The Widow's Kiss (3 page)

His gaze turned to the milk-white mare she rode, noticing its bloodlines in the sloping pasterns, the arched neck. A lady of wealth and discrimination, whatever else she might be.

“Hugh of Beaucaire,” he said almost lazily.

So he had come in person.
No longer satisfied with laying claim to her land by letter, he had come himself. It certainly explained his antagonism. Guinevere contented herself with an ironically raised eyebrow and returned his stare, seeing in her turn a man in his vigorous prime, square built, square jawed, his thick iron-gray hair cropped short beneath the flat velvet cap, his weathered complexion that
of a man who didn’t spend his time skulking with politics in the corners and corridors of palaces.

“This is my son, Robin.” Hugh gestured and a boy rode out of the group of men behind him and came up beside his father. He had his father's blue eyes.

“I claim the lands between Great Longstone and Wardlow for my son,” stated Hugh of Beaucaire.

“And I deny your claim,” Guinevere replied. “My legal right to the land is indisputable.”

“Forgive me, but I do dispute it,” he said gently.

“You are trespassing, Hugh of Beaucaire. You have done my daughter a service and I would hate to drive you off with the dogs, but I will do so if you don’t remove yourself from my lands.” She beckoned the huntsmen to bring up the eager, straining hounds.

“So you throw down the glove,” he said in a musing tone.

“I have no need to do so. You are trespassing. That is all there is to it.”

Pen shifted in her saddle. She met the gaze of the boy, Robin. He was looking at least as uncomfortable as she was at this angry exchange between their parents.

“Greene, let loose the dogs,” Guinevere said coldly.

Hugh raised an arresting hand. “We will discuss this at some other time, when we are a little more private.” He gathered his reins to turn his horse.

“There is nothing to discuss.” She gathered up her own reins. “I cannot help but wonder at the sense of a man who would ride this great distance on an idle errand.”

She gestured back along the path with her whip. “If you ride due west you will leave Mallory land in under an hour. Until some months past, you would have found hospitality at the monastery of Arbor, but it was dissolved in February. The monks seek shelter themselves now.” Her voice dripped contempt.

“You would question His Highness's wisdom in
dissolving the monasteries, madam? I would question
your
sense, in such a case. Robert Aske is dangerous company to keep.”

“I merely point out the inconvenience to benighted travelers,” she said sweetly. “Farewell, Hugh of Beaucaire. Do not be found upon Mallory land two hours hence.”

She turned her horse on the ride. “Come, Pen. Greene, have the boar prepared for the spit. It will serve to furnish Lady Pen's birthday feast.”

“But I didn’t shoot it myself, Mama,” Pen said with the air of one steadfastly refusing to take credit that was not her due. Her eyes darted to Robin. The lad smiled.

“But you shot at it,” he said. “I saw your arrow fly. The boar went for your pony's throat. You were very brave.”

“My congratulations on your birthday, Lady Penelope.” Hugh smiled at the child and Guinevere was brought up short. The smile transformed the man, sent all his antagonism scuttling, revealed only a warmth and humor that she would not have believed lay behind the harsh soldierly demeanor. His eyes, brilliant before with challenge and dislike, were now amused and curiously gentle. It was disconcerting.

“I bid you farewell,” she repeated as coldly as before. “Pen, come.” She reached over and took the child's reins, turning the pony on the path.

Pen looked over her shoulder at the boy on his chestnut gelding. She gave him a tentative smile and he half raised a hand in salute.

Hugh watched Guinevere and her daughter ride off with their escort. The huntsmen followed, the boar slung between two poles.

The miniature had not done her justice, he reflected again. Those great purple eyes were amazing, bewitching.

And her hair, as silvery pale as ashes! What would it be like released from the coif and hood to tumble unrestrained down her back?

“Father?”

Hugh turned at Robin's hesitant voice. “You found the little maid appealing, Robin?” he teased.

The boy blushed to the roots of his nut-brown hair. “No … no, indeed not, sir. I was wondering if we were leaving Mallory land now?”

Hugh shook his head, a smile in his eyes, a curve to his mouth. This was not a particularly pleasant smile. “Oh no, my son. We have work to do. Lady Mallory has only just made my acquaintance. I foresee that before many hours are up, she will be heartily wishing she had never heard the name of Hugh of Beaucaire.”

