The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “Body o’ God!” he exclaimed. He folded his arms across his barrel chest and regarded her now with a hint of amusement.

  Hugh breathed again. For some reason, the king was in generous humor, willing to appreciate courage and honesty. Of course such appreciation could well be shortlived. A flare-up of his ulcer, an inconvenient itch, and His Highness could turn into the cruel and petty autocrat that was his other self.

  “I think we’ve heard enough of your inflammatory views, madam.” Privy Seal coughed dryly. “You deny the charges brought against you?”

  “I do, my lord.” She took her seat again.

  “Very well, then let us look at the evidence. Lord Hugh of Beaucaire, we would hear your findings.”

  Guinevere felt Hugh stand up behind her. Again she resisted the temptation to turn her head. The skin on her nape prickled, her scalp contracted, as she waited for the words that would damn her.

  Hugh faced Guinevere's accusers. Her passionate words still sounded in his head. Why should she not consider herself any man's equal when she manifestly was? Why should she not use the gifts God gave her to secure her future? A future that as she had said rested entirely in the hands of men. He had never before questioned this ordering of society, but Guinevere had sowed the seeds of doubt. Had she done so in the minds of any of her accusers? He looked at the hard countenance of Privy Seal, at the fanatical eyes of the bishop, and knew that there at least she had not.

  Had she murdered Stephen Mallory? Did it matter?

  He began to speak. In measured tones, he described his journey, his arrival at Mallory Hall, the scope of his investigations. “As you know, my lords, I was disputing Lady Mallory's ownership of some portion of her land. It seems however that my kinsman, Roger Needham, was indeed entitled to leave the land to his widow. I do not dispute the authenticity of the premarriage contract.”

  “Ah.” Privy Seal shrugged. “Well, that is up to you, Lord Hugh.”

  “Indeed,” Hugh responded.

  “My sympathies,” Privy Seal murmured.

  Hugh contented himself with a wry smile. “Lady Guinevere was in childbed when Roger Needham fell from his horse during a stag hunt. It's hard to implicate her in that death.”

  “Witchcraft,” muttered the bishop, hissing irritably between his teeth.

  “I could find no one in the countryside who would entertain any implication of witchcraft,” Hugh said definitely. “My men conducted extensive inquiries in the villages and among her tenants. There was not the whisper of a rumor, and indeed the suggestion met outrage.”

  “That's no proof of innocence.”

  “Maybe not, but neither is it proof of guilt,” Hugh said gently. “Lady Mallory's third husband died of the sweating sickness that swept the country that year. Again I could find no evidence to discredit that account. There was barely a family in the countryside who didn’t lose some members to the sickness.” He shrugged. “I can see no reason to suspect foul play.”

  “A conveniently timed death mayhap,” the bishop suggested eagerly. He cast Guinevere a brooding glance.

  Again Hugh shrugged. “You could believe that, my lord bishop. But I doubt justice or faith would be served.”

  The bishop stroked the bluish skin of his shaven chin and adjusted his priest's cap over his ears. “And what of the second husband? You have not mentioned him.”

  “Brought down by an unmarked arrow. His wife was at his side. Many men were abroad in the forest, their lord having made them free of the game for that day. It is more than likely that an unlucky arrow went wide of its mark,” Hugh said calmly. “No man would acknowledge it for fear of the consequences. But it is certain sure that Lady Mallory did not loose the arrow that killed her husband.”

  Cromwell frowned. “She could have arranged it.”

  “Indeed. But there's no evidence.”

  “But there's motive. Circumstances lend themselves to such a conclusion.”

  “From all that I could gather, Lord Hadlow and his wife were a devoted couple. They had two children. Lady Mallory was already wealthy in her own right and Lord Hadlow, of all her husbands, was the least affluent … although such matters are always relative,” Hugh added somewhat aridly, thinking of the riches of coal and iron to be mined on the land Hadlow had left his widow.

