The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

Guinevere climbed, one hand on the gilded banister, the other holding up her skirts. The staircase wound upwards and opened onto a wide gallery that looked down upon the hall.

  Guinevere sighed with relief. Just the sense of space around her brought some peace. “Let us walk a little then.”

  Hugh tucked a hand beneath her elbow with the same proprietorial ease she had noticed about his kiss at the breakfast table. She found that she rather liked it. They began to walk along the gallery, Guinevere looking down over another gilded rail into the body of the hall where it seemed the satyrs were getting the better of the nymphs. She noticed that the queen and her ladies had left but the king remained, apparently still entertained.

  “Well, well, my lord. You’ve come in search of a little privacy, I see.”

  She looked up to see a man coming towards them from the far end of the gallery, his gait swaying, his massively padded doublet over a considerable belly of his own giving him an absurd figure, his striped codpiece jutting aggressively. His eyes were small and hard and although he both sounded and acted drunk, she would have laid any odds he was as sober as herself.

  “That's a pretty piece you have there, my friend. For a little tumble with such a wench, I’d leave the king's feast myself.” He leered at Guinevere as he came close.

  She felt Hugh stiffen beside her, felt the movement as his hand went to his sword hilt. But he said calmly, “Go back to your goblet, man. You’ll find better entertainment below.”

  The man came yet closer. He pushed his face into Guinevere's. “A kiss, my pretty. Your … your protector … he won’t mind. You’re willing to share, aren’t you, friend?”

  She heard Hugh's swift intake of breath, felt his hand tighten on her elbow. But again he said calmly, easily, “You’ll find no sport here.”

  The man made a move to his sword, half pulled it from his sheath, his eyes sharp, knowing, resting on Hugh's face. “Come now, my friend, you’ll not begrudge a man a slice of this pretty pie. I’ve heard many others have had a nibble.”

  Guinevere couldn’t believe Hugh would stand there and listen to such insults. And yet he stood there. His hand had dropped from his sword and he merely regarded the man steadily. She could feel his anger in the body so close to her, but none of it showed in his face.

  “You will excuse us,” he said softly. “We would continue our walk.” He put a hand on the man's shoulder and spun him, seemingly without effort, out of his path and against the rail. Still holding Guinevere's elbow he propelled her past him.

  They heard the scrape of a sword being drawn from its sheath. Hugh did not turn, his breathing did not change. He continued to walk them both along the gallery. They reached another curving staircase at the end. The staircase their friend had taken to the gallery.

  Guinevere looked back. The gallery was deserted. She looked up at Hugh and saw how white he was, how tense, his jaw clenched, his eyes ablaze. “What was that?” she asked softly. “He wanted to force a quarrel upon you, didn’t he?”

  “So I believe.” Hugh turned his gaze upon her. There was an arrested, questioning look in his eye. “Do you know the penalty for drawing a sword under the roof where the king sits?”

  She shook her head.

  He continued to look at her for a minute, then said, “The loss of an eye is considered lenient. A head severe but quite usual.”

  Guinevere shuddered. “Why? Why would he try to force you to do that then?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I do not like this place, Hugh. May we leave now?”

  “Not before the king.” He gestured that she should precede him down the curving staircase. She felt his eyes on her back at every step.

  “Did you know the man?” she asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “No. I have no recollection of ever having seen him before.” His gaze, questioning and unreadable, rested for a moment on her face. Then he eased her through the arras and back to their places at the table where there was no opportunity for further speech.

  The king followed his wife through the arras at the rear of the dais shortly thereafter and they were free to leave. Privy Seal moved around the hall to greet them as they made their way to the door.

  “Hugh … my lady of Beaucaire.” He smiled his thin, cold smile. “I trust you enjoyed my little entertainment.”

  “A revelation for me, Lord Cromwell,” Guinevere said. “We have not such wonders in Derbyshire.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you do.” He pinched his nose as he regarded her steadily. “But we shall show you more of our wonders. I dare swear you will be amazed.”

