The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “Aye, ’tis passing strange,” the king agreed. “We should investigate these deaths, I believe, Lord Cromwell.”

  Privy Seal nodded. “Hugh of Beaucaire, if it pleases Your Highness, has agreed to undertake the task.”

  “I have no objection. He has an interest himself after all … but …” Here the king paused, frowning. “One thing I find most intriguing. How is it that the lady has managed to persuade four knights, gentlemen of family and property, to agree to her terms of marriage?”

  “Witchcraft, Highness.” The Bishop of Winchester in his scarlet robes spoke up for the first time. “There can be no other explanation. Her victims were known to be learned, in full possession of their faculties at the time they made the acquaintance of Lady Guinevere. Only a man bewitched would agree to the terms upon which she insisted. I request that the woman be brought here for examination, whatever findings Lord Hugh makes.”

  “Of what countenance is the woman? Do we know?”

  “I have here a likeness, made some two years after her marriage to Roger Needham. She may have changed, of course.” Hugh handed his sovereign a painted miniature set in a diamond-studded frame.

  The king examined the miniature. “Here is beauty indeed,” he murmured. “She would have had to have changed considerably to be less than pleasing now.” He looked up, closing his large paw over the miniature. “I find myself most interested in making the acquaintance of this beautiful sorceress, who seems also to be an accomplished lawyer. Whether she be murderer or not, I will see her.”

  “It will be a journey of some two months, Highness. I will leave at once.” Hugh of Beaucaire bowed, waited for a second to see if the sovereign's giant hand would disgorge the miniature, and when it became clear that it was lost forever, bowed again and left the chamber.

  It was hot and quiet in the forest. A deep somnolence had settled over the broad green rides beneath the canopy of giant oaks and beeches. Even the birds were still, their song silenced by the heat. The hunting party gathered in the grove, listening for the horn of a beater that would tell them their quarry had been started.

  “Will there be a boar, Mama?” A little girl on a dappled pony spoke in a whisper, hushed and awed by the expectant silence around her. She held a small bow, an arrow already set to the string.

  Guinevere looked down at her elder daughter and smiled. “There should be, Pen. I have spent enough money on stocking the forest to ensure a boar when we want one.”

  “My lady, ’tis a hot day. Boar go to ground in the heat,” the chief huntsman apologized, his distress at the possibility of failing the child clear on his countenance.

  “But it's my birthday, Greene. You promised me I should shoot a boar on my birthday,” the child protested, still in a whisper.

  “Not even Greene can produce miracles,” her mother said. There was a hint of reproof in her voice and the child immediately nodded and smiled at the huntsman.

  “Of course I understand, Greene. Only …” she added, rather spoiling the gracious effect, “only I had told my sister I would shoot a boar on my birthday and maybe I won’t, and then she will be bound to shoot one on hers.”

  Knowing the Lady Philippa as he did, the chief huntsman had little doubt that she would indeed succeed where her sister might not and shoot her first boar on her tenth birthday. Fortunately he was spared a response by the sound of a horn, high and commanding, then a great crashing through the underbrush. The hounds leaped forward on their leashes with shrill barks. The horses shifted on the grass, sniffed the wind, tensed in expectation.

  “ ’Tis not one of our horns,” the huntsman said, puzzled.

  “But it's our boar,” Lady Guinevere stated. “Come, Pen.” She nudged her milk-white mare into action and galloped across the glade towards the trees where the crashing of the undergrowth continued. The child on her pony followed and Greene blew on his horn. The now unleashed dogs raced forward at the summons, the huntsmen chasing after them.

  They broke through the trees onto a narrow path. The boar, his little red eyes glowing, stood at bay. He snorted and lowered his head with its wickedly sharp tusks.

  Pen raised her bow, her fingers quivering with excitement. The boar charged straight for the child's pony.

  Guinevere raised her own bow and loosed an arrow just as another flew from along the path ahead of them. The other caught the boar in the back of the neck. Pen in her mingled terror and excitement loosed her own arrow too late and it fell harmlessly to the ground. Her mother's caught the charging animal in the throat. Despite the two arrows sticking from its body, the boar kept coming under the momentum of his charge. Pen shrieked as the animal leaped, the vicious tusks threatening to drive into her pony's breast.