He touched spur to his horse.

“Did you shoot it … did you shoot the boar, Pen?” A girl with wildly flying plaits and disheveled gown came racing across the packhorse bridge over the River Wye as the hunting party entered the grounds of Mallory Hall through the great oak studded doors of the stone gatehouse.

Pen glanced at her mother, who said swiftly, “We have a fine boar for the feast, Pippa. The men are bringing it.”

“But did
you
shoot it, Pen?” the child insisted, standing squarely on the path, looking intently up at her sister.

“My arrow fell short,” Pen said crossly. Her little sister was always able to root out the truth. It wasn’t that she was spiteful, she just needed to know things, right down to the most minutely exact detail.

“Oh, well, never mind,” Pippa said. “I shall shoot a boar though, on
my
birthday.”

“Don’t be so certain,” her mother said, leaning down to give her her hand. “Come up.”

Pippa seized the hand and scrambled up onto the saddle. “I wish you would have let me go.”

“You’re not old enough for boar hunts,” Guinevere said. “And you are sadly untidy, child. Have you not been at your books with the magister?”

“Oh, yes, but he became tired and said I could go and play,” the child said sunnily.

“Why, I wonder, would he become tired?” Guinevere mused rhetorically. Magister Howard, who had been her own tutor from her eighth birthday, found Pippa's endless stream of questions as exhausting as they were tedious for an elderly and devoted scholar.

They rode into the lower courtyard of the Hall and Guinevere dismounted, lifting Pippa down.

“I’m going to watch them skin the boar,” the child announced. “Will you come, Pen?”

“No, it's disgusting,” Pen said.

Guinevere laughed and went into the house. The steward greeted her with a bow. “My lady, the preparations are made for the feast, but the cooks wish to know whether they should use marchpane for Lady Pen's cake. After the last occasion …”

Guinevere considered. Pippa's passion for the sweet and sticky marchpane had had unfortunate results the last time it had appeared on the table. “Oh, I see no reason why other people should be deprived. It's Lady Pen's cake, after all. We must hope that Pippa has learned a little moderation, Master Crowder.”

She hurried up the stairs to her apartments above the north entrance where Tilly was rearranging gowns in the linen press.

“A successful hunt, chuck?” the elderly woman asked in her customary informal fashion. She had served Lady Guinevere from her babyhood.

“That rather depends upon how you look at it,” Guinevere said, easing her riding boots off on the
bootjack. She sat on a wooden chest and raised her skirts to take off the thick woolen hose she had worn for riding. “We have a boar, but Pen's arrow didn’t find its mark.”

“ ’Tis to be hoped Pippa don’t rub it in too much,” Tilly said.

Guinevere didn’t answer. She trod barefoot to the window that looked out over the rolling dales of Derbyshire. It was a magnificent vista, a heat haze shimmering above the hills and valleys threaded with the wide ribbons of the River Wye and the Dove. In winter it was harsh and gray with driving rain and bitter winds, a very different landscape from this summer afternoon.

Her encounter with Hugh of Beaucaire was not over. A man didn’t come on such a journey to be turned away by the threat of dogs.

Even as she thought this, the loud commanding note of a horn came from beyond the gatehouse. She stood still, her hands resting immobile on the low sill. She knew that note.

“Pass my silk hose, Tilly. The ivory ones. And the green kid shoes.”

“Visitors? Are we expectin’ visitors?”

“No, but we have them it would seem.” She drew on her hose and tied the garters, slipped her feet into her shoes.

A knock at the door heralded Master Crowder. “Madam, Lord Hugh of Beaucaire requests entrance.”

“Yes, so I gather.” Guinevere frowned in thought. She could refuse him entrance. It was her land, her house. But she had the absolute conviction that he was not going to go away. She didn’t want his armed troop besieging her gates.

“Bid him welcome, Master Crowder.”

She crossed the chamber to the window that looked down on the lower courtyard, the window from which Stephen had fallen. She watched the troop of horsemen enter the courtyard.

Hugh of Beaucaire dismounted and stood for a moment looking around, hands resting lightly on his hips.

He was very square and solid, Guinevere thought. Not fat at all, but somehow an unshakable presence. Definitely to be reckoned with. Well, charm was probably her best weapon. She had used it to advantage many times before; there was no reason to think that Hugh of Beaucaire would be immune.