  Guinevere offered a small curtsy. “I am already amazed, my lord.” She hesitated, then added, “And most grateful for your consideration.”

  He raised a finger. “Gratitude, madam, is a wise virtue.” He glanced at Hugh. “You enjoyed yourself, I trust, Hugh?”

  “Certainly,” Hugh agreed readily. “We were honored with the invitation, my lord. We pray for the queen's safe delivery.”

  “Ah, yes. A son will bring peace and harmony.” Cromwell nodded. “The king will be content.” His hard eyes rested speculatively on Hugh. “You have a son. You know the joys.”

  “I do.” Hugh took Guinevere's arm. “Our horses await.”

  “Safe journeying.” Privy Seal turned from them as if they no longer interested him and strolled away through the crowd of his departing guests.

  Jack Stedman and his men awaited them in the inner court, holding their horses. Guinevere used the mounting block and arranged her skirts decorously across the saddle. The air was chill, clearing her head.

  Hugh swung astride his black charger but for a moment made no move to walk the horse to the wicket gate. The crowd eddied around them but he seemed not to notice. A deep frown was between his thick brows, his mouth and jaw were taut. He turned to look at her as she sat her milk-white horse beside him and again there was an unreadable question in his gaze.

  “Let us go,” she said. “I cannot bear this place another minute.”

  He nodded, then turned in his saddle to Jack Stedman. “Jack, somewhere in this throng is a man wearing a green-and-yellow-striped doublet, a black gown trimmed with marten, I believe, green hose, a yellow hat. A man of around forty with a clipped beard and a considerable belly. See if you can find him. I have a certain interest in who his friends are.”

  Jack looked doubtful. “I’ll do what I can, m’lord. But ’tis like the needle in the haystack.”

  “I understand that. But you may be lucky and I have a score to settle with him.”

  Jack dismounted and disappeared into the crowd still pouring out of Privy Seal's door.

  “He’ll never find him,” Guinevere said as they rode out into the street, carried on the tide of their fellow guests.

  Hugh shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He said nothing more until they reached home.

  The hall was well lit, the fire stoked despite the late hour. Guinevere tossed her cloak over the back of the settle and yawned deeply. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Go to bed. I’m going to wait up for Jack.” Hugh poured wine from the carafe left ready for him on the table.

  Guinevere hesitated. “Do you think he meant to kill you?”

  “He meant to make trouble,” Hugh said shortly. “For some reason someone seems interested in disrupting the hitherto smooth course of my life.”

  Again she hesitated. “Why?” she asked softly.

  “If I knew that, I might know where to look for whomever it is,” he responded. “Get you to bed, Guinevere. I’m in no mood to be good company tonight.”

  She left him then, concealing her hurt at this abrupt dismissal. Upstairs, she quietly entered the girls’ chamber. They were sleeping peacefully, Tilly snoring gently on the truckle bed. Guinevere bent over her children, breathing in their sweet scent, smiling unconsciously at the rosy flush of sleep on their cheeks. Moonshine and Nutmeg blinked indolently at her as they snuggled into
the warm space between the children's bodies.

  Guinevere smoothed the coverlet, brushed their soft cheeks with her lips, and tiptoed from the chamber. Outside Robin's room she paused. A faint gleam from the oil lamp showed beneath his door. She could hear him coughing, a dry rattle in his throat.

  She slipped inside, leaving the door ajar. Despite the lamplight, he seemed to be asleep, although he was restless, murmuring under his breath. Guinevere touched his cheek and found it hot and dry. He coughed again. She frowned down at him. This couldn’t be the consequence of overindulgence.

  “What are you doing?”

  She spun around, her hand at her throat, at the voice from the door. She hadn’t heard Hugh's approach and the sudden sound in the hush of the sleeping house startled her. He stood in the doorway and the frown was still in his eyes.

  “I always check on my children before I go to bed,” she whispered. Robin coughed again and muttered, flinging his arms above his head.

  Hugh approached his son's cot. He touched the boy's flushed cheek. “He's hot.”

  “Yes, he has a fever,” she returned, still whispering. “I could prepare a dose of hyssop and echinacea which would help to cool him.”