  Then another arrow landed in the back of the boar's neck and it crashed to the ground beneath the pony's feet. The pony reared in terror and bolted, the child clinging to its mane.

  A horseman broke out of the trees at the side of the ride and grabbed the pony's reins as it raced past. As the animal reared again, eyes rolling, snorting wildly, the man caught the child up from the saddle just as she was about to shoot backwards to the ground. The pony pawed and stamped. Other men rode out of the trees and gathered on the path facing Guinevere's party.

  Pen looked up at the man who held her on his saddle. She didn’t think she had ever seen such brilliant blue eyes before.

  “All right?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded, still too shaken and breathless to speak.

  Guinevere rode up to them. “My thanks, sir.” She regarded the man and his party with an air of friendly inquiry. “Who rides on Mallory land?”

  The man leaned over and set Pen back on her now quiet pony. Instead of answering Guinevere's question, he said, “I assume you are the Lady Guinevere.”

  There was something challenging in his gaze. Guinevere thought as had her daughter that she had never seen such brilliant blue eyes, but she read antagonism in the steady look. Her friendly smile faded and her chin lifted in instinctive response. “Yes, although I don’t know how you would know that. You are on my land, sir. And you are shooting my boar.”

  “It seemed you needed help shooting it yourself,” he commented.

  “My aim was true,” she said with an angry glitter in her eye. “I needed no help. And if I did, I have my own huntsmen.”

  The man looked over at the group of men clustered behind her, at the dogs they held once again on tight leashes. He shrugged as if dismissing them as not worth consideration.

  Guinevere felt her temper rise. “Who trespasses on Mallory land?” she demanded.

  He turned his bright blue eyes upon her, regarding her thoughtfully. His gaze traveled over her as she sat tall in the saddle. He took in the elegance of her gown of emerald green silk with its raised pattern of gold vine leaves, the stiffened lace collar that rose at her nape to frame her small head, the dark green hood with its jeweled edge set back from her forehead to reveal hair the color of palest wheat. Her eyes were the astounding purple of ripe sloes. The miniature had not done her justice, he thought. Or perhaps it was maturity that accentuated the grace and beauty of the young girl in the portrait.

  His gaze turned to the milk-white mare she rode, noticing its bloodlines in the sloping pasterns, the arched neck. A lady of wealth and discrimination, whatever else she might be.

  “Hugh of Beaucaire,” he said almost lazily.

  So he had come in person. No longer satisfied with laying claim to her land by letter, he had come himself. It certainly explained his antagonism. Guinevere contented herself with an ironically raised eyebrow and returned his stare, seeing in her turn a man in his vigorous prime, square built, square jawed, his thick iron-gray hair cropped short beneath the flat velvet cap, his weathered complexion that of a man who didn’t spend his time skulking with politics in the corners and corridors of palaces.

  “This is my son, Robin.” Hugh gestured and a boy rode out of the group of men behind him and came up beside his fa
ther. He had his father's blue eyes.

  “I claim the lands between Great Longstone and Wardlow for my son,” stated Hugh of Beaucaire.

  “And I deny your claim,” Guinevere replied. “My legal right to the land is indisputable.”

  “Forgive me, but I do dispute it,” he said gently.

  “You are trespassing, Hugh of Beaucaire. You have done my daughter a service and I would hate to drive you off with the dogs, but I will do so if you don’t remove yourself from my lands.” She beckoned the huntsmen to bring up the eager, straining hounds.

  “So you throw down the glove,” he said in a musing tone.

  “I have no need to do so. You are trespassing. That is all there is to it.”

  Pen shifted in her saddle. She met the gaze of the boy, Robin. He was looking at least as uncomfortable as she was at this angry exchange between their parents.

  “Greene, let loose the dogs,” Guinevere said coldly.

  Hugh raised an arresting hand. “We will discuss this at some other time, when we are a little more private.” He gathered his reins to turn his horse.

  “There is nothing to discuss.” She gathered up her own reins. “I cannot help but wonder at the sense of a man who would ride this great distance on an idle errand.”

