The Widow's Kiss (22 page)

Guinevere shook her head. “It's better thus. Alone I will have nothing to distract me from my defense. But there is one thing I must ask you to do for me.” Her voice faltered, tears for the first time started in her eyes. She blinked them back.

“You would ask that I care for your children,” he finished for her. “You have no need to ask me that, Guinevere. Whatever the outcome of this business you need have no fears for your daughters’ safety. I will ensure that their care falls to my hand.”

“You are very good,” she said softly. “You will tell them now what will alarm them the least?”

“You know that I will.” He took her hand and for a minute she let it lie in his clasp.

“Will I be permitted my books, do you think?”

“Nothing was said in Privy Seal's orders to forbid it. I’ll have your books and other necessities sent to you in the morning.”

She withdrew her hand from his. “I thank you, Hugh. For that and for your care of my children. I know they will be safe with you.”

“You trust me with your children but you will not trust me with yourself!” he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.

“I cannot,” she said quietly but firmly.

He regarded her in unsmiling silence for a minute, then with an almost defeated shake of his head, turned on his heel and left her.

The captain of the guard regarded his prisoner with renewed interest. He hadn’t heard more than a word or two of the murmured exchange but its intensity had been obvious. Tears glittered in the lady's eyes, although that was only to be expected in one facing the terrors of imprisonment in the Tower.

“We are ready to depart, madam,” he said. “The barge awaits us.”

Guinevere nodded and drew her cloak tightly about her. A troop of soldiers fell in around her and she was escorted back down the path to the water steps through the now pouring rain. The river was flecked with rain, the gray sky lowered, and it was hard to imagine the long hot days of summer in Derbyshire, with the sweet valleys and rolling hills basking in the sun's heat. Here was all dark and dirt and damp.

She stepped into the barge, grateful for the awning that would keep off some at least of the rain. She sat on the bench beneath the scant shelter and the rain dripped off her hooded cloak. She shivered in the chill dankness as
the oarsmen took up their oars and pulled the barge into midstream.

Hugh would be on his way home to fires and supper, the chatter of children. She was on her way to prison. But she would be well away from the temptations of Hugh's bed, she told herself. It was what she had wanted, she told herself.

But it was hard to maintain her resolve as after long hours in the dark and the wet the barge approached the great gray edifice of the Tower. Instead of pulling up at the dock of the Lion Gate, it went on a few yards. Inset into the wharf at water level Guinevere saw a heavy gate, like a portcullis, that led into the Tower through a narrow tunnel. The gate was opened and the barge pulled under the wharf and into a small pool. Huge water gates opened as they crossed the pool and the barge drew alongside a shadowed dock. Green slime coated the steps and landing stage and dripped from the walls of the great bastion towering above the dock. Four yeoman warders of the king's guard stood on the landing stage waiting to receive the prisoner.

Traitors’ Gate!
she realized.
She had entered the Tower by the gate through which it was said no prisoner ever left.
The reputation of Traitors’ Gate had reached even the farthest wilds of Derbyshire. Terror swamped her. She would never see her children again.

Her hands were icy cold in their gloves as she stepped out onto the slimy landing stage. The captain of the king's guard handed Privy Seal's rolled parchment to one of the yeomen then offered Guinevere a formal salute before stepping back into the barge.

“This way, madam.” The king's yeomen fell in around Guinevere and she was escorted up a narrow flight of stone steps within the great wall of the bastion and out onto a rampart. She could hear ravens croaking somewhere below. She was escorted down another flight of
stone stairs and into a large grassy inner courtyard. The high walls of the Tower rose on four sides, broken at several points by round turrets reached by stone staircases and ramparts.

Guinevere was ushered across the green to a low building that looked disconcertingly like an ordinary house. The ravens hopped across the green, croaking their melancholy tune in the rain. A yeoman knocked with his staff on the front door and it opened instantly.

“Prisoner, Lady Mallory, for the Lieutenant of the Tower,” the guard intoned.

“Who is it? I wasn’t told to expect anyone this evening.” A stout man, a napkin tied around his neck, emerged from a door to the right of the hall. His rich dress denoted a man of some importance. He took the parchment and read it swiftly, then subjected Guinevere to a steady scrutiny.

“So, Lady Mallory, you are to be my guest for a while,” he said with a courtly bow. “We will do what we can to make you comfortable.”

