The Widow's Kiss (30 page)

Guinevere shook her head. “I took no offense. They’re entitled to their celebration. The only sufferer will be Robin in the morning, poor lad.”

Hugh frowned. “I can’t think what possessed him to be so foolish.”

“Can’t you?”

“Well, perhaps I can,” he said ruefully. “But I should imagine tonight's little display will cure Pen of any lingering affection.”

“Pen's far too levelheaded to hold it against him,” Guinevere said. “But I have a feeling that they’re already falling into an easy way with each other that has more of friendship than anything else to it. Living in such close quarters breeds familiarity, and love flourishes on the
unknown, on a sense of mystery about its object. Don’t you think?” She regarded him with a glimmer of mischief in her eye.

“I have little time for mysteries,” Hugh returned. “I like things to be straightforward. I like to understand things. That may sound prosaic … boring even. But it's how I am.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, teasing him. “I am wed to a plain man who has no time for frills and fancies. A plain-spoken man who likes only the unvarnished truth.”

“And is there something wrong in that?” He would not respond to her teasing manner. His expression was grave, his gaze intense as it rested on her countenance.

“No,” Guinevere said. “Nothing at all. But women, you should know, tend to be a little more devious than men. They approach things in a rather more roundabout fashion.”

Hugh wondered what she was trying to tell him. This was no idle conversation, he was sure of it. So what point was she making?

“You sound as if you’re warning me of something,” he said.

“I merely point out that when men think they’ve arranged matters to their satisfaction, women have a way of upsetting such arrangements,” she responded lightly. “And men, in general, are completely taken by surprise. Complacency, my lord, is dangerous when it comes to women.”

“There's no fear that anything you do will take me by surprise, Guinevere,” he said quietly. “Complacency is not a fault of mine, I promise you.”

For a moment their eyes held, then Guinevere's soft laugh broke the tension. “We’re well matched, my lord. I foresee some interesting times ahead.”

Hugh's eyes narrowed. “Well matched, indeed, my lady. Both between the sheets and out of them.”

“On which subject,” Guinevere said, “I wish you to understand that there’ll be no bride-bedding at this feast.”

“It's a little late for that,” Hugh responded with a quick grin. “This bride has already been bedded. Well and truly, I would have said.”

“Well and truly,” Guinevere agreed, rising from her chair. “I’m going to slip away now while they’re all too deep in drink to notice and decide to play more games.”

“I’ll come as soon as my guests have left.” He reached for her hand. “Be ready for me.”

“As you command, my lord.” She gave him an ironic smile and glided from the hall.

Hugh smiled to himself and wondered how long he could wait before joining her. There was delicious torment in the delay.

“My lord …” Jack Stedman appeared at his shoulder.

“Sit you down, Jack. Help yourself to meat and drink.” Hugh gestured to Guinevere's vacant chair and the still-laden table. The cloth was no longer pristine, the wax candles burning down, but there was still food aplenty on the great serving platters.

“My thanks, sir.” Jack took the seat and pulled a platter of roast venison towards him. He ate ravenously, spearing the meat with his dagger, sopping up juices with a hunk of barley bread. He drank deeply from the ale jug and cut a hefty chunk of game pie.

Hugh waited patiently until the man's first hunger had been appeased. He sipped his own wine, leaning back in his chair, eyes half closed. But anyone who thought he was relaxed would have been mistaken.

“Well?” he prompted finally when Jack began to show signs of satiation.

“ ’Tis passin’ strange, sir.” Jack wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The man was still there, lyin’ in the dirt, bleedin’. No one ’ad come near ’im. Ye’d think some folks would’ve taken a look-see. Robbed ’im of summat.”

Hugh nodded. “Was he still alive?”

“Jest about. Folks were jest standin’ around watchin’ ’im bleed to death.” Jack shook his head. “Never seen the like. They wouldn’t go near ’im. ’Twas almost as if ’e ’ad the plague.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He was in deadly fear, m’lord. An’ not just of dyin’. Clammed up, wouldn’t talk even when I offered to take ’im to a leech. Kept mutterin’ about ’is orders.”

“Orders?” Hugh mused, stroking his chin. “Orders from whom?”

Jack shook his head. “Wouldn’t say nuthin’ else, sir.”

“What did you do with him?”

