The Widow's Kiss (19 page)

Hugh looked at the throng on the bridge. He could see no sign of the silver kitten. Around them the crowd ebbed and surged. There were angry shouts. Their halted procession was taking up a large space on the bridge's narrow span. He looked at Pippa's drenched face.

“I don’t know what we can do, Pippa.”

“But what will happen to her?”

“Cats are survivors,” he said. “She’ll hunt rats and mice.” He had an inspiration. “Didn’t you say her mother was a barn cat?”

Pippa nodded miserably.

“Her mother will have taught Moonshine to hunt. She’ll know what to do.”

“Lord Hugh's right, Pippa,” Guinevere said, leaning sideways to kiss the child's cheek. “Moonshine will become a London cat. She’ll be able to look after herself.”

“You could have Nutmeg, Pippa,” Pen offered, her own face stricken at her sister's loss. “I don’t mind.” She unwrapped the ginger kitten from her cloak.

“Put him away!” Pippa said fiercely. “He might jump off, too.” She added, “I don’t want your kitten, Pen. He's
lovely, but I want mine.” Her eyes, wide with unhappiness, searched the melee. “Will she be all right, Mama?”

Guinevere looked at Hugh. He opened his hands in a little gesture of sympathy, of shared parental understanding.

“She’ll do as well here as at home,” she said. “There are foxes and wolves at home. There aren’t any here. Moonshine will find a life for herself.”

“I don’t think so,” Pippa said. She lifted her chin and sniffed bravely. “But we can’t find her, can we?”

“I’ll stay and look for her,” Robin offered. “May I, sir?”

Hugh hesitated. Every instinct told him it was a futile exercise and it would be better not to give Pippa false hope, and yet he could not resist the child's pleading eyes in her tear-drenched face, or her pathetic attempt at brave acceptance.

“Take Luke with you and be back in the house before curfew,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Robin smiled encouragingly at Pippa. “I’m sure we’ll find her.” He called for Luke, dismounted, handed the reins to the soldier and disappeared into the melee.

“Pippa, love, don’t expect too much,” Guinevere said, stroking the child's cheek. “One little kitten in this crowd. She could be anywhere.”

“Robin will find her,” Pen declared. “I know he will.”

Hugh shook his head. “Your faith is commendable, Pen, but I agree with your mother. It's a very long shot.” He urged his horse forward again. “Come, let's get off this bridge. We’re but fifteen minutes from my house. Jack, do you follow closely with the girls.”

Guinevere rode beside him, just a little ahead of the rest. She had not broached the subject of her lodging since he’d told her that she would be held beneath his roof. She had not argued the issue then because she’d assumed her
flight would succeed and the issue become moot. Now, however, it was imperative. She
could
not,
would
not accept his hospitality, either as prisoner or guest.

“My lord, I prefer not to presume upon your hospitality,” she stated formally. “If you will direct my steward to a decent inn we will make shift for ourselves. I shall understand that you might wish to put a guard upon the inn. You may have no fear we will escape your vigilance.”

“Oh, I assure you, madam, I have no such fear. Until Privy Seal makes some disposition for you, you will be under my roof,” he returned in flat tones. He began to whistle softly, looking straight ahead as they left the little river behind and entered the maze of lanes that formed the district of Holborn.

Guinevere set her teeth. That whistle irritated her beyond measure. “Nevertheless, sir, I would prefer to seek my own accommodation.”

“You may bring up the subject with Privy Seal, or even the king,” Hugh told her. “For the moment, you remain in my charge until I’m commanded to yield it up.”

She glanced at him with a mockingly raised eyebrow. “I see. My arrest is made manifest, it seems.”

He shrugged. “If you wish to put it that way.”

“I have always preferred to call a spade a spade, my lord.”

Hugh looked at her intently. “Strangely, I have difficulty believing that, Lady Guinevere. On the contrary, I’ve noticed that you’re adept at denying realities if it suits you to do so.”

Guinevere's hands quivered on the reins. “Some things are too trivial to warrant acknowledgment,” she stated.

Hugh's intense gaze remained on her face. “You lie, my lady,” he accused softly. Then he looked away from her and began to whistle again.

Guinevere fought the surge of emotion. She gazed around with every appearance of nonchalance, noting the
half-timbered daub cottages behind neat hedges, the larger houses behind stone walls. It was much quieter here than in the warren of streets beyond the bridge. Some of the lanes were cobbled, providing some relief from the clouds of dust that rose from the summer-dry mud. The kennels were sluiced and the stench was much less pronounced than it had been before.