She went down to the courtyard. In the doorway of the Hall, she stood still and quiet and said pleasantly, “Lord Hugh. Have you come to claim a traveler's hospitality?”

Hugh crossed the flagstones towards her. He reached into his doublet and drew out a folded parchment. “I am here on the king's writ,” he said, handing her the parchment. “I have orders from Privy Seal to investigate the manner of your husbands’ deaths, Lady Guinevere. Those and divers other matters that have come to the king's attention.”

S
o it had happened.
It was said that there wasn’t a corner of Henry's kingdom unvisited by Privy Seal's spies. Guinevere had hoped against hope that her situation, more to the point her wealth, would not come to the attention of the money-starved royal exchequer. It was common knowledge that lands, wardships, knighthoods, the profits of justice, enriched the king's coffers. Guinevere Mallory, a lone and wealthy widow, was a ripe peach for the plucking. Any excuse would do. Hugh of Beaucaire's investigation would provide the excuse and he would gain his own reward.

A wave of frustrated rage washed over her. Her fingers curled upwards to close over the hilt of the small silver dagger she carried in her right sleeve.

She was powerless against the might and machinations of Privy Seal. But she could vent her fury on Hugh of Beaucaire. There she was not entirely helpless. The carved hilt was cool and familiar against her fingers. She could picture the dagger's trajectory. How easy it would be to flick the wicked point into the throat of the loathsome man standing so square and confident in
her
courtyard, looking as if he already owned the very flagstones beneath
his feet. It was he, with his importunate claims, who had brought her to the attention of Privy Seal.

But a cooler temper followed swift on her hot anger. Rage would not help her here. Her fingers uncurled and her hand dropped to her side even as her mind raced. She had to buy herself some time. Time to think clearly.

“You are arresting me?” she asked, turning the parchment over in her hands without looking at it. Her voice was neutral, almost indifferent, no hint of anger or apprehension.

“Not as yet. I am here to investigate and then to escort you with my findings to London. There are people who wish to talk with you.” His brilliant gaze flickered over her, watchful and sharp. He had seen the movement of her fingers, read in her eyes the flash of murderous rage. It had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, but he had been ready for her, every muscle tensed.

So there was to be only one result of this charade. They would take her away regardless of her supposed guilt or innocence.

Guinevere knew that if once she left Mallory Hall for London under Hugh of Beaucaire's escort, she would not return. Once they had their hooks in her, they would not let go. The battleground was here. The enemy was here. If she couldn’t defeat Lord Hugh and his investigation while he was under her roof, she would be lost.

She looked beyond Lord Hugh to where his men still sat their horses. There were ten of them, and the boy, Robin. Could her own men-at-arms defeat these men of Beaucaire? The Beaucaire men had the same hard-bodied, military demeanor of their master. Guinevere guessed that they were men who’d been honed on some battlefield across the Channel during the last wars with France and Spain.

Her own men would have no chance against these in a pitched battle. But a night attack, perhaps, when the enemy were off guard? It would take months for the news of their
disappearance to reach London. She could deny that they had ever arrived at Mallory Hall. Anything could have happened to them on such a long and hazardous journey.

“Not a good idea,” he said softly, his narrowed eyes seeming to penetrate her skull.

“What is not?”

“What you were thinking,” he returned with a flicker of a smile that was far from humorous. “My men are more than a match for domestic men-at-arms. And you will find me more than a match for that little dagger you have up your sleeve.”

Clearly she must school her thoughts more strictly in this man's company, Guinevere thought, furious with herself for being so transparent.

“Mama … Mama …” Pippa's high voice broke the taut silence. The child came flying from the kitchen court. “Master Crowder says we have visitors.” She arrived panting at her mother's side and regarded the group of strangers with interest.

The children must not be frightened, must not know what was happening. Not yet, at least. Guinevere put a hand on the child's shoulder and introduced her calmly. “My daughter Philippa, my lord. Make your curtsy to Lord Hugh of Beaucaire, Pippa.”

