The Widow's Kiss (36 page)

But at home lay his wife. His warm, loving wife. His guiltless wife. He was so full of joy he almost shouted aloud. He couldn’t wait to hold her. To pour out his sorrow for doubting her, to kiss the grief from her eyes, to repair the damage he had done. He could put this right. She loved him. She had said so. She would welcome him, would be as eager and ready as he to start anew, with no shadows between them.

“Let us go home, Jack.” He turned back to his horse.

They rode in silence, Hugh urging his horse to greater speed. In the stableyard Hugh, despite his injuries, almost jumped from his horse in his haste. “My thanks for your help this night, Jack.” He handed him his reins and made his way to the house.

The house downstairs was dark. No lamps or candles wasting when everyone within was abed. Hugh lit a candle from the banked fire in the hall and trod softly upstairs.

No light showed beneath the door of their bedchamber. He laid a hand on the latch.

He stepped quietly into the chamber. The fire was almost out, just a faint glow of embers in the hearth. And immediately he knew that something was dreadfully wrong. There was no one in the room. He didn’t have to look to know that. All spirit, all sense of Guinevere was leeched from the room they had shared. Everything that
belonged to her had gone, the chamber was as sparsely furnished, as lacking in feminine softness, as it had been before their wedding.

He stepped farther in, went to the bed, knowing that it would be empty. The rich coverlets, the soft pillows were gone. The white sheets gleamed in the darkness, mocking him.

He spun to the night table and lit a candle. She would have left him a note. She would not have walked out of his life without a word. He searched, frantically, turning over the bolster, peering in the empty armoire, lifting the jug and ewer. There was nothing. It was as if she had never entered the chamber.

He left, half running to the chamber the girls shared with Tilly. The door was ajar. The chamber was as empty as his own. The fire extinguished. No kittens mewled at him.

He stood, hands crossed over his chest, shivering deep inside with the knowledge of what he had lost.

His relationship with Guinevere had started with death. Death had laced their love with suspicion … death's own peculiar venom. Suspicion. A serpent that fed upon its own tail.

He saw her now, so still, so quiet, the golden light behind her, as she’d listened to his vicious accusations. Once again he heard her say: “I love you, Hugh.”

He had thrust her from him, judged her a liar, a murderer. He had believed that a woman who had given up everything for the sake of her daughters was capable of hurting his son.

He lay down on the bed where her children had slept and stared up into the darkness.

M
oorfields, you say?” Hugh raised his head from his folded arms where they rested on the mantelshelf above the dull glow of the banked fire and turned to look at Master Milton. A flicker of life entered his hollow-eyed regard.

“Aye, m’lord.” The steward thrust his hands into the loose sleeves of his gown and clasped his elbows. It was barely dawn and chilly in the hall, the fire not yet stirred into its daytime blaze. He had been dragged from his bed by an urgent summons to wait upon his master. Despite this, he had the complacent air of one delivering momentous information.

“Just afore I went to my bed I heard Master Crowder asking the cook for details of the lodging house his sister ran in Moorfields. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, sir. Master Crowder didn’t say anything about leaving the house. If he had, of course I’d not have gone to my bed,” Milton added a mite defensively, as if he could in the absence of his lord somehow have prevented the Lady Guinevere and her entourage from doing whatever pleased them.

He paused, then said, “But I asked in the stables and
apparently they all left just afore eleven. They took their horses. Magister Howard, the little maids, Mistress Tilly, Master Crowder, even the huntsman, Greene. All gone. Lady Pippa said to the grooms that they had to go because the air in the house was unhealthful and they didn’t want to get sick like Master Robin.”

Milton regarded his lordship with a certain shrewdness. “It seemed a trifle sudden I thought. I understood they were to leave anyway this morning for Derbyshire,” he said with a faint question in his voice.

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 that 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.