by Jane Feather
The fire threw flickering shadows on the plain lime-washed walls. She thought of Hugh, asleep now, surely? And despite her determined optimism, she thought of how after tomorrow it could all be over. After tomorrow she would never love again. And the reflection was unbearable.
As if sleepwalking, she slipped to the floor, reached for her night robe, picked up the parchments. Vaguely she thought they would give her an excuse for what she was doing. She could leave them with him and return to bed. She could do that.
She was in the passage, was outside his door, was within his chamber. It was lit only by the banked fire.
“So you have come.” He spoke from the deep shadows of the bed.
“Yes.” She placed the parchments on the mantel.
Hugh turned back the bedcover in a gesture of invitation. She dropped her night robe and slid in beside him. He drew the covers over her and held her.
He held her quietly for a long time until the stiffness and the cold left her and her body relaxed against his. There was no urgency to his hold, nothing to prevent her from easing away from him, out of the bed, away from temptation. But she stayed in his embrace, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her legs twined with his.
She thought she slept. A deep and dreamless trance where there were no fears, only peace, where her mind was spindrift, light as air, swept upon the wind.
And at last his hold changed as he gathered her yet closer to him, rolling onto his back so that now she lay above him, every curve and hollow of her body molded to his length. Dreamily she smiled down at him, adapting herself to this unexpected position. His mouth curved in response and he ran his fingers through the silken silver river of her hair, drawing it over her shoulders to enclose them both in a shimmering fragrant tent. His square hard hands cupped her face, drawing her mouth down to his.
This was her kiss. Hers to initiate, hers to drive. Her lips rested for an instant passive against his as she reveled in the simple sensation of their touching mouths. Then her tongue penetrated his mouth deeply, tasting wine and salt as she explored the insides of his cheeks, the back of his throat, slid over his teeth. She nibbled his bottom lip, then drew her tongue over his lips, touched the corners of his mouth, licked around the firm contours of his jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble against her tongue.
She moved to his ear, her tongue darting within the tight shell, flicking in the whorls and contours, stroking as her teeth nibbled the sensitive lobe. She could feel his heart beating faster against her breast where her nipples, erect and hard, were teased by the wiry softness of the gray curls on his chest. The ridged muscles of his thighs pressed upwards, powerful against her own softness, and the slight roundness of her belly fitted into the concavity of the one below.
His hands smoothed down her back, lingering over her waist before caressing the flare of her hips. The languid, seductive stroking chased away the last trancelike threads of her dream state. Excitement seethed, she pressed her body down to his, encouraging him to tighten his hold. Her loins were heavy, her sex ached and pulsed. He moved a knee to part her thighs and with a slow twist of his hips thrust upwards into her eagerly welcoming body.
Delight touched every corner of her, body and soul. She wanted to take him into the very core of her self, to encompass and hold him, to become a part of him as she made him a part of her. There was no thought now, no fear, no logic, no past and no future. Only this present, only the white-hot excitement of pure sensation.
He drove upwards with a soft cry of joy and there was one miraculous moment when she hung on her own precipice holding the throbbing power of his completion deep within her, feeling the pulse of his flesh high up against the walls of her sheath that contained him; a moment that sent ripples of indescribable glory streaming through her. And then she fell, tears streaking her cheeks, hearing from far away strange little female sounds coming from deep in her throat.
She lay beached upon him, the wild beating of her heart matching his. Her lips were pressed into the hollow of his throat, sipping the salt sweat gathered there as if it were fairy nectar. Their sweat-slick bodies slithered against each other as still joined they waited in exhaustion for the desperate beating of their hearts to subside.
His hands flattened against her back and he rolled her gently onto the bed beside him, moving with her, prolonging the moment of disengagement as if he could not bear to lose her. She clung to him as he slipped away from her, then let her arms fall to her sides.
“How can it be?” she whispered, fluttering her fingertips against his side as he flopped onto his back.
“I don’t know.” His hand rested on her belly. “There was much pleasure … much pleasure, deep and abiding pleasure … with Sarah, but never quite like this.”
“No,” she murmured. “Never quite like this. There are no words.”
They lay together as the sweat dried on their bodies, then Hugh reached down and drew the covers over them.
“I should go,” Guinevere protested feebly.
“No, sleep. I’ll be awake long before the house stirs.” He pushed a hand beneath her and rolled her into his embrace.
She slept, soothed by his breath in her hair, by the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear, by the solid warmth and strength of the arms that held her.
Beside her, Hugh kept vigil until the sky beyond the window took on a gray hue. They were to be at Westminster by eight that morning. He slipped his arm from beneath her, gently so as not to waken her, then slid from the bed. He stood looking down at the sleeping woman. She was so peaceful with her thin blue-veined eyelids concealing the passionate intelligence of her eyes; the soft glow of sleep upon her cheeks, her hair tumbling over the white shoulder, the rounded forearm.
Had she killed Stephen Mallory? Did it matter?
He went to the fire, bending to stir up the embers. As he straightened his eye fell on the folded parchments on the mantel. He opened them, read them. They needed a notary's seal. For safety's sake they had to be notarized before her trial. They needed to be signed and sealed before judgment was rendered so that they could be brought into the courtroom to be discussed as an extension of that judgment.