  He continued. “Hadlow was known to be generous with what he had, almost to a fault, and spent freely to ensure the comfort and well-being of his tenants. His wife according to all reports supported his expenditures and the very generous settlements he made on his death to his tenants. Settlements that certainly reduced her own holdings. In short, my lords, his death brought her considerable administrative burdens and less material wealth than one might have imagined. She continues her late husband's philanthropy and generosity to the tenants. I see no financial motive there.”

  Guinevere listened in near disbelief. So that was what he’d discovered at Matlock. Why hadn’t he told her he absolved her of that death, instead of leaving her to fret and wonder what surprises he was going to spring?

  But then she reminded herself that she had kept Needham's premarriage contract to herself. They had been playing a game of cat and mouse, each holding cards to their chests.

  In the face of Hugh's report it would be hard for this court to fail to absolve her of these three deaths, but Stephen's … ? Ah, there lay the snakepit.

  She closed her eyes for a minute, reliving that evening. She could hear his heavy lumbering step, his thick drunken voice berating her. She saw him raise his fist, lunge for her.

  Lips, teeth, eyes, cheekbones, he didn’t care what he hit. She put out her foot …

  “Lady Mallory?”

  She opened her eyes, aware that she was swaying slightly on her hard chair. Privy Seal had spoken sharply to her. “Forgive me,” she murmured.

  “Bring wine for the lady,” the king demanded. “She's uncommon pale. I’d not have her swoon under these questions, Thomas.”

  Thomas Cromwell heard the faint rebuke and his mouth thinned. The king, it seemed, had taken one of his arbitrary fancies to Lady Mallory. One minute he had her thrown into the Tower, and the next was listening to her insolence with every sign of amusement, and now he was defending her from her questioners. As if, indeed, these proceedings were not as much for Henry's material benefit as his Privy Seal's. Only the bishop could be absolved from a venal motive in pursuing the lady. Gardiner wanted a witch.

  A gentleman usher hurried from the chamber and returned within minutes with a cup of wine. He gave it to Guinevere who would have declined except that she thought she’d probably risked the king's displeasure enough for one day. To turn aside his kindness would be true insult. She sipped a little and handed the cup back to the usher.

  “Ah, that's better. There's a touch of color in your cheeks, my lady,” the king announced with satisfaction. “You may continue, Thomas.”

  Cromwell bowed to his king and turned again to Hugh, who in the interval had taken his seat again. Hugh couldn’t see her face but he had felt it in his own body when the weakness had washed through her. He could do nothing for her … not yet. But he ached to hold her, support her with his own strength.

  Had she killed Stephen Mallory? It didn’t matter.

  “Lord Hugh. What can you tell us of Lord Mallory's death?”

  Guinevere breathed slowly and evenly, holding the panic at bay.

  “Rather more than of the others, Lord Cromwell.”

  “Ah, good.” Privy Seal settled back in his chair. “Pray continue.”

  “Lord Mallory was often deep in drink.” Hugh chose his words carefully. Most of these lords knew what it was to be so incapacitated and wouldn’t consider it a failing. “He was a very large man. When he fell, it was sometimes impossible to get him back on his feet.”

  “He was drunk on the evening of his death?”

  “Aye. He had guests for dinner. My lieutenant spoke with them and they all swear that he was as drunk as they’d ever seen him.
His wife went to her chamber early in the evening. As I understand it, she found drunkenness offensive and didn’t scruple to tell her husband so.”

  There was a murmur of disapproval. Guinevere looked up at the gilded ceiling.

  “Lord Stephen's guests also felt that Lady Mallory showed a lack of respect for her husband … but they vouch for his drunkenness, and for his anger at his wife.”

  “A man does not care to be criticized in front of his friends,” one of the lords stated.

  “No, indeed not,” Hugh agreed. “One might consider that when it comes to motive for injury, Lord Mallory had it rather than his wife. A large man, my lords. By all accounts, a man very much taller and heavier than his wife. A man given to violence.”

  He paused to allow this to settle in.

  “So what are you telling us happened that night?” the bishop demanded testily. “Lord Mallory was entitled to punish his wife for her insolence. Did he do so?”

