The Beekeeper

Chapter 3

Guy stood at his bedroom window – a single candle burning at his bedside, breaking the darkness. His home had quickly been made ready, and he was more pleased about it than he'd expected to be. Isolde had been more than happy to resume her position as housekeeper, and Dorchester's wife and daughters were now assigned to her as assistants. Dorchester himself was settled into his place as the groundskeeper, presumably without complaint – not that he was permitted to utter any. Along with a groom and a kitchen wench, all was as it needed to be.

But he was unsettled.

Guilt. It was the last thing he had ever expected to feel. And what a strange and somewhat complicated kind of guilt it was - for he had no regret about the fact that John Huntingdon was dead. No indeed, he took great satisfaction in the knowledge of that. But now that several days had gone by, a part of him was strangely wishing that he had let the trial and execution go as Briewere had originally intended.

The sheriff had not been at all pleased to discover that his sister's murderer – whom he wished to suffer a prolonged and painful process of tribulation – had been so quickly and easily dispatched. Still, it was a load taken off of Briewere 's mind – whether or not he wished to admit it. And considering that the bishop was to return in less than a week, the matter would be seen as having been properly attended to under the law. For a man of the church such as Winchester, such matters were of much greater importance than the bitter feelings of the local sheriff.

But Guy could not keep the thought of the killing from his own mind.

Standing at his bedroom window, he drank generously from his cup of mead. Hazelnut and honey mead. If there was any sort of comfort to aide him, it came from the unique blend of flavor in the drink. He would have to remember the name of the merchant and see that a generous supply of the brew was ordered.

Was it his third cup, or his fourth? He could not recall. Whatever the number had been, he sensed it would not be enough to dull the ache of shame in his chest.

He had committed murder. Deliberate, cold-blooded murder.

Since assuming his duties, his eyes had seen many punishments. They had ranged from simple implementations of fines, to botched but eventually successful beheadings. But never had another man died in such a deliberate way by his own hand. Killings were the job of the hangman, or the ax man, or the jailers in charge of questioning prisoners. The only time he'd been forced to kill another man was in self-defense.

What would his mother have thought of him?

He needed a better distraction than alcohol. He did not want to feel this weakness. At long last, he had avenged his mother's death. All he wanted now was to lose himself in some way – and there were plenty of distractions to be found hereabouts. He called out for his page.

"Daniel!"

The boy, twelve years old, was there in less than a minute. A quick young thing, the tow-headed boy was - and he was very familiar with his master's wants and needs. He knelt at Guy's feet.

"Yes, my lord?"

Guy looked down at him. "Fetch Gwendolyn to me. Tell her I require her services..."

*****

The night was without a moon and stars, as clouds were obscuring any light. Guy was glad for the cover of darkness, for he had no wish to look upon the face of the