The Widow's Kiss (26 page)

“That's no proof of innocence.”

“Maybe not, but neither is it proof of guilt,” Hugh said gently. “Lady Mallory's third husband died of the sweating sickness that swept the country that year. Again I could find no evidence to discredit that account. There was barely a family in the countryside who didn’t lose some members to the sickness.” He shrugged. “I can see no reason to suspect foul play.”

“A conveniently timed death mayhap,” the bishop suggested eagerly. He cast Guinevere a brooding glance.

Again Hugh shrugged. “You
could
believe that, my lord bishop. But I doubt justice or faith would be served.”

The bishop stroked the bluish skin of his shaven chin and adjusted his priest's cap over his ears. “And what of the second husband? You have not mentioned him.”

“Brought down by an unmarked arrow. His wife was at his side. Many men were abroad in the forest, their lord having made them free of the game for that day. It is more than likely that an unlucky arrow went wide of its mark,” Hugh said calmly. “No man would acknowledge it for fear of the consequences. But it is certain sure that Lady Mallory did not loose the arrow that killed her husband.”

Cromwell frowned. “She could have arranged it.”

“Indeed. But there's no evidence.”

“But there's motive. Circumstances lend themselves to such a conclusion.”

“From all that I could gather, Lord Hadlow and his wife were a devoted couple. They had two children. Lady Mallory was already wealthy in her own right and Lord Hadlow, of all her husbands, was the least affluent … although such matters are always relative,” Hugh added somewhat aridly, thinking of the riches of coal and iron to be mined on the land Hadlow had left his widow.

He continued. “Hadlow was known to be generous with what he had, almost to a fault, and spent freely to ensure the comfort and well-being of his tenants. His wife according to all reports supported his expenditures and the very generous settlements he made on his death to his tenants. Settlements that certainly reduced her own holdings. In short, my lords, his death brought her considerable administrative burdens and less material wealth than one might have imagined. She continues her late husband's philanthropy and generosity to the tenants. I see no financial motive there.”

Guinevere listened in near disbelief.
So that was what he’d discovered at Matlock. Why hadn’t he told her he absolved her of that death, instead of leaving her to fret and wonder what surprises he was going to spring?

But then she reminded herself that she had kept Needham's premarriage contract to herself. They had been playing a game of cat and mouse, each holding cards to their chests.

In the face of Hugh's report it would be hard for this court to fail to absolve her of these three deaths, but Stephen's … ? Ah, there lay the snakepit.

She closed her eyes for a minute, reliving that evening. She could hear his heavy lumbering step, his thick drunken voice berating her. She saw him raise his fist, lunge for her.

Lips, teeth, eyes, cheekbones, he didn’t care what he hit. She put out her foot …

“Lady Mallory?”

She opened her eyes, aware that she was swaying slightly on her hard chair. Privy Seal had spoken sharply to her. “Forgive me,” she murmured.

“Bring wine for the lady,” the king demanded. “She's uncommon pale. I’d not have her swoon under these questions, Thomas.”

Thomas Cromwell heard the faint rebuke and his mouth thinned. The king, it seemed, had taken one of his arbitrary fancies to Lady Mallory. One minute he had her thrown into the Tower, and the next was listening to her insolence with every sign of amusement, and now he was defending her from her questioners. As if, indeed, these proceedings were not as much for Henry's material benefit as his Privy Seal's. Only the bishop could be absolved from a venal motive in pursuing the lady. Gardiner wanted a witch.

A gentleman usher hurried from the chamber and returned within minutes with a cup of wine. He gave it to Guinevere who would have declined except that she thought she’d probably risked the king's displeasure enough for one day. To turn aside his kindness would be true insult. She sipped a little and handed the cup back to the usher.

“Ah, that's better. There's a touch of color in your cheeks, my lady,” the king announced with satisfaction. “You may continue, Thomas.”

Cromwell bowed to his king and turned again to Hugh, who in the interval had taken his seat again. Hugh couldn’t see her face but he had felt it in his own body when the weakness had washed through her. He could do nothing for her … not yet. But he ached to hold her, support her with his own strength.

