The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “What a hornet you are!” He reached for her and despite her resistance drew her into his embrace. “It is as it must be, Guinevere, if we’re to pull these coals out of the fire. Regardless of any benefit to me, you must see that this settlement is politically expedient. If we’re to perform this play convincingly, then the scenes must pass muster. Privy Seal will not let go easily.”

  Guinevere knew she had to concede. Hugh was honest at least. And he said he loved her. Perhaps he did. Did she love him? Was it love that created this strange connection between them? She felt passion, lust, certainly. Even now in her anger and disappointment, she desired him. The heady scent of his skin and hair, the power of the body against her own, the strength in the arms that held her all sent her senses whirling, set the pulse deep in her belly to beating, her loins to fill with a languorous warmth.

  She knew him to be tender, loving, humorous. She knew him to be harsh, judgmental, rigid in his sense of duty and honor.

  He had lied to save her.

  “It is as it must be,” she repeated softly, accepting defeat.

  He cupped her face in both hands as he kissed her. It was a kiss of affirmation, of possession, of promise. And she thought that perhaps in defeat there was also victory. She had no need to fight him anymore, therefore no further need to resist him. In their loving they were both victors.

  As he raised his head and they drew back from each other she said, “You lied for me. Is that because you believe I didn’t kill Stephen Mallory?”

  He regarded her in silence for a minute before asking, “Did you?”

  Had she? A little frown crossed her brow. Had she intended to trip him? As always it was a question she could not answer. But Hugh required an answer.

  “No,” she said.

  Hugh didn’t believe her. He had seen her frown, sensed her hesitation. But he had cast the die.

  “The issue is moot now,” he said with a shrug of his square shoulders. “It matters little whether I believe in your innocence or not. It matters only that others believe that I do.”

  He watched her face for some indication that his lack of conviction discomfited her. If she was truly innocent then surely she would be angry, would try to convince him. But her expression gave nothing away and she remained silent.

  He moved back to the door. “Are we agreed? Can we finish with this business now?”

  “It seems I have little choice,” she responded. “I would prefer to get it over with quickly.”

  “I also.” He held the door for her.

  Downstairs, Guinevere signed the papers without further speech. The magister was clearly distressed, his head bobbed, and he looked more like a carp than ever. But in the teeth of his lady's silence he made no comment and the business was concluded grimly with only the sound of the quill scratching on parchment.

  “I will take this directly to Lord Privy Seal, Lord Hugh.” Master Newberry sanded the parchment before folding it. He melted wax and dropped a blob on the fold. He held it for Hugh to press his signet ring into the soft wax.

  “The marriage is to take place tomorrow forenoon at Hampton Court,” Hugh said. “The king's instructions came this morning. The queen is most anxious to attend.”

  “Such an honor,” the lawyer muttered, one eye shooting into the corner of the hall, the other remaining on the sealed and folded parchment in his hand.

  “Quite so,” agreed Hugh.

  “We’re coming to the wedding, aren’t we, Mama?”

  They all turned at the sound of Pippa's voice. After the grim silence it was as refreshing as rain after a drought.

  “Where did you spring from?” Hugh inquired.

  “I was following Moonshine. She ran in here. I know you said we should stay outside, Mama, but I had to catch her.” Pippa clutched the silver kitten and regarded her mother somewhat anxiously. “I didn’t hear anything,” she said. “Only just what Lord Hugh said about the wedding tomorrow.”

  Guinevere wasn’t sure she believed her daughter. Pippa heard much that she should not. But it seemed easier to let it go. “Where's Pen?”

  “She's with Robin in the stables. Robin's cleaning tack. They won’t talk to me. They’ve got secrets.” The child pulled a disconsolate face.

  “I don’t think they’ve got secrets, sweetheart.” Guinevere drew the child against her knees. “It's just that they have to work some things out together.”

  Pippa nodded and forgot about her sister and Robin, reverting to a more important topic. “We are coming to the wedding, aren’t we?”

  Guinevere glanced at Hugh who shook his head. “The king's command didn’t include children. You and I are the only ones bidden to this particular event.”