  “No!” Hugh said with sudden force. He dropped his voice immediately, saying more moderately, “Sleep is his best medicine. Leave him now.” He took her arm and urged her towards the door.

  “Turn out the lamp,” Guinevere said. “I don’t know who left it lit. The light might disturb him.”

  Hugh turned down the lamp and the room was in darkness. They went out into the corridor and Hugh closed the door gently behind them.

  “Is Jack returned?”

  Hugh shook his head and went to the stairs. “Don’t stay awake for me.”

  “No, I won’t.” She turned to the corridor leading to their own chamber.

  Hugh stood where he was, waiting until she had disappeared into the bedchamber, then he returned to Robin's bedside. He rubbed his mouth as he looked at the feverish boy. Robin had always been healthy, rarely overtaken with childhood ailments. What could have brought this on? He hadn’t been anywhere in the last few days where there was fever. Indeed, he’d been closer to home than usual.

  Closer to home … closer to …

  Oh, it was ridiculous to permit such a thought. But he couldn’t lose it.

  “So he wouldn’t rise?” Privy Seal sat back in a carved chair beside the fire, his fingers restlessly drumming on the arm, one foot tapping on the tiled floor before the hearth.

  “No, my lord. I drew on him myself but he didn’t turn a hair.” The man in the green-and-yellow-striped doublet shifted uncomfortably as he stood at his master's elbow.

  “He's a man of cool temperament,” Privy Seal murmured, “but I had thought he might be pricked.” His gaze flicked over his servant and the man felt his gut loosen with terror at the cold menace in the hard eyes.

  “I seem to be surrounded by dolts,” Cromwell murmured. “You accost Lord Hugh dressed as you are, like some gigantic, hideously colored bumblebee. You think he won’t attempt to find you? You think he wouldn’t recognize you instantly?” He took up his wine goblet and regarded the man contemptuously.

  “He had better not find you,” he said after a minute while the man trembled before him. “I would not grieve to see you spitted on Lord Hugh's sword, mind you. But I have no faith in your ability to keep a still tongue in your head beforehand.”

  “I would say nothing, my lord. Not even on the rack,” the man whimpered.

  “Get you gone from here at first light. One of my ships is leaving for France on tomorrow's evening tide from Greenwich. Be sure you’re on it. And get out of those ridiculous clothes before you take a step from this house.”

  The man bowed so that his forehead almost touched his knees, and scuttled from the terrifying presence although Cromwell had already turned from him to contemplate the fire.

  It seemed his faith must now rest on the endeavors of his good servant Tyler, Cromwell reflected. Privy Seal liked to attack a problem from as many different points as possible. If one approach failed, then there were others in place. Thus far his minions had squandered two attempts. He would wait and see how Tyler fared before thinking afresh.

  Then there were the daughters to consider. He stretched his plump legs across the tiled forehearth and stroked his round chin. With their mother's execution after the deaths of Lord Hugh and his son, the will would become null and void, all the property forfeit. But with a decent dowry apiece, the daughters could be used to make alliances useful to Cromwell. He could divert some of their mother's holdings to their dowries. Their lineage was good enough to attract the highest bidders in the land. Men anxious for advancement, anxious to keep Privy Seal's favor.

  All in all, it was a pretty scheme.

  For as long as Thomas Cromwell kept the king's favor.

  Privy Seal heaved himself up from his chair. If Queen Jane presented the king with yet another daughter there was no knowing what turns Henry's temper would take.

  But that was a problem for a new morning. He called for his gentlemen to help him to bed.

  Hugh stayed up, feeding the fire, until Jack returned in the early hours of the morning. So far he had only failure to report. None of the servants he’d spoken to knew of a man matching the stranger's description. He’d watched at the gate until the porter had closed the wicket on the last guests and had seen no one resembling Hugh's provocateur.

  “I’ve left Will Malfrey to watch at the gate throughout the night. Just in case anyone slips out before dawn. If we’ve no joy then, I’ll make some more inquiries in the mornin’, m’lord.”