Pippa obeyed even as the questions poured from her lips. “Have you come far? Where have you come from? Are those your men? Who's that boy? Is that a falcon on your coat of arms? I have my very own peregrine …” Before Hugh could respond to this flood, she had caught sight of her sister coming out of the house and called excitedly, “Oh, Pen … see here, we have visitors. I don’t know where they’ve come from but …”

“Hush, Pippa,” Guinevere chided, as laughter sprang to life in Lord Hugh's eyes. Once again his countenance was transformed. And once again she was disconcerted. It was well nigh impossible to imagine plunging a dagger
into this man's throat. His mouth … she seemed to notice it for the first time. It was full, sensuous, humorous. She noticed the deep cleft in his chin, the laugh lines etched around his eyes. And it came to her with a shock that this man's habitual expression was not the one of harsh, sardonic hostility he had directed towards her. That was not the way he regarded the world and life in general … only, it seemed, herself.

“I only wanted to ask if they were to come to Pen's feast,” Pippa said righteously. “Pen, ask them to come to your feast.”

Pen was looking at Robin. He smiled at her and she smiled back, remembering how he’d complimented her on her bravery when the boar had charged. “Yes, please come,” she said. “I would very much like you to come. The boar is big enough, isn’t it, Mama?”

“Indeed, we wouldn’t impose on your birthday, Lady Pen.” Hugh spoke swiftly, his eyes warm. It took a minute for the warmth to die out as he turned to Guinevere. “My lady, we will leave you to your celebrations. We’ll make camp outside your gates and continue our business tomorrow.”

Hostility had taken her nowhere, Guinevere thought. It was time to try something else. And the man with the humorous mouth and the laugh lines around those vivid blue eyes was a man who surely could be charmed.
Seduced, even.
What in the world was she thinking? To make a bedfellow of the enemy? A shiver went down her spine, and her scalp prickled.

“My daughter would like you and your son to come to her feast, my lord. We grant birthday wishes in our family.” She inclined her head and offered him a tiny smile.

Hugh was suddenly confused as if his mind and his physical senses had somehow gone off in different directions. It was the most damnable smile. And her eyes! They were glowing like dark purple lanterns. A minute ago
they had been filled with a savage rage, now he could read only invitation.
What the devil was she playing at?

He glanced at Robin who in his eagerness had already dismounted. He looked at the two girls and told himself that it was reasonable for their mother to wish to keep unpleasantness from them for as long as possible. He was not brute enough to ruin the child's birthday. But how in the name of grace was he to share a sociable, convivial evening with a woman he was investigating for murder?

“Oh, yes, you
have
to come,” Pippa declared. “Pen wishes it and it's
very
unlucky to refuse someone's birthday wish. It will bring you months and months of ill luck, a whole year of it.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Pippa,” Pen said, flushing slightly. “And why have you got blood on your gown?”

“Oh, it's from the boar. I was standing too close when they were skinning it and it spurted. Greene was very cross,” Pippa said blithely, brushing at the dark red spots on her muslin gown. “He called me something that I think was very rude, only it was under his breath so I couldn’t quite catch it and he wouldn’t say it again. He told me to go away … so you will come, won’t you, sir?” she went on in the same breath. “You and that boy.” She pointed at Robin.

Hugh knew when he’d met an unmovable object. He was aware that Guinevere was regarding him with an ironically comprehending smile, reading his thoughts as clearly as he’d read hers earlier. He threw in the towel. It would be an uncomfortable evening, but once it was over nothing would stand in the way of his investigation.

“We should be very happy to celebrate your sister's birthday,” he said. “Robin, come and be introduced.” He drew his son forward.

“How old are you?” Pippa asked instantly. “I’m eight and Pen's ten.”

“Twelve,” Robin replied with a slightly haughty air. “I am on campaign with my father.”

“Oh, how grand,” Pippa said, quite unabashed by the loftiness. “I wish I was a boy, then I could go campaigning too. But why are you campaigning here? Where are the enemies?” She looked around with an air of inquiry, as if expecting to see an army pop out of the ground.

“Pippa, that's enough,” Guinevere said. “Go inside and ask Nell to help you change your gown. You can’t attend the feast covered in boar's blood. Oh, and ask Master Crowder to come out, please.”

Pippa was easily distracted and went off with a merry skip. Pen said feelingly, “I wish she’d swallow her tongue sometimes.”

“Does she always talk that much?” Robin asked.

“She never stops.” Pen gave an elder sisterly sigh.