“Who is it, Oliver?” A plump woman came into the hall. “Oh, my poor lady, you’re chilled to the bone!” she exclaimed, bustling over to Guinevere. “Come to the fire. You must sup with us while the lieutenant has your chamber prepared.”

Chamber!
Surely she meant “cell.” Guinevere was totally bewildered. It felt as if she was being welcomed to a particularly hospitable tavern instead of the Tower prison. She was not to know that since all their prisoners were noble, the lieutenant and his lady treated them as equals with all due courtesy and deference. Unless, of course, there were instructions to the contrary.

“I own I’d be glad of some fire, madam,” she said, allowing herself to be drawn into a firelit parlor.

“You must take off that wet cloak. What a miserable night it is. Winter draws close, I fear.” The lieutenant's
lady rattled on as she helped Guinevere out of her cloak and urged her close to the fire.

“You have nothing with you, I see. No dry clothes.” Despite her comfortable tones, her brown eyes were shrewd. She guessed correctly that the lady's imprisonment had been unexpected. It was often thus in these days when Privy Seal guided the king in the paths that suited himself.

“They will be brought,” Guinevere said. “In the morning.” She bent to the fire, warming her numbed hands at the blaze.

“I’ll see what I can find for you … just until your own things arrive,” the lady said. “You’ll take a bite of supper now, won’t you?”

“If it's not too much trouble, madam. You’re very kind.”

“Not a bit of it,” the lady said cheerfully, vigorously ringing a copper bell. A maidservant appeared in answer.

“Lisa, bring a bite of supper for our guest. A bowl of broth and a slice of that venison pasty and a mite of cheese.”

The maid curtsied and withdrew. The lieutenant's lady excused herself for a moment and Guinevere was left alone at the fire. Some of her fear abated under this strangely friendly welcome, but it felt unreal and she was convinced that matters couldn’t continue in this unthreatening fashion.

Outside the parlor door, the lady was talking earnestly to her husband. “The poor thing is frozen to the bone, Oliver. You must house her with a fire, at least for tonight,” she said vehemently. “She has no clothes, no possessions. It must have been very sudden.”

“Privy Seal is often precipitate,” the lieutenant said.

“But it seems from the order that Lady Mallory is here on the king's command.”

His wife shivered slightly. “Another poor woman imprisoned on the king's orders,” she murmured. “How has this one offended His Highness, I wonder? Did she refuse his bed, perhaps?”

“Hush your loose talk,” her husband said in an undertone, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard.

“Well, ’tis to be hoped she doesn’t face the same fate as the other he put in here,” his lady said. “The poor Queen Anne.”

“Was an adulteress; she betrayed the king's bed,” her husband reminded her.

“ ’Twas what they said,” his wife agreed with a sniff.

“It's not for us to question,” her husband told her firmly. “I will have this lady housed in the White Tower. The chamber there is quite commodious and I will have a fire kindled. There are no orders to the contrary.”

“Then I am satisfied. She will sup here first, before she is taken away.” His lady nodded and returned to the parlor where Guinevere waited.

The maid brought supper and Guinevere found to her surprise that she could eat. The broth warmed her, the pasty and cheese put heart into her, and the cup of wine cheered her spirit a little. She tried not to wonder how Hugh was explaining her absence to the girls. If she dwelled upon that she would weep and that would only make matters worse.

Her hostess regarded her with kindly concern as she ate. “Are you new come to London, madam?”

“As of yesterday,” Guinevere answered, setting her spoon down in her empty bowl.

The lady waited, clearly hoping for enlightenment, but Guinevere didn’t offer it. She finished the wine and said sincerely, “You are very kind, madam. I was in sore need.”

“Aye, I could see that,” the woman said. She turned as her husband entered the parlor.

“If you’ve supped, my lady, you’ll be taken to your lodging now,” he said.

“Yes, indeed. Your good lady has been most kind,” Guinevere said, getting at once to her feet. She reached for her still-wet cloak.

“I’ll fetch you a night robe, just to tide you over until your own things are brought.” Her hostess hurried from the parlor, returning in a very few minutes with a woolen robe lined with fur. She handed it to Guinevere. “ ’Twill keep the night chill away.”

“My thanks.” Guinevere draped the garment over her arm.

“If you’re ready …” The Lieutenant of the Tower moved to the door. She followed him, her heart beating uncomfortably fast now that this strange interlude was over.