They turned onto a broader thoroughfare. A stone wall loomed at the end with high wooden gates set in its center. Above the wall, Guinevere could see the lofty tops of trees.

The herald broke from the ranks behind them and cantered up to the gate, raising his trumpet to his lips. He blew a single blast and the gates swung open. Two gatekeepers bowed low as Lord Hugh and his party passed through.

Hugh's house was neither modest nor grand. It was a half-timbered stone building, low-ceilinged, thatch-roofed. Some of the upper windows were glassed and caught the sinking sun. Smoke arose from two stone chimneys. The grounds were well maintained, but were not elaborately landscaped. They were more functional than ornamental.

Like their owner, Guinevere thought, surprised into a smile.

“Something amuses you?”

The smile was hastily quashed. “Hardly, my lord.”

“Well, allow me to bid you welcome.” Hugh drew rein before the oak front doors and dismounted. He turned to help Guinevere but she avoided his hands and slid to the ground unaided.

The magister tumbled off the back of his mount with a sigh of relief. “I’ll not be sorry if I never see a horse again,” he declared, rubbing his backside. “If man were made to ride, the Lord God wouldn’t have given him legs.”

“We couldn’t possibly have walked all this way,

Magister,” Pippa said. “Miles and miles and miles. Your legs would have worn out.” She was still looking subdued but her curiosity about her new surroundings was too strong to be extinguished by her unhappiness over Moonshine.

“Come inside.” Hugh gestured to the now open front door where stood a man in the black gown of a steward. “Master Milton will have arranged the guest apartments for you. Your household should be here in a few minutes, they weren’t far behind. Mistress Tilly will be brought to you. Master Milton will make arrangements for you, Magister, and for Crowder and Greene.” He nodded interrogatively at the steward who bowed his agreement as he ushered them into the house.

A large square hall with fireplaces at either end formed the main living space. It was a handsomely paneled chamber with deep window seats to the low-silled windows and an oaken floor. A long oak table with benches on either side stood in the middle, wooden settles flanked the fireplaces. It was handsome but it lacked a woman's touch, Guinevere thought. Again, it was functional, neat, like its master.

“I’ve been home rarely these last two years,” Hugh said, almost as if he was apologizing for the sparseness of his abode. “But Master Milton will do whatever is needful for your comfort.”

The magister, with a sigh like air escaping from a cushion, collapsed onto one of the window seats and untied the lappets of his cap. He flapped his hand in front of his face to create a cooling draught.

“For as long as we’re obliged to trespass upon your hospitality, Lord Hugh, Master Crowder will take care of our needs,” Guinevere said. “I’m not yet reduced to penury and will not allow my household to be a charge upon your purse.”

Two red spots appeared high on Hugh's cheekbones.

“That will not be necessary,” he clipped. “I realize I can’t hope to offer the comforts of your own home, we are not all as rich as Croesus. But I will do what I can.”

He had neatly turned the tables, making her sound arrogant and discourteous in her reluctance to accept his hospitality. But she would not play that game. She ignored the comment, instead looking around the apartment with apparent fascination.

Hugh strode to the staircase that rose from the corner of the hall. “Come, madam, I’ll show you to my so-humble guest apartments. Pen … Pippa … come with us now.”

Pen, clutching Nutmeg, came over immediately. Pippa, however, was engaged in describing Moonshine's disappearance to a clearly confused Master Milton. “You see, Boy Robin
might
find her,” he was being earnestly assured. “I do so hope he will. And if he does, I’ll need to give her some milk. I’m sure she’ll be frightened. Don’t you think she’ll be frightened? Will you have some milk for me, Master Milton? Just a little saucer. I give it to her on the tip of my finger. She licks it off, but her tongue's so rough. Did you know a kitten's tongue was rough? I think …”

“Pippa!” Guinevere called, feeling Hugh's large frame aquiver with laughter beside her, his flash of anger vanquished by the child's artless prattle. “Master Milton has work to do.”

“I was only explaining about Moonshine, in case Robin brings her back.” Pippa trailed over to them, once more despondent.

“Don’t expect too much,” Hugh said quietly.

“I’m not really,” Pippa replied, slipping her hand in her mother's.

Hugh led the way up the stairs. At their head a passageway ran to the left and another straight ahead. Hugh led the way down the second corridor. He opened a door at the end and stepped inside.

Guinevere and the girls followed him. He looked around with a critical frown and she thought he was looking anxious, as if something should be found wanting. It was a simple chamber, the floor scattered with sweet herbs. “You and the girls will share the bed,” Hugh said. “There should be a truckle bed for Tilly.” He bent to look beneath the big poster bed and pulled out a cot. “I trust this will suit you.”

