The Widow's Kiss (31 page)

“Quite sure, thank you, Tyler.” Robin slit the sack with his knife. “I know just how much to give them.”

“Right y’are then, young sir.” Tyler strode away. He didn’t return to the kitchen but made his way around the house to a side door. He slipped inside and stood still in the small dark hallway from which a narrow staircase rose to the upper floors. He could hear nothing. He ran soundlessly up the stairs and lifted the latch on the door at the top. It opened onto a broader landing, a passage leading off it. He could see three doors along the corridor.

His casual questions in the kitchen as to the general layout of the house had borne fruit. Behind one of those doors he would find the boy's chamber.

He stepped onto the landing, paused, listening. Then he tiptoed down the passage, listening at each door. He could hear voices, a childish treble, coming from behind the third door. Nothing at all from behind the others.

Tyler opened the first door a mere crack, just wide enough to peep in. It was a large chamber with a large bed but it had the air of being unoccupied. A guest chamber he assumed. He closed the door and turned his attention to the one next door.

It was a small, sparsely furnished chamber with a narrow cot. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. This was the boy's room. A lad's sword hung in its sheath on the wall; the cloak behind the door would not fit a man. He opened drawers in the dresser and found gloves, hose, small clothes. All a perfect fit for the boy.

He worked quickly. He exchanged the candles in the two pewter sticks for the ones he carried in the satchel he had not taken from his back since he’d arrived at the house. He filled the oil lamp from a small vial he took from a pocket of the satchel, then taking a screw of parchment from the same pocket he began to sprinkle its contents inside the boy's gloves, in his hose, among his shirts. Finally he pulled the coverlet back and sprinkled the fine white powder on the top of the sheet and the pillow where it would be close to a sleeper's face.

He replaced the coverlet and glanced around. Everything looked perfectly normal, no indication that the chamber was now lethal. A footstep sounded in the corridor outside and Tyler dived behind the door, pressing himself against the wall. His hand closed over his dagger.

The door opened. “Robin?” A man stepped inside but he still held the door open. He looked around the deserted chamber, then backed out, closing the door behind him.

Tyler breathed again. He guessed from the man's attire, the commanding posture, that he had just seen Hugh of Beaucaire. His second quarry. Tyler had a trick or two up his sleeve for Lord Hugh. And
he
wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his victim.

His lip curled slightly as he thought of the previous night's botched attempt to do away with Lord Hugh. The would-be assassin hadn’t known what he was doing. Fortunate for him, really, that he’d died in the attempt. Privy Seal had unpleasant methods of responding to failures.

Tyler waited a few minutes, then slipped from the room, made his way down the back stairs, and headed for the stables. A man could make himself very useful there.

Hugh left Robin's chamber and went in search of his son. He was beginning to think that he’d been too harsh, forcing the boy out of his bed when he was so clearly in pain. But he was pleased too that Robin hadn’t given in to his misery and returned to bed early despite his father's orders. Hugh had thought he’d heard a sound coming from Robin's bedchamber but he was glad to discover that he’d been mistaken. The boy knew perfectly well that his father would relent if he really couldn’t keep going. It was pride not fear that would keep Robin on his feet through his wretchedness.

Hugh was smiling with satisfaction at this reflection as
he reached the hall. Guinevere was standing by the fire, a parchment in her hand. She looked up and held the parchment out to him. “ ’Tis addressed to you. But unless I’m mistaken, the seal is Privy Seal's.”

He took it, said calmly, “No, you’re not mistaken,” and slit the seal with his thumbnail. He unfolded the sheet and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “It seems we are bidden this evening to revels that Lord Privy Seal gives in honor of the king and queen. Revels to celebrate the imminent birth of the queen's child.”

“I would think the queen would prefer to revel with her ladies at such a time,” Guinevere observed caustically. “When a woman is about to be brought to bed, the last thing she needs is a crowd of
reveling
men around her.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “It pleases the king to have his queen honored.”

“But not rested, it would seem.” She shrugged. “Must we go?”

“One does not lightly turn down Privy Seal's invitations.”

“I would turn this one down with much gravity,” she replied. “Many excuses, much begging for forgiveness, much acknowledgment of the honor done us.”

Hugh laughed. He reached out and touched the soft parting of her hair below the white lining of her hood. “I would spend this night alone with my wife.”

“Will such an excuse serve?”

He shook his head. “No. We must go.”

