The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  Hugh made no response. It mattered little to him what his household thought of these sudden events. Guinevere had obviously given the girls an excuse but he doubted his own servants would believe it. They would guess the humiliating truth. The Lady Guinevere had left her husband. And they would assume that he would bring her back, as any self-respecting husband would.

  Why had Guinevere made no attempt either to conceal her whereabouts or to leave in secret? Hope flickered. Was she waiting for him to come for her, having made her grand gesture? But he didn’t think so. Such games were not Guinevere's style. She didn’t make empty gestures. He guessed that she knew he would not force her to return to him and so had seen no reason to conceal her whereabouts.

  “Get me the directions to this lodging,” he demanded impatiently. “And have my horse saddled again.”

  “Aye, m’lord. I’ll fetch the cook. He's just starting the fires in the kitchen.” Milton hurried off, his black gown rustling around him.

  Hugh paced the hall. Once she knew the truth about Privy Seal, once she understood his remorse, his overwhelming grief at how he’d hurt her, then surely she would come back to him.

  Milton came back with the cook who wiped floury hands on his apron as he gave Lord Hugh directions to his sister's lodging house. “ ’Tis in a respectable part of the village, m’lord. Plenty of fields an’ woods around. Good clean air fer the lassies. ’Tis to be hoped they don’t catch what ails Master Robin.”

  “I’m certain they won’t,” Hugh said curtly. He strode from the hall, out into the graying dawn. It was beginning to rain and the air was raw and damp.

  A shivering boy held Hugh's horse on the driveway. The horse looked as miserable as his groom at having to brave the elements again so soon. Hugh mounted, nudged the animal into a canter down the drive, and turned east. He rode over the narrow bridge across the Holborn River and along Cheapside. The city gates were now opened for the day and he passed through Bishopsgate into the green fields beyond the city walls.

  Moorfields was a small hamlet just beyond the city walls. Under the cold gray light of very early morning, the collection of cottages and taverns gathered along a single cart-rutted lane looked warm and hospitable with smoke curling from their chimneys and lights showing in the chinks of the shutters. There was the smell of frying bacon and baking bread on the air.

  Hugh's destination turned out to be a house on the outskirts of the village, more substantial than many others, with lime-washed, half-timbered walls and a well-maintained thatch. The door from the street was closed, the windows shuttered.

  He dismounted, tethered his horse, and knocked on the door, controlling the urge to bang it with his sword hilt in his anxiety and urgency. There was no response to the knock.

  He tried again and this time heard muffled voices within, the sound of a door opening and closing. He knocked again.

  There came the sound of bolts being drawn, the door was opened a crack. Master Crowder surveyed Lord Hugh without surprise and with distinct hostility.

  “My lord?”

  “Tell Lady Guinevere I’m here,” Hugh said, putting a hand on the latch.

  “My lady knows you’re here, sir,” Crowder said. “She is unable to receive you, I’m afraid.” He made to close the door.

  Hugh held on to the latch, his knuckles whitening. “I need to speak to her, Crowder. Don’t stand in my way.”

  “I obey my lady, sir. She does not wish to receive you.” Crowder's voice was smooth, his eyes frigid.

  Hugh let his hand fall from the latch. He kept his own voice cool, controlled his anger at the man's insolence, reminded himself that Guinevere's people were loyal only to her. “Then I’d like you to give her a message.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Hugh hesitated. He couldn’t say to Crowder what he needed to say to Guinevere. “Do you have parchment, a quill?” he demanded impatiently.

  “If I might be so bold, sir, there's a decent tavern just down the road.” Crowder gestured to the right. “They’ll provide you with such things.”

  Hugh turned on his heel and left the door. He seethed with humiliation at such treatment at the hands of a mere servant, and yet he knew he couldn’t blame the man. Crowder would know what Lord Hugh had believed about his beloved mistress. He would know how Hugh had hurt her. And given half a chance, Crowder and the rest of Guinevere's entourage would see his head on a pike for it.