  “Lady Mallory was not in her bedchamber when he went to find her at the end of the evening,” Hugh said. “She was with her steward and tiring woman in the steward's pantry going over household accounts. It seems that Lord Mallory, overdrunk and in a fearful rage, somehow fell from the open window of his wife's chamber. The sill is low. I can find no other explanation.”

  Guinevere tried to make sense of what he was saying. He was describing it exactly as it had happened with one vital exception. One exception and the one little lie that would exonerate her. No mention of deceptions, of the lies of her household. Nothing.

  “So, Lord Hugh, you believe Lady Mallory to be innocent of all wrongdoing?” Privy Seal asked into the attentive hush.

  “Lady Mallory was not guilty of causing the deaths of any of her husbands,” Hugh said steadily.

  Abruptly Privy Seal leaned forward across the table, one finger pointing accusingly at Guinevere. “Your husband, Stephen Mallory, was friend and supporter of the traitor Robert Aske,” he stated, articulating each word slowly and deliberately.

  The king sat up, his air of amusement vanished. “What's this?”

  “The lady's husband supported the Pilgrimage of Grace, Highness,” Privy Seal said smoothly. “ ’Tis reasonable to assume that his wife was also involved in that treason. Aske's rotting carcass hangs in chains in York, as befits such a traitor. Stephen Mallory is dead. But his wife, a lady who one must assume took her husband's beliefs and followed the course he set, sits before us.”

  “Your pardon, my lord, but I fail to understand why you would make such an assumption about Lady Guinevere,” Hugh said, his smile unwavering. “As we’ve already established, the lady has a mind of her own. Her independent nature is what brought her before you today. I would wager that she would be the last wife to take on beliefs that were not her own.”

  The king frowned and turned his heavy head towards Guinevere. “Was your husband a supporter of the traitor Aske, madam?”

  Guinevere was struggling with this new threat, which seemed to have come out of nowhere. She shook her head. “He knew Aske, Highness. But dropped all association with him as soon as the Pilgrimage of Grace started.” Her lip curled slightly. “Stephen Mallory was not known for his loyalty or for the strength of his convictions, my lords.”

  “And you, madam? What are your views on Aske and his Pilgrimage?” Henry's gaze seemed to pierce her skull.

  Now she must be careful. If ever there was a moment for deception and diplomacy this was it.

  “Ill-judged, Highness,” Guinevere said swiftly. “One must respect sincerely held convictions, I believe, but Mr. Aske struck me as more interested in fomenting rebellion and enjoying the power of leadership than in following his heart.”

  She sent a silent prayer for forgiveness to the wretched man who had died such a hideous death for his beliefs. But if she was to save herself from a like fate, she had no choice but to dissemble.

  The king nodded slowly. “I have no further interest in Aske and his rebellions. The price has been paid.” He glanced at Cromwell, who was pursing his mouth in clear disappointment, then turned his gaze onto Hugh.

  “So, Lord Hugh, you do not believe the lady murdered any of her husbands?”

  “I do not, Highness. And I am prepared to marry her myself to prove my conviction.”

  A collective gasp ran around the Star Chamber. The bishop sat up, pulling at his cap; Privy Seal looked first astounded and then furious. It took several seconds for his expression to assume its customary arrogant impassivity. The king leaned forward in his chair, his little eyes bright in the doughy cheeks.

  “Well, well, Hugh of Beaucaire. That is confidence indeed. You have no fear of poison, of sorcery, of the knife in the night.” He chuckled deep in his chest.

  Hugh regarded Guinevere's still figure, her straight back, the erect set of her head. He thought of her as she had been last night. So afraid, and yet so full of courage. He declared quietly, “I have no such fears, Highness.”

  “Well, well. So, my lady …” The king turned to Guinevere. “What say you to Lord Hugh's proposal?”

  19

  Witchcraft! Sorcery!” declared the bishop, pointing his finger accusingly at Guinevere. “She has woven her evil spells around Hugh of Beaucaire.”