Had she killed Stephen Mallory?
It didn’t matter.

“Lord Hugh. What can you tell us of Lord Mallory's death?”

Guinevere breathed slowly and evenly, holding the panic at bay.

“Rather more than of the others, Lord Cromwell.”

“Ah, good.” Privy Seal settled back in his chair. “Pray continue.”

“Lord Mallory was often deep in drink.” Hugh chose his words carefully. Most of these lords knew what it was to be so incapacitated and wouldn’t consider it a failing. “He was a very large man. When he fell, it was sometimes impossible to get him back on his feet.”

“He was drunk on the evening of his death?”

“Aye. He had guests for dinner. My lieutenant spoke with them and they all swear that he was as drunk as they’d ever seen him. His wife went to her chamber early in the evening. As I understand it, she found drunkenness offensive and didn’t scruple to tell her husband so.”

There was a murmur of disapproval. Guinevere looked up at the gilded ceiling.

“Lord Stephen's guests also felt that Lady Mallory showed a lack of respect for her husband … but they vouch for his drunkenness, and for his anger at his wife.”

“A man does not care to be criticized in front of his friends,” one of the lords stated.

“No, indeed not,” Hugh agreed. “One might consider that when it comes to motive for injury, Lord Mallory had it rather than his wife. A large man, my lords. By all accounts, a man very much taller and heavier than his wife. A man given to violence.”

He paused to allow this to settle in.

“So what are you telling us happened that night?” the bishop demanded testily. “Lord Mallory was entitled to punish his wife for her insolence. Did he do so?”

“Lady Mallory was not in her bedchamber when he
went to find her at the end of the evening,” Hugh said. “She was with her steward and tiring woman in the steward's pantry going over household accounts. It seems that Lord Mallory, overdrunk and in a fearful rage, somehow fell from the open window of his wife's chamber. The sill is low. I can find no other explanation.”

Guinevere tried to make sense of what he was saying. He was describing it exactly as it had happened with one vital exception. One exception and the one little lie that would exonerate her. No mention of deceptions, of the lies of her household. Nothing.

“So, Lord Hugh, you believe Lady Mallory to be innocent of all wrongdoing?” Privy Seal asked into the attentive hush.

“Lady Mallory was not guilty of causing the deaths of any of her husbands,” Hugh said steadily.

Abruptly Privy Seal leaned forward across the table, one finger pointing accusingly at Guinevere. “Your husband, Stephen Mallory, was friend and supporter of the traitor Robert Aske,” he stated, articulating each word slowly and deliberately.

The king sat up, his air of amusement vanished. “What's this?”

“The lady's husband supported the Pilgrimage of Grace, Highness,” Privy Seal said smoothly. “ ’Tis reasonable to assume that his wife was also involved in that treason. Aske's rotting carcass hangs in chains in York, as befits such a traitor. Stephen Mallory is dead. But his wife, a lady who one must assume took her husband's beliefs and followed the course he set, sits before us.”

“Your pardon, my lord, but I fail to understand why you would make such an assumption about Lady Guinevere,” Hugh said, his smile unwavering. “As we’ve already established, the lady has a mind of her own. Her independent nature is what brought her before you today. I would wager
that she would be the last wife to take on beliefs that were not her own.”

The king frowned and turned his heavy head towards Guinevere. “Was your husband a supporter of the traitor Aske, madam?”

Guinevere was struggling with this new threat, which seemed to have come out of nowhere. She shook her head. “He knew Aske, Highness. But dropped all association with him as soon as the Pilgrimage of Grace started.” Her lip curled slightly. “Stephen Mallory was not known for his loyalty or for the strength of his convictions, my lords.”

“And you, madam? What are your views on Aske and his Pilgrimage?” Henry's gaze seemed to pierce her skull.

Now she must be careful. If ever there was a moment for deception and diplomacy this was it.

“Ill-judged, Highness,” Guinevere said swiftly. “One must respect sincerely held convictions, I believe, but Mr. Aske struck me as more interested in fomenting rebellion and enjoying the power of leadership than in following his heart.”

She sent a silent prayer for forgiveness to the wretched man who had died such a hideous death for his beliefs. But if she was to save herself from a like fate, she had no choice but to dissemble.

