The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  They followed her, aware of the electric charge that crackled between them. Hugh's hand brushed Guinevere's and her stomach plunged as a tingle of anticipation raced through her, lifting the fine hairs on her arms and on the nape of her neck.

  She thought: the fighting is over. It's time now for love's victory. Then she schooled her features, attempted to compel her unruly body into submission, and curtsied deeply as Hugh, bareheaded, made a low bow.

  The queen was not alone. The king stood beside her chair, one hand resting on its back, the other playing with the gold dagger he wore around his neck. He looked very pleased with himself. Of Privy Seal there was no sign.

  “Ah, here are the newlyweds,” he declared. “A very pretty ceremony … very pretty indeed. But I would have had you bring your little maids, madam. They should have attended you.”

  Guinevere held her curtsy and made no reference to the lack of invitation to her children. “I was afeard that they might have become overexcited, Highness.”

  “Charming little maids,” he said. “You should have brought them.” His beam faded and he frowned at her.

  Hugh knew that once the king latched on to something that he decided affronted him his mood would change in an instant and he was very hard to distract.

  The queen, however, came to the rescue. She looked up serenely from her netting. “My dear Lord, you are all consideration to have arranged this ceremony. You know how much I enjoy a wedding.”

  The king looked down at her and his face cleared. “Yes … yes … so you do. It pleased you, Madam?”

  Relieved that that fearsome attention was diverted from her, Guinevere rose gracefully from her curtsy.

  “Most excellently.” Jane smiled at Henry, then she signaled to a lady. “Lady Margaret, would you bring the king's gift?” She turned her smile upon Guinevere and Hugh. “His Highness wished to mark this happy occasion.” She took two packages from her lady and under the king's now complacent eye gave them ceremoniously to the newlyweds.

  The king's gift was a pair of jeweled gloves for Hugh and for Guinevere a scarf of gold tissue embroidered in amethysts with Henry's own insignia, the double dog rose. They thanked the monarch and his queen, offered their prayers for the queen's safe confinement, and received their dismissal from the now amiable king. Within a very few minutes they had reached the peace and anonymity of the base court.

  “It would appear,” Guinevere murmured, “that we are married, Lord Hugh.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, looking down at her. “So it would.”

  “The children have a wedding feast prepared for us,” she said, looking out towards the river.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “A tedious time it will take before we can be private.”

  “Most tedious.” She watched the progress of a barge along the river.

  “We could, perhaps, postpone our return for an hour or so?” Hugh's eyes followed hers.

  “Perhaps? If we could be sure that we returned in time to enjoy their feast without worrying them with a delay.”

  Hugh looked up at the sun. It was far from its zenith. “I see no reason why that couldn’t be done. As it happens I did make some arrangements just in case we should feel unwilling to hurry home.”

  “Such foresight,” she murmured. She turned her face to his. “Then let us consummate this marriage, Hugh of Beaucaire, before either of us changes his mind.”

  Privy Seal paced his apartments in the palace. He paused now and again to dip bread into a dish of salt, to take a sip of wine. His spy stood silent in his black cloak against the stone wall, waiting until he was called upon to speak.

  Eventually Privy Seal spoke. “Hugh of Beaucaire …”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “You will ensure an accident … not an obvious accident. A mishap perhaps … or slow poison perhaps. You will find someone who can accomplish this.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man shrugged closer into his cloak and moved towards the door assuming he’d received his orders. They were the kind of orders he was accustomed to receiving.

  Privy Seal held up a hand. “And the son,” he said.

  The spy stopped.

  “See to the son. Quick or slow, that matters not.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man slipped from the chamber.

  “There's more than one way to skin a cat,” muttered Privy Seal to himself as he sipped from his goblet.

  Guinevere lay on the soft mattress in the deep shadows of the bed curtains in a small chamber under the eaves of a half-timbered cottage in the village of Hampton. The sheets smelled of fresh air and the iron, brass, and copper gleamed in the fireplace where coals burned redly; the simple furniture glowed with beeswax.

  She stretched languidly, enjoying the slight throb between her legs, the sense of her body having been used to the full. The air was cool on her overheated flesh. That had been a mad scramble of a loving. She smiled to herself, ran her hands over her body in sensual memory. There had been a wildness to match that first time in his tent, a great outpouring of passion, an uninhibited tearing, biting, scratching, a shameless devouring. She could still taste him on her tongue, the scent of his sex was still upon her, her thighs were wet and sticky with their mingled juices.

  And she felt more truly alive than she could ever remember feeling.

  She heard the door open and close softly. Hugh stepped into the shadows of the bed curtains. He wore his shirt, only roughly buttoned, hanging over his hose that were ungartered. He had no shoes on his feet. He looked like a man who had risen in haste from his lover's bed. Which, of course, was exactly the case.

  “Sustenance,” he said smiling. He set a flagon of wine on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand caressed her belly and for a long moment he just looked at her, closely, intimately, as if he would allow her body to have no secrets from him.

  She stirred a little beneath the intensity of his gaze and his hand moved between her thighs to cup the moist mound in his warm palm. He gazed down at what he held, as if seeing her sex for the first time, his fingers delicately opening the lips, twisting the damp, tightly wound curls around a fingertip. Then he bent his head and kissed her, inhaling deeply of the rich lingering fragrance of their passion.