“I don’t like the feeling that we remain at Privy Seal's beck and call,” she said slowly. “Can we leave London? Go back to Derbyshire?”

Again he shook his head. “Winter is close upon us. We can’t travel now, not such a great distance, until the spring. Besides, I am the king's servant. I need his permission to leave London.”

“I hadn’t realized your life was so circumscribed.” She
turned away towards the fire, holding out her hands to its warmth as she added, “And mine now, too.”

“I serve the king,” he repeated.

“But you do not serve Privy Seal.” She remained with her back to him, her body curved gracefully towards the fire.

“Not directly,” he agreed. “But insofar as Privy Seal is the king's chief servant, it's inevitable that I am at his beck and call, as you put it.”

“I suppose so.” She raised her slender shoulders in a tiny shrug. “But I do not like such an arrangement. It makes me uneasy.”

Hugh said nothing. He could think of nothing that would reassure her since he agreed with her. He didn’t care to be dangling on Privy Seal's string but for as long as Thomas Cromwell found favor with the king there was nothing he could do about it. Of course, the king's favor was withdrawn as often and as randomly as it was granted. Cromwell could make one mistake and Henry would have his head. In such a case, Hugh would not want to be known as one of Privy Seal's creatures since servants went down with the master at Henry's court, so it behooved him to tread a very fine line.

“Your pardon, sir.”

He turned at Robin's voice behind him. “Ah, there you are.” He gave the boy a shrewdly assessing scrutiny. “Feeling any better?”

“Not really,” Robin replied, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’ve finished the stable work. Is there anything else I should do?”

“No, get you to bed.” Hugh patted his shoulder. “And I trust that you’ve learned something of the merits of moderation.”

Robin carefully nodded his painfully throbbing head.

“Would you like me to make you another physic, Robin?” Guinevere asked.

“What I had this morning made my head ache less,” he said. “But it's bad again now.”

“I’ll bring it up for you.”

Robin trailed away with a murmur of thanks and Guinevere went into the kitchen. Matters had improved considerably. Meat was turning on the spit for dinner, pans bubbled on the range, the floor and tabletops were scrubbed clean.

She prepared the physic and took it upstairs to Robin who was curled up in bed, the sheet pulled up to his chin. “What about dinner?” She gave him the cup when he had sat up.

“I don’t think I could eat anything, madam. I seem to be hungry but if I think of food I want to puke again.”

“Then don’t think of it.” Guinevere went to the door. “A couple of hours’ sleep will see you right as rain.”

She went into the next door chamber where her daughters were closeted with the magister and their books. They looked up hopefully at her entrance. “Is it dinnertime, Mama? Can we stop now?” Pippa asked.

“Not yet. I would have you read for me.”

“They’ve forgotten much since we left Mallory Hall, madam,” Magister Howard said with a sorrowful head-shake. “We have had to begin anew with the French tenses.”

Guinevere perched on the windowsill and listened to her daughters stumble through the French text. Their indifference to the joys of learning still surprised her. Her own thirst for knowledge was never slaked.

She stayed with them until the horn sounded the summons for dinner and they went down to the hall together.

“Are we to eat at these revels of Privy Seal's?” she inquired, taking her place at the table.

“Cromwell is renowned for the lavishness of his banquets,” Hugh returned. “I can promise you a most vulgar display of wealth.”

“Then I will eat sparingly now.” Guinevere sighed. The prospect of the coming ordeal weighed heavily. “Where is it that we must go?”

“To Privy Seal's house in Austin Friars. It will be best if we ride there.”

“Well, that's some compensation. It seems an eternity since I last rode Isolde.” She took a sip of wine and shook her head when Hugh offered her the platter of mutton.

“Where's Robin?” Pen asked anxiously.

“In bed,” Hugh told her. “Sleeping himself to a full recovery, I trust.”

Pen looked relieved. Pippa said through a mouthful of meat, “I hate being ill. I hate to go to bed in the daytime. Shall we take him the kittens, Pen? To keep him company.”

“I should just leave him to sleep,” Guinevere advised. She nibbled a little cheese. “What time must we go, Hugh?”

“A little after three o’clock.”

Guinevere grimaced. She noticed that Hugh was frowning down the table. “Is something the matter?”

“There's a face I don’t recognize.” Hugh gestured with the point of his knife. “A stranger at my table.”

“Oh, his name's Tyler. I hired him this morning to help out Crowder. Crowder is going to take charge of the kitchens and the stores while Master Milton takes charge of the rest of the household. Matters will run much more smoothly now.”

