The Widow's Kiss (34 page)

“Don’t you have other tasks to perform?” He swung into the saddle.

“No, I’m off fer a couple of hours, m’lord. I’d be ’appy to ’elp out.” Tyler touched his forelock with an ingratiating smile.

“Very well.” Hugh controlled his prancing charger. “Fetch a horse then.”

Tyler reappeared within minutes, leading a dun pony. He mounted somewhat awkwardly and they rode out of the yard, Tyler's pony keeping a discreet distance behind the charger.

Hugh rode fast, his anxiety making his heart race. What would he find? Had Robin worsened in the last few hours? He found he couldn’t think about his conversation, if that was what it could be called, with Guinevere. He didn’t know if his denial had convinced her, he suspected not, but until he had proof he couldn’t confront her. Once Robin was out of the woods he would match plots with plots. But until then, he could think of nothing but his son.

Outside the Bull he dismounted and waited for Tyler to catch up with him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Take ale if you wish, but walk him every hour. I’ll find you here.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Tyler took the charger's reins and tethered him with his own horse to the hitching post beside the ale bench. Lord Hugh set off with his long loping stride and once he had disappeared around the corner, Tyler followed at a run. He stalked his quarry, ducking into doorways, waiting at corners, until Hugh turned up the narrow pathway of a small cottage.

Then Tyler returned to the horses and the ale bench.

Hugh entered Martha's cottage, ducking beneath the low lintel, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “How is he?” His voice rasped, harsh with fear.

“ ’Oldin’ steady, m’lord,” Martha said from the low stool beside the cot. “If ’e gets no worse, we can start to ’ope.”

Hugh felt a rush of relief. He strode to the pallet, bending over Robin. The boy was still hot, his eyes closed, his pulse rapid, but there was something about him that gave hope. He seemed less in pain, no longer struggling for breath. “How's the cough?”

“A bit better. Whatever the lad was breathin’ he isn’t breathin’ it anymore. Not in ’ere.”

“What do you mean?” Hugh straightened, staring at the old woman.

She shrugged. “I’d say the boy was breathin’ summat unhealthful,” she said. “I’d say ye did well to get ’im out o’ the ’ouse.”

“Poison?”

She shrugged again. “ ’Tis not fer me to say, sir.”

“No,” he agreed, turning his gaze back to his son. “No. Not for you to say.”

T
yler walked the horses every hour as instructed. He guessed that the boy was in the cottage. If so it would make his task all the speedier. If matters went according to plan, he’d dispose of both of his quarry by soon after sunset. On his last walk with the horses, he stopped them in a narrow dark lane formed by the high brick walls of two large properties. The sun rarely penetrated this muddy and rank space and Lord Hugh's horse whistled through his nostrils and pawed the wet ground uneasily.

“Steady now,” Tyler murmured, laying a hand on the animal's neck in brief reassurance. He leaned under the horse's belly and slid a finger beneath the girth, lifting it away from the hard round swell of flesh, feeling for the perfect spot at which a swift, deft slice would cut the girth two thirds through. He would need to do it without looking since he couldn’t cut the strap until Lord Hugh was mounted. If it was weakened it would slip sideways as soon as the man pulled himself up.

His original plan had been to weaken the girth over a period of days until it finally gave way, preferably when he was nowhere in the vicinity. Once Lord Hugh was unhorsed there would be Tyler's own hired hands to finish
off the task, but no suspicion would rest upon the indispensable servant. Unfortunately Lord Hugh had discovered the original cut. Tyler had a dislike of sudden action, mistakes were made in haste. But in this instance, he had no time for devious approaches.

He straightened. Again he stroked the animal's neck for a minute or two before he took from his pocket a tiny stone, its edges wickedly sharpened. Patting the charger's flank he bent and lifted his left rear hoof. He pushed the stone beneath the iron shoe where it would dig into the soft pad of flesh, then he set the hoof back on the mud.

“Come on, then, laddie,” he exhorted cheerily, taking the reins. “Let's see ’ow this feels.” He led both horses out of the narrow alley and back into the wider thoroughfare.

He tethered them once again at the Bull and then retraced his steps to the lane where he’d seen Lord Hugh enter the cottage. He stood at the corner of the lane in the shadow of a doorway and scrutinized the small building. Just a ground floor, no dormers in the front, low-pitched thatched roof. A tiny front garden given over to herbs, a few vegetables, an apple tree. Narrow front door, two shuttered windows on either side. Smoke curling from a single chimney. The wall of the cottage next door on the right abutted this one, but a narrow path led around the side between it and its left-hand neighbor. There would be something at the back. Chickens probably. A rooster. Noisy birds.

