The Widow's Kiss (18 page)

“You cannot deny to yourself what happened,” he
returned softly as he felt beneath her cloak for the laces.
“Damn!
How can I do this when I can’t see!”

“You managed well enough before.”

“Unlacing is easier than lacing,” he observed dryly, feeling for the eyes. “Even in the heat of passion … or should I say,
especially
in the heat of passion.”

“I would rather you said nothing at all about passion,” she declared in a fierce undertone. “Here, let me try, if you can’t do it.”

He almost slapped her hands aside and caught up the folds of her cloak, throwing it over her shoulder. “Now I can see what I’m doing.” There was silence broken only by the dripping of the trees. Then he said, “There, I think that's all of them.” His hands dropped from her back and only as she breathed again did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

“Guinevere, you cannot deny what happened,” he repeated. “Not to yourself … not to me.”

“Can’t I, Lord Hugh?” She moved away from him into the trees. She glanced over her shoulder at him, but again her expression was veiled in the drizzling gloom. “Can’t I?”

Pursing her lips she whistled her blackbird's call. Within seconds it was answered by the
rattatat
of a woodpecker.

L
ondon. Guinevere had had a mental image of the city but she had not been able to imagine this tempestuous and noisy place with its dark, squalid alleys and narrow lanes, its higgledy-piggledy houses tumbling together. And the smell. The stench of sea coal and the filth from the kennels was thick on the air. The air itself seemed tangible, so heavy and humid on this September afternoon. Hawkers’ cries, voices raised in anger, screams of rage or pain mingled with excited yells from cockpits and bear-baiting yards produced a cacophony that gave her a pounding headache.

A tucket of trumpets rose above the racket and she saw coming towards them along the narrow alley a mounted procession led by scarlet-uniformed heralds. Outriders swept pedestrians aside and Hugh, riding at the head of his own cavalcade, gestured that his troop and Guinevere's little party should draw to the side of the narrow thoroughfare to let the oncoming party through.

Some arrogant nobleman, Guinevere thought with a degree of disdain, backing her mare against the waist-high hedge of one of the small white daub houses that lined the lane. Hugh presumably knew to whom he should give
precedence. She regarded the procession as it swept past with the same disdain, although not unmixed with curiosity.

A round-faced man with a hard mouth rode in the center of the group. His gown of silk velvet edged with a rich dark fur was studded with jewels, and a great diamond winked in the turned-up brim of his velvet cap. He looked neither to right nor left, ignoring the people who were giving him way with a sneering insolence that set Guinevere's teeth on edge. She glanced sideways to where Hugh sat his destrier, his expression impassive.

The last outrider passed and Hugh turned his horse back into the center of the lane, his men following. After a minute, Hugh drew his horse to one side and waited for Guinevere's little troop to come up with him. He fell in beside Guinevere.

“So what did you think of our Lord Privy Seal, madam?” he inquired.

“That was Thomas Cromwell?”

“Aye.” One of his unpleasant smiles flickered at the corners of his mouth. “The true ruler of the land, or so he’d have the people believe.”

“He looked a hard man,” she observed, aware of a fluttering coldness in her belly.

“An understatement,” Hugh said. He gave her a curt nod and urged his horse forward to move up and rejoin his men.

Her first glimpse of Privy Seal, the man who would decide her fate.

The cold flutter in her belly deepened and the sense of despair that she fought so hard to keep at bay returned in full measure. She glanced at the girls who were riding on either side of her. They were gazing in open fascination at the tumultuous scenes around them. Pippa's mouth was a round O and for once she was bereft of speech.

“There are so many people, Mama,” Pen murmured in awe. “More even than at the Michaelmas fair in Derby.”

Robin, who was riding as usual at Pen's side, observed with unconscious superiority, “Oh, you couldn’t compare a crowd at a country fair with London town, Pen!”

Pen flushed. “I
know
that. I was just saying.”

“Derby's huge,” Pippa said, flying to her sister's defense. “It's as big as London, isn’t it, Mama?”

“I don’t think so, sweeting,” Guinevere said, managing a smile.

“And this is just an ordinary Wednesday,” Robin pointed out. “It's not even a fair day.” He glanced at Pen and said placatingly, “I could show you some of the sights if you’d like, Pen. If my father will permit me.”

“You’ll show me, too, won’t you?” Pippa piped. “I want to see the sights too.”

“If my lady will permit, I will take you both myself,” the magister declared. “You must both have an educational tour. If Master Robin wishes to accompany us, then I’m sure that will be very well.”

