The Widow's Kiss (24 page)

London Bridge was quiet now as they were rowed beneath it. At curfew the bridge was closed to traffic between the north and south banks of the river. The city itself, though, was still very much alive, lights and noise drifting across the river from the taverns along its banks. The brothels that lined the South Bank were brilliantly lit and Guinevere could see the women hanging around the doors, calling raucously to the men who scrutinized them as they walked by.

“The Bankside brothels do a roaring trade,” Hugh observed, following her gaze.

“Only on the South Bank?”

“Mostly.”

They lapsed into silence. Guinevere wondered when if ever he would forgive her. But she had wanted to put a distance between them so maybe she shouldn’t try to heal the breach.

They left the barge at Blackfriars and in the same silence
walked to Holborn. Guinevere's step quickened as they entered the grounds of Hugh's house. The door was flung wide and she was engulfed in her children's welcome.

“Mama … Mama … we missed you so!” Pippa shouted into her ear as she bent to embrace her. “Why were you in a jail? We talked to the king and he said we could see you … didn’t he, Pen?”

Pen, clutching her mother's free hand tightly, nodded, her emotions in such a turmoil of anxiety and relief that she couldn’t speak.

“You
spoke to the king?” Guinevere looked at them in bewilderment. She glanced up at Hugh for explanation.

He gave a tiny shrug as if to say,
Well, what would you have had me do?

Guinevere knew that whatever he had done, it had been the only possible way to achieve her release. And as she held her children to her, she could only be grateful.

H
ugh came out of his house, absently stepping over Nutmeg who was playing intently with a fallen leaf on the step. The kitten's sister batted at a worm in a puddle on the driveway. The creatures were so pampered they hadn’t had to learn the difference between leaves, worms, and mice, Hugh reflected, but without too much rancor.

He strode down the drive towards the orchard where he knew Guinevere and the magister were walking. As always they would be intently discussing the finest points of legal argument. In the three days since he’d brought her from the Tower, Hugh had never been alone with Guinevere. There was always someone with her; if not the girls, or the magister, it would be some member of her household. She retired to her chamber immediately after they had supped and remained closeted there until daybreak, when she would appear, polite but withdrawn, to continue reading with her children or working on her defense. She had surrounded herself with an impenetrable wall, protecting herself from the enemy.

It was driving him to distraction, not helped by his own confusion. After his afternoon in Matlock, he knew enough about her marriage to Timothy Hadlow and the
circumstances surrounding his death to have a firm opinion; not so with Stephen Mallory's death. But he did know that a trial before the king's council would never get at the truth. He knew that his evidence, inconclusive though it was, would be all the grasping Privy Seal would need to condemn her.

He couldn’t blame her for retreating from him and yet he could feel whenever he was within a few feet of her how much she needed his support and friendship, how much she craved the loving that brought them both so much joy. But she would not yield. In her eyes, he and her own longings were the enemy, inextricable.

He heard them talking before he saw them as he turned under the trees. Magister Howard was expounding a point of law with meticulous detail.

Hugh called out before he came up with them, unwilling that she should even consider that he had been listening to their conversation. “Lady Guinevere?”

“Lord Hugh.” She greeted him with a cool smile as he stepped in front of them. The smile was cool but as always her eyes burned when they fell upon him.

Hugh wondered how long she could keep it up. He wondered how long he could keep his hands and his mouth from hers. At the moment he knew that if Magister Howard had not been bobbing beside her, he would have taken her in love, there on the damp, sweet-smelling grass beneath the gnarled branches of the apple trees, and she would have cried her passion and her need against his mouth as their bodies joined in that one long sweep of union. And he saw in her eyes that she knew it too. She moved infinitesimally closer to the magister, as if instinctively seeking protection.

Guinevere looked away. The power in his gaze was too much to bear. It was brighter and hotter than the sun; would, like the sun's rays, scorch her own eyes if she stared into them.

Magister Howard coughed behind his hand. Hugh greeted him. “I give you good morning, Magister.” He turned to Guinevere, said neutrally, “My lady, I have this last hour received notice from Privy Seal that you are commanded to appear before the king's council in the Star Chamber on the morrow.”

Her eyes darted to his. The color rushed into her cheeks and then drained as quickly. She put out a hand and instinctively he took it, his fingers tightening around hers.

“Tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“I see.” She slipped her hand from his. Her color returned to normal, her voice when she spoke was steady. “Well, ’tis better to face the devil than anticipate him, I believe. May I have the magister's counsel in the Star Chamber?”

Hugh shook his head. “You must appear alone.”

Magister Howard put a hand on her arm, his own face drawn and tight. She laid her hand over his. “I am well prepared, Magister. I could not have had better preparation.”

“I don’t think we’ve left a stone unturned,” he muttered. “I can think of nothing, madam, that we’ve neglected.”

“Neither can I,” she said. “So let's talk no more of this for today. I’ll let my mind lie fallow.”

“Aye, madam. ’Tis always good to rest the mind before a challenge.” But the magister didn’t look any happier.

Guinevere was aware of a great calm. Her mind was a clear, cool space. There was no fear now, only relief. At last she was to go face-to-face with the demons that were Privy Seal and King Henry of England. She
would
win. She would admit no possibility of failure.

“You will be there, Lord Hugh?” she asked neutrally. “You will bear witness.”

“I am so commanded.”