He dressed rapidly and left the chamber. It would take him half an hour to rouse the attorney, who lived over the printer's shop two streets away, and get his stamp. He would be back in time to waken her.
He paused again by the bed. Looked at the sleeping woman.
Had she killed Stephen Mallory?
Did it matter?
18
The Star Chamber in the palace of Westminster. Aptly named, Guinevere reflected, unable for a moment to tear her dazzled gaze from the ceiling where a mass of brilliant gilded stars winked down upon the chamber and its occupants.
“Pray be seated, Lady Mallory.” At Privy Seal's harsh voice she turned her gaze steadily to the horseshoe-shaped table at one end of the chamber.
The king sat in the center, his massive carved armchair raised on a dais. He was clad in black, his padded sleeves slashed with purple and gold. A great double dog rose was embroidered in gold across his broad chest. His meaty hands rested on the arms of the chair, the rings on his fingers rivaling in their dazzling brightness the golden stars on the ceiling.
Guinevere curtsied deeply, her black skirts falling gracefully around her, her head in its dark gray hood submissively lowered.
Privy Seal sat to the king's right. His black gown was edged in whitest ermine and one plump hand encased in a jeweled glove unconsciously stroked the corded bag that hung from his girdle. It contained the Privy Seal, the badge of his office.
Bishop Gardiner, in his scarlet robes, his angular face pinched, his eyes sharply piercing and full of suspicion, sat at the king's left hand. The other lords Guinevere didn’t recognize as she rose from her curtsy. There were twelve of them, six to each side of the horseshoe. They regarded her with a curiosity that had little of friendliness in it.
Guinevere took the seat that Privy Seal indicated. An ar
mless chair set just outside the well of the horseshoe. On two sides of the chamber rose several tiers of benches for witnesses and spectators. She was aware of murmurs, shiftings, the rustle of silks and velvets. Hugh of Beaucaire was among the men on the first tier, ready to stand and give witness when called upon. He was just behind her, out of her line of sight. She could see only the majestic figure of the king and the men of his council.
She folded her hands in her lap and waited quietly.
“You are here to defend yourself against the charges that you were responsible for the death of one at least of your four husbands. How do you answer, madam?”
“I am innocent of any such charge, my lord.”
“And how do you answer the charge that you bewitched four men, took them into your bed with the lures of witchcraft, and compelled them with the aid of the devil's arts to enrich you with all their worldly goods. How do you answer that, madam?” Bishop Gardiner leaned forward over the table, drumming his fingers on the polished mahogany, his blue, shaven chin jutting aggressively.
She thought of her four husbands, two of whom had been either fools or brutes. Stephen had been both. The very idea that she might have bewitched them was laughable. Mayhap she had bewitched Timothy, but she had been bewitched in her turn. And there had been none of witchcraft in that lusting passion that had brought them together.
“How do you answer, madam?” the bishop demanded in bullying tones.
She wanted to pour scorn on this prating prelate with his greedy fanatical eyes. But caution held her back. He wanted a victim and it would take nothing for her to serve his purpose. For all its absurdity, witchcraft was the most dangerous charge against her because it was the hardest to refute.
She returned calmly, “I have no knowledge of witchcraft, my lord bishop. No one has ever accused me of such before. My husbands came willingly to my bed.” She met his fierce glare steadily, but she was clasping her hands tightly lest their shaking betray her.
“I would suggest to you, madam, that you carefully plotted your marriages.” Privy Seal's voice flicked at her like a snake's tongue. “I would suggest that you chose men whose death would enrich you; men who, quite unaccountably, were willing to sign whatever contracts you drew up.”
“Aye,” the bishop chimed in. “No right-thinking man, no man not under the influence of witchcraft, would behave so foolishly as to give a woman such control over him.”
“My husbands understood that I am learned in law and that I have no small talent for administering estates, my lords.”
“Do those talents also include manufacturing documents to bolster your claims?” Privy Seal inquired smoothly. “I put it to you, madam, that the appearance of the premarriage contract between Roger Needham and his first wife was … convenient, shall we say. That it just appeared … came to hand … at the very moment when it seemed Lord Hugh's claim could not be disputed. I can’t help wondering why you didn’t produce it before, my lady. I understand you had many months of correspondence with Lord Hugh and you never mentioned the existence of such a significant document.” His hard, unpleasant gaze raked her face.
Guinevere was for a moment thrown off course. Why had he not accused her of this at their first interview? But of course the accusation was designed to confuse her, make her stumble in her defense, here in front of all these lords. But it would not.
She gave him a faintly incredulous smile. “I beg your pardon, my lord. You are not suggesting I manufactured this document? It has a notary's seal.”
Bishop Gardiner spoke, his voice carrying a zealot's edge. “Madam, we all have enough respect for your brains and cunning to know that if a notary's seal would be of use to you, you would find a way to acquire one.”
“Not so, my lord bishop,” she said flatly. “I know my law, but I do not resort to trickery. You can have no possible justification for making such an accusation.”