  He found the tavern and entered, ducking his head under the low lintel. It was wash day and the smell of soap and boiling linen from the washhouse in the back filled the low-ceilinged taproom.

  A round-faced woman appeared with arms reddened to the elbows, her coif limp with the damp heat of the washhouse. She looked suspiciously at Hugh and he realized that he hadn’t washed, shaved, or changed his clothes since the fight with Tyler. The bandages on his hand and arm were now filthy and he could smell the reek of the city streets mingling with his own sweat and blood. A great weariness washed over him.

  “Bring me parchment, quill, and ink,” he instructed. “And a pot of mulled ale.”

  The authoritative tone compensated for his disheveled appearance. The woman bobbed a curtsy and left the taproom, returning in a very few minutes with writing materials and a tankard. She set the materials on a table and took the tankard to the fire, placing it on a trivet over the flame. She heated a poker and thrust it into the contents of the tankard, which hissed and steamed.

  “Will that be all, sir?” She placed the tankard at his elbow.

  “Yes, I thank you.” Hugh waved her away and addressed his composition. What to say? How to begin? He must explain about Privy Seal, abjectly apologize for his own utter blind stupidity, beg her to return. He must say how he couldn’t bear to lose her. Tell her how he couldn’t bear to think of the enormity of his accusation.

  He knew what to say. If he could see her, hold her, he could convince her. But these words on parchment. These black symbols. They had no feeling, none of his warm blood in them. He was a blunt man, had no skill at pouring out his emotions on a piece of parchment. He had written the truth but there was none of the depth of his feelings there.

  But it was all he could do. When she’d read the letter she’d have to see him. And then he could convince her in the only way he knew.

  He read the unsatisfactory words again, then sanded the sheet and folded it. He didn’t attempt to seal it. None of her servants would read it.

  He finished his mulled ale and was a little cheered by its warmth in his belly. He left a copper on the table and went back to his horse.

  When he knocked this time the door was immediately opened as if Crowder had been waiting for him. The steward took the folded letter with an impassive expression, bowed, and very firmly closed the door.

  Hugh stepped back, looking up at the house. The shutters were closed against the rain and the raw chill, but then he saw that the one directly over the door was cracked a tiny bit and he could see a shadow behind it. He waited, stamping his feet, clapping his gloved hands. He waited for the door to open and Crowder to bid him enter.

  But nothing happened. The door remained closed. The shadow remained motionless behind the shutter. He waited for close to thirty minutes. At last he remounted and turned his horse back to the city gates.

  Guinevere stood behind the shutter on the upper floor and watched him leave. She had stood there and watched him as he’d waited for her to admit him. She ached for him. He looked so ghastly, so defeated. A man who had gone without sleep for so long he was dead on his feet. He had not slept since the night Robin had fallen ill. Robin had fallen ill two nights ago. Was it only two nights ago that this horror had started?

  She reread his letter. She had no difficulty reading the emotion beneath the blunt words. She knew Hugh. She felt a deep and abiding rage at Privy Seal, but Hugh had fallen into Cromwell's trap and Guinevere could not forget that. He had believed her capable of murdering Robin … of murdering himself. She had told him th
at she loved him and he had ignored that, choosing to believe a horror of her instead.

  How could she ever forget that? And if she couldn’t forget she couldn’t live with him as if nothing had happened. It would always lie between them.

  Once again, she could only regain her strength for her daughters by denying Hugh. If she allowed him to come to her, she would yield to him. She could not yield to a man who had done such things. She had to be strong. She had to make plans, decide where to live and how they should live. Guinevere knew herself. She knew that her stubbornness was both a besetting sin and a lifesaver. But at this moment she needed the lifesaver.

  “Mama … Mama?”

  “What is it, Pippa?” She heard the weariness in her voice. Holding the letter against her skirts, she turned to the child.

  “That was Lord Hugh.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Why didn’t he come in?” Pippa stroked Moonshine, who was wriggling in her arms.