“Of course.” She turned to follow the magister who had moved away through the trees.

Hugh put out an arm, resting his flat palm on the trunk of an apple tree, blocking her path. He spoke with some urgency. “A moment, Guinevere. There's something we have to discuss. It's not easy but it must be addressed.”

She stopped; his arm rested against her breast. Her nipples hardened. She said steadily, “Must it be here? Surely we can talk in the house.”

“No, we need to talk about this away from any other ears.” After a second he let his arm fall so that she was free to leave if she wished. He would not give her the opportunity to accuse him again of coercion.

Guinevere stayed where she was. She crossed her arms over her breast and looked out across the orchard where the neat alleys between the trees stretched towards the house. Whatever he had to say that was so private had to be personal. She didn’t want to hear it, but felt that she must.

Hugh felt for words. He had rehearsed this speech so many times in the last several days but now, when faced with the reality, his carefully chosen words flew to the four winds.

“Guinevere, I think it would be wise for you to draw up some document that will make clear your wishes for the girls.”

She drew a deep breath. “You think I will fail to prove my innocence? I assure you I do not intend to fail.”

He said with difficulty, “Some things you must take into account.”

She was silent. She knew he was right, but admitting it weakened her. Finally she said in a flat voice, “I don’t know what provision I’ll be permitted to make. Do you?”

He shook his head. “No, but I believe that if you make
some provision, if you state your wishes, then there's some chance that I might be able to fight for them.”

“And you would fight for them.” It was a statement, not a question, and he took it as such.

“I would wish to make provision for their education, for dowries.” She steepled her fingers against her mouth, smelling the faint musky scent of her soft doeskin gloves, forcing herself to say out loud what had tormented her innermost thoughts since Hugh of Beaucaire had ridden into her courtyard at Mallory Hall. “Will this be allowed, do you think?”

“I don’t know. You can but try.” He hesitated, clapping his hands together as if there was a chill in the air, but the September day was mild. “I believe that if you put your daughters under my guardianship, that will not be contested.”

Guinevere looked down at the ground. She noticed how a blade of grass sparkled in a ray of sunshine that caught the drop of dew at its tip. She noticed the silvery gray trail of a slug across a fallen leaf. She felt the faint warmth of the autumnal sun on the back of her neck, penetrating the silken folds of her pale hood.

“You would care for them,” she said softly, her eyes still on the ground. “But you would have little means to provide for them. I know how important it is for you to gain my lands to provide for Robin. How can you supply the needs of my daughters when they’re left destitute?”

He spoke steadily, evenly, as if he was a neutral counselor giving her advice. “I believe that if you designate some reasonable part of your estates to provide for your children you’ll not find the king hostile. And Privy Seal must follow his king's instructions.”

Guinevere raised her head but she didn’t look at him. “I’ll consult with the magister. We’ll draw up a document that's legally sound. But it will need a notary's seal.”

“I will have it notarized for you before your trial. Give it to me in the morning.”

She nodded. “My thanks. I had hoped not to worry about this until afterwards, but you were right to remind me that the outcome is probably inevitable. Optimism is foolish, isn’t it?” She gave him a taut and bitter smile, then glided away through the trees.

It was inevitable,
Hugh thought. It was right that she should acknowledge it. She had to make such decisions now, before the chance to do so was lost. He would not stand her friend if he didn’t point it out to her. So why did forcing the brutal truth upon her make him feel like her betrayer?

That night, Guinevere sat late with Magister Howard. He wrote at her dictation, his expression dark as the grave. He asked no questions, merely checked on legal points as they came up and occasionally offered a suggestion as to wording.

“And in conclusion,” Guinevere said, staring into the fire in the hall, “I leave to my faithful servants who have been with me since earliest childhood, the small manor of Cauldon in Derbyshire to dispose of as they see fit.”

“Madam, there is no need …” The magister held his quill above the parchment.

She smiled. “Yes, Magister, there is every need. I’ve no idea whether my wishes will be honored, but Lord Hugh has said he’ll do his best to ensure that they are.” She rose from the settle. “Let us go to bed now. It grows late.”

The magister carefully sanded his papers and handed them to her. “My lady is too generous.”

“Not so, my friend.” She folded the sanded sheets carefully and slipped them into the pocket of her gown. “I do what I can to repay kindnesses that could never adequately be repaid.” She touched his hand and then went to the stairs.

Tilly was awake, sitting beside the fire mending a tear
in one of Pippa's gowns. “I gave the lassies a little belladonna, chuck,” she whispered apologetically. “Poor Pen is worn to a frazzle with worry an’ Pippa's full o’ tears.”

Guinevere had not told the girls about the murder charges she faced, but they knew now that matters were very serious. They understood their mother might be thrown into a jail again although no one had mentioned the possibility of her death. Guinevere could see little point in that. The prospect of losing her to prison was more than they could deal with.

She laid the parchments on the dresser then undressed with Tilly's help. She climbed into bed beside her children. They were curled tightly together, breathing heavily. Tilly snuffed the candle and settled back onto the truckle bed. Guinevere lay in bed, feeling her children's soft bodies beside her, unmoving as they slept the heavy sleep of the drugged. She prayed that they would not wake before she left for Westminster in the morning. If the worst happened, she would be permitted to make her farewells later. A hard lump of tears blocked her throat and she swallowed fiercely. She would not allow herself to think of defeat. Not yet. Not until she had to.

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.