“Amply, I thank you.” Guinevere drew off her gloves and went to the window. It looked out over a kitchen garden and an orchard beyond. There were outhouses, the brewery, bakery, and washhouse. Farther off, she could see the roofs of neighboring houses. She could hear the city noises drifting over the rooftops and the air lacked sweetness. It was all very orderly, but so alien. And she was very afraid.

Hugh touched her shoulder. He could feel her fear and he couldn’t help himself. She jumped as if scalded.

He stepped away from her. “I’ll leave you now. We sup at seven, when the city gates are closed for curfew.” He closed the door behind him and went downstairs. The rest of Guinevere's party had arrived and Master Milton was busy making disposition. Tilly followed two stalwart manservants carrying Guinevere's trunks and crate of books abovestairs.

Hugh summoned Jack Stedman. “Discover where Privy Seal is at present. I imagine he's at his own house in Austin Friars since he was riding through the city just an hour ago. Present my compliments … I doubt you’ll be permitted to see the man himself but one of his gentleman ushers will bear the message. Say that I am returned to London with the Lady Guinevere.”

“Aye, my lord.” Jack offered a half salute and hurried away. Hugh called for wine and sat beside the hearth where a servant was kindling a fire against the coolness of the September evening. Now they must wait.

G
uinevere came down to the hall with the girls just before supper. Servants were laying the long table with drinking horns, wooden trenchers, spoons, and knives. There were no elegancies here, Guinevere reflected as she cast a sweeping eye over the table, noticing that Hugh of Beaucaire had not taken to the use of forks at his table. But since he was rarely at home, he would see little need to spend money on such niceties. She noticed the single manacle in the wall by the front door. It was a common feature of dining halls; Mallory Hall had its own. It was a partly jesting forfeit for a guest who became offensive in drink. His arm would be manacled and the contents of his drinking cup poured down his sleeve. It was a humiliating rather than a painful penalty, although costly and irritating to have one's expensive garments soaked in wine.

It was never administered at Mallory Hall under her own dominion, although Stephen had delighted in mortifying his guests if they gave him half a chance. Guinevere preferred merely to absent herself from table if matters became too rowdy.

Pippa ran over to Hugh, who had risen from the settle at their appearance. “Is Robin back … is Robin back, sir?”

“Not as yet,” Hugh said, bending to kiss her anxiously upturned face. “But he should be here any minute. The bells will sound for curfew in five minutes and he knows he must be within doors by then.”

Guinevere was struck by how natural that kiss had seemed. Hugh thought nothing of it and neither, it was clear, had the child. Guinevere was aware that she was smiling. Hugh's response to Pippa pleased her on some deep level that she couldn’t understand. Once again she felt the powerful sense of connection with him. The sense that it was right that they should be here together, sharing this moment. Once again there was no antagonism … it almost seemed no possibility of antagonism. And once again she was awash in confusion.

“May I offer you wine, my lady?”

“My thanks.” She took the cup he handed her. Her smile didn’t falter and she read the answering light in his eye. There was a question in his steady gaze as he raised his cup and made a tiny gesture of a toast. Guinevere raised her own cup, touched it to her lips. Her eyes seemed riveted to his and for a long moment it seemed she could not break the connection. She had forced the distance between them on the journey to avoid just this, but now there was no distance and it seemed impossible to retrieve it. There was only this sense of excitement, of promise, of possibility. And for as long as she was obliged to share his roof, it would always be there, weakening her resolve, invading her thoughts, muddling her senses.

At last she managed to turn her head aside, to address some calm remark to the girls.

Hugh sipped his wine, his hungry eyes resting on her profile, on the soft white skin of her throat, on the turn of her slender shoulder, on the swell of her breasts beneath the pleated lace of her chemise.

Then came the sound of voices outside and his gaze shifted to the door. “Robin,” he said, adding, “and just in
time,” as a great peal of bells sounded from across the city, telling travelers that the city gates were now closed and all working fires must now be covered.

Pippa had already run to the door, jumping on tiptoe to lift the heavy latch. “Have you found her … did you find her?” she demanded almost before the door was opened.

Robin came in beaming. “I found her and then she ran away again. I had to chase her all over the bridge. I thought I’d lost her and then I heard her. She was clinging to the ledge under the bridge. I had to climb over the rail to get her.” He handed the bedraggled little creature to Pippa.

