The Widow's Kiss (32 page)

“No!” Hugh said with sudden force. He dropped his voice immediately, saying more moderately, “Sleep is his best medicine. Leave him now.” He took her arm and urged her towards the door.

“Turn out the lamp,” Guinevere said. “I don’t know who left it lit. The light might disturb him.”

Hugh turned down the lamp and the room was in darkness. They went out into the corridor and Hugh closed the door gently behind them.

“Is Jack returned?”

Hugh shook his head and went to the stairs. “Don’t stay awake for me.”

“No, I won’t.” She turned to the corridor leading to their own chamber.

Hugh stood where he was, waiting until she had disappeared into the bedchamber, then he returned to Robin's bedside. He rubbed his mouth as he looked at the feverish boy. Robin had always been healthy, rarely overtaken with childhood ailments. What could have brought this
on? He hadn’t been anywhere in the last few days where there was fever. Indeed, he’d been closer to home than usual.

Closer to home … closer to …

Oh, it was ridiculous to permit such a thought. But he couldn’t lose it.

“So he wouldn’t rise?” Privy Seal sat back in a carved chair beside the fire, his fingers restlessly drumming on the arm, one foot tapping on the tiled floor before the hearth.

“No, my lord. I drew on him myself but he didn’t turn a hair.” The man in the green-and-yellow-striped doublet shifted uncomfortably as he stood at his master's elbow.

“He's a man of cool temperament,” Privy Seal murmured, “but I had thought he might be pricked.” His gaze flicked over his servant and the man felt his gut loosen with terror at the cold menace in the hard eyes.

“I seem to be surrounded by dolts,” Cromwell murmured. “You accost Lord Hugh dressed as you are, like some gigantic, hideously colored bumblebee. You think he won’t attempt to find you? You think he wouldn’t recognize you instantly?” He took up his wine goblet and regarded the man contemptuously.

“He had better not find you,” he said after a minute while the man trembled before him. “I would not grieve to see you spitted on Lord Hugh's sword, mind you. But I have no faith in your ability to keep a still tongue in your head beforehand.”

“I would say nothing, my lord. Not even on the rack,” the man whimpered.

“Get you gone from here at first light. One of my ships is leaving for France on tomorrow's evening tide from Greenwich. Be sure you’re on it. And get out of those ridiculous clothes before you take a step from this house.”

The man bowed so that his forehead almost touched his knees, and scuttled from the terrifying presence although Cromwell had already turned from him to contemplate the fire.

It seemed his faith must now rest on the endeavors of his good servant Tyler, Cromwell reflected. Privy Seal liked to attack a problem from as many different points as possible. If one approach failed, then there were others in place. Thus far his minions had squandered two attempts. He would wait and see how Tyler fared before thinking afresh.

Then there were the daughters to consider. He stretched his plump legs across the tiled forehearth and stroked his round chin. With their mother's execution after the deaths of Lord Hugh and his son, the will would become null and void, all the property forfeit. But with a decent dowry apiece, the daughters could be used to make alliances useful to Cromwell. He could divert some of their mother's holdings to their dowries. Their lineage was good enough to attract the highest bidders in the land. Men anxious for advancement, anxious to keep Privy Seal's favor.

All in all, it was a pretty scheme.

For as long as Thomas Cromwell kept the king's favor.

Privy Seal heaved himself up from his chair. If Queen Jane presented the king with yet another daughter there was no knowing what turns Henry's temper would take.

But that was a problem for a new morning. He called for his gentlemen to help him to bed.

Hugh stayed up, feeding the fire, until Jack returned in the early hours of the morning. So far he had only failure to report. None of the servants he’d spoken to knew of a man matching the stranger's description. He’d watched at the gate until the porter had closed the wicket on the last
guests and had seen no one resembling Hugh's provocateur.

“I’ve left Will Malfrey to watch at the gate throughout the night. Just in case anyone slips out before dawn. If we’ve no joy then, I’ll make some more inquiries in the mornin’, m’lord.”

“I’m sure he must have slipped out unnoticed in the flood of guests. I can see no reason why he would stay in Austin Friars overnight.” Hugh rose and stretched wearily. “We’ll leave it there, Jack. My thanks, anyway. I’m sorry for keeping you up so late.”

“ ’Tis my pleasure to serve you, sir.” Jack touched his forelock and left the hall. He hesitated at the back door. If Lord Hugh considered the matter closed, then there was no reason for Will Malfrey to watch throughout the night at Privy Seal's gate. But it would do him no harm either, Jack thought with a grim smile. The man had some penalty coming to him for a night last week spent in a Bankside brothel when he was supposed to be on duty. Will knew this night's duty was a forfeit for that truancy. He didn’t need to know that it was an unnecessary duty. Jack went to his bed.