  Guinevere shuddered and curled her fingers into his hair, pulling his head up. He kissed her mouth and she could taste herself, breathe in her own intimate scent. He laughed softly against her lips, dipping his tongue into the corner of her mouth, before raising his head.

  “Wine?”

  “Mmm.” She nodded on the pillow, watching as he took the stopper from the neck of the flagon. Before she realized his intention he had poured wine into the deep indentation of her navel. She wriggled at the cold trickle and he laughed again before bending to lap up the wine with a delicately sipping tongue. He let a few drops fall onto her belly and licked them off with a quick swoop of his tongue.

  “When you offered me wine I hadn’t realized this was what you meant,” she protested, squirming.

  Hugh straightened, his eyes shining like blue diamonds. He took a deep draught of wine and set the flagon back on the floor. Leaning over he took her face between his hands and, holding the wine in his mouth, slowly brought his lips against hers, pressing them open to fill the warm sweet cavern of her mouth with the wine from his own.

  Guinevere closed her eyes, concentrating on the delightful enticing sensation; the coolness of the wine mingled with the warmth of his probing tongue, the taste of wine and Hugh melded deliciously.

  When he finally took his mouth from hers, let his hands fall from her face, she remained motionless on the bed, her face still upturned, lips slightly parted, her eyes still closed.

  “More?” he asked.

  Guinevere nodded dreamily still without opening her eyes. Hugh chuckled. He took another draught of wine and kissed her again.

  “That was a very novel way to drink,” Guinevere murmured as he drew back at last. “I fear it could become a habit.”

&nb
sp; “It could indeed.” He brushed aside the damp hair that clung to her brow. “So wonderfully wanton you look.”

  “So wonderfully wanton I feel,” she responded. “And what they must have thought belowstairs when you appeared half naked, I can’t imagine.”

  “They are not paid to speculate on what goes on in this chamber,” he said, tilting the flagon to his lips again.

  “How many women have you brought here?” she inquired casually.

  His eyes glinted. “Would you believe none before you?”

  “If you say so,” she returned amiably. “But I’d ask how you knew of such a love nest.”

  “I have friends who possess many kinds of useful information.”

  “Ah.” She nodded and held out her hand for the flagon. He gave it to her and rose from the bed, beginning to button his shirt properly.

  “We must leave,” she said, correctly interpreting his movements.

  “Aye, if we’re to reach home before they send out search parties.”

  She drank from the flagon and reluctantly dragged herself from the bed. “I can barely move.”

  He smiled with a touch of smugness and observed, “I have more scratches and bruises than I’ve ever acquired on a battlefield.”

  Guinevere stretched and examined herself. A large bruise was purpling on her thigh, a smaller one on her arm. “I would never have believed loving could be such a wonderfully savage business.” She poured hot water from the ewer into the basin on the dresser and dipped a cloth.

  Hugh watched her covertly as she wrung out the cloth and pressed it to her throat, washing her body slowly, languidly, lifting her breasts, sponging between her thighs, lifting each foot in turn, balancing easily on one leg.

  If she was aware of his scrutiny she gave no sign. He loved how comfortable she was in her skin. How the little imperfections didn’t trouble her. She had no vanity it seemed. She was as she was. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders, fell across her breasts as she bent forward. The fluid curve of her body made his heart race and he could think only that he could watch her forever. She was his. And he was certain she had never enjoyed such wild heights of passion before, even with Timothy Hadlow.

  For all their love for each other, he and Sarah had not reached such heights either. Their couplings had been pleasant, courteous, gentle. But Sarah had not been a woman of fire. She had been gentle as a forest stream. Not like Guinevere. Guinevere was a volcano, a turbulent crashing waterfall, a midsummer storm, forked lightning and thunderclaps, and when he was with her, he found those same qualities in himself.

  They left the cottage without seeing a soul. Guinevere knew there were people around, she could hear sounds from the kitchen at the rear of the small building, but she had seen no one on their arrival and there was no one to bid them farewell. It was a most discreet love nest, one more suited to clandestine loving than the consummation of a marriage that had just been performed in the presence of the king and queen in the Chapel Royal at Hampton Court. The reflection made her smile.

  They said little on the journey back to Blackfriars. There was no musicians’ barge on the return, but the queen had put at their disposal one of the royal barges used to carry lesser court officials on their errands. It was a small craft, but it had a cabin to keep out the wind that got up as the afternoon faded, whipping up the gray water, bringing a light drizzle with it.

  Guinevere held her hands to the brazier's warmth and allowed herself to feel the joyous relief from the despairing tension that had been so intense she had almost forgotten what it was like to live without it. Nothing could hurt her or her daughters now. She had lost her independence, but she had Hugh's love. She had no doubt of that. And if she cleared away the residue of resentment, of the sense that he had been responsible for all this that had happened to her, she knew that she loved him in return. It was said that time would heal all wounds. And she had no need of her independence if she and Hugh lived in love and amity and mutual respect.

  She would make this marriage work.