Jack looked surprised. “Why, I left ’im there, sir. Wasn’t nuthin’ else to do with ’im. You didn’t say to bring ’im in. Should I go an’ fetch ’im?”

Hugh considered. He had little interest in saving the man's life; it would hardly be a public service. Once an assassin, always an assassin. “No,” he said. “What about the knife? Did you learn anything from that?”

Jack put it on the table. “I asked if anyone recognized it, if anyone knew who ’e was, but if they did know, they wasn’t sayin’. One old biddy screeched about devils but they shut ’er up fast.”

“Devils?”

“Oh, she was ’alf out of ’er senses, sir.” Jack drank again from the ale jug.

Hugh picked up the knife and examined it carefully. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it that he could see. Nothing that would give him a clue as to his assailant's identity. But the man had been acting on orders. Someone wanted Hugh of Beaucaire dead.

Guinevere stopped in the kitchen on her way upstairs. She grimaced at the chaos, the litter of dirty pots, the half-drunk
and dozing potboys and scullery maids. In her own kitchens at Mallory Hall there was always order however large the banquet. Master Crowder saw to that. But, of course, he had no authority here. She filled a tankard with hot water from the kettle on the range and selected herbs from the racks in the pantry where they were dried. She pounded them in the mortar with the pestle and mixed them into the hot water.

Carrying the tankard in one hand, an oil lamp in the other, she went silently into Robin's chamber, next door to the girls’. She set the tankard on a small table in the sparsely furnished chamber and approached the cot, shielding with her hand the light from the lamp as she looked down at the boy lying waxen-faced on his back. His eyes fluttered open as he became aware of her presence and he groaned wretchedly.

“Are you feeling very sick, Robin?”

Another groan was her answer. She set the lamp on the table and took up the tankard. “Drink this, love. It tastes vile but I promise it will settle your stomach.” She knelt beside the cot, slipped a hand behind his head, and lifted him just enough to take the contents of the cup she held to his lips.

Robin drank, coughed, spluttered, wailed in utter misery, then fell back onto the pillows, closing his eyes.

“It will help you sleep,” she said, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

He made no answer and she took the lamp and left the little chamber that reminded her of his father's in its spartan air.

But Hugh's chamber now held some surprises. There were flowers, as Pippa had said, and wax candles on the mantel. Guinevere had brought with her to London the linens, pillows, cushions, the china and glass from Mallory Hall that had been destined for the manor at Cauldon and Hugh's bed had been made up with her own sheets and
coverlets. Her little silver orange tree where she hung her rings stood on the dresser with her jewel box, her own silver candlesticks beside them. The ewer and basin on the washstand were of the finest Delft porcelain, and cushions now graced the deep window seat.

Guinevere surveyed the room in frowning silence. How would Hugh react to having his own chamber so invaded? He had told Tilly to make what changes she considered necessary, but he could not have envisaged anything quite this comprehensive.

She sat down at the dresser and began to uncoif. The door opened and Hugh came in. He stood in silence on the threshold for what seemed a very long time. She turned on her stool to look at him, the long pins from her loosened hood still in her hand.

“God's bones!” he muttered. “My chamber's been turned into a boudoir.”

“It was not my doing.”

He took off his velvet cap and scratched his head. “I suppose I couldn’t really expect you to give up the luxuries you’re used to. I hadn’t realized you’d brought so much with you.”

“They were in the cart that Crowder drove. They were going to furnish the manor at Cauldon.”

“I see,” he said dryly. “You couldn’t do without such things even when attempting a desperate escape?”

“I saw no reason to deprive myself of
everything,”
she said tautly. “And I don’t believe my personal possessions are included in your marriage settlement. Or did I miss that clause?” She gestured to her jewels, her ring tree, the silver candlesticks. “Do you now own these things as well? Even the clothes on my back, perhaps?” She placed the long pins on the dresser and lifted the hood from her head, turning her attention to the pins in her white coif.

“I have no wish to quarrel with you tonight,” he said, coming over to her, tossing his hat onto the bed. “Your
personal possessions are your own, and you know it. I was just taken by surprise. This is my chamber, after all.”

“Then is there another that I could claim for my own?” She turned back to him, the coif now in her hands, its crisp linen folds falling over her black velvet lap. “I would gladly remove my personal possessions to somewhere I could call my own.” She let the coif slip to the floor at her feet.