  Guinevere knew that she would have to tell her children as much of the truth as she could bear to. They didn’t have to know about Hugh's accusations, but they had to know that they would no longer be living under their stepfather's roof. And they would need a reason. But she couldn’t think of anything. Her brain seemed to have shriveled, become numb.

  “Are you ill, Mama?” Pen came anxiously towards her mother, her hand outstretched. “You look ill.”

  “Now, don’t pester your mother this morning.” Tilly took her head out of the armoire where she’d been hanging clothes. “She's very tired. It's been a very tiring time for her. You run along downstairs and get your breakfasts. Mistress Woolley has everything ready.”

  The girls looked at their mother and she smiled. “I’m feeling a little tired, my loves. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll rest a little this morning.”

  “Must we have lessons?” Pippa asked.

  Guinevere shook her head. “No, not today. You may do whatever you wish so long as you don’t trouble Mistress Woolley.”

  “I shall ask Greene to take me hunting,” Pippa announced. “He promised he would the very next time he went. Are you coming, Pen?”

  Pen still looked at her mother. “Are you ill, Mama?”

  “No, sweeting, but I am tired. I shall rest this morning. Don’t worry now.” She bent to kiss the child and lightly caressed her cheek.

  Pen didn’t look too reassured but she left the chamber.

  “Morning sickness, chuck?” asked Tilly matter-of-factly.

  Guinevere shook her head. “No, I have had none so far. But I’m awearied, Tilly.”

  “I’m not surprised, all these goings-on. You go back to bed and I’ll bring you a sack posset,” Tilly said, turning back the covers on the bed. “Come now, chuck. You’ll do no good for yourself or the babe exhausting yourself.”

  “No.” Guinevere allowed her maid to unlace her. A weary spirit was one thing, but she couldn’t afford a weary body into the bargain.

  Hugh rode back through the incessant drizzle. What could he do if she wouldn’t hear him? He had to go back. He had to keep knocking until she admitted him. He could make it right, if he could only hold her, tell her how he felt. He knew he could. She was fair-minded. She was just so damned stubborn! If she would only listen, she would understand.

  He left the horse in the stables and entered his house through the back as was his custom. He was aware of inquisitive looks as he walked through the kitchen. He ignored them. In the hall, the fire was blazing, lamps had been lit, but he could take no comfort from the warmth. He stood absently running a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble rough against his fingers.

  With an oath he strode vigorously upstairs to his bedchamber. Its bleak emptiness hit him as he entered and the surge of energy drained away as he heard his voice in his head, accusing, condemning, pushing her from him. How could he possibly hope to get her back?

  He rang the large handbell loudly and insistently, grimacing at his own smell, at the dried blood on his sleeve. He stripped to his skin, demanding hot water of the servant who answered his summons. He could think of only one thing to do. He was going to woo his wife. He had never courted a woman before. His marriage to Sarah had been arranged by her parents. His marriage to Guinevere had certainly come about without the gentle art of courtship.

  Now, if he was to have his wife back, he must court her, woo her, convince her of his love.

  He shaved awkwardly with his uninjured left hand and cursed as he nicked the skin beneath his chin. He scrubbed himself with soap and hot water, and in different circumstances he would have laughed at himself for making such a fuss over his appearance. Ordinarily it never concerned him, ordinarily he paid no attention to the kind of impression he was making on people. But not this morning. He would go to her looking his best. His appearance was not going to sway her one way or the other, but surely it would demonstrate how hard he was trying to convince her to hear him.

  He dressed with elaborate care and examined his reflection in the mirror of beaten copper. His image was distorted, wavery, but he could still see how tired and drawn he looked. Maybe food would help. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten.

  He returned to the hall where Milton was waiting for him. “Fetch me bread and meat and ale, if you please,” Hugh asked as he came down the last stair.

  “At once, my lord.” The steward bowed again and hurried off. Hugh poked the fire, holding his hands to the blaze. She’d said she loved him. Even at the end when he was saying such dreadful things to her, she had said she loved him.

