The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  But why should he? Guinevere Mallory was no innocent. She had seduced four men, and four men had gone to their deaths. He had evidence of conspiracy, of deceit, of motivation for murder. She should be given the opportunity to defend herself from the charges, but it was not his business to absolve her.

  Guinevere rode onto the bridge, then she turned her horse and looked up at her home. So beautiful, so peaceful, under the soft light of early morning. She could smell the roses from the gardens beyond the bridge. She looked across at the river, at the silver flash of a jumping fish, the widening ripples of its disappearance beneath the water. A dragonfly, brilliant blue, whirred above the water meadow.

  She looked up at Hugh of Beaucaire and said coldly, “Well, my lord, if this forms part of your reward for my persecution, I trust you’ll cherish it.” Then she nudged her horse into motion and rode past him towards the gatehouse.

  Robin and the soldiers were mounted and ready for departure just beyond the gatehouse. Hugh, still stinging from her remark, was tight-lipped as he instructed the children and Tilly to ride between two lines of his men. Robin eagerly took up his place beside Pen.

  “My lady, you will ride with me,” Hugh said distantly.

  Guinevere shrugged. “I am obedient to your orders, my lord.”

  “It will be easier for everyone if that remains true,” he said, riding up to the head of the small cavalcade.

  Guinevere followed him, contemplating a response, but one look at his expression convinced her to remain silent, at least for the moment. She refused to glance behind her, to take one last look at her home. Anger and bitterness helped to keep the sorrow and fear at bay.

  “Don’t expect any sympathetic help from me when one of those wretched kittens runs off and you have a wailing child on your hands,” Hugh said, unable to hide his continuing irritation.

  “Why would I expect such help from you?” She was genuinely surprised he could have such an idea. “I can manage my daughters myself, Lord Hugh. As I always have done.”

  “What of their father? Did he take no part in their upbringing?” Despite his annoyance, he waited with interest for her response.

  “Pippa was a babe-in-arms when he died. Pen was barely three,” she replied in a low voice.

  Hugh kept his eyes on the road ahead as he asked, “Did you love him?” Now, why had he asked such a question? What difference did it make to anything? And yet he wanted to know.

  “I thought I was supposed to have had him killed,” she returned sarcastically. “Or did I shoot the arrow myself? I forget.”

  “Did you love him?” Hugh repeated, and this time he turned to look at her.

  Instead of answering, she asked her own question. “Did you love Robin's mother?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I loved Sarah.”

  “I loved Timothy Hadlow.”

  The two statements lay between them in a silence that was somehow light, freed of resentment and irritation. It was almost as if they’d had a furious quarrel that had cleared the air, Guinevere thought, puzzled.

  After a minute, she changed the subject. “Where do you intend to stop for the night?”

  “Wherever we get to by late afternoon,” he said. “Somewhere between Matlock and Ambergate, I would think.”

  “The convent at Wirksworth was once renowned for its hospitality to travelers,” Guinevere observed. “It would have been the ideal rest stop if Privy Seal's men hadn’t burned it to the ground. They raped the nuns too.”

  “Be careful what you say. ’Tis known that Stephen Mallory adhered to the Church of Rome,” he warned her. “ ’Tis known that he had dealings with Robert Aske. Pitch sticks and it won’t help your cause.”

  “Stephen knew the man, yes. But I did not,” she declared. “And as soon as Robert Aske's Pilgrimage of Grace ran into trouble, Stephen dropped Aske like a hot brick. Aske's in jail in York now, or so I heard.”

  Robert Aske had started the Pilgrimage of Grace in the north of England to protest the dissolution of the monasteries. The risings had succeeded for a while the previous year, but had been put down by the Catholic Duke of Norfolk with a savagery that was fueled by self-preservation, by his need to prove himself loyal to the king even if it meant persecuting those who were defending his own faith.

  “He’ll be executed,” Hugh said grimly. “And it won’t be an easy death. Take my advice and steer clear of the subject in London. It reeks of treason.”