Hugh stood in the hall for a minute after Jack's departure, finding himself strangely reluctant to join Guinevere in his chamber. He could not bring himself to give expression to the suspicion that needled him despite every effort to banish it. It was like a burrowing worm eating at his peace of mind. But it was ridiculous. Guinevere knew no one in London. How could she possibly in the short time she’d been in the city have managed to seek out such men?

But she had Greene, Crowder even, to do such work for her. Hugh knew full well how resourceful they were. How utterly loyal to their lady. They had covered up any possibly incriminating details about Stephen Mallory's death. They had plotted her escape to Cauldon. He didn’t think
they had much love for their lady's new husband. The marriage settlements would have outraged them. Magister Howard had made no secret of his indignation.

No, it was too absurd.

But she had warned him. Warned him not to be complacent, not to think that he had won in the battle over the marriage settlements.

No, it was too absurd.

But she had amassed her wealth through her previous husbands. She had shown no scruples there.

Dear God! This way lay madness!

He strode up the stairs and into Robin's room. He lit one of the candles on the table and came to the cot. Robin was coughing violently, his skin seemingly hotter than before. He opened his eyes as Hugh knelt worriedly beside the bed.

“Thirsty,” he mumbled. “I’m so thirsty.”

Hugh filled a cup with water from the jug on the wash-stand and held it to Robin's parched lips. The lad drank eagerly, then coughed, his body convulsing as he struggled to breathe.

“My head,” he groaned. “ ’Tis worse than this morning. Does a hangover last so long?”

“This is no hangover, lad,” Hugh said gently. He wiped Robin's face with a damp cloth. “You have a fever. I’ll send for the leech in the morning.”

“But Lady Guinevere has medicine.” Robin fell back on the pillows, his eyes closing. “I hate to be bled, sir. I’d rather take Lady Guinevere's physic.”

“Lady Guinevere is not a physician,” Hugh said. He pulled the covers up tightly, ignoring his son's feeble efforts at resistance. “You need to sweat it out, Robin. Keep the covers up.”

Robin gave up and curled on his side. Hugh stood over him, holding the candle high. Then he blew out the candle and left, making his way to his own chamber.

Guinevere was not asleep but some instinct told her to pretend that she was. Hugh had made it clear he had no desire to talk, no wish to discuss with her what had happened. No wish even to discuss Robin's fever. She lay breathing rhythmically, listening to her husband's now familiar step as he moved about the chamber in the dim light of the low-turned lamp that she’d left for him. Then the lamp was doused. The feather mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed in beside her.

She lay still, wondering if he would touch her, move close to her, but he remained still at the far edge of the bed. She could feel the tension in his body across the space that divided them, could hear the slightly ragged edge to his breathing. Now she wanted to speak, to break the tension, but she found herself tongue-tied. He had thrown up some barrier between them every bit as high and as thick as the one she had thrown up on the journey from Derbyshire after the night in his tent, when she had resisted him in desperation, knowing that only thus could she be strong enough to fight him.

But this had come out of nowhere. They had been in near perfect amity before Privy Seal's revels. Why was he holding himself from her, forcing this distance between them? What need did he have to fight her?

For some reason, she was deeply afraid to ask him.

W
ill Malfrey shivered in the predawn chill, pulling his head into the hood of his cloak like a snail withdrawing into its shell. He cursed Jack Stedman for landing him with this vigil. Jack would be warm in his bed, gloating that he’d found the perfect penalty for Will's supposed crime. It hadn’t been a crime at all. Will had found someone else to stand in for him that night. He had just neglected to mention the change to Stedman.

He stamped his feet and thrust his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his cloak. His breath was white in the gray darkness. Of course he should have known better. Jack Stedman's master, Hugh of Beaucaire, was a hard man to cross. A military man with exceedingly high expectations when it came to the loyalty and sense of duty of those under his command. Jack as his lieutenant upheld the standards with what Will considered to be uncalled-for enthusiasm.

The creaking of the wicket gate aroused him from his disgruntled reverie. He stepped backward into the angle of the wall where he would not be seen. The wicket opened and a large, burly man stepped out into the lane.

He turned to say something to the porter at the gate, clapping his arms across his chest.

Will peered at him. The man turned his head and the watcher could see a clipped beard on a fleshy face. He was shrouded in a cloak of a rather startling yellow. Will had been told to be on the lookout for a colorful man. A fleshy man with a considerable belly, and a clipped beard.