  She gestured back along the path with her whip. “If you ride due west you will leave Mallory land in under an hour. Until some months past, you would have found hospitality at the monastery of Arbor, but it was dissolved in February. The monks seek shelter themselves now.” Her voice dripped contempt.

  “You would question His Highness's wisdom in dissolving the monasteries, madam? I would question your sense, in such a case. Robert Aske is dangerous company to keep.”

  “I merely point out the inconvenience to benighted travelers,” she said sweetly. “Farewell, Hugh of Beaucaire. Do not be found upon Mallory land two hours hence.”

  She turned her horse on the ride. “Come, Pen. Greene, have the boar prepared for the spit. It will serve to furnish Lady Pen's birthday feast.”

  “But I didn’t shoot it myself, Mama,” Pen said with the air of one steadfastly refusing to take credit that was not her due. Her eyes darted to Robin. The lad smiled.

  “But you shot at it,” he said. “I saw your arrow fly. The boar went for your pony's throat. You were very brave.”

  “My congratulations on your birthday, Lady Penelope.” Hugh smiled at the child and Guinevere was brought up short. The smile transformed the man, sent all his antagonism scuttling, revealed only a warmth and humor that she would not have believed lay behind the harsh soldierly demeanor. His eyes, brilliant before with challenge and dislike, were now amused and curiously gentle. It was disconcerting.

  “I bid you farewell,” she repeated as coldly as before. “Pen, come.” She reached over and took the child's reins, turning the pony on the path.

  Pen looked over her shoulder at the boy on his chestnut gelding. She gave him a tentative smile and he half raised a hand in salute.

  Hugh watched Guinevere and her daughter ride off with their escort. The huntsmen followed, the boar slung between two poles.

  The miniature had not done her justice, he reflected again. Those great purple eyes were amazing, bewitching.

  And her hair, as silvery pale as ashes! What would it be like released from the coif and hood to tumble unrestrained down her back?

  “Father?”

  Hugh turned at Robin's hesitant voice. “You found the little maid appealing, Robin?” he teased.

  The boy blushed to the roots of his nut-brown hair. “No … no, indeed not, sir. I was wondering if we were leaving Mallory land now?”

  Hugh shook his head, a smile in his eyes, a curve to his mouth. This was not a particularly pleasant smile. “Oh no, my son. We have work to do. Lady Mallory has only just made my acquaintance. I foresee that before many hours are up, she will be heartily wishing she had never heard the name of Hugh of Beaucaire.”

  He touched spur to his horse.

  “Did you shoot it … did you shoot the boar, Pen?” A girl with wildly flying plaits and disheveled gown came racing across the packhorse bridge over the River Wye as the hunting party entered the grounds of Mallory Hall through the great oak studded doors of the stone gatehouse.

  Pen glanced at her mother, who said swiftly, “We have a fine boar for the feast, Pippa. The men are bringing it.”

  “But did you shoot it, Pen?” the child insisted, standing squarely on the path, looking intently up at her sister.

  “My arrow fell short,” Pen said crossly. Her little sister was always able to root out the truth. It wasn’t that she was spiteful, she just needed to know things, right down to the most minutely exact detail.

  “Oh, well, never mind,” Pippa said. “I shall shoot a boar though, on my birthday.”

  “Don’t be so certain,” her mother said, leaning down to give her her hand. “Come up.”

  Pippa seized the hand and scrambled up onto the saddle. “I wish you would have let me go.”

  “You’re not old enough for boar hunts,” Guinevere said. “And you are sadly untidy, child. Have you not been at your books with the magister?”

  “Oh, yes, but he became tired and said I could go and play,” the child said sunnily.

  “Why, I wonder, would he become tired?” Guinevere mused rhetorically. Magister Howard, who had been her own tutor from her eighth birthday, found Pippa's endless stream of questions as exhausting as they were tedious for an elderly and devoted scholar.

  They rode into the lower courtyard of the Hall and Guinevere dismounted, lifting Pippa down.

  “I’m going to watch them skin the boar,” the child announced. “Will you come, Pen?”

  “No, it's disgusting,” Pen said.

