure that they are.” She rose from the settle. “Let us go to bed now. It grows late.”
The magister carefully sanded his papers and handed them to her. “My lady is too generous.”
“Not so, my friend.” She folded the sanded sheets carefully and slipped them into the pocket of her gown. “I do what I can to repay kindnesses that could never adequately be repaid.” She touched his hand and then went to the stairs.
Tilly was awake, sitting beside the fire mending a tear in one of Pippa's gowns. “I gave the lassies a little belladonna, chuck,” she whispered apologetically. “Poor Pen is worn to a frazzle with worry an’ Pippa's full o’ tears.”
Guinevere had not told the girls about the murder charges she faced, but they knew now that matters were very serious. They understood their mother might be thrown into a jail again although no one had mentioned the possibility of her death. Guinevere could see little point in that. The prospect of losing her to prison was more than they could deal with.
She laid the parchments on the dresser then undressed with Tilly's help. She climbed into bed beside her children. They were curled tightly together, breathing heavily. Tilly snuffed the candle and settled back onto the truckle bed. Guinevere lay in bed, feeling her children's soft bodies beside her, unmoving as they slept the heavy sleep of the drugged. She prayed that they would not wake before she left for Westminster in the morning. If the worst happened, she would be permitted to make her farewells later. A hard lump of tears blocked her throat and she swallowed fiercely. She would not allow herself to think of defeat. Not yet. Not until she had to.