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Authors: Jane Feather
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fastened back and the soft glow of candlelight filled the window space. A shadow passed across the light, a tall, graceful shadow.
He entered the house through the small door set into the larger one. Sounds came from the kitchens to the left of the passage; presumably the servants were cleaning up after the feast. He turned aside through the opening in the wooden screen into the banqueting hall. There was no residue here of the evening's festivities; the cloth had been removed from the table on the dais, the long trestle tables folded and put away with the benches. The floor had been swept clean of debris and the torches in the sconces extinguished except for two to light the stairs that rose from the far end of the hall.
Hugh mounted the stairs and took the long galleried corridor that led to Lady Guinevere's apartment. He paused outside the heavy oak door listening for the sound of voices. She would have her tiring woman with her. But there was only silence from within. He raised a hand and knocked.
“Pray enter, Lord Hugh.”
He raised the latch and opened the door. Guinevere was seated at a table above which hung a small Italian mirror of silvered glass in an elaborately carved and painted wooden frame. Tall candles burned on the table to either side of the mirror. The wicks were scented, filling the air with the delicate perfume of verbena.
Guinevere rose from her chair, turned, and smiled at him as he stood in the doorway. “Pray close the door, sir.”
Hugh put his hand behind him and pulled the door softly closed. She was smiling that
damnable
smile again and her eyes were luminous, her skin creamy and glowing in the candlelight, her mouth so warm and full and sensuous.
It was very still in the large chamber, the only light coming from the candles on the table. The walls were paneled in a pale oak, the ceiling ornate with gilded moldings. His eye went involuntarily to the great bed where the pillars were carved in sinuous lines, the bed hangings and coverlet of a rich turquoise tapestry embroidered with great yellow suns. The pillows and the edge of the sheet where it was turned over the coverlet were of whitest lawn. There was no fire in the stone hearth but a copper jug of tumbled golden marigolds brought the scents and sense of summer into the chamber.
“Be seated if you wish.” Guinevere gestured to a wooden settle beside the hearth.
Hugh, instead, perched upon the deep stone seat at the window that looked out over the countryside. His voice was harsh, masking his inner turmoil, as he stated, “So Stephen Mallory fell from a window.”
“Yes. From that one.” Guinevere gestured to the window overlooking the court. “He was drunk at the time as anyone will tell you.” She sat down before the mirror again and began to take off her rings, hanging them over the branches of a silver filigree orange tree that sat on the table. Her hands were perfectly steady.
Hugh rose and crossed to the opposite window. He stood looking down at the cobbles below. “I can’t imagine how a man could have unintentionally tripped over this sill. It's too deep.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the woman sitting before the mirror. Guinevere shrugged slender shoulders. “He was a big and heavy man. Clumsy with drink.” Her tone was indifferent as if she cared neither one way nor the other whether he believed her.
She opened a silver box on the table and reached behind her to unclasp the chain of the diamond pendant that nestled between her breasts. She placed the jewel on the black velvet shelf within the box. It winked in the candlelight.
Hugh watched, mesmerized in the soft shadowy light of the chamber, his questions stilled upon his tongue. She unfastened the diamond-studded arc set atop her black silk hood and placed it on the table. All her movements were languorous and deliberate as if part of an elaborate ritual where each step was sacred.
She unclipped the pomander and the tiny watch from the chain at her
He entered the house through the small door set into the larger one. Sounds came from the kitchens to the left of the passage; presumably the servants were cleaning up after the feast. He turned aside through the opening in the wooden screen into the banqueting hall. There was no residue here of the evening's festivities; the cloth had been removed from the table on the dais, the long trestle tables folded and put away with the benches. The floor had been swept clean of debris and the torches in the sconces extinguished except for two to light the stairs that rose from the far end of the hall.
Hugh mounted the stairs and took the long galleried corridor that led to Lady Guinevere's apartment. He paused outside the heavy oak door listening for the sound of voices. She would have her tiring woman with her. But there was only silence from within. He raised a hand and knocked.
“Pray enter, Lord Hugh.”
He raised the latch and opened the door. Guinevere was seated at a table above which hung a small Italian mirror of silvered glass in an elaborately carved and painted wooden frame. Tall candles burned on the table to either side of the mirror. The wicks were scented, filling the air with the delicate perfume of verbena.
Guinevere rose from her chair, turned, and smiled at him as he stood in the doorway. “Pray close the door, sir.”
Hugh put his hand behind him and pulled the door softly closed. She was smiling that
damnable
smile again and her eyes were luminous, her skin creamy and glowing in the candlelight, her mouth so warm and full and sensuous.
It was very still in the large chamber, the only light coming from the candles on the table. The walls were paneled in a pale oak, the ceiling ornate with gilded moldings. His eye went involuntarily to the great bed where the pillars were carved in sinuous lines, the bed hangings and coverlet of a rich turquoise tapestry embroidered with great yellow suns. The pillows and the edge of the sheet where it was turned over the coverlet were of whitest lawn. There was no fire in the stone hearth but a copper jug of tumbled golden marigolds brought the scents and sense of summer into the chamber.
“Be seated if you wish.” Guinevere gestured to a wooden settle beside the hearth.
Hugh, instead, perched upon the deep stone seat at the window that looked out over the countryside. His voice was harsh, masking his inner turmoil, as he stated, “So Stephen Mallory fell from a window.”
“Yes. From that one.” Guinevere gestured to the window overlooking the court. “He was drunk at the time as anyone will tell you.” She sat down before the mirror again and began to take off her rings, hanging them over the branches of a silver filigree orange tree that sat on the table. Her hands were perfectly steady.
Hugh rose and crossed to the opposite window. He stood looking down at the cobbles below. “I can’t imagine how a man could have unintentionally tripped over this sill. It's too deep.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the woman sitting before the mirror. Guinevere shrugged slender shoulders. “He was a big and heavy man. Clumsy with drink.” Her tone was indifferent as if she cared neither one way nor the other whether he believed her.
She opened a silver box on the table and reached behind her to unclasp the chain of the diamond pendant that nestled between her breasts. She placed the jewel on the black velvet shelf within the box. It winked in the candlelight.
Hugh watched, mesmerized in the soft shadowy light of the chamber, his questions stilled upon his tongue. She unfastened the diamond-studded arc set atop her black silk hood and placed it on the table. All her movements were languorous and deliberate as if part of an elaborate ritual where each step was sacred.
She unclipped the pomander and the tiny watch from the chain at her
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