The man set off briskly towards the river and Will Malfrey followed at a safe distance. At the river, the man stepped into a waiting barge where he stood in the light of the swinging cresset in the stern, his expression that of a very unhappy man.

Almost as unhappy as Will himself had been a few minutes earlier, Will thought with an inner chuckle as he put two fingers to his lips and sent a piercing whistle towards the group of skiffs waiting for passengers a little farther along the embankment. He sprang lightly into the boat that beat the competition and told the two oarsmen to follow the barge. With action came enthusiasm. His vigil had produced results and results were always rewarded in Lord Hugh's service, just as faults were invariably penalized.

Robin was worse the next morning. Hugh stood at his bedside beside the leech, hiding his terror at the sight of his barely conscious son. The boy's breathing was thin and fast, the cough wracked him almost constantly, his eyes were half closed and his skin burned hot and dry.

It was a gloomy day and the candles and lamp had been lit to throw more light for the leech's grim work. Robin barely protested as the vile creatures were pressed to his arms and into his groin.

“ ’Tis a severe fever, my lord,” the leech muttered, removing new bloodsuckers from the bottle, ready to replace the ones already sucking when they’d had their fill.

He was a short, fat little man with a long beard and malodorous breath. His clothes had seen better days and his boots were cracked. Medicine was not a lucrative profession unless a man had the luck to serve the household of a great nobleman.

“I can see it's severe,” Hugh snapped, revolted by the fat slugs on his son's body. “What else can you give him?”

“Well, I’ve a potion here that might help,” the leech muttered uncertainly, diving into his sack. “But if ’tis the sweating sickness … or God forbid, the plague …”

“Dear God, he's not sweating!” Hugh declared savagely. “ ’Twould be better if he were! And there's no plague hereabouts. There can’t be. The boy's barely left the house for the last week.”

“And everyone's well in the house?” The leech scratched his head and frowned.

“As far as I know.”

“What are you giving him?” Guinevere's quiet voice spoke from the door. She looked as worried as Hugh as she stepped to the bed and asked the leech, “Hyssop and echinacea might help, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it, madam. When a fever's as bad as this there's nothing to be done but bleed the patient and pray.” He replaced the fattened leeches with new ones.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Hugh said to Guinevere. “You don’t wish to catch this yourself. You’ll spread it to the girls.”

“As will you,” she pointed out. “I would like to nurse him. Tilly too. She's a skilled nurse. Skilled with simples.”

Hugh shook his head. “No, I don’t want anyone to do anything for him but myself.”

“But why?” she asked. “Why would you refuse to let me do what I can?”

Hugh shook his head again but didn’t answer her. He
bent over Robin, lifting his eyelids. The whites of the boy's eyes were streaked with yellow.

Guinevere watched him for a moment, then she turned and glided from the chamber.

The girls were gathered at the door. “What's the matter with Robin, Mama?” Pen asked, grabbing her mother's hand.

“Is it still the wine?” asked Pippa from her other side.

“No, love. Robin has a fever. The leech is bleeding him now.”

“Can we see him?” Pen asked.

“No, in case you catch whatever he has.”

“We could sniff the pomanders,” suggested Pippa. “They keep away fevers, don’t they?”

“Not always. Go to your lessons now. Maybe later today, when Robin's feeling better, you can visit him.”

The girls trailed off to their books and Guinevere made her way downstairs. She understood Hugh's agonized fear for his child. But she didn’t understand why he wouldn’t let her nurse the boy.

Hugh escorted the leech from the house then came to the fire in the hall. Guinevere set aside her embroidery frame and leaned her head against the high back of the settle to look up at him as he stood with one foot on the fender, his frowning eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.

“I am not a great believer in bleeding,” she said quietly. “In most cases it merely weakens the patient further.”

“You are no physician,” he returned. “A lawyer, an able administrator, I grant you, but you lay no claims to being a physician too. Or am I mistaken?”

Guinevere tried to ignore the barbed tone. She shook her head. “No, I make no such claim. But as a wife and a mother, I’ve had some considerable experience of nursing.”

“Experience, certainly, but how much success?” He turned his gaze upon her, a brilliant piercing stare. “How
many of your husbands did you nurse back to health, Guinevere?”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I understand your concern for Robin, Hugh, but it doesn’t give you the right to attack me in such fashion.”

He shrugged. “I merely asked a question. Not an unreasonable one. I presume you had a hand in nursing those of your husbands who survived, however briefly, the accidents and ailments that eventually killed them.”

Would this suspicion lie forever between them?
She turned up her palms in a small gesture of resignation and rose to her feet. “I have matters to discuss with Master Crowder.”