  “I’m sorry, sweeting.” Guinevere stroked Pippa's cheek. “But we’ll not be gone long.”

  “And we’ll celebrate when we get back in the afternoon,” Hugh said. “A big wedding feast.”

  Pippa's face split into a delighted grin. “Oh, yes. And me and Pen, we can decorate the hall, just like we do for Christmas and Twelfth Night. And we can have marchpane on the cake.”

  Guinevere had wanted the ceremony to be as brief and businesslike as possible, as befitted the spirit of their contract. A grand wedding feast didn’t figure into her plans at all, but now in the face of Pippa's delight she didn’t have the heart to refuse.

  “A small wedding feast,” she demurred.

  “Not a bit of it,” Hugh said cheerfully. “This is most definitely an occasion for the fatted calf.”

  “A calf?” Pippa said with a puzzled frown. “At Mama's wedding feast to Lord Mallory we had peacock and venison and carp and all sorts of sweetmeats. But we didn’t have a calf.”

  “I think your mother might prefer it if we do things a little differently this time,” Hugh told her.

  “But there’ll be music and dancing,” Pippa said. “There's always music and dancing at a wedding.”

  “Go and talk to Pen about it,” Guinevere said, gently putting the child from her.

  Pippa ran off and the room seemed strangely empty. Master Newberry coughed and gathered up his papers. “I’ll take this to Privy Seal then, my lord.”

  Hugh nodded. “If there's an answer, bring it to me straightway.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lawyer bowed punctiliously to Guinevere, nodded at the magister, and hastened away.

  “Music and dancing,” Hugh mused. “I must seek out musicians.”

  “There's no need for that,” Guinevere said firmly.

  “There is no need for music; there is no need for peacocks or fatted calves. There's no reason why the day should be anything special. We’ll let the children decorate the hall if they wish, but there's no need for anything else.”

  “On the contrary,” Hugh said, his eyes gleaming with a certain mischievous malice. “There's every need. I have only had one wedding in my life. I can understand that you might find them rather … rather mundane shall we say? … but they’re still quite a novelty for me.”

  Magister Howard was abruptly taken with a violent fit of coughing. With a gesture of excuse, he hurried away, burying his face in a large and none-too-clean kerchief.

  “Your sense of humor strikes me as somewhat misplaced,” Guinevere declared to the now openly grinning Hugh. “You’ve won your victory, must you gloat, too?”

  “For some reason, I don’t feel victorious,” he said, smiling at her now, his eyes warm. “I feel pleasure, eager anticipation, certainty that my life from here on will never be boring. But, no, I don’t feel victorious.”

  His gaze pulled her in. The invitation was irresistible. She stepped back, one hand lifted slightly as if to ward him off.

  “Come to me,” he said, and his expression now was utterly serious, utterly compelling. “Come to me, Guinevere.”

  “No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “No. You cannot have everything your own way.”

  He frowned, the light fading in his eye. “I don’t want this just for me. Y
ou know that.”

  She did. Their loving had no place in the conflicted world they shared. There was no dissension, no confrontation, when their bodies and minds were joined in love. But the stubborn streak that kept her strong kept her from him now. She turned to leave the hall.

  “God's bones! You are the most obstinate woman!” Hugh declared to her back, wanting to shake some acceptance into her.

  She said over her shoulder as she prepared to go up the stairs, “I daresay you’ll learn to live with it, my lord.” “I daresay I shall,” Hugh muttered.

  Guinevere dressed in black for her wedding. The girls sat on the bed and chattered as she dressed. Their artless prattle flowed over her, soothing her. It was for this that she was about to be wed at the king's bidding in the chapel at Hampton Court. It was for them that she had lost her independence. If she dwelled upon the injustice of a situation she had done nothing to deserve, she would never find peace. She must think only of what she had gained. Their futures were secure.

  Hugh knocked upon her door. His turquoise gown was slashed with black and trimmed with ermine. His doublet, fashionably wadded, was of black velvet, his hose turquoise, molding the muscles of his calves and thighs. He wore a velvet cap with the brim turned up at the side and fastened with a sapphire broach.