“I see,” Hugh said dryly. “I hadn’t noticed they weren’t smooth. What does this Tyler have to recommend him?”

“A willingness to turn his hand to anything,” she responded. “He has a family to keep. Crowder seemed to think he would be a good man to have around, and in general I trust my steward's judgment on such matters.” She looked at Hugh, clear eyed, challenging. “Do you have a problem with that, my lord?”

He shook his head. “I don’t, but I suspect Milton
might. He's not accustomed to having any hand but his own on the domestic reins.”

“He’ll become accustomed,” Guinevere declared. “I have no intention of living in an ill-run household and there are certain areas where Master Milton is less than effective. You have a wife now, my lord. And I am an able administrator.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said, his eyes glinting at her. “That was after all one of the more persuasive reasons for this marriage.”

“Quite,” Guinevere said, and took up her wine cup again.

J
ack Stedman and three of Hugh's men accompanied them to Privy Seal's house at Austin Friars. The road was lined with pikemen in Cromwell's livery, keeping back the crowds who had gathered to cheer as the king and queen passed by and who gawked openmouthed at the procession of guests in iron-wheeled carriages and on horseback, picking their way through the mud and refuse of the streets.

Cromwell had torn down the dissolved monastery of Austin Friars to build his mansion; the small cottages around it had been part of the friary's outbuildings and Privy Seal had had no compunction in moving them if they interfered with his architectural plans. He had erected a high stone wall a half mile long that enclosed his garden and had swallowed the plots of some twenty modest cottage gardens.

Guinevere gazed up at the weather vanes mounted on the steep pitched roofs. Shaped like men-at-arms they gleamed golden in the early dusk, their lances tipped with gilded banners that almost seemed to flutter in the rising wind.

“A mansion indeed,” she murmured with a little shiver,
a strange sense of menace gripping her as they entered through the wicket gate into the inner court. All was bustle and shouting as grooms ran to take horses, to open carriage doors, and gentlemen ushers hastened to escort the guests into the great hall that stretched as long as the house itself beneath a magnificent gilded ceiling.

They were shown to places at one of the long tables that were ranged down each side of the hall. Men sat at one side of the table, the women facing them. Guinevere gazed around her, fascinated despite the chill, the sense of menace, that she couldn’t shake.

A tucket of trumpets heralded the arrival of the king and his queen. The guests rose to their feet as the rich arras at the rear of the dais was drawn aside and Their Highnesses entered, their ladies and gentlemen behind them. The king and queen took their places alone at the table on the high dais. Their retinue stood in a semicircle behind them. Presumably they were to go hungry in the royal service, Guinevere reflected.

To her relief Privy Seal was not seated at their table. But she could see him clearly at the head of the table just below the dais where guests of true importance were seated. His eyes were everywhere, ceaselessly roaming the great hall. There was a moment when he caught her eye and held her gaze. Unblinking, expressionless, he locked eyes with her until she turned her head away.

She looked across at Hugh, immediately comforted by his solid, square presence. He was talking to his neighbor but as if sensing her gaze looked up. Slowly he winked and she couldn’t help smiling.

No one seemed interested in talking to her and she guessed that these occasions were times when influence was peddled, when it mattered enormously who talked to whom and about what. Allegiances were formed, noted, for good or ill. And she was a stranger, a nobody. On the whole, she was not sorry to sit ignored amid the din as
voices rose, competed with the clatter of dishes and cutlery. The plates were gold, the glass Venetian crystal. Trumpets sounded at the beginning of each meat course. And there were many. Cranes, peacocks, swans, boar. Nothing as humble as venison. Servers ran with platters and carafes of fine rhenish filling goblets without cease.

Guinevere drank little and ate less. She was wondering why it had pleased Privy Seal to invite them to this ostentatious display of his wealth. The queen looked physically uncomfortable and her boredom was apparent even through the polite smile fixed upon her face. The king leaned forward, his heavy head nodding as he watched the spectacle below him, chewing vigorously all the while on whatever he seized from the serving platters as they passed in front of him.

An entertainment had started in the main body of the hall. A fountain sprang up like magic from the floor, swans sailed gracefully on a tiny lake, while wood nymphs danced around them chased by a trio of satyrs. The king applauded this heartily. Guinevere's head began to ache with the noise. She couldn’t imagine where the fountain had come from and had absolutely no interest in the wood nymphs’ struggle with the satyrs.