They crossed the court and went up a flight of stone stairs and through a door set into one of the round towers. A great oak door was set into the heavy stone opposite the entrance to the tower. Her companion had a key, a massive iron key. He turned it in the keyhole and pushed the door open. It swung inwards with a creak.

“If you would enter, Lady Mallory,” he said politely, stepping aside.

Guinevere walked past him into her prison cell.

“I give you good night, my lady.” The door closed and she heard the key turn in the massive lock.

She stood in the center of the small round chamber until her heart had stopped its wild racing. It was cold and dank despite a sullen fire in the small hearth. She touched the thick stone walls. They were icy to the touch. The floor beneath her feet was of the same thick uneven stone. A small square window was set into the wall high up above her head. There was no other outside light.

A tallow candle burned in a sconce above the door. That and the fire provided the only illumination. There was a narrow cot with a straw mattress, a pillow, and a thin blanket. There was a low stool, a lidless wooden pail, and a jug of cold water on the floor beside the fire. That was all the chamber contained.

She went to the fire. There was a scuttle of coals, so for as long as she stayed awake she could keep the fire burning. She shivered in her damp cloak and with a brisk movement flung it from her, wrapping herself instead in the borrowed furred night robe.

From somewhere beyond the stone walls of her prison cell came the lonely frustrated roaring of a lion in the royal menagerie. The miserable beast was as much a prisoner as herself, Guinevere thought. More so, perhaps, because he had no understanding of what had brought him to his cage.

She dragged the mattress off the narrow cot and set it before the fire, then lay down, covering herself with the blanket. Cold and damp were her two worst enemies. She was not going to let them kill her off with an ague. If the king and Privy Seal wanted her dead, they were going to have to fight for it.

B
ut where is our mother, Lord Hugh?” Pen fixed him with a steady stare from intent hazel eyes. “She said she would be coming back last night.”

“Yes, and she hasn’t,” Pippa chimed in. “Where is she? We want to see her.” A tremulous note entered her voice.

Hugh lifted Pippa and held her in the crook of his arm. “The king wished to talk some more with your mother. She asked me to explain that to you and to say that she loves you and she’ll be back very soon.”

“If she thought that was going to happen, she would have said,” Pen declared. “She would never have gone away without telling us.”

“No, but this was rather unexpected,” Hugh explained patiently. “She couldn’t have known that matters would have taken this course. She wants you to stay here with Tilly, the magister, Crowder, and Greene until she's able to come back to you.”

“But I want to
see
her!” Pippa shrilled, patting his face with impatient little taps. “
We
want to see her. Don’t we, Pen?”

“Yes,” said Pen flatly. “Where is she, sir?”

Hugh wondered how much these children knew of the

Tower of London. It was possible they’d never heard of it and so to tell them the truth wouldn’t alarm them any more than they already were. He glanced over Pen's head and saw his son's solemn countenance. Robin knew all there was to know about that dread prison. He couldn’t be expected to conceal his impressions under the inevitable flood of questions from Pen and Pippa.

Hugh chose his words carefully. “Your mother is in one of the king's houses. It was her choice to stay there. She has work to do on this estate business and this morning I must arrange for her to have her books and other things she’ll need.”

“But she would have told us if she wanted to stay somewhere else,” Pen stated. “And besides, she always works with Magister Howard. Will you take him to her?” Her voice took on an unwonted edge of hostility.

“And if the magister can go then so can we,” Pippa added. “She’d much rather see us than the magister.”

“Yes. Why can’t we go to her?” Pen demanded. “If she's staying in this place because she wants to, then she’d say she wanted to see us.”

This was turning out to be more difficult than Hugh had bargained for. Guinevere's children were not the kind to accept something simply because they were told it. Clearly they had not been taught an unquestioning acceptance of authority, which, knowing their mother as he did, should not have surprised him.

“For the moment I’m afraid you cannot go to her,” Hugh stated firmly. “Your mother knows this, which is why she hasn’t arranged for you to visit her.”

“But
why
can’t we?” Pen repeated.

“I imagine your mother will tell you herself as soon as she can,” Hugh told her, setting Pippa on her feet again. “For the moment, you must accept what I say. Why don’t you write a letter to her and I’ll send it with her books and things.”

“We’ll ask her why we can’t see her,” Pen said. “Come, Pippa, let's write it upstairs.”