The king nodded slowly. “I have no further interest in Aske and his rebellions. The price has been paid.” He glanced at Cromwell, who was pursing his mouth in clear disappointment, then turned his gaze onto Hugh.

“So, Lord Hugh, you do not believe the lady murdered any of her husbands?”

“I do not, Highness. And I am prepared to marry her myself to prove my conviction.”

A collective gasp ran around the Star Chamber. The bishop sat up, pulling at his cap; Privy Seal looked first
astounded and then furious. It took several seconds for his expression to assume its customary arrogant impassivity. The king leaned forward in his chair, his little eyes bright in the doughy cheeks.

“Well, well, Hugh of Beaucaire. That is confidence indeed. You have no fear of poison, of sorcery, of the knife in the night.” He chuckled deep in his chest.

Hugh regarded Guinevere's still figure, her straight back, the erect set of her head. He thought of her as she had been last night. So afraid, and yet so full of courage. He declared quietly, “I have no such fears, Highness.”

“Well, well. So, my lady …” The king turned to Guinevere. “What say you to Lord Hugh's proposal?”

W
itchcraft! Sorcery!” declared the bishop, pointing his finger accusingly at Guinevere. “She has woven her evil spells around Hugh of Beaucaire.”

There was an instant of silence, then Hugh began to laugh, a deep rumble of amusement. He stood with his feet braced, his hands resting on the bar in front of his seat. And he laughed, his brilliant blue eyes alight with merriment as he regarded the bishop. It took a minute, then there came slight chuckles and half smiles from the men who knew Hugh. The idea that this practical, squarely built soldier who exuded power, both mental and physical … the very idea that Hugh of Beaucaire could succumb to a woman's sorcery was clearly absurd. The grim solemnity of the chamber dissipated.

Privy Seal's thin mouth seemed to disappear and he stroked his chin with restless fingers. The king's gaze flicked between the bishop and Privy Seal with more than a hint of malice at their discomfiture. It was very rare to see either of these men outmaneuvered in their plots.

“My lord bishop, I can assure you that I am far from bewitched by Lady Mallory,” Hugh declared. “I have spent close on two months in her company and I am not blind to
her faults. She's both arrogant and stubborn in her opinions and in the way she conducts her affairs. But those faults do not make her either a witch or a murderer. I have no intention of allowing her to dictate the terms of any contract we might enter into. But I do believe in her innocence and her virtue. And I doubt any man in this chamber would disagree that she is a very beautiful woman. One any man would be proud to claim as his wife.”

“And when one adds her riches to her beauty, you have an irresistible combination,” the king rumbled. “I see nothing of witchcraft in that. We can well understand your desire to wed the lady, Lord Hugh, if you’re certain you won’t join your predecessors sooner rather than later.” He raised an eyebrow and Hugh merely bowed in response.

The king stroked his beard again. There was a tense silence in the chamber as they awaited his judgment. Finally he spoke almost ruminatively, almost with a question behind the statement. “So it seems we must find the lady innocent of all charges?”

An imperceptible murmur ran around the chamber, almost like a collective sigh. Hugh was aware that his mouth was very dry, his neck stiff as he held himself rigid and un-moving.
He had won. Or had he?

“Lady Guinevere, how do you answer Lord Hugh's proposal?” Henry repeated, his gaze swinging back to her, as she sat, white-faced and motionless on her chair.

Guinevere was in shock. Her emotions whirled in a dizzying turmoil. Her relief at this reprieve was so intense that she could neither think nor speak coherently. She struggled to understand what Hugh had said.
Why
had he saved her? He had lied for her. This duty-bound man of such rigid principle, such a pronounced sense of honor, had lied to save her. And she knew in her heart that he was not convinced of her innocence. Even when they made such wonderful love, she knew he still doubted her.

Her thoughts tumbled wildly and she was unaware
that she was staring blankly at the king. Hugh had saved her because he wanted her wealth. He had said as much. He had said that he would not permit her to write any contract they entered into. He would dictate the terms himself. He would marry her and save her from death, but at the expense of her independence.