“Oh, no,” he said softly, placing his hands on her shoulders. “There will be no separate beds in this marriage, wife of mine. If I must sleep in a silken boudoir, then so be it. My chamber is yours. And you may do whatever you wish with it.”

“Such consideration, my lord. I thank you.” But despite the ironic tone her earlier antagonism had gone. She knew it would take a long while for her resentment over the marriage settlements to fade, and there would be times when her anger would surface as it just had, but Hugh had to understand that.

She began to take off her rings, hanging them on the little silver tree.

Hugh watched her, a tiny frown in his eye. They had not exchanged rings at the ceremony. Guinevere had not suggested it and neither had he. He guessed that the symbolic gesture had struck Guinevere as out of keeping with the practical nature of their bargain. For himself, he had not the resources to buy a piece of jewelry that could bear comparison with what hung on the tree and nestled in the jewel box. And pride would not let him offer her something inferior.

He could buy what he pleased now, of course. But again his pride balked at using Guinevere's own wealth to buy her a gift.

But there
was
one thing he could give her. He began to unpin her hair.

H
ugh came into the hall early the next morning when Guinevere and the girls were breaking their fast in the company of the magister. He bent to kiss Guinevere full on the mouth, an easy proprietorial salutation that caused Magister Howard to bury his head in his ale tankard. Public displays of intimacy had played no part in the Lady Guinevere's previous marriages.

Hugh greeted the girls cheerfully and said, “Where's Robin this fine morning?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Guinevere replied. “But I should imagine he's still abed.”

“Oh, no,” Hugh said definitely, shaking his head. He’d been about to sit down at the table but now he turned to the stairs.

Guinevere said nothing as he strode away. She’d interfered last night in his dealings with his son but was determined to use what influence she had sparingly. She would pick the issues carefully. Nevertheless her heart went out to the lad.

“I expect Robin's feeling ill,” Pippa observed knowledgeably. “He probably needs to sleep it off.”

Her mother made no response, merely continued with
her breakfast. Pen looked dismayed and pushed a rasher of bacon around her plate without appetite. She wasn’t sure how to greet Robin when he did appear. She didn’t want to remind him of his behavior at the feast but neither could she act as if they hadn’t quarreled.

“You must start your lessons again properly today,” Guinevere said. “If it's convenient for Magister Howard?” She glanced interrogatively at the magister.

“Oh, yes, indeed, my lady,” the magister agreed, spreading butter with a liberal hand on a manchet of wheaten bread. “We’ll start with some French reading straight after breakfast.” He beamed at the prospect, blithely oblivious of his pupils’ gloomy aspect.

Hugh and Robin came down the stairs. Hugh looked rather grim; his son looked at death's door. Robin's face had a greenish tinge to its waxen pallor and his eyes were half closed.

“Have some breakfast, Robin,” Hugh instructed briskly. “You need food.”

“I couldn’t,” the lad whispered. “I couldn’t eat anything.”

“I’ll make you a drink,” Guinevere said with a sympathetic smile. “Something to ease the pain in your head.” She rose from the table as Hugh sat Robin down. “Don’t force him to eat, Hugh. He’ll only throw it up.”

“He can’t do a day's work on an empty belly,” Hugh pointed out, but he made no further attempt to persuade Robin to eat, and the lad sat miserably at the table, his head resting on his elbow-propped palm while his father helped himself liberally to coddled eggs and bacon.

Pen regarded Robin in anxious sympathy, and Pippa said earnestly, “Mama will get you something to make you feel better. She always gives us special drinks to make us feel better when we’re sick, doesn’t she, Pen?” She patted Robin's hand as she spoke.

Robin attempted a wan smile and Hugh observed, “I doubt either of you have suffered from what ails Robin.”

“I expect you have though, sir. Haven’t you?” Pippa regarded him with a certain challenge in her hazel eyes that reminded Hugh forcibly of her mother. He glanced at Pen and saw that she too was looking at him with disapproval. His apparent lack of sympathy for his son was not finding favor with his stepdaughters.

“That is no affair of yours, Pippa,” he stated repressively. “If you’ve finished your breakfast I suggest you find something to do that
is.”