  “Such deep and serious thoughts,” he said, reaching to touch her face.

  She only nodded and he didn’t press her.

  It was almost dark when the barge bumped the steps of Blackfriars. The drizzle had turned to rain and Guinevere drew up the hood of her cloak, waiting while Hugh gave the oarsmen their douceurs. He gave generously as befitted a man who had been married that day.

  “Come quickly now,” he said, putting an arm around her, hurrying her through the wet lanes that led to the gates of his house. Men huddled in doorways staring morosely out at the rain as the two passed. They didn’t pay any attention when one man slipped from shelter and came after them. His fingers curled expertly over the knife concealed in his sleeve.

  They had reached the end of the dark narrow lane when Hugh suddenly spun on his heel. Some soldier's instinct for danger had alerted him. He had a sword in his hand even as he turned, shoving Guinevere aside so that she fell against the wall of one of the houses.

  The dark-clad figure sprang at him, the knife a dull flash in the dark rainy evening. Hugh's sword slashed, caught the man's wrist. The man screamed as his hand fell uselessly to his side, the knife falling into the mud. Blood poured from a gash so deep it had almost severed his hand from his arm.

  Guinevere stared, her mouth open but no sound emerging. She was too shocked to speak or even cry out.

  Hugh stood over the man as he lay howling, bleeding in the mud. The city was full of such footpads on the lookout for easy prey. The lane was dark and narrow. Such an attack was far from unusual. He bent and picked up the knife and wiped it on the man's cloak, then he tucked it up his own sleeve.

  “Bastard,” he said savagely as he straightened. “I hope he bleeds to death.”

  Guinevere stepped away from the wall, aware that her hands were shaking. “Where did he come from?”

  Hugh shrugged. “They’re everywhere, outlaws, felons, lurking in the lanes. A man has as much chance of getting his throat cut for a groat in the streets of London as he does in the slums of Paris.”

  “He was going to rob us?”

  “I can think of no other reason for such an attack,” Hugh responded, glancing sideways at her. “Can you?”

  “No.” But her head buzzed with only one thought. She had been about to lose her fifth husband. Hours after the wedding, he had faced death in her company. What kind of curse was it that dogged her? She remembered Hugh's words on their first meeting. “Men die in your company.”

  She looked down at the man whose howls had become moans. He lay curled in the mud under the rain. It was hard to imagine he could be a threat. “Shouldn’t we … ?”

  “No!” Hugh said shortly. “If he has friends they’ll take care of him. If he has enemies they will do him the same service in their own way. Come. It's not safe to linger.”

  Still she hesitated. “It seems so harsh.”

  “God's bones, Guinevere! This is London town. ’Tis not some quiet hamlet in the northern wilds!” But even as he said it he thought that quiet Derbyshire hamlets also held death in their hearts.

  “Come!” He took her arm and there was no gainsaying him. Guinevere allowed him to hurry her out of the dark confines of the lane.

  Once in the open he asked more gently, “Are you very shaken?”

  Her thoughts had shaken her more than the event, Guinevere realized, but she could not share with Hugh her horror at the prospect of losing yet another husband to a violent accident. Instead she reassured him hastily, “A little, but it was so quick … you were so quick … there was barely time to react.”

  However, when they reached the driveway, safely behind his gates, she paused and took a deep breath. “Let me just compose myself a minute before we go into the house. I don’t want the children to think something's wrong.”

  They could hear music coming from the house now and voices raised in laughter and song.

  “I think they’ve started without us,” Hugh observed
, holding her against him under a dripping tree, one hand rhythmically stroking her back. “I gave Robin permission to begin the revels at mid-afternoon. He seems to have taken me at my word.”

  “Who's invited?”

  “No one alarming, no one important. Just the household, some of my friends, some old campaigners,” he said. “You didn’t produce a guest list of your own.” He gave her a quizzical smile, and she could see that he was completely unperturbed by the murderous attack. How could he be so cool, so calm, when he had just hacked off a man's hand?

  It gave her the strength to master her own shock and horror. “How should I have done? Besides, I saw little reason then for celebration.”

  “And now?” The quizzical smile remained.

  “And now … perhaps,” she returned.

  “Perhaps?” He shook his head in mock reproof. “I suppose I must be satisfied with that for the moment.” He glanced back at the house where the windows threw candlelight onto the path. “Then let us go in if you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready.” She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him, her face still very pale in the dim light beneath the tree.

  “Then come, madam wife.”

  22

  A great deal of effort had gone into the preparations for the wedding feast. The hall was decorated with swags of greenery, interspersed with branches of holly sporting their bright berries against glossy leaves. Chrysanthemums and daisies massed in great copper jugs glowed golden and orange. The long table was spread with a white cloth and lit with plentiful wax candles.

  It occurred to Hugh as he stood in the doorway taking in the scene that Master Crowder must have had the ordering. His own steward at this juncture had no access to the funds necessary to produce so much splendor. He glanced at Guinevere. Had she given her steward instructions? She looked as astonished as he, and, he thought, more than a little chagrined. Someone had taken matters into their own hands, he decided. Guinevere had not been anxious to make much of this wedding.