  “Oh, you’re so smart!” Pippa exclaimed.

  “Yes, indeed,” Pen agreed.

  “My thanks, little maids.” He bowed solemnly, then turned to Guinevere. He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I too should have dressed for a funeral.”

  “I am a widow,” she responded.

  “For the moment,” he agreed. “The king's barge awaits us.”

  “The king sent his barge for us?” Guinevere was startled out of her distant manner.

  “Well, it's his musicians’ barge, but they were instructed to stop at Blackfriars for us,” Hugh told her. “It's still a mark of some consideration.”

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  Hugh chuckled. “Should the king decide to honor us with his presence at the ceremony, don’t forget to tell him how overwhelmed you are.”

  “I’ll endeavor to remember.”

  “May we come and see the king's barge?” Pippa jumped off the bed.

  “I see no reason why not. Robin can accompany us and escort you home. Are you ready, Guinevere?”

  She drew on soft kid gloves embroidered with seed pearls. Tilly laid a cloak of black velvet over her shoulders. It was thick and warm and the black was as deep and rich as the darkest night.

  “I am ready.” She went to the door before Hugh could offer her his arm.

  Hugh spoke to Tilly. “While we’re gone will you have Lady Guinevere's belongings moved to my chamber? You will know how best to arrange matters. You may make whatever changes to my chamber that you think necessary for your mistress's comfort.”

  Tilly nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

  “There's no need for changes, Tilly,” Guinevere said from the door. Why did she still find it so difficult to accept the permanence of this future?

  “I’ll see, chuck,” Tilly said. “You just leave it to me.”

  It was hardly the first time she’d had such arrangements to deal with, she reflected, once she was alone. But for all Lady Guinevere's apparent reluctance for this match, and the magister's vigorous disapproval of the settlements, Tilly was optimistic. Her lady had made one love match before, and there were elements in this one that reminded the tiring woman of Guinevere's marriage to Timothy Hadlow.

  Just so long as this one didn’t end in a premature death.

  21

  The queen was a soft-faced fair woman of twenty-eight summers. She sat in her closet adjoining the Chapel Royal at Hampton, her hands busy with the purse she was netting.

  She smiled warmly as Guinevere was presented. “Lady Mallory, such a happy occasion. My Lord, the king, knows how much I enjoy weddings.”

  “Your Highness is very kind to honor our wedding with your presence.” Guinevere curtsied low. “Particularly at such a time.” Her eyes skimmed the nine-month bulge beneath the queen's barely laced stomacher.

  The queen caught the look and lightly brushed a hand over her belly, her smile growing complacent. “You have children, I believe.”

  “I have two daughters, Madam.”

  The queen nodded and stated, “I will present My Lord, the king, with a son within the week.”

  “Your people's thoughts will be with you, Madam,” Guinevere said.

  Jane smiled, the vague and distant smile of a woman whose mind was turned inward upon the life she carried. “My son will gladden his father's heart,” she said.

  “Indeed, My Lady.” Guinevere had carried three children to term. Her son had been stillborn. Her daughters had lived. She had suffered two miscarriages, both early in pregnancy, and she counted herself fortunate for that. She had grieved long and hard for her son although she had not held his living body in her arms. Now, as she looked at the gravid queen she could only wish her the safe delivery of the son that would ensure her the king's continued love and protection.

  “I wish you health and joy, Madam,” she said softly.

  The queen's smile became focused. “As I wish you, Lady Guinevere.” She set aside her netting and rose from her chair, her women hastening to help her, to straighten her skirts, to place a shawl over her shoulders.

  “My chaplain will conduct the service in the chapel. I will attend above.”

  Guinevere curtsied low and waited for the queen and her ladies to leave the apartment for the queen's room in the Royal Pew that looked down upon the body of the chapel.

  Hugh had not been summoned to the queen's closet and awaited Guinevere in the chapel. There was no one there but the queen's chaplain. There was a stir from the rear of the chapel and he turned to see Privy Seal in his furred gown enter.