  There was an instant of silence, then Hugh began to laugh, a deep rumble of amusement. He stood with his feet braced, his hands resting on the bar in front of his seat. And he laughed, his brilliant blue eyes alight with merriment as he regarded the bishop. It took a minute, then there came slight chuckles and half smiles from the men who knew Hugh. The idea that this practical, squarely built soldier who exuded power, both mental and physical … the very idea that Hugh of Beaucaire could succumb to a woman's sorcery was clearly absurd. The grim solemnity of the chamber dissipated.

  Privy Seal's thin mouth seemed to disappear and he stroked his chin with restless fingers. The king's gaze flicked between the bishop and Privy Seal with more than a hint of malice at their discomfiture. It was very rare to see either of these men outmaneuvered in their plots.

  “My lord bishop, I can assure you that I am far from bewitched by Lady Mallory,” Hugh declared. “I have spent close on two months in her company and I am not blind to her faults. She's both arrogant and stubborn in her opinions and in the way she conducts her affairs. But those faults do not make her either a witch or a murderer. I have no intention of allowing her to dictate the terms of any contract we might enter into. But I do believe in her innocence and her virtue. And I doubt any man in this chamber would disagree that she is a very beautiful woman. One any man would be proud to claim as his wife.”

  “And when one adds her riches to her beauty, you have an irresistible combination,” the king rumbled. “I see nothing of witchcraft in that. We can well understand your desire to wed the lady, Lord Hugh, if you’re certain you won’t join your predecessors sooner rather than later.” He raised an eyebrow and Hugh merely bowed in response.

  The king stroked his beard again. There was a tense silence in the chamber as they awaited his judgment. Finally he spoke almost ruminatively, almost with a question behind the statement. “So it seems we must find the lady innocent of all charges?”

  An imperceptible murmur ran around the chamber, almost like a collective sigh. Hugh was aware that his mouth was very dry, his neck stiff as he held himself rigid and un-moving. He had won. Or had he?

  “Lady Guinevere, how do you answer Lord Hugh's proposal?” Henry repeated, his gaze swinging back to her, as she sat, white-faced and motionless on her chair.

  Guinevere was in shock. Her emotions whirled in a dizzying turmoil. Her relief at this reprieve was so intense that she could neither think nor speak coherently. She struggled to understand what Hugh had said. Why had he saved her? He had lied for her. This duty-bound man of such rigid principle, such a pronounced sense of honor, had lied to save her. And she knew in her heart that he was not convinced of her innocence. Even when they made such wonderful love, she knew he still doubted he
r.

  Her thoughts tumbled wildly and she was unaware that she was staring blankly at the king. Hugh had saved her because he wanted her wealth. He had said as much. He had said that he would not permit her to write any contract they entered into. He would dictate the terms himself. He would marry her and save her from death, but at the expense of her independence.

  But what choice did she have? Only Hugh could save her. Her own eloquence, her legal arguments would avail her nothing. But Hugh of Beaucaire was so highly regarded, his honesty and probity so absolute that no one would dare to question his declaration.

  He would marry her and save her from death but at the expense of her independence.

  “Madam, you appear to have lost your tongue,” the king said, and now there was a touch of impatience in his voice, the amusement gone from his eye.

  What choice did she have?

  Guinevere forced her thoughts into some order, her tongue into motion. She rose slowly. “Your Highness, I am overwhelmed by Lord Hugh's offer. Please forgive me if my silence seemed ungrateful. It was quite the opposite. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.”

  “Ah, that is prettily said.” The king beamed. When he was inclined to be generous and merciful he found the world a very pleasant place and he took delight in using his power to make others happy. He was drawn to the lady, and he remembered her daughters, such pretty little things and so sweetly spoken. And he would like to see Lord Hugh gain some material reward, particularly when it didn’t have to come out of the privy purse. Yes, it was very pleasant to use his power to good purpose.

  “So, my lady, you accept this offer of marriage?”

  Hugh held his breath. Despite her murmurings about gratitude, he was by no means certain that she would take the way out he had offered her. Sometimes he thought she had to be the most stubborn woman who ever lived. But surely her intelligence, her sense of self-preservation, her fear for her children, would make her accept him.