There was a breath of silence in the chamber, a strange sense of waiting. Guinevere continued, her voice rising a notch. “While such talents as I possess are perhaps rare, there is nothing inherent in womanhood that says a woman is by her very nature incapable of them.” She was careful not to mention the Lady Mary this time.
“Only my second husband, Lord Hadlow, preferred to keep the day-to-day management of his own estates in his own hands.”
“His own estates?” Privy Seal pounced. “Only his own estates. When you contracted these marriages, you ensured, did you not, that your husbands had no part in the wealth you had inherited from their predecessors?”
“That is customary, my lord, when a widower remarries. His new wife is not endowed with anything more than a jointure, which is often no more than her dowry.”
“But you, madam, were a widow, not a widower.”
“That is self-evident, my lord.”
The king shifted a little in his chair, there were slight rustles from the spectators behind her.
Hugh closed his eyes briefly. How the hell far did she think she could go in this company? She was on trial for her life. He’d told her over and over to keep a bridle on her tongue, but he might as well have saved his breath to cool his porridge.
“I would remind you, madam, that you are in the presence of His Highness the king and the most august lords of the realm,” Privy Seal observed, moistening his thin lips, his hard eyes narrowed.
Guinevere chose her words more carefully. “I meant no insult, Lord Cromwell. But I don’t see that my sex is relevant. I have done only what men do as a matter of course.”
“Men do not murder their wives in order to enrich themselves,” snapped the bishop.
“There is no evidence that I have done so,” Guinevere pointed out. “No witnesses and no evidence to justify bringing such charges.” She wanted to look over her shoulder, to find Hugh among the eyes she could feel upon her back, but she resisted the temptation.
“There are circumstances that lend themselves to such an interpretation,” Privy Seal stated.
“I would venture to suggest, My Lord Cromwell, that you are as familiar as I am with the pitfalls of circumstantial evidence,” Guinevere said. She could argue this legal issue with the best lawyer in the land … until Hugh produced his evidence of the lies that had been told him. The weight that that would add to the circumstantial evidence would damage her arguments beyond repair.
Privy Seal leaned forward across the table, his hands resting one atop the other. “You have had four husbands. Each one has died in less than transparent circumstances. Each one has left you a considerably richer widow than the last. I suggest, madam, that you plotted each marriage, and each death, in order to leave yourself in possession of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, and not coincidentally the greater part of the county of Derbyshire.” He sat back, as if nothing else remained to be said.
Guinevere's gaze swept the table. The king regarded her impassively; the twelve lords, so far silent, had similar expressions. It seemed that only the bishop and Privy Seal were to conduct this trial.
As if in confirmation, the bishop leaned forward in his turn. “And I suggest, madam, that you used the arts of witchcraft to compel these men into marriage. Whether they met their deaths through witchcraft I’m not prepared to say, but only witchcraft could have compelled them into accepting such terms of marriage as you insisted upon.”
“I refute your suggestions, my lord.” Guinevere stood up and faced them. She had nothing to lose now. Once Hugh was called upon to give his evidence then it would be over. But while she had the floor, while their eyes, now both startled and fascinated, were fixed upon her, she would say her piece.
“A woman, my lords, has only her face, her figure, her charms, if you will, as currency. She must attract men if she's to have the basic necessities, food, a roof over her head, a fire in the hearth. She must use what nature has given her to ensure her own survival. And you would call this witchcraft.”
She gave a short mirthless laugh. “If a woman has more than her share of wi
t and learning, she must use those too for survival. Is sorcery the only explanation you can find for competitive talents in a woman?
“There is no sorcery here, my lords. I use what female charms and natural wit I possess to ensure my own future and that of my daughters. A woman who fails to attract a man to support her is a pitiable creature, blamed for her lack of charms, considered unworthy of support. You would not deny this, my lords.” Her gaze swept them, and now there was no concealing the contempt in the purple depths of her eyes.
“This view of woman degrades our humanity by judging us only on our physical merits. I stand guilty of questioning this practice, these assumptions, and I stand guilty of attempting to ensure that I and my daughters are not so degraded. But that, Your Highness, my lords, is all of which I’m guilty. I consider myself to be any man's equal.” She sat down again, folding her hands once more in her lap.
The king stroked his reddish gold beard. The bishop pointed a finger at her, declaring triumphantly, “Heresy. It is written that a woman must subjugate herself to her husband, who is her lord and master as God is his. You would set yourself up against the writings of the Church.”
“No, my lord bishop. I preach no heresy. I voiced only an opinion. I merely said that I consider myself any man's equal. I accept that others may disagree.” She paused, then couldn’t help herself from continuing, “And in some areas, my lord, I consider myself the superior of some men.”
The king spoke at last, his voice booming through the chamber. “Body o’ God, madam, but you sail very close to the wind.”
Guinevere rose again and curtsied. “I do not force my opinions on anyone, Your Highness. I merely hold them to myself. And the word of the Church is open to many interpretations, I believe.” She met Henry's momentarily astounded gaze. She had challenged him personally. A man who interpreted the rulings of the Church any which way he pleased.