Pippa was saved from a response by Guinevere's return with a steaming cup that she placed at Robin's elbow. “This isn’t as vile as the drink I gave you last night,” she said, brushing the lank hair from his forehead. “But drink it while it's hot. It's more palatable that way.”

“You physicked him last night?” Hugh looked surprised.

“I gave him something to ease the nausea and help him sleep.”

“Oh, I’ve had that,” Pippa said, leaning over to examine the contents of the cup. “I had it when I had the fever and my head was bad. It tastes quite nice if you put honey in it. Shall I put some in for you?” She reached for the honey pot.

Robin shook his head feebly and took a tentative sip from the cup.

“If you and Pen have finished eating, you should go and get ready to start your lessons,” Guinevere said. “They’ll be ready for you in their chamber in half an hour, Magister.”

“I’ll go at once and search out the books we’ll be using,” the magister said happily, rising from the table. “Ah, it’ll be good to get back into a normal routine, my lady. Will you and I be reading this afternoon, as usual?”

“If it can be so arranged,” Guinevere replied.

“The lad could use some schooling,” Hugh said thoughtfully as the magister hurried off after the girls. “He's lettered and has some ability with accounts and figures but no knowledge of the classical tongues. Or French, for that matter.”

He glanced at Robin who was gazing blankly into the cup, deaf to his father's words. “I hadn’t thought it necessary for a soldier, but now that he’ll have no need to earn his bread in that manner he could use some knowledge of the gentler arts. What d’you think, Robin? Robin?”

Robin looked up, wincing. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I was suggesting you might usefully spend some time with your sisters under the magister's tutoring. You can’t take your place at court as an unschooled bumpkin.”

“But I wish to be a soldier,” Robin said, finally stung out of his miserable absorption in his bodily ills. “I’ve always wished to be a soldier … like you, sir.”

“I think you’ll find that changed circumstances don’t always change people, Hugh,” Guinevere pointed out with a sweet smile as she rose from the table. “If Robin's determined to be a soldier, I doubt you’ll make a courtier out of him simply because he can afford to be. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to try to sow some seeds of peace between Masters Milton and Crowder. Matters are somewhat awry in the kitchen.”

Hugh stared after her, frowning with annoyance. She was right, of course. But she didn’t have to sound so pleased about it. He supposed she was merely getting a little revenge and he began to wonder how long she would feel the need to do so. If she threw the marriage settlements in his face at every opportunity, he was going to start regretting them, even though he had not the slightest reason to do so. Anyone but Guinevere would consider them to be perfectly usual, perfectly reasonable.

He glanced over at Robin. The lad did look very unwell despite whatever Guinevere had put in his drink. “When you’ve finished your morning tasks you may return to bed, Robin,” he said.

Robin lifted his head from his hand with some difficulty. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled.

Guinevere stood in the kitchen surveying the general chaos. Not much had been done so far this morning to clear up the debris from the feast and the place looked pretty much as it had last night when she’d made Robin's physic. Slovenly potboys and slatternly scullery maids moved slowly, heavy-eyed, presumably feeling like Robin after the previous night's indulgence. Flies buzzed over a pile of well-picked bones and a couple of dogs prowled nose to the floor on the lookout for dropped or discarded scraps.

The door stood open to the kitchen court letting in some fresh air to dispel the odors of stale food and cooking. Master Milton and Master Crowder stood at the door talking with a gaunt man who was not familiar to Guinevere. There was something about the way the two stewards were standing that reminded her of dogs at bay. Their backs seemed to bristle with hostility.

She went over to them, stepping over debris, holding her blue silk skirts high. It was not her place to have the ordering of the kitchen, it was the steward's. She guessed that Crowder was deeply offended at the condition of this kitchen and had had difficulty keeping his opinion to himself. Such criticism would certainly have put Master Milton's back up.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

They both turned at her cool greeting and bowed. “Good morning, my lady.”

The man they’d been talking with clasped his hat to his chest and bowed almost to his knees. “My lady,” he murmured reverently. He straightened and offered her an obsequious smile that showed blackened stumps. His eyes were close-set in his thin angular face and his nose looked as if it had been broken on several occasions.

“Who is this?” she asked of the two stewards.