“Oh, that's so wonderful!” Pen exclaimed, hurrying towards him. “You’re so clever, Robin. I knew you’d be able to find her.” She took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

Robin's beam widened so that it seemed it would split his face in two. “Did you? I was so afraid I wouldn’t, and this gaggle of boys followed me the whole time. They kept asking me what I was looking for and when I finally picked up Moonshine I think they thought I was a bedlamite! Who else would chase all over for a
kitten?”

“Well, anyone would!” Pippa exclaimed, her voice muffled by the kitten's fur as she nuzzled her neck. “You’re a splendid
Boy,”
she said vehemently. “I hope one day I meet one just like
you.”

Robin blushed to the tips of his ears and Hugh caught Guinevere's eye. He was trying not to laugh and she bit her own lip struggling for sobriety. The lad was looking embarrassed enough as it was. That strand of taut promise was snapped for the moment, in its place only this calm and amused friendship. And Guinevere didn’t know which of the two was the most dangerous.

“Well, now that all's well that ends well, I suggest we sup,” Hugh said, gesturing to a hovering manservant to sound the gong that would summon the household to table.

Hugh's household was not large, and Guinevere noted
that only the kitchen servants responsible for serving did not sit at the master's table. There was room enough for maids and grooms, and by their grease-spattered aprons she could identify the potboys and spit turners who had their seats far below the salt.

There were no pages behind the diners at Hugh of Beaucaire's table. Servers placed heaped platters along the middle of the table and everyone helped themselves, spearing venison on knife points, spooning rich gravy from steaming bowls, dipping bread in broth. A minstrel plucked a lute in the small gallery high up on the end wall.

Hugh and Guinevere ate for the most part in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence. For once there were no barbed undercurrents, and yet Guinevere felt as if the quiet of their present companionship, their seeming serenity, had a limited time to run. As if she were standing on a sultry summer evening, the tightness in her head a warning of an approaching thunderstorm.

When the meal drew to a close, Guinevere told the girls to take the kittens to their chamber and feed them there. Tilly would then help them to bed.

“I must ask you to excuse me,” Hugh said, rising from the table. “I have business in the stables. Robin, you will accompany me.”

“Aye, sir. Should I fetch your heavy cloak? It grows chilly,” Robin asked, eager as always to do his father's bidding.

Hugh nodded with a smile and the lad ran off to his father's chamber, which lay above the hall.

“I must see how my household has fared in my absence,” Hugh explained.

“Of course. I do not expect to be entertained, sir. Besides, the magister and I have work to do.”

“Make free of the fire,” he offered, gesturing to the blazing hearth. “You won’t wish to disturb the girls in your chamber.”

“No,” Guinevere agreed. But she hesitated, wondering if it would be wise to formulate strategies for her defense in the public hall of her jailer's house.

“You need have no fear you’ll be overheard,” Hugh said with an ironical glitter in his eye as he read her thoughts. “I will promise to make a great clatter with my boots to give you fair warning of my return.”

Guinevere turned away from his gaze. She said to the magister, who was bobbing at her side, “I’ll fetch the books we’ll need, Magister. Make yourself comfortable at the fireside.” She gave Hugh a cool nod of farewell and glided to the stair, her back straight as a ruler, her dark velvet gown over its cone-shaped farthingale swaying gracefully with her smooth step.

She felt a surge of optimism as she sorted through the crate of books in her chamber. At last she and the magister would be able to test their theories against the legal facts. Her books had always provided answers. Surely they would help her now.

She hurried downstairs with her selection. The magister was seated on the settle, his skinny shanks in their wrinkled black hose stretched to the fire. “Oh, this is comfort indeed,” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “Lord Hugh has ordered extra light for us. See, we have two extra lanterns and there are new candles in the sconces.” He gestured to the greater illumination by the fireside. “So considerate of him, I thought.”

“Indeed,” Guinevere agreed dryly, depositing her books on the opposite settle. She got straight down to business. “As we’ve discussed, Magister, the issue is one of evidence. They have no evidence, no hard evidence, to link me to any of my husbands’ deaths.” She paused, staring into the fire, frowning fiercely.

What had he discovered at Matlock? If she didn’t know the evidence against her, she couldn’t formulate a defense.

She shook her head. She had to work with what she had. “We know Lord Hugh can bear witness to some contradictions in my statements and in Tilly's concerning Lord Mallory's fall. If they wish to make something of those contradictions, then we are in difficulties.”

“I think it safe to assume that they will,” the magister said, pursing his lips and sucking in his cheeks. He asked hesitantly, “You are convinced that Lord Hugh will tell of these contradictions?”

Guinevere continued to stand staring into the flames, her hands pressed against the folds of her gown. What
had
he discovered at Matlock?