Hugh blew his breath between his lips in a vigorous exhalation as they ran from the hall. He glanced at Robin.

“Is Lady Guinevere arrested, sir?” his son asked gravely. He knew without having been told that Lady Guinevere had not made this journey to London willingly, and he knew rather more about the workings of Privy Seal's world than did Pen and Pippa. It was a small step to guess why his father was being so evasive with the lady's daughters.

“In a manner of speaking,” Hugh replied carefully. “Lady Guinevere will be obliged to defend herself on certain matters to the king's council in the Star Chamber in a few days. Until then she has chosen not to continue under my roof. The king himself designated her present lodging.”

Robin looked at him in silence for a minute, then said hesitantly, “If you said you were no longer interested in the estate would that make a difference?”

“No,” Hugh stated. “The matter is far more serious than that. Now, the morning advances and you have certain tasks to perform, I believe?” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.” Robin turned, his lips tight set, and left the hall for his duties in the small steward's room where a ledger of household accounts needed balancing.

Hugh stood frowning in the middle of the hall. He felt that Robin in some way held him responsible for Guinevere's predicament. But it was not his fault that she now languished in the Tower, it was entirely the fault of her own obstinacy. And, of course, of her lack of understanding of King Henry's changeable temperament, the ruthlessness of whims that he indulged arbitrarily. Of course she could not be expected to understand that, never having frequented the court before.

Could he have prepared her better? If he hadn’t been so anxious to keep her in his bed, could he have provided more objective preparation for what lay ahead of her?

God's blood!
Every way he turned he seemed to be at fault.

“My lord … ?” The magister's soft voice broke into his reverie. “You sent for me, Lord Hugh.”

“Yes, I wish you to deliver Lady Guinevere's books to her. You will take Tilly with you … she's packing up her mistress's necessities now. Jack Stedman will escort you. I doubt you will be permitted to remain with her for very long, but discover if you will what else she needs for her comfort.”

“Where is my lady?”

“In the Tower.”

The magister whitened and his pointed chin waggled. “The Tower,” he breathed.

“The king made such disposition,” Hugh said aridly. “If your lady had a better command of her tongue, she would not be so housed.”

The magister plucked at the soft skin beneath his chin. He sucked in his cheeks and pursed his mouth. He looked up at Lord Hugh as he stood over him. “ ’Tis a bad business,” he stated bluntly. “There's no way my lady could be accused of murder. And I believe you know that, Lord Hugh.”

“It is out of my hands,” Hugh said.

Magister Howard shook his head. He seemed to hesitate, then spoke up with a clear and decisive courage. “It's been in your hands, Lord Hugh, from the first moment. We who serve Lady Guinevere know who she is and what she is. She's no witch and she's no murderer. You wish for her land … land that is not yours by right … then be honest and say so.”

Hugh felt the color suffuse his countenance. First

Robin and now the magister. “You overstep the mark, Magister,” he said coldly. “I will not tolerate such insolence from a dependent of Lady Guinevere's. For the love you bear her, I will overlook it this time. But do not make such a mistake again. Not you or any other of Lady Guinevere's household.” He fixed the magister with a hard and icy stare, then turned on his heel and strode to the door.

The magister drew closer into his furred gown. He stood by what he had said. With his lady in prison, he had nothing to lose by speaking the truth. He and Greene and Crowder and Tilly. They were nothing without their lady. And if, as Tilly said, there was more between Lady Guinevere and Lord Hugh than met the eye, then by the same token they had even less to lose by the truth.

Hugh stepped outside into the gray early morning, wrestling with his anger. He supposed that he should appreciate the loyalty of Guinevere's household. He expected it of his own after all. But it still rankled. If they’d been a little less loyal, a little more concerned for their own benefit, they wouldn’t have caused him so much trouble since this business had started.

The rain had stopped and a fitful sun flirted with the clouds, but it was cool, the lingering warmth of summer finally banished.

There was one thing he could try. One way he might possibly influence the king in her favor.

Guinevere would be furious, would be bound to accuse him of manipulation, but whatever she might say, she could not willingly choose imprisonment in the Tower over the companionship of her children and the basic creature comforts of his home. Not now that she’d experienced the reality of prison. He could not bear to think of her in that desolate place. If she insisted upon rejecting his loving, so be it. But she
must
accept the comfort and security of his roof.