But what choice did she have? Only Hugh could save her. Her own eloquence, her legal arguments would avail her nothing. But Hugh of Beaucaire was so highly regarded, his honesty and probity so absolute that no one would dare to question his declaration.

He would marry her and save her from death but at the expense of her independence.

“Madam, you appear to have lost your tongue,” the king said, and now there was a touch of impatience in his voice, the amusement gone from his eye.

What choice did she have?

Guinevere forced her thoughts into some order, her tongue into motion. She rose slowly. “Your Highness, I am overwhelmed by Lord Hugh's offer. Please forgive me if my silence seemed ungrateful. It was quite the opposite. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.”

“Ah, that is prettily said.” The king beamed. When he was inclined to be generous and merciful he found the world a very pleasant place and he took delight in using his power to make others happy. He was drawn to the lady, and he remembered her daughters, such pretty little things and so sweetly spoken. And he would like to see Lord Hugh gain some material reward, particularly when it didn’t have to come out of the privy purse. Yes, it was very pleasant to use his power to good purpose.

“So, my lady, you accept this offer of marriage?”

Hugh held his breath. Despite her murmurings about gratitude, he was by no means certain that she would take the way out he had offered her. Sometimes he thought she had to be the most stubborn woman who ever lived. But
surely her intelligence, her sense of self-preservation, her fear for her children, would make her accept him.

“I do, Highness,” Guinevere said clearly and steadily and Hugh breathed again.

Henry patted his hands together and rose heavily from his chair. He paused for a second to see if his ulcerated leg would start to throb and when he felt no pain declared smilingly, “We shall see you wed in two days’ time in the chapel at Hampton. The queen will be pleased to attend.” He beamed. A wedding would cheer Jane. He worried that her advanced pregnancy was taking its toll on her spirits.

“Two days will be sufficient for the contracts to be drawn up.” He nodded at the dour Privy Seal. “Thomas, you will make sure that all's as it should be on that score.” And he strode from the Star Chamber, the short gown that hung from his massive shoulders swinging richly at each weighty step.

The lords in the chamber had risen with their king and stood bareheaded until an usher closed the door behind him.

Privy Seal regarded Guinevere who still stood white-faced at her chair. “It seems, madam, that you have found favor with the king,” he stated. “Your life is spared.” His lips moved soundlessly as he looked down at the papers on the table before him and only the bishop heard the soft “For now.”

Hugh moved out of the tiered benches and into the center of the chamber. Formally he bowed to the motionless Guinevere. “Madam, your business here is done. If you would come with me now.”

It was a command couched in pleasantry. Guinevere heard it as it was intended to be heard. She inclined her head in faint acknowledgment and walked ahead of him out of the chamber without looking once at her accusers, who remained on their feet.

Privy Seal glanced at Bishop Gardiner as the lords in the chamber started to follow the vindicated woman.

“She is guilty,” the bishop said through his teeth. “I can smell a witch from afar. She has bewitched Hugh of Beaucaire as surely as she bewitched her husbands.”

“That I doubt, my lord bishop,” Cromwell said thoughtfully. “She is a clever woman, and a beautiful one. But she's no witch. A tricky lawyer, yes. Maybe a murderer.” He shrugged. “Who's to say and what does it matter in the end? I will still have what I seek from her.”

The bishop looked sharply at him. “How will you do that, Thomas, now that the king has given her his blessing?”

Privy Seal smiled a thin smile and answered with one of his favorite expressions. “There's more than one way to skin a cat, Bishop Gardiner,” he said.

Guinevere remained silent as she walked with Hugh through the courts and corridors of Westminster Palace and down to the water steps. The weak late September sun was now high in the sky. It had been but a hint on the horizon when she’d awoken that morning to find herself alone in Hugh's bed, the memories of their loving embedded in her skin, present in the delightful languor of her limbs.

The girls had still slept the belladonna sleep when Hugh and Guinevere had left for Westminster. She had kissed their sleeping faces, keeping her silent agony to herself. Now her step quickened involuntarily with the need to see them, to hold them, to reassure them that there was no longer anything to fear, that all was once again well. If marriage to Hugh and the loss of her independence was the price, then she would pay it and conceal her anger and resentment at his trickery. She knew that Hugh would not deprive her children of their dowries
even if it pleased him to make their mother dependent upon his good will and charity.