  “Murder, witchcraft, and now treason!” Guinevere said in tones of mock amazement. She laughed mirthlessly. “What else will they accuse me of? But I can only lose one head, my lord, so maybe I’ll choose my own crime.”

  Hugh had no answer.

  9

  Just outside Matlock they stopped to water the horses and break their fast. Hugh, eating bread and cheese, was consulting a map with Jack Stedman and didn’t notice the tiny ball of silver fur playing with a loosened lace of his riding boot. He stepped back and the ensuing yowl as he trod on the kitten's tail was straight from the Inferno.

  “God's bones!” he bellowed, staring down at the hissing, spitting mite, its hair standing on end, its tail fluffed like a brush. “Pippa!” He bent and gingerly picked up the kitten by its scruff, holding it away from him between finger and thumb.

  Pippa raced across the small glade, babbling as she ran. “Oh, there she is! I was so worried. I thought she was lost … and I hadn’t even found a name for her! Pen's calling hers Nutmeg, which is such a good name, and I have to find one just as good. Oh, don’t hold her like that, sir. It’ll hurt her.”

  “It's the way their mothers carry them,” Hugh told her with an expression of distaste as he dropped the creature into Pippa's outstretched hand. “And if I see the wretched animal again, I shall drown it!”

  “You wouldn’t!” Pippa stared at him as horrified as if he were a headless ghost. “You wouldn’t, sir.” She hugged the kitten to her breast.

  “Don’t put it to the test,” he said, turning back to a grinning Jack Stedman.

  Pippa, for once at a loss for words, trailed off, clutching the kitten, and Hugh continued his conversation with Jack. “So while we are in Matlock, Bill Waters will take charge of the party. We’ll make an evening bivouac around Ambergate.” He pointed with a crust of bread to the point on the oiled parchment. “We’ll catch up with them there. Tell Bill to find a suitable spot; we’ll need water, flat ground … well, he’ll know what we’ll need. Once they’ve found a campground tell him to post Robin on the road to direct us to it when we come up.”

  “Aye, sir. You want to leave at once?”

  “As soon as you’ve given Bill his orders.”

  Jack nodded and hurried off. Hugh finished his bread and cheese and went for his grazing horse. Between them, he and Jack could interview quite a few folk in Matlock over an hour or so. He looked around for Guinevere and saw her walking along the bank of the stream where the horses had been watered. He rode over to her.

  Guinevere had been for a stroll, glad to stretch her legs while she refined her escape plan. If Hugh set a guard over the camp, Tilly would have to take care of him with the belladonna. After that the trickiest part would be cutting the horses out from the rest without attracting attention. They could manage with just two mounts, she thought. Her own and one of the ponies. Greene would be close by and he could take up Tilly. Pen could ride alone and Pippa would ride with her mother.

  Where was Greene now? she wondered. Was he close by? She knew he could be within a few feet of her and she’d see no sign of him unless she gave the signal they’d agreed upon. His father had been a huntsman and Greene had learned his trade from earliest childhood. He was a superb tracker and a past master at concealment.

  “My lady?”

  She looked up at the familiar voice. Lord Hugh rode up to her.

  “Is it time to leave again?”

  “You’ll be mounting shortly,” he said. “I’ll not be riding with you this afternoon. One of my men will be in
charge of the party.”

  “Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

  “Jack and I have some business in Matlock.”

  “Oh?” she said again. “What business could you have in Matlock?”

  “Just a few questions,” he returned with a cool nod. “We’ll catch up with you when you make camp around Ambergate this evening.”

  “I see,” she said.

  He nodded again and rode off.

  Guinevere turned back to the stream, her eyes narrowed against the sun's glare. Questions in Matlock? Presumably he was making inquiries about Timothy's death. He’d hear nothing to his advantage, she thought. Whoever had been responsible for that arrow was not about to reveal himself. And if there were folk in the village who knew, they had closed ranks around one of their own.

  But supposing he did hear something that could be interpreted in a certain way? Turned against her somehow? The whole business had been such a complicated tangle of fear, lies, and secrecy. They were uneducated folk and seven years had passed since the accident. Under questioning, terrified by the king's writ, one of the peasants could say something that could be twisted to suit Lord Hugh's purpose.