It was just after seven in the morning. If they took to
the river without delay, they would reach Hampton Court by early afternoon. He turned back to the house and mounted the stairs with swift step. He knocked briefly on the girls’ chamber door and then entered. “Tilly, dress the girls in their finest gowns. I need them ready within the half hour.”

Pippa jumped up from the floor where she’d been overseeing her sister's letter-writing. Moonshine and Nutmeg tumbled from her lap. “Are we going to see Mama?”

“No, we go to see the king,” he told her.

“Will the king take us to Mama?” Pen asked intently, nibbling the end of her quill. There was clearly no other consideration worth their attention in this matter of visiting England's sovereign.

“I don’t know,” Hugh said. “But it won’t hurt to ask. Dress quickly now, we have no time to waste.”

He left them and sent a servant to summon a barge at Blackfriars. A small, fleet craft if it could be found.

Robin received the news that he was to remain behind in Holborn in stolid silence. He had never seen the king. He didn’t say that he wanted more than anything to accompany his father and the girls to Hampton Court, but he didn’t need to say it. It was clearly to be read in his bright eyes and stoic mouth. Hugh offered no consolation. He would find some recompense for his son later, when he could turn his attention to something other than the present mess.

He changed his own dress for a ceremonial gown of green velvet over a gold doublet, and by the time he was satisfied with his appearance he was no longer angry with himself or anyone else. He had a plan that depended upon fate and good timing. If those two worked in his favor … if the king was where he hoped to find him … all then would depend upon Henry's mercurial temperament. And for that reason Hugh considered that his plan just might work.

He gathered up the girls and walked to the steps at Blackfriars. They peppered him with questions. What would the king say to them … what did he look like … when would he say they could see their mother … why were they going on this boat … how long would it take … was the palace very grand … why did the rowers sing as they rowed … what was this place on the bank called, and that …

Hugh answered steadily. Their barge was small and light, the six watermen powerfully built. They sped along the river with the help of the swift current to the accompaniment of Pippa's incessant chatter. Pen had subsided into a thoughtful silence broken only occasionally with a question or some reflection of her thoughts, all of which were once more with her mother. Hugh recognized that the time had come for a full revelation, to Pen at least. But it was not a burden he was prepared to take on unless or until it became clear that Guinevere could not do it herself. If his plan worked, she would be back under his roof maybe even as early as tonight.

The king stood foursquare in the center of the stable courtyard watching as his horses were paraded before him, the coursers and stallions that he rode himself in battle and in the jousting tournaments that he loved and at which he excelled. He nodded in high good humor as the magnificent beasts cavorted past, high-stepping, nostrils flaring, teeth bared. The best of them were of wild and vicious temperament, hard to manage by all but the most experienced horsemen.

The afternoon sun had now some warmth in it and it brightened the day, seemed to ease the pain of the king's ulcerated leg, giving him a sense of well-being. He leaned a hand heavily on the shoulder of the man standing beside him and trod to the white fence that separated the pasture
from the yard. He watched the mares running with their foals, the little ones skipping, kicking up their heels.

The king chuckled and the elderly knight on whose shoulder he rested permitted himself a tiny smile. “Well, My Lord Rochester, you have the most excellent management of our horses,” Henry said.

Lord Rochester bowed and beamed. “They are my delight, Highness.”

“Aye, and ours too,” the king said cheerfully. He turned slowly, like some great ship of state under a fading wind. “I’ll ride to the hunt tomorrow. We’ll follow the chase in Richmond. You’ll be at our side, My Lord Rochester.”

Lord Rochester bowed again.

Henry nodded in amiable dismissal and swayed away. He had no desire for company when he came to visit his horses, it was one time when he could be free of the petty distractions and irritations of his court. It gave him a malicious pleasure to think of his courtiers disconsolately pacing the antechambers and corridors of the palace while their king was for a short while out of reach of their grasping and their plotting.

He limped slowly out of the stable court onto the broad gravel path that led through the gardens that flanked the river and wished that he’d not left his stick in his chamber. He’d thought his leg so much improved he could do without the prop. It was a conceit for which he was now paying.

Ahead, at some distance down the path he spied three people coming towards him. Henry frowned, peering from beneath thick reddish brows. “Who comes here?” he muttered to himself, annoyed that his peace was about to be disturbed.