  “Lord Hugh, I would not fail to attend your nuptials,” Thomas Cromwell said, his expression impassive, his eyes hard and arrogant, as he walked up the narrow aisle to where Hugh stood. “You have snared the widow and her fortune very well, I believe.” A thin smile flickered over his lips. “Settlements worthy of the most … most avaricious gentleman. I congratulate you. I could not have written them better myself.” He touched Hugh's arm.

  Hugh resisted the urge to step back in revulsion from the man who seemed to exude an evil avarice of his own. Instead he smiled, bowed in acknowledgment of the apparent compliment, and said, “I don’t see my lord bishop. Will he not grace the proceedings?”

  “Gardiner wants a witch,” Thomas said airily. “You failed to give him one. So he has no further interest.”

  “And you, My Lord Cromwell? Have you still an interest in the widow?” Hugh glanced idly upwards as if he had little interest in Privy Seal's answer. Instead, he seemed to be admiring the great vaulted ceiling newly installed by the king; the beautiful moldings, the carved and gilded pendants, the brilliant turquoise studded with golden stars.

  Privy Seal smiled coldly. “For as long as the lady remains unwidowed after this ceremony, Lord Hugh, I have no reason for interest.”

  Hugh merely raised an eyebrow, his gaze still fixed upon the ceiling. His eye caught a movement behind one of the bay windows that looked down upon the body of the chapel. It was the king's private room in the Royal Pew where he sat during services.

  Privy Seal followed Hugh's gaze and said softly, “Ah, it seems the king has decided after all to be present. I shall go and join him.” He turned to make his way above just as Guinevere entered from the queen's closet.

  “My Lady Guinevere.” Privy Seal bowed. “May I offer my congratulations.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She offered a hint of a curtsy but her eyes were cold and challenging as they rested on his round arrogant face.

  An unpleasant smile flickered on his mouth. Privy Seal was accustomed to inspiring fear, not defiance, in the king's subjects. He gave her a tiny nod as if acknowledging the challenge and continued on his way.

&
nbsp; Guinevere stepped up beside Hugh and stood quiet and still, her hands in her habitual posture clasped against her black skirts. The queen's chaplain said the words that united them; they made the ritual responses. They knelt for the Mass; they rose.

  Guinevere was no longer a widow.

  She stood beside her husband, for a moment too stunned by the speed at which her life had changed to move or speak. She became aware of the glorious light flooding through the stained glass of the great double window at the east end of the chapel. It caught Hugh's profile, touched the lobe of his ear with rose color. The lobe had a tiny crease at the base. Her tongue moved inside her mouth. Her lips moved. She thought of her tongue flicking that soft pendant skin. She thought of how it tasted, of how soft and delicate it was, like a baby's skin. She thought of her teeth grazing over it, nibbling it. She thought of how sensitive his ears were. When she kissed them, explored them, Hugh would wriggle, would murmur, would make little protesting sounds that were not protests at all.

  He turned to look at her and saw that her skin was delicately flushed, her lips slightly parted. The sun through the stained glass lay across her cheek, accentuated the dark shadow of her eyelashes, the curve of her brow. The line of her pale hair visible below the dark hood and the white coif took on a pink tinge, like fire opals.

  She looked up and her eyes were almost black as they met his.

  “Madam wife,” he murmured, bowing over her hand. He flicked a glance upwards, and the light in his eyes was pure mischief.

  “My lord,” she responded as softly, tilting her head to one side with a glance as wicked as his own.

  “I doubt that, but we shall see,” he whispered and she laughed, a soft, delighted, totally unexpected chime in the hushed chapel.

  The chaplain looked vaguely pained as if such laughter denied the solemnity and significance of the words he had just spoken over their heads.

  A young woman appeared beside them. “Lord Hugh … Lady Guinevere … My congratulations. Our Lady, the queen, wishes to speak with you.” She gestured towards the door at the rear of the chapel that led to the queen's closet. “Would you follow me?”