  Guinevere laughed and went into the house. The steward greeted her with a bow. “My lady, the preparations are made for the feast, but the cooks wish to know whether they should use marchpane for Lady Pen's cake. After the last occasion …”

  Guinevere considered. Pippa's passion for the sweet and sticky marchpane had had unfortunate results the last time it had appeared on the table. “Oh, I see no reason why other people should be deprived. It's Lady Pen's cake, after all. We must hope that Pippa has learned a little moderation, Master Crowder.”

  She hurried up the stairs to her apartments above the north entrance where Tilly was rearranging gowns in the linen press.

  “A successful hunt, chuck?” the elderly woman asked in her customary informal fashion. She had served Lady Guinevere from her babyhood.

  “That rather depends upon how you look at it,” Guinevere said, easing her riding boots off on the bootjack. She sat on a wooden chest and raised her skirts to take off the thick woolen hose she had worn for riding. “We have a boar, but Pen's arrow didn’t find its mark.”

  “ ’Tis to be hoped Pippa don’t rub it in too much,” Tilly said.

  Guinevere didn’t answer. She trod barefoot to the window that looked out over the rolling dales of Derbyshire. It was a magnificent vista, a heat haze shimmering above the hills and valleys threaded with the wide ribbons of the River Wye and the Dove. In winter it was harsh and gray with driving rain and bitter winds, a very different landscape from this summer afternoon.

  Her encounter with Hugh of Beaucaire was not over. A man didn’t come on such a journey to be turned away by the threat of dogs.

  Even as she thought this, the loud commanding note of a horn came from beyond the gatehouse. She stood still, her hands resting immobile on the low sill. She knew that note.

  “Pass my silk hose, Tilly. The ivory ones. And the green kid shoes.”

  “Visitors? Are we expectin’ visitors?”

  “No, but we have them it would seem.” She drew on her hose and tied the garters, slipped her feet into her shoes.

  A knock at the door heralded Master Crowder. “Madam, Lord Hugh of Beaucaire requests entrance.”

  “Yes, so I gather.” Guinevere frowned in thought.
She could refuse him entrance. It was her land, her house. But she had the absolute conviction that he was not going to go away. She didn’t want his armed troop besieging her gates.

  “Bid him welcome, Master Crowder.”

  She crossed the chamber to the window that looked down on the lower courtyard, the window from which Stephen had fallen. She watched the troop of horsemen enter the courtyard.

  Hugh of Beaucaire dismounted and stood for a moment looking around, hands resting lightly on his hips.

  He was very square and solid, Guinevere thought. Not fat at all, but somehow an unshakable presence. Definitely to be reckoned with. Well, charm was probably her best weapon. She had used it to advantage many times before; there was no reason to think that Hugh of Beaucaire would be immune.

  She went down to the courtyard. In the doorway of the Hall, she stood still and quiet and said pleasantly, “Lord Hugh. Have you come to claim a traveler's hospitality?”

  Hugh crossed the flagstones towards her. He reached into his doublet and drew out a folded parchment. “I am here on the king's writ,” he said, handing her the parchment. “I have orders from Privy Seal to investigate the manner of your husbands’ deaths, Lady Guinevere. Those and divers other matters that have come to the king's attention.”

  2

  So it had happened. It was said that there wasn’t a corner of Henry's kingdom unvisited by Privy Seal's spies. Guinevere had hoped against hope that her situation, more to the point her wealth, would not come to the attention of the money-starved royal exchequer. It was common knowledge that lands, wardships, knighthoods, the profits of justice, enriched the king's coffers. Guinevere Mallory, a lone and wealthy widow, was a ripe peach for the plucking. Any excuse would do. Hugh of Beaucaire's investigation would provide the excuse and he would gain his own reward.

  A wave of frustrated rage washed over her. Her fingers curled upwards to close over the hilt of the small silver dagger she carried in her right sleeve.

  She was powerless against the might and machinations of Privy Seal. But she could vent her fury on Hugh of Beaucaire. There she was not entirely helpless. The carved hilt was cool and familiar against her fingers. She could picture the dagger's trajectory. How easy it would be to flick the wicked point into the throat of the loathsome man standing so square and confident in her courtyard, looking as if he already owned the very flagstones beneath his feet. It was he, with his importunate claims, who had brought her to the attention of Privy Seal.