No, an approach would be best made directly through the front door. He would create a diversion that would cause the occupant to open the door. He would be positioned behind it. Tyler fingered the garrote he carried in his pocket. A silent killer. It would take care quietly of whoever came to the door. No one would be aware of what was happening. He would push the lifeless body inside and deal with the boy. Even if he was recovering, the lad would be weak, bedridden. It would be over in a heartbeat
with no sound and no one the wiser. He would make his escape through the rear. Again it was all a little precipitate for Tyler's taste, but the job now needed to reach a swift conclusion.

He smiled and picked a leaf from the next-door privet hedge, crumbling it between his fingers, inhaling its scent.

The cottage door opened and Lord Hugh appeared. He turned to speak to someone inside before coming down the path.

Tyler ran back to the Bull. He sat down on the ale bench, stretching his legs with every appearance of taking his ease, and looked at Lord Hugh's horse dispassionately. The stone would start to irritate under his rider's weight within five minutes. Five minutes would take them to the bottom of Ludgate Hill. At that time of day there would be crowds from the dispersing street markets, raucous tavern-goers, boatmen from the river. The city gates would be closing for curfew. A bolting horse in a dark alley …

Lord Hugh came around the corner. He raised an acknowledging hand to Tyler. His posture, his whole demeanor, lacked the heaviness of before, Tyler thought. The boy must be on the mend.

He rose from the ale bench and hurried to untie the horses as Hugh reached them. “All well, m’lord?”

But the glance Tyler received in response, distant, deeply troubled, made nonsense of his earlier assumption. “All well, m’lord?” he repeated with careful hesitation.

Hugh's gaze focused. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “Come, it grows late.” He swung onto the charger with one easy movement.

“A moment, sir.” Tyler bent to the stirrup, his knife concealed in the palm of his hand. “The leather's twisted.”

Hugh lifted his foot from the stirrup while Tyler adjusted it. He paid no attention to the man, barely noticed his actions. He needed to get home. And yet home was the last place he wanted to be.

They rode down Ludgate Hill. Hugh was deep in thought. Robin was getting better. He knew instinctively that his son would now live. Out of the poisonous atmosphere of the house at Holborn, Robin was recovering. But now Hugh faced the unthinkable. His marriage was over. Until Guinevere was out of his house, Hugh could not think of bringing Robin home. He still had no definitive proof of her hand in his son's poisoning, but he didn’t need it. No one else had a motive for destroying Robin. History and the circumstances were too heavily weighted against her. He had to be rid of her. But how?

He could denounce her to Privy Seal. Cromwell would delight in having her once more in his power. He would have her executed, but he would also ensure that the marriage settlements were void. Privy Seal's plan all along had been that Guinevere should forfeit her estates to the crown. Hugh would receive some reward that would benefit Robin but would leave Hugh himself little better off than before.

Even as the thought of a woman who could plot the death of an innocent child filled him with revulsion; even though he felt what could only be called loathing for the woman who was now his wife, Hugh did not want her death. It would do him no good and he could not endure to have her motherless children on his conscience. He would take care of his wife himself. He would ensure that she could harm no one again. He would banish her. Send her back to Derbyshire. She could do him and his son no harm from there. He would keep her in virtual imprisonment with a guard of his own men.

What possible alternative was there?

His horse stumbled and he pulled him up with more roughness than the animal was accustomed to. The cobbles were slimy with refuse. The horse whinnied and tossed his head. Hugh stared in front of him, unaware of the folk swarming around them.

“We’ll lose the crowd if we go thisaway, m’lord.”

Tyler's insistent voice pierced Hugh's thoughts. “What?” His eyes followed the direction of Tyler's whip, pointing into a lane to their left. “Oh, yes. These damnable crowds.” He turned his horse toward the narrow entrance to the alley.

Tyler's pony followed. Hugh's charger stumbled again, whinnied, lifting his hurt hoof. Tyler brought his crop down over the animal's crupper. The charger reared, the cut girth gave way, and the saddle slipped sideways. Hugh plunged to the ground, one foot still caught in the stirrup. The charger pranced on three legs, his hooves inches from his rider's head.

Hugh twisted, dragged his imprisoned foot free, pulling the saddle down with him, just as the hurt and outraged animal brought his front hooves crashing to the muddy ground of the alley, trampling Hugh's outstretched hand.

Hugh gave a cry of pain. In the same moment Tyler leaped from his horse, his knife in one hand, his whip in the other. He slashed at the horse again and the high-strung animal reared and crashed around the narrow alley in anger and confusion.

Hugh knew he had to get to his feet, away from the plunging hooves. His hand was useless; it was his knife hand. He rolled sideways, curled his body, and sprang to his feet almost in the same movement. Tyler leaped for him, his knife poised to cut deep into Hugh's chest. Hugh kicked out, caught the man in the groin. Tyler yelled in pain but kept coming. The knife came down. Hugh twisted and it slashed across his forearm.

Hugh couldn’t free his sword from the scabbard on his left side. His right hand was useless and the sword was too heavy and cumbersome to drag out and up with his left hand. He ducked as Tyler came at him again and with a silent prayer dived beneath the charger's belly. One hoof caught him a glancing blow on his shoulder but then he
was out the other side and the wildly thrashing animal lay between him and Tyler.