Robin looked so horrified at the prospect of being shepherded around the city by his beloved's dusty tutor that Pen went into a peal of laughter, quite forgetting her momentary irritation with her swain. “Magister Howard is very knowledgable,” she said. “He’ll tell us all sorts of things that I’m sure you don’t know.”

“I daresay,” Robin muttered. “I think I should ride up with Jack Stedman in case my father has orders for me.” He urged his chestnut into a trot and drew away from the little party that surrounded the Lady Guinevere and her daughters.

“Eh, but I’ll be glad when this is over,” the magister said with a sigh, sucking in his cheeks as he jogged and swayed in the saddle. “ ’Tis a monstrous tiresome journey this.”

“Close on eight weeks,” Guinevere agreed. She looked back to where Tilly on her mule rode close beside the cart loaded with provisions and Guinevere's precious crate of books. Master Crowder managed the two cart horses with dour efficiency, but it was clear he considered driving a cart to be beneath his steward's rank. Greene rode at the rear of their little household procession, his bow at the ready, a quiverful of arrows at his back, a pike notched to his saddle.

Guinevere reflected that Hugh had shown uncommon gentleness to her retainers. Where he might have punished them for their part in her attempted escape, he had instead not spoken of it. He had not forbidden Greene to carry arms and had allowed them as a group to set up their own camp, to provision and cook for themselves. Greene hunted fresh game, Crowder and Tilly saw to its preparation. They were to all intents and purposes traveling separately except for the perimeter guards, now doubled around the camp at night, and Robin's presence at Pen's side whenever he had no duties to perform.

Since that night, Hugh and Guinevere had barely spoken to each other. Guinevere had dictated this state of affairs. She had withdrawn from Hugh, met his attempts at conversation with cool brief responses, answered his smiles with neutral courtesy. It had taken very few such exchanges before he had bowed to her wishes. If she would deny what had happened between them, then so would he.

And Guinevere was determined he would never guess at the effort it cost her to deny herself the pleasure he was so willing to share with her … how many times she asked herself what difference it would make if she yielded to the joys of his loving … how many times she asked herself what good it did her to be so stubbornly self-denying. Her situation would not change whether she enjoyed an illicit liaison with Hugh of Beaucaire or not. It was clear to her
now that she could not affect his decisions, whether he did what he did out of duty or self-interest. He would not save her just because he had yielded to her charms and his own desire.

So why not enjoy it while she had the chance? She tried to ignore the niggling recognition that it could well be her
last
chance on earth to indulge in such physical pleasures.

But she had no answer except that she
could
not. And so their exchanges were marked by a distant formality and concerned only the details of the journey. Hugh informed her each evening of the route they would take the following day and courteously asked her if she had any difficulties or requests. He accommodated the girls’ need to rest for a day every so often but Guinevere knew the delay irked him. He was as anxious as she to get this dreadful journey over with.

And here they were now, in London. Journey's end.
Life's end.

No, she would not allow herself to think of defeat. While she had breath to fight, she would fight.

They were approaching the menacing walls of the prison at New Gate and a sea of people gathered at the gates blocked their way.

“Now what?” Guinevere mused aloud. Then an imperative blast of a horn came from the head of their procession and Jack Stedman came galloping back to Guinevere's little party.

“Madam, I’ll take the lassies’ reins. Put your horse to the gallop, we need to pull ahead of this crowd.” He seized the reins of the girls’ ponies and drew them up beside him. “Hold tight, little ladies.” The ponies raced along beside him, the girls pink-cheeked in mingled excitement and apprehension.

Guinevere didn’t question the instruction. Isolde leaped forward at a nudge of her heels and the magister, moaning
loudly, lumbered behind, clinging on for dear life, swaying in his saddle like a drunkard as his horse, infected by the urgency, rushed after the white mare.

Guinevere glanced over her shoulder as the mare flew past the crowd. Greene was riding ahead of the cart now, cracking his whip to clear a path for the mule and the slower-moving vehicle.

And then they were clear and Hugh slowed his horse, the rest slowing around him. Guinevere rode up to him. “What was that about?”

“Take a look.” He gestured with his whip.

Guinevere looked back. The crowd had parted. They were yelling invectives, waving their arms. A horse dragging a hurdle emerged from the gates. A man was tied to the hurdle.

“Some poor bastard on his way to Tyburn Tree,” Hugh said. “If we got stuck behind that lot, it would take us until nightfall to get to Holborn.”

“Mama … Mama … what's happening?” Pen and Pippa spoke in unison as they rode up, still accompanied by Jack Stedman.