  He clung to that as he ate, standing up, tearing bread from the warm loaf, using his dagger to slice into the round of beef, drinking straight from the ale jug. Every muscle strained to rush to her but he forced himself to eat and drink. When she saw him, he must be reasonable, measured in his appeal for forgiveness. He’d shown her a violent side of himself that he hadn’t known he possessed except in the bloody hurly-burly of battle. He must do everything he could to erase that memory. A thought occurred to him.

  “Milton?”

  “My lord?” The steward was standing to one side as his master ate.

  “Did Lady Guinevere take her books?”

  “I don’t believe so, my lord. They remain in the magis-ter's chamber.”

  “Crate them at once. Have them loaded onto a cart. Cover them against the rain.”

  Milton looked astounded but there was something in his master's manner that told him it would be unwise to question the order. He went hastily on his errand.

  Hugh finished his breakfast and paced the hall waiting to be told the books were crated and ready to go. It was a gift. The only gift he could give her that would say that he understood she had the right to leave him. That acceptance would tell her more eloquently than anything he could say how much he realized what a dreadful thing he had done. If she accepted his remorse, then she would listen to him. He had to believe that she would.

  Guinevere was asleep, in an exhausted, dreamless coma, when the door knocker sounded again. She didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear Tilly creep softly into the room. Was unaware of the woman standing by the bed, watching her.

  Tilly pursed her lips and left the chamber as softly as she’d entered it. The steward waited on the landing outside.

  “She's fast asleep, Master Crowder. I’ll not wake her. It would be criminal.”

  Crowder nodded. “I’ll tell Lord Hugh then.”

  “Aye, but don’t tell ’im she's asleep. Tell ’im she’ll not see ’im,” Tilly said flatly. “She’ll ’ave to say fer ’erself whether she’ll see ’im or not. I’ll not ’ave ’im thinkin’ ’e's got the better of ’er when she's not said it ’erself.”

  Crowder nodded again and went back downstairs to deliver his message. Two servant lads were bringing the books in from the cart, piling them in the small parlor where Magister Howard was counting them in, fussing over each spine, castigating the boys for careless handling.

  Crowder opened
the door. Lord Hugh stood in the street, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other in a fist against his hip. Everything about his stance proclaimed impatience and anxiety.

  “Your pardon, my lord, but my lady cannot see you,” Crowder said. He took a hasty step back as Lord Hugh stepped forward, his face now black as thunder.

  “Cannot?” Hugh demanded. “Why not?”

  “She said to tell you, my lord, that she cannot see you,” Crowder said steadfastly.

  Hugh turned away without another word. He didn’t look back but went straight to his horse. For two pins, he would have thrust the steward out of the way and marched into the house, but it would do his cause no good. He was about to mount when a high voice called him.

  “Lord Hugh? Lord Hugh?” Pippa came racing around the side of the cottage, her hood flying off, her hair damp with rain. She hurled herself on him with her usual uninhibited welcome and he picked her up, held her and kissed her.

  She patted his face with her hand as she often did while the words tumbled forth. “Have you come to stay? Why aren’t we staying with you anymore? How's Robin? Is he home yet? When can we see him? Mama's asleep. She's very very tired. She said she has to rest all morning and Tilly won’t let us disturb her until dinnertime. Will you stay for dinner? Pen … Pen …” She called over her shoulder. “Lord Hugh's come to see us.”

  Pen came more slowly towards them. “Good morning, Lord Hugh.” She regarded him gravely.

  “Good morning, Pen.” He let Pippa slide through his hold to the ground and calmly bent to kiss his elder stepdaughter. “Your mother's asleep, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir. She's very tired. We didn’t get here until late,” Pen said solemnly. “Did you wish to see her?”

  “No, I won’t disturb her when she's sleeping,” Hugh said. “When she wakes, tell her I came and that I’ll come back this afternoon. I brought her books.”

  “Oh, she’ll be so pleased.” Pen's earnest expression lightened and a smile glowed in her hazel eyes. “She didn’t say anything last night, but I know she was upset to leave them behind.”