He hurled himself up onto the animal's bare back. Then he turned him in the narrow alley and set him to ride at Tyler. The man went down with a scream beneath the frantic horse's hooves. The charger trampled him, nostrils wide and flaring, foam flecking his mouth, his teeth bared. Hugh let him have his head.

When Tyler's screams had ceased Hugh pulled the horse around. The animal still reared, maddened by the stone in his hoof, but Hugh drove him down the alley, leaving the broken body behind in the mud. They emerged into a square, a community well in its midst. Skinny, dirty children with wooden pails were gathered around the well. They stared with blank indifference at the man on his foam-flecked sweating horse.

Hugh drew rein and leaned over the animal's neck speaking softly to him, gentling him with a stroking hand, and eventually the charger quietened down enough for Hugh to risk dismounting. Still talking to the animal he lifted the hoof and found the stone. He rested the hoof on his upraised knee, supporting it gingerly with his trampled hand, and pried the stone loose from the reddened, swollen pad of flesh with the point of his dagger, then he took the reins in his good hand and walked the limping horse out of the square.

Tyler. Now it was all clear. Guinevere had hired Tyler. Guinevere and Crowder. Tyler had been roaming the upper floor of the house. Robin had been inhaling poison. Tyler had been filling oil lamps. Tyler had had charge of Hugh's horse.

A deep rage swelled within Hugh. He pushed back the torn sleeves of his gown and the doublet beneath to examine the knife cut. It was long but seemed superficial, the blood congealing along its length. But the knife could have been poisoned. It would be a trick right up

Tyler's alley. His right hand hurt fiercely and setting his teeth he explored the damage with his good hand. The skin was purpling and swollen but he didn’t think any bones were broken although the pain as he prodded drained the color from his cheeks and brought a sweat to his brow. His shoulder throbbed where the horse's hoof had caught it.

His anger grew until it blocked all thought. He had loved her. She had bewitched him. Cast her lures, spun her web, caught him. And then she had set out to destroy him as she had destroyed every other man she had snared in the silken strands of her spinning.

He walked home in a fog of fury and cold despair. He left the horse in the stable with orders for the injured hoof to be poulticed, and strode into the house.

Guinevere was in the kitchen talking with Crowder as Hugh entered from the stables. She looked up quickly and then paled as she saw his face. “What has happened? Is it Robin?”

“Come with me,” he said, barely moving his lips. He took her wrist and she saw the cut on his arm. Her gaze traveled to his mangled hand, which he held supported in the opening of his doublet.

“Good God, Hugh! What has happened?” she whispered in horror, filled with a dreadful foreboding.

“Come with me,” he repeated in the same voice, his fingers tightening painfully around her wrist.

She said nothing further but went with him out of the kitchen, up the back staircase, into the quiet of their bedchamber. He dropped her wrist as if it was something distasteful and stepped away from her, moving to the far side of the room.

“Is it Robin?” she asked again, her voice sounding clogged.

“Until I removed him from this house, Robin was being poisoned,” he said clearly. “By your creature.”

She shook her head. “No … no, what are you saying? What creature?”

“Tyler!” he spat at her. “Tyler. The man
you
hired, the murderer you brought into my household! The man who just narrowly missed killing me.”

“Tyler?” Guinevere shook her head again, her eyes wide with fearful confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hugh.”

He took a step toward her and she flinched at the savage rage in his eyes. “Save your breath, madam! I know you. At last I truly know you. Robin will live and so, by God, will I.” He spun from her, took up a candle and went to the fire. He thrust the candle into the flames and the wick caught with a yellow flare. He took the flagon from the side table, pulled the stopper out with his teeth, and poured into the cut on his arm.

“Here. Burn the cut!” He shoved the lighted candle at her. “For all I know your creature's knife point was poisoned. Burn it.” He pushed his soaked arm into her face.

“Hugh, stop it!” she cried. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“On God's blood, I do. I
know
you for what you are.
Burn it clean!”

Slowly Guinevere took the candle. He was in the grip of some madness; he had to be humored. “Let me wash it first,” she said.

“No, damn you! Cauterize it.
Now!
”

“Very well. Put your arm on the table.”

He did so and she held the candle flame to the cut, running the flame the length of the wound. The liquor ignited. The hairs on his arm burned, his flesh burned, the smell filled the room. His face grew whiter, his jaw was locked, his mouth so thin it was barely visible, but his arm stayed steady. Guinevere didn’t look at him, didn’t flinch from the task. Grimly she continued until the blue flame of the alcohol had died down around the blackened cut.

“There,” she said. “Does that satisfy you?”

His nostrils flared, a vein throbbed in his temple, the skin around his mouth was white. He seized a linen napkin from the washstand and wrapped it around his burned arm, clumsily using his teeth and his mangled hand to tie it.