The man spoke up for himself. “Name's Tyler, m’lady. I’m after work. Thought as ’ow you might ’ave summat fer me. I can turn me ’and to most anythin’. Kitchen work, stable work, garden work.” He peered around the two men and looked into the kitchen. “Looks like you could do wi’ some ’elp in there.”

“That's certainly true,” Guinevere agreed, glancing at Master Milton. She stepped back a little, indicating that the steward should accompany her. Out of earshot, she said quietly but firmly, “I don’t wish to interfere, Milton, but none of your people seem to have the first idea what to do about this mess.”

The steward looked discomfited. “We aren’t accustomed to such feasting, madam.”

“No, I understand that. But someone needs to encourage the servants to show a little more energy. Get the dogs out of here, for a start, and protect the food from the flies.”

She paused, then said as if it had only just occurred to her, “Of course, the household has become much bigger and probably will increase even more. It's a deal of work for one man to manage. I wonder if it might make sense for Master Crowder to take charge of the kitchens and the stores, leaving you the ordering of the rest of the household? I’ve been so impressed at how well it's run. The chambers are always clean, the linen kept fresh and mended, the fires always bright. And Lord Hugh will likely be entertaining more than he has been doing … there’ll be a need of guest chambers and the like.”

The steward was no fool. He knew he had been given an instruction couched though it was in pleasant compliment. “If Lord Hugh is pleased with such a disposition, madam, then of course I will do as you say,” he responded with a stiff bow.

“I think you will find Lord Hugh will be pleased,” she said gently. “But if you wish to go and ask him, then feel free to do so.”

“That won’t be necessary, madam,” he said hastily.

“Good. Then I will explain the situation to Master Crowder and I trust that you and he will be able to work together in harmony.” She smiled warmly at him and turned back to the door where Crowder still stood with the man called Tyler.

“Crowder, it's been decided that you and Master Milton should divide the work of the household between you,” she said. “I put the kitchens and the stores entirely into your hands.” She gestured to the mess behind her. “You’ll have your work cut out.”

“Oh, aye, madam,” he said with a certain grim satisfaction. “And I’ll take this man on for a start.”

“You won’t regret it, sir.” Tyler twisted his cap in his hands. “I’ve a wife and six children, m’lady. If I can’t find work I’ll ’ave to find me bread on the streets. I used to work the wherries on the river, but I burned me ’ands an’ I can’t pull the oars no more.” He held out his hands, revealing hideously scarred palms. “They’re all right fer most things,” he said. “But pullin’ oars is summat different.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Guinevere agreed. “Very well. You’ll work under Master Crowder.” She nodded and made her way back through the kitchen.

Tyler looked after her, his eyes hooded, then with a nod at Master Crowder he entered the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves.

He found instant favor with the servants. Any man willing to shoulder more than his share of the work was
welcome. He seemed to be everywhere at once and his casual questions drew no comment.

Robin staggered into the kitchen to fetch a sack of grain from the pantry for the dovecotes. He stood in the middle of the kitchen blinking blearily trying to remember what he had come for. His head pounded and every joint in his body ached.

“Who's that then?” Tyler asked a scullery maid as he helped her hang the now clean copper pots on their hooks on the ceiling.

“Eh, ’tis the young master,” the girl said, looking over her shoulder. “Master Robin. He looks right poorly. I wonder what's up with ’im.” She handed Tyler the last pot with a distinctly come-hither smile. “Thankee, Tyler.”

Tyler acknowledged the inviting smile with a grin and a pat on her plump rear that made her giggle, then he turned to the lad still standing in the middle of the floor oblivious of the mop swishing at his feet in the hands of a lackadaisical scullion.

“Can I ’elp you wi’ summat, young sir?”

At the strange voice, Robin started. He gazed blankly at Tyler. “I came in for something but I can’t remember what it was. Oh, yes, now I remember. Grain. I need grain for the dovecotes.” He stumbled towards the pantry, his one thought now that once his tasks were completed he could put his aching body to bed.

Tyler followed him. “ ’Ere, let me carry that fer ye, Master Robin.” He hoisted the sack onto his shoulders and strode from the kitchen, Robin at his heels.

“Just leave it over there, thank you.” Robin indicated the two tall dovecotes standing in the center of the herb garden. “What did you say your name was?”

“ ’Tis Tyler, sir. You sure you don’t want me to pour it fer ye?”