Hugh gave her his hand to step into the wherry that responded to his summons at the water steps. Her gloved hand merely brushed his as she embarked and sat upon the thwart. He sat opposite her, as silent as she, idly tapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other.

The two wherry men took up their oars and pulled strongly for Blackfriars. Guinevere raised her face to the slight warmth of the sun. She inhaled deeply of the mélange of smells that rose from the river and came off the embankments on either side. Gutter smells of rotting meat and vegetables, of human waste, of green river slime, of fish and thick black mud. And occasionally a whiff of fresh baking would waft amid the others as a hawker walked the riverbank with his trays of pies and loaves. She could detect a hint of late summer roses from one of the small gardens that came down to the river. The colors everywhere were brighter, clearer than she’d ever remembered. The city's cacophony was music to her ears. The smells both rank and sweet were so precious she could not stop taking deep breaths, drawing the air far into her lungs. She was alive, and she was free.

Hugh watched her. He could make a fair guess at her thoughts. Soon, when the first flush of relief had faded, she would want to know why he had lied for her. He wasn’t certain of the answer. He hadn’t known he was going to vindicate her until he spoke the words. He had been stirred by her own defense, certainly, but that would not have been enough to make him do something so out of character as to perjure himself.

He loved her. He lusted after her. He felt a deep and abiding passion for her. But he was not convinced of her innocence. And yet he had lied to save her.

There was the money, of course. Had his motive been purely venal? He didn’t like to think so. He wanted what
he had claimed for Robin, but he would have received that anyway. It had always been understood between himself and Privy Seal that those estates were his in exchange for delivering Guinevere Mallory. But he was going to insist upon much more in the marriage settlements. He was going to insist upon the customary arrangements whereby a woman brought her wealth to her husband.

He had no intention of making Guinevere's life miserable, but he certainly did not intend to bow his head meekly to whatever legal financial arrangements she considered appropriate. He was no hapless male caught in the toils of a clever woman. Guinevere must understand that he would be a husband quite unlike her others.

Her wealth would ensure that Robin could take his place in a world that would give him advancement, bring him wealth in his own right. Hugh loved her but she would not ride roughshod over him. He would gain more from this arrangement than the joys of a passionate and loving partnership. It was his right, both legal and moral, to do so.

The wherry tied up at Blackfriars steps and Guinevere stepped ashore unaided, as Hugh paid the oarsmen. She stood looking around the thronged steps, once again conscious in every fiber of being alive. She heard Pippa's high voice in her head, Pen's more gentle, less piercing tones, and without waiting for Hugh set off with a swift stride along the familiar lane between the cramped hovels that led to Hugh's house.

Hugh hastened after her. He understood her urgency. He caught up with her before she reached the gates to his house.

He laid a hand on her arm. “Guinevere?”

She stopped, startled at the sound of his voice after the long silence. “We will talk at length when we can be private,” she said. “I must go to my daughters.”

Hugh let his hand drop. He had wanted to establish just
a smidgen of private contact with her before they were engulfed in the children's needs. Just to garner a sense of how she felt about him now. But his needs were not important, not compared with her children's. He understood that. He nodded quietly but tucked her hand into his arm so that they walked up the drive united.

He opened the door himself, then stepped back to allow her to precede him into the square hall. Guinevere stepped in, her eyes adjusting to the dimness after the brighter light outside.

“Mama … Mama!” Pippa slid from the settle by the fire where she’d been curled with her kitten. The mewling ball of fur flew unheeded from her lap as the child hurtled across the floor to her mother. “Pen … Pen … Mama's here. She's not in a jail! She's not.” Her last words were muffled as she buried her face in her mother's skirts.

Wordlessly, Guinevere bent and lifted her. She held her tight, pressing her face against the child's warm cheek, running her hand over the back of her head, feeling the childlike shape of her skull, breathing in the sweet vanilla scent of her.

“It's all right, sweeting,” she whispered. “It's all right now.”