“ ’Tis a hanging,” Robin told them eagerly. “They’re going to hang a man at Tyburn and they drag him through the streets so many people can see him and the crowd gets bigger as they go along. It takes a long time to get there and Holborn's on the way to Tyburn so we’d be held up behind them.”

“Will we see it?” Pippa asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I’ve never seen a hanging. I’ve seen people in the stocks, and being whipped at the cart's tail, but I’ve never seen anyone hanged before.”

“Well, you’re not about to now,” Hugh said. “What a bloodthirsty jaybird you are. Come, let's get moving before they catch up with us. Greene seems to have brought the cart through all right. I think you’d all do best to ride up here with Jack and me for the rest of the way.”

Guinevere acquiesced with a tiny shrug and turned Isolde alongside Hugh's destrier. The magister, grumbling, his mouth pursed with effort, tried to persuade his own mount to follow, but the horse, confused by the noise and the conflicting messages he was getting from his rider's squeezing knees and contradictory tugs on the reins, balked and turned his head, snapping at the magister's feet in the stirrups.

“Eh, sir, you ’ave to show ’im who's in charge,” Jack said, hiding a grin as he leaned over and seized the reins from the magister's slack grip. He tugged the recalcitrant horse around.

“Thankee, thankee,” the magister muttered, tightening his hold on the reins. “Eh, I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“You’re not alone in that, Magister,” Hugh said aridly. He cast a sidelong glance at Guinevere but she avoided his eye. Despite the lengthy tedium of the journey she still managed to appear fresh; her clothes showed remarkably few signs of wear and tear. Every night, Tilly carried hot water into Guinevere's tent and was frequently to be seen with her hussif, mending clothes.

Guinevere still held herself with the grace and elegance of the lady of Mallory Hall, and although her eyes were shadowed they were still a pure clear purple. Her mouth was as warm and red as ever, although her jawline was taut now, her expression often drawn. But her complexion was soft and glowing with the long days in the fresh air, her hair the same shimmering silver-gold. He could still feel its silky length rippling beneath his fingers …

God's bones! How he wanted her! Every waking minute he was tormented by his desire for her, and his sleep was invaded by restless passion. Did she feel any of this herself? If she did, she was an expert at concealing it, he reflected grimly. She had been as wild for that loving as he, so now, in the face of this cool withdrawal, he could only assume that her loathing for her escort, for the man who was intent
on handing her over to the ruthless might of the State, was far more powerful than the inconvenient vagaries of lust. And in all honesty he couldn’t blame her. As far as Guinevere was concerned, Hugh of Beaucaire was responsible for her present predicament.

Unless of course she had killed a husband. Then she and she alone was responsible for her present predicament. Even as Hugh reminded himself of this, he wished he could take more comfort in the reminder. With a silent oath, he encouraged his horse to pull a little way ahead of Guinevere's Isolde.

Guinevere was distracting herself from Hugh's proximity by mentally running through the various strands of her defense. She tried to banish the arrogant, contemptuous face of Privy Seal from her mind's eye, to refuse to allow herself to despair of having any impact on that harsh countenance. She and the magister had spent the long evenings of the journey discussing possible strategies, but they had had no access to the crated books. Once they were able to consult the texts, matters would become clearer.

They were now crossing the Holborn River that flowed into the mighty Thames. The bridge was thronged with iron-wheeled carts, women selling apples from wheelbarrows, boys carrying trays of hot pies over their heads. Mangy dogs ran between horses’ hooves and the wheels of carts. Men cursed the dogs, slashed at them with whips. Pippa's pony started as a cur snapped at her heels. Expertly the child tightened her grip on the reins and curbed the pony. She was turning in triumph to her mother when the kitten leaped from its customary niche on the saddle, tucked into the folds of Pippa's cloak, and disappeared into the melee of wheels and hooves.

“Moonshine!”
Pippa yelled, hauling her pony to a dead halt. She was about to fling herself from the saddle when Guinevere grabbed her.

“No … no, Pippa, you can’t go after her. You’d never find her down there.”

Pippa wept. “I can, Mama. I
can!”

“My sweet, you can’t.” Guinevere tightened her encircling hold of the child's waist. “Sweeting, you can’t.”

“But where is she … what will she do … what will happen to her!” Pippa began to sob, her breath coming in great gasps.

“What's happened?” Hugh was there, his voice sharp with anxiety. “Is someone hurt?”

“No,” Guinevere said, her arm still around her sobbing daughter as the pony shifted uneasily beneath Pippa. “Moonshine was frightened and jumped out of Pippa's arms.”