She glanced across at Hugh and he raised an inquiring eyebrow, gesturing with his head towards the arras to his right. Correctly interpreting the gesture as an invitation for a reprieve, she nodded and rose from her stool. Hugh rose too and moved around the table to take her arm.

“There's a gallery just above the hall where we can walk a little. It's cooler perhaps, quieter certainly.”

“My head rivals Robin's,” she said. “What a disgust—”

“Hush!” He pinched her arm hard and urgently. “There are ears everywhere.”

She bit her lip. “Forgive me. We do not have such ears in Derbyshire.”

“They are a fact of life here,” he murmured grimly,
holding back the arras for her. She slipped past him and found herself at the foot of a curving staircase. Neither of them noticed the man at the opposite end of the hall who had witnessed their disappearance and now ducked behind another arras.

Guinevere climbed, one hand on the gilded banister, the other holding up her skirts. The staircase wound upwards and opened onto a wide gallery that looked down upon the hall.

Guinevere sighed with relief. Just the sense of space around her brought some peace. “Let us walk a little then.”

Hugh tucked a hand beneath her elbow with the same proprietorial ease she had noticed about his kiss at the breakfast table. She found that she rather liked it. They began to walk along the gallery, Guinevere looking down over another gilded rail into the body of the hall where it seemed the satyrs were getting the better of the nymphs. She noticed that the queen and her ladies had left but the king remained, apparently still entertained.

“Well, well, my lord. You’ve come in search of a little privacy, I see.”

She looked up to see a man coming towards them from the far end of the gallery, his gait swaying, his massively padded doublet over a considerable belly of his own giving him an absurd figure, his striped codpiece jutting aggressively. His eyes were small and hard and although he both sounded and acted drunk, she would have laid any odds he was as sober as herself.

“That's a pretty piece you have there, my friend. For a little tumble with such a wench, I’d leave the king's feast myself.” He leered at Guinevere as he came close.

She felt Hugh stiffen beside her, felt the movement as his hand went to his sword hilt. But he said calmly, “Go back to your goblet, man. You’ll find better entertainment below.”

The man came yet closer. He pushed his face into Guinevere's. “A kiss, my pretty. Your … your
protector
… he won’t mind. You’re willing to share, aren’t you, friend?”

She heard Hugh's swift intake of breath, felt his hand tighten on her elbow. But again he said calmly, easily, “You’ll find no sport here.”

The man made a move to his sword, half pulled it from his sheath, his eyes sharp, knowing, resting on Hugh's face. “Come now, my friend, you’ll not begrudge a man a slice of this pretty pie. I’ve heard many others have had a nibble.”

Guinevere couldn’t believe Hugh would stand there and listen to such insults. And yet he stood there. His hand had dropped from his sword and he merely regarded the man steadily. She could feel his anger in the body so close to her, but none of it showed in his face.

“You will excuse us,” he said softly. “We would continue our walk.” He put a hand on the man's shoulder and spun him, seemingly without effort, out of his path and against the rail. Still holding Guinevere's elbow he propelled her past him.

They heard the scrape of a sword being drawn from its sheath. Hugh did not turn, his breathing did not change. He continued to walk them both along the gallery. They reached another curving staircase at the end. The staircase their friend had taken to the gallery.

Guinevere looked back. The gallery was deserted. She looked up at Hugh and saw how white he was, how tense, his jaw clenched, his eyes ablaze. “What was that?” she asked softly. “He wanted to force a quarrel upon you, didn’t he?”

“So I believe.” Hugh turned his gaze upon her. There was an arrested, questioning look in his eye. “Do you know the penalty for drawing a sword under the roof where the king sits?”

She shook her head.

He continued to look at her for a minute, then said, “The loss of an eye is considered lenient. A head severe but quite usual.”

Guinevere shuddered. “Why? Why would he try to force you to do that then?”

“I have no idea.”

She drew a deep breath. “I do not like this place, Hugh. May we leave now?”

“Not before the king.” He gestured that she should precede him down the curving staircase. She felt his eyes on her back at every step.

“Did you know the man?” she asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“No. I have no recollection of ever having seen him before.” His gaze, questioning and unreadable, rested for a moment on her face. Then he eased her through the arras and back to their places at the table where there was no opportunity for further speech.

The king followed his wife through the arras at the rear of the dais shortly thereafter and they were free to leave. Privy Seal moved around the hall to greet them as they made their way to the door.