Hugh watched her leave the hall with her fluid grace, her head erect, her back so straight. He hadn’t intended to say what he’d said but the words had spoken themselves. Fear and suspicion were maggots in his head now, eating away at reason. With a muttered exclamation, he strode back to the stairs.

As he turned into the corridor to Robin's chamber, he came face-to-face with the man called Tyler. “What business d’you have up here?” he demanded irritably of the servant. Kitchen staff didn’t in general frequent the family's private quarters.

“Master Crowder, m’lord. ’E sent me to refill any oil lamps that needed it,” the man said, his eyes lowered, his entire posture that of a submissive servant. He held up a leather flagon of lamp oil in evidence. “I was jest checkin’ in the bedchambers, sir.”

Hugh frowned. “I understood Master Milton was to have charge of all matters outside the kitchen.”

“Master Crowder's steward of the stores, sir,” the man responded, still keeping his eyes lowered. “ ’E wanted to know ’ow much oil ’ad been burned last even.”

“Oh.” Hugh could find no fault with this explanation although he didn’t like the idea of strange servants
roaming the upper floor of his house. He made a mental note to bring the subject up with Crowder himself and dismissed the man with a curt nod before hurrying into Robin's chamber.

The oil lamp, presumably refilled, was turned low and in its soft light the boy lay still, barely breathing it seemed to Hugh. Guinevere had been right. The attentions of the leech seemed to have had no effect at all, apart from weakening him even further.

Hugh slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, struggling with his terror. He had the absolute sense that his son was dying before his eyes. Robin coughed weakly, his eyelids fluttered, and for a second he stared up at Hugh without awareness. His lips were dry and cracked, his skin lifeless.

The conviction and the compulsion came out of nowhere. He had to get the boy out of this house. There was a malevolence, an evil in the very air. Hugh was not a man given to such fancies. He had no time for curses, for the evil eye, for talk of witchcraft. But he acted now under the spur of something that had no root in rational thought.
Someone, something,
was killing his son and he had to get him as far from this house as he could.

He bent over Robin, wrapping him securely in the blankets and covers, then he picked him up. The boy was terrifyingly light, as if he’d lost all substance. Hugh almost ran with him out of the chamber and down the stairs.

Guinevere had returned to her place on the settle. She jumped up as Hugh rushed to the front door. “Hugh, what are you doing? Where are you taking Robin?” She stepped towards him, her hand outstretched.

“I’m taking him away,” he said, turning at the door, the boy held tight in his arms. “This is not a healthy place for him to be.”

Guinevere paled as she met his gaze. There was a wild-ness to his eyes that she had never seen before. And there
was something else … something unbelievable. There was accusation. Her hand dropped to her side. “What do you mean?”

He couldn’t say the words, couldn’t speak his suspicions. He had no grounds, only this deep certainty that some evil was at work on his son. And Guinevere had a motive for that evil. “I’m not sure what I mean,” he said and left the house.

Guinevere stood still in the hall, her hand at her throat. It wasn’t possible that he held her to blame for Robin's illness.
It wasn’t possible.
He might still harbor doubts about her innocence in Stephen's death, but never, not in the wildest flights of nightmare, could he imagine she would harm Robin. She was a mother. He could not believe such a thing of her.

And yet she knew that when he’d looked at her with such wild eyes that that was what he believed.

She felt sick and faint. She passed a hand over her brow, feeling it clammy. How could she live with a man who could for one instant believe her capable of such a monstrous thing? How could she share his bed, bear his child?

Slowly she passed a hand over her stomacher. Slowly she sat down again, resting her head once more on the high back of the settle. She had always known well before the signs were clear when she had conceived. The knowledge that she now carried Hugh's child had been on the periphery of her awareness for several days. She hadn’t examined the knowledge, had let it lie until she could be absolutely certain. Certain enough, at least, to make the news public. It would be another week before she could do that. Until then the secret that had given her so much joy belonged only to her.

Perhaps Hugh had not thought that monstrous thing. She could have mistaken his meaning. He was terrified
for Robin, desperate. He hadn’t known what he was saying, what he might have been implying. Of course that was it. When Robin was out of danger they would talk again.

Unconsciously she pressed her fingers to her mouth. Robin
must
get better. It was unthinkable that he wouldn’t. But where was Hugh taking the boy? It was madness to rush out into the cold with him, sick as he was. But she could not have stopped him. She felt his eyes on her again. Accusing. Condemning.

Hugh laid a small heap of silver coins on the table in the low-ceilinged, dimly lit house place of the small cottage on Ludgate Hill. “There's coin, Martha, for the leech, the apothecary, for whatever Robin needs.” He twisted his large square hands together as he looked across the room to the straw pallet where his son lay and asked painfully, “Will he die?”