“Yes,” she said after a minute. “He will give his evidence as he sees it.” She shrugged and sat down on the settle beside the books. “My task will be to convince the lords that those contradictions do not constitute hard evidence.”

“We should examine the common law on circumstantial evidence,” the magister said. “A conclusion drawn by inference from known facts that have no clear explanation is a weak one. We must find an alternative persuasive explanation for those facts.”

“Aye,” Guinevere agreed. “But what of charges of witchcraft? I see no way to refute those charges if they’re leveled. Only my husbands could deny that they were bewitched, and my husbands no longer walk this earth.” She pressed her steepled fingers to her lips.

“I beg you, madam, let us take one issue at a time,” the magister said with a worried frown. “We have hard evidence supporting your claim to the land Lord Hugh lays claim to. That's one big issue in our favor. No one can dispute the legality of the premarriage contract with Roger Needham, and if you’re on solid legal ground there, a reasonable man might assume that you are on the other issues.”

“A reasonable man, yes. But is Lord Privy Seal a reasonable man?”

“Come now, madam, let's not prejudge the case,” the magister begged. “The law will have an answer for us, it always does. Let us take a look at Fortescue's
De laudibus legum Angliae.”
He leaned over and selected the book in question.

An hour later, the magister yawned deeply and shifted on the settle, trying to ease his aching bones. “God's mercy, but I doubt I’ll ever have ease again,” he muttered. “Riding like that, day after day.”

“We’ll cease our discussion for tonight.” Guinevere closed the book. “You need your rest, Magister.”

“I’m an old man, madam. Not made for travel,” he said.

“I should not have brought you,” Guinevere said remorsefully. “ ’Twas not kind in me to force such privations upon you.”

“Bless you, madam, I’d not leave you to face this alone.” Magister Howard threw up his hands in horrified disclaimer. “But we’ve made some progress I believe.”

Guinevere was less sure of this but she agreed with a smile, unwilling to distress her old mentor. “Seek your bed, sir. We’ll continue on the morrow.”

The elderly man rose creakily to his feet. “I’ll not be sorry to lie down among feathers again,” he said. “I give you good night, my lady.”

“Good night.” She watched him go, leaning her head against the high carved back of the wooden settle. Legalistic arguments seemed so empty, so pointless, and yet they were all she had. That and her own eloquence. Would it be enough to sway a man of Privy Seal's complexion?

She heard the clatter of booted feet on the flagstones beyond a doorway at the rear of the hall that she assumed led to the kitchen quarters and the stables. Lord Hugh spoke from the doorway. “Did I make sufficient noise?”

“Your consideration, my lord, overwhelms me.”

Hugh came into the hall. He strode to the fireplace and
stood looking at her, one hand resting on the back of the opposite settle. “You have finished? Is the magister gone to his bed?”

“We’ve finished for this evening. The magister is tired after the journey.” She remained with her head against the back of the settle, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, her eyes half shut. But she could feel his steady gaze upon her.

“You look exhausted yourself.” He turned as the front door opened. Jack Stedman came in on a blast of autumnal night air.

“Eh, ’tis gettin’ right parky out there,” he commented, pulling off his cap. “Weather's turned around, I shouldn’t wonder.” He didn’t see Guinevere who was hidden from the door by the high back of her seat. “Privy Seal's usher took the message an’ kept me kickin’ me ’eels for close on two hour afore ’e come back, m’lord.” Jack sounded apologetic for the delay. “ ’Twas such a crush in ’is antechamber a man couldn’t ’ardly move.”

“Is there a message?” Hugh inquired.

“Aye, m’lord. Y’are summoned with the Lady Guinevere to attend at ’ampton Court tomorrow at three in the afternoon.”

Hugh nodded and glanced involuntarily to the settle where Guinevere sat unmoving, her eyes still half closed. “That will be all for tonight, Jack. At sunup I’ll need a barge at Blackfriars Steps. Make sure it's one with some shelter from the elements. You’ll accompany us, together with two of the men.”

“Aye, sir. And Master Robin?”

“He may stay here. Tell him he may have a holiday … if keeping company with young Pippa can be so described,” Hugh added dryly.

Jack grinned. “Aye, sir. Good night.” He touched his forehead in a half salute and left, cramming his cap back on his head.

“So soon,” Guinevere said. She rose slowly to her feet
and faced him. “Could you not have granted me a few days of respite, my lord, before sending your message?”

He answered quietly, “A delay would have been no respite. ’Tis better to do what has to be done.”

“But I am not ready yet.”

“There will be no trial tomorrow,” he said. “There will be questions, but no trial.”