“Hugh … my lady of Beaucaire.” He smiled his thin, cold smile. “I trust you enjoyed my little entertainment.”

“A revelation for me, Lord Cromwell,” Guinevere said. “We have not such wonders in Derbyshire.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do.” He pinched his nose as he regarded her steadily. “But we shall show you more of our wonders. I dare swear you will be amazed.”

Guinevere offered a small curtsy. “I am already amazed, my lord.” She hesitated, then added, “And most grateful for your consideration.”

He raised a finger. “Gratitude, madam, is a wise virtue.” He glanced at Hugh. “You enjoyed yourself, I trust, Hugh?”

“Certainly,” Hugh agreed readily. “We were honored with the invitation, my lord. We pray for the queen's safe delivery.”

“Ah, yes. A son will bring peace and harmony.” Cromwell nodded. “The king will be content.” His hard eyes rested speculatively on Hugh. “You have a son. You know the joys.”

“I do.” Hugh took Guinevere's arm. “Our horses await.”

“Safe journeying.” Privy Seal turned from them as if they no longer interested him and strolled away through the crowd of his departing guests.

Jack Stedman and his men awaited them in the inner court, holding their horses. Guinevere used the mounting block and arranged her skirts decorously across the saddle. The air was chill, clearing her head.

Hugh swung astride his black charger but for a moment made no move to walk the horse to the wicket gate. The crowd eddied around them but he seemed not to notice. A deep frown was between his thick brows, his mouth and jaw were taut. He turned to look at her as she sat her milk-white horse beside him and again there was an unreadable question in his gaze.

“Let us go,” she said. “I cannot bear this place another minute.”

He nodded, then turned in his saddle to Jack Stedman. “Jack, somewhere in this throng is a man wearing a green-and-yellow-striped doublet, a black gown trimmed with marten, I believe, green hose, a yellow hat. A man of around forty with a clipped beard and a considerable belly. See if you can find him. I have a certain interest in who his friends are.”

Jack looked doubtful. “I’ll do what I can, m’lord. But ’tis like the needle in the haystack.”

“I understand that. But you may be lucky and I have a score to settle with him.”

Jack dismounted and disappeared into the crowd still pouring out of Privy Seal's door.

“He’ll never find him,” Guinevere said as they rode out into the street, carried on the tide of their fellow guests.

Hugh shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He said nothing more until they reached home.

The hall was well lit, the fire stoked despite the late hour. Guinevere tossed her cloak over the back of the settle and yawned deeply. “I’m exhausted.”

“Go to bed. I’m going to wait up for Jack.” Hugh poured wine from the carafe left ready for him on the table.

Guinevere hesitated. “Do you think he meant to kill you?”

“He meant to make trouble,” Hugh said shortly. “For some reason someone seems interested in disrupting the hitherto smooth course of my life.”

Again she hesitated. “Why?” she asked softly.

“If I knew that, I might know where to look for whomever it is,” he responded. “Get you to bed, Guinevere. I’m in no mood to be good company tonight.”

She left him then, concealing her hurt at this abrupt dismissal. Upstairs, she quietly entered the girls’ chamber. They were sleeping peacefully, Tilly snoring gently on the truckle bed. Guinevere bent over her children, breathing in their sweet scent, smiling unconsciously at the rosy flush of sleep on their cheeks. Moonshine and Nutmeg blinked indolently at her as they snuggled into the warm space between the children's bodies.

Guinevere smoothed the coverlet, brushed their soft cheeks with her lips, and tiptoed from the chamber. Outside Robin's room she paused. A faint gleam from the oil lamp showed beneath his door. She could hear him coughing, a dry rattle in his throat.

She slipped inside, leaving the door ajar. Despite the lamplight, he seemed to be asleep, although he was restless, murmuring under his breath. Guinevere touched his
cheek and found it hot and dry. He coughed again. She frowned down at him. This couldn’t be the consequence of overindulgence.

“What are you doing?”

She spun around, her hand at her throat, at the voice from the door. She hadn’t heard Hugh's approach and the sudden sound in the hush of the sleeping house startled her. He stood in the doorway and the frown was still in his eyes.

“I always check on my children before I go to bed,” she whispered. Robin coughed again and muttered, flinging his arms above his head.

Hugh approached his son's cot. He touched the boy's flushed cheek. “He's hot.”

“Yes, he has a fever,” she returned, still whispering. “I could prepare a dose of hyssop and echinacea which would help to cool him.”