  “I’m sure he must have slipped out unnoticed in the flood of guests. I can see no reason why he would stay in Austin Friars overnight.” Hugh rose and stretched wearily. “We’ll leave it there, Jack. My thanks, anyway. I’m sorry for keeping you up so late.”

  “ ’Tis my pleasure to serve you, sir.” Jack touched his forelock and left the hall. He hesitated at the back door. If Lord Hugh considered the matter closed, then there was no reason for Will Malfrey to watch throughout the night at Privy Seal's gate. But it would do him no harm either, Jack thought with a grim smile. The man had some penalty coming to him for a night last week spent in a Bankside brothel when he was supposed to be on duty. Will knew this night's duty was a forfeit for that truancy. He didn’t need to know that it was an unnecessary duty. Jack went to his bed.

  Hugh stood in the hall for a minute after Jack's departure, finding himself strangely reluctant to join Guinevere in his chamber. He could not bring himself to give expression to the suspicion that needled him despite every effort to banish it. It was like a burrowing worm eating at his peace of mind. But it was ridiculous. Guinevere knew no one in London. How could she possibly in the short time she’d been in the city have managed to seek out such men?

  But she had Greene, Crowder even, to do such work for her. Hugh knew full well how resourceful they were. How utterly loyal to their lady. They had covered up any possibly incriminating details about Stephen Mallory's death. They had plotted her escape to Cauldon. He didn’t think they had much love for their lady's new husband. The marriage settlements would have outraged them. Magister Howard had made no secret of his indignation.

  No, it was too absurd.

  But she had warned him. Warned him not to be complacent, not to think that he had won in the battle over the marriage settlements.

  No, it was too absurd.

  But she had amassed her wealth through her previous husbands. She had shown no scruples there.

  Dear God! This way lay madness!

  He strode up the stairs and into Robin's room. He lit one of the candles on the table and came to the cot. Robin was coughing violently, his skin seemingly hotter than before. He opened his eyes as Hugh knelt worriedly beside the bed.

  “Thirsty,” he mumbled. “I’m so thirsty.”

  Hugh filled a cup with water from the jug on the wash-s
tand and held it to Robin's parched lips. The lad drank eagerly, then coughed, his body convulsing as he struggled to breathe.

  “My head,” he groaned. “ ’Tis worse than this morning. Does a hangover last so long?”

  “This is no hangover, lad,” Hugh said gently. He wiped Robin's face with a damp cloth. “You have a fever. I’ll send for the leech in the morning.”

  “But Lady Guinevere has medicine.” Robin fell back on the pillows, his eyes closing. “I hate to be bled, sir. I’d rather take Lady Guinevere's physic.”

  “Lady Guinevere is not a physician,” Hugh said. He pulled the covers up tightly, ignoring his son's feeble efforts at resistance. “You need to sweat it out, Robin. Keep the covers up.”

  Robin gave up and curled on his side. Hugh stood over him, holding the candle high. Then he blew out the candle and left, making his way to his own chamber.

  Guinevere was not asleep but some instinct told her to pretend that she was. Hugh had made it clear he had no desire to talk, no wish to discuss with her what had happened. No wish even to discuss Robin's fever. She lay breathing rhythmically, listening to her husband's now familiar step as he moved about the chamber in the dim light of the low-turned lamp that she’d left for him. Then the lamp was doused. The feather mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed in beside her.

  She lay still, wondering if he would touch her, move close to her, but he remained still at the far edge of the bed. She could feel the tension in his body across the space that divided them, could hear the slightly ragged edge to his breathing. Now she wanted to speak, to break the tension, but she found herself tongue-tied. He had thrown up some barrier between them every bit as high and as thick as the one she had thrown up on the journey from Derbyshire after the night in his tent, when she had resisted him in desperation, knowing that only thus could she be strong enough to fight him.

  But this had come out of nowhere. They had been in near perfect amity before Privy Seal's revels. Why was he holding himself from her, forcing this distance between them? What need did he have to fight her?

  For some reason, she was deeply afraid to ask him.