  Dear God, it was impossible to go on like this! She pressed her hands to her head as if she could contain the despairing buzz in her brain. She had but one hope. Tomorrow night. Everything depended on tomorrow night.

  A long blast of a horn signaled the end of the break and Guinevere walked across to where her mare waited, held by one of Hugh's men.

  “Beautiful animal, m’lady,” he observed, helping her to mount.

  “Yes, she is.” Guinevere leaned over to pat the animal's silky neck. “When we make camp tonight, I would prefer it if she and the ponies were kept away from the others. The mare's very highly strung and gets easily upset. She likes the company of the ponies because she knows them.”

  “Aye, madam. We’ll find a tether for them some way apart from the others,” the man said cheerfully.

  Guinevere breathed again. That had been accomplished easily enough. And what was done tonight would be done tomorrow.

  Just before Ambergate, they stopped in a pleasant clearing in the middle of a copse. A stream ran clear over big rocks.

  “I’ll lay odds there's trout in there,” Bill Waters said from his horse beside Guinevere's. “Fresh fish for supper wouldn’t come amiss, madam.”

  “No,” Guinevere agreed. She looked around the clearing, assessing it.

  Bill dismounted and began to give orders to the men about setting up the camp.

  Guinevere dismounted beside him. “I would like my tent pitched over there,” she said authoritatively, pointing to a flat spot on the outskirts of the clearing. “I like my privacy. There will do nicely.”

  Bill looked somewhat discomfited. “Lord Hugh won’t feel comfortable with you that far away, madam. There are wild things in the woods. I ’ave me orders to pitch the tent for you and the lassies close to Lord Hugh's. An’ he won’t want to be that far from the center of the camp.”

  “Nevertheless I’d like the men to put up my tent over there for the moment and if Lord Hugh objects then I can discuss it with him when he arrives,” she instructed calmly.

  Bill hesitated, but there was something about Lady Guinevere that didn’t permit argument. Or at least not from him. Lord Hugh would deal with it when he returned. “Right y’are, m’lady.” He went off, calling orders.

  Tilly, grumbling and rubbing her lower back, came over to Guinevere. “My Lord, chuck, I’ll be glad when this is over,” she muttered. “ ’Tis a good thing fer me back that we’ll not be goin’ much farther.”

  Guinevere glanced around. She spoke swiftly in an undertone. “Tilly, now seems a good moment to become friendly with the men.”

  “Oh, aye,” Tilly said easily. “I’ll go an’ sort out the cookin’. Don’t you worry, m’lady. I’ll ’ave their life stories out of ’em afore you know it. And anyone what needs a simple or a powder, I ’ave just the thing.”

  Guinevere nodded. Tilly knew her part. “We need to know if anyone will be guarding the camp at night. I think I’ve managed to ensure that our horses will be tethered separately, so it’ll be easier to slip away with them. But if there's a camp guard we’ll need to put him to sleep. You brought belladonna?”

  “That an’ a few other things that might be useful,” Tilly said. “But fer now, I’ll see if we can’t get a decent meal off that fire. Looks like they’re catchin’ a good few fish, but they won’t know what to do wi’ ’em.” She bustled off towards the newly kindled fire.

  It was close to four o’clock when Hugh emerged from a small stone cottage hard by the village green in Matlock. Jack was sitting on the ale bench outside the tavern just across from the well and rose immediately, draining his ale pot. He raised a hand and Hugh gestured that he should stay where he was.

  Hugh crossed the small green and straddled the ale bench. “I’m dry as a witch's tit,” he declared. He leaned sideways to put his head around the open door and shouted for ale.

  He said nothing while he waited for it and Jack offered no conversation. Hugh drained his ale pot in one gulp, and set it with a thump on the bench beside him. “So, what did you hear?”

  Jack shrugged. “Nothin’ much, sir. Seven years is a long time an’ memories seem right short around ’ere.” He looked shrewdly at Lord Hugh. “You do any better, sir?”