“You sent for me, madam.” The steward approached, his black gown wafting around him. He regarded the newcomers with an air of sharp curiosity.

“Lord Hugh is here upon the king's business. He and his son will be my guests for a few days,” Guinevere said. “Have them shown to the apartments in the west wing. Lord Hugh's men may be housed above the stables.”

“My men will bivouac beyond the gates,” Hugh said firmly, a slightly mocking gleam in his eye. “ They will not thus be a charge upon your … your kindness, madam.”

“As you wish, sir,” she said with a slight shrug.

The steward bowed low. “If you would follow me, my lord.”

Hugh nodded and called to his men. “Jack, have my trunk brought into the house.” He offered Guinevere a formal bow. “My thanks for your hospitality, madam. We must change our dress to do honor to your daughter's feast.”

There was something unreal about this formal exchange of pleasantries, but Guinevere merely smiled agreeably and said, “I trust you will find our guest apartments comfortable, sir. We attend chapel for vespers at five.”

Hugh bowed again and putting a hand on his son's shoulder, eased him towards the house in the wake of the steward.

“Who are they, Mama?” Pen asked, putting her hand in her mother's with a sudden little flutter of anxiety.

“They come from the king. Lord Hugh has some estate business to transact with me.” Guinevere smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “It would please me if you would entertain Master Robin, Pen. Since I must entertain his father.”

“I will try to keep Pippa from plaguing him,” Pen declared.

“Then I wish you luck, love. You should change your gown too. You wish to look your best for the feast.”

Guinevere stood in the court, watching her daughter run into the house. The Beaucaire men were withdrawing from the courtyard. Safely away from a surprise attack in the night. Damn the man's mockery! He seemed to be able to read her thoughts as clearly as if they were written down for him.

But what was she to do?

It was her life at stake. If he found her guilty of murder, she would lose her head. Or even worse, she would die at the stake. Murder of a husband was a petty treason and burning was the punishment for such a crime. Her children would be made wards of the court to be disposed of at the will of the king. Her estates would be confiscated, the revenues poured into the royal exchequer, after those like Hugh of Beaucaire had taken their share.

And there was nothing she could do to stop the process, if they were determined. Her guilt or innocence was irrelevant. They would take what they wanted from her as they had done from so many others.

For a moment she felt utter despair at the futility of pitting her puny wits against the might of the state. But the weakness vanished under a cold wash of anger. She could
not give in without a fight. It was not only her own future at stake, but her daughters’. For their sakes, she could not assume the inevitable and yield without a defense.

Guinevere turned and walked slowly into the house and up to her own apartments. Her jaw was set, her eyes bright with purpose. She would fight them with whatever weapons were at her disposal. They would have to make some gesture towards the law, towards finding proof of her supposed crimes. They would have to try her on whatever charges they brought. They would manufacture evidence, scare up witnesses, but she knew the law. Better than most lawyers. She could defend herself even to the lords in the Star Chamber. There was no factual evidence linking her to her husbands’ deaths. How could there be? Her ankle twitched of its own volition. Her foot had had a life of its own on the night of Stephen Mallory's death, but that was something only she knew.

She could not fight them with physical means, but she could use her head, her learning.

She stood frowning in the middle of her bedchamber, listening to the rooks cawing in the poplar trees alongside the river. She thought of Lord Hugh. Of what she had detected beneath the harsh exterior. She might loathe and despise a man who would trump up charges against a person for his own greedy ends, but that needn’t prevent her using the other weapons at a woman's disposal.

Thoughtfully she opened the linen press and drew out an Italian gown of a rich amber velvet embroidered with black knots of a most intricate design. The square neck was studded with jet and the gown opened over an underskirt of gold-embroidered black silk. She examined it with pursed lips. Then nodded slowly. It would serve her purpose very nicely.

“Lord, chuck, such a to-do.” Tilly bustled in. “Oh, is that the gown you’ll be wearing, eh? Well, it's a right
grand one. So who are these visitors then, that you’d wear such a gown to honor them?”

“They’re from the king,” Guinevere said, laying the gown on the bed.

“From the king!” Tilly exclaimed. “What's the king got to do with us then?”

“You may well ask,” Guinevere said grimly. “Help me unlace, Tilly.” She turned her back for Tilly's deft fingers at the laces of her stomacher.