  “Mayhap,” Hugh said musingly. “Mayhap I did, Jack. Come, let's go. We need to ride hard if we’re to reach the camp by sundown.”

  They rode hard and fast, the horses kicking up dust as they galloped down the narrow road towards Ambergate. Peasants hauled their carts to the side of the track out of their path and stared fearfully after the fast-disappearing riders. The pace of life in the Derbyshire countryside was in general slow and they were not accustomed to seeing men in armor riding hell-for-leather.

  Neither man said anything as they rode. The pace was too fast, the dust too thick. Hugh was preoccupied, a deep frown drawing his thick eyebrows together, and Jack knew from experience that his master was mulling over something of considerable import. But even if their progress had been leisurely Jack would not have ventured a question. Lord Hugh spoke of his concerns only when he chose, and gave short shrift to probing.

  Robin was sitting on a fallen log beside the path in the lengthening shadows of dusk when the two horsemen rounded a corner and came into view. The boy jumped to his feet and waved.

  The horsemen drew rein and their sweating beasts panted and hung their heads.

  “All well, Robin?”

  “Aye, sir. The camp's just a few yards through the trees. There's a clearing,” Robin said eagerly.

  “Then lead on, my son.”

  Guinevere was sitting on a blanket on the grass outside her tent, her skirts spread around her, when Hugh, Jack, and Robin entered the clearing. The girls were playing beside her with the kittens.

  Hugh took in the scene in one swift, comprehensive glance. He saw where Guinevere's tent had been pitched and a frown creased his brow. The rich smells of cooking came from the fire and he noticed that Tilly had put herself in charge of supper. Judging by the cheerful atmosphere it seemed that no one resented her taking control.

  Hugh dismounted and crossed the grassy circle to where Guinevere and her children sat. Pippa grabbed up her kitten at his approach and held it tightly to her narrow chest.

  “You seem to have made yourself comfortable,” Hugh observed, surveying the round tent.

  “Yes, I thank you. Your men have been most helpful in unloading our trunks. The tent is most commodious. Much more so than I imagined.” She smiled at him. It was that damnable seductive smile again and once again confusion flooded his clear-cut intentions. It was as if north had become south.

  He glanced down at the girls still sitting on the grass and held out his hand to Guinevere. “Would you join me in the tent?”

  “Certainly, sir.” She took the proffered hand
and rose gracefully to her feet, still smiling. Her skirts swung and settled around her.

  Hugh raised the flap of the tent and gestured that she should enter. He came in after her, having to turn sideways and duck his head to insert his powerful frame through the small opening.

  It was surprisingly roomy inside. There was ample space for the four cots with their straw-filled mattresses.

  “I’m sorry to have to disturb you but the tent will have to be pitched closer to mine,” he said without preamble.

  Guinevere regarded him in silence for a minute, then said, “I like my privacy.”

  “I assure you I won’t be disturbing it,” he returned blandly.

  “How much closer?”

  He went to the entrance and looked out. “Fifty feet.”

  Guinevere shrugged. There was no way to argue with him and even fifty feet closer in would still give her some space. Probably more than she’d have been granted if she’d made no stand at all.

  “As you command,” she said.

  He turned back to her, a flicker of a smile touching his mouth, but he merely asked, “Did you bring your own bedding?”

  “We have blankets,” she responded.

  “I can spare you a lantern. Candles are too dangerous around canvas. I would prefer that you didn’t leave the tent at night, but if you must, make sure you carry the lantern and declare yourself to the guard.”

  “Where will the guard be stationed?” she inquired, going back to the entrance to look out again.

  “He’ll be walking the perimeter of the camp. He’ll also be responsible for keeping the fire alight.” He was standing close beside her and she could smell his earthy tang of horseflesh, leather, and fresh sweat. Out of nowhere a wave of desire swamped her.

  Grimly she fought it down, seeking help in sarcasm. “Are you afraid of attack by a horde of savage Derbyshire shepherds?” she asked.

  “Oh, you can do better than that, madam,” he responded, regarding her with narrowed eyes and a glimmer of amusement as if he had guessed at her reaction. “That jab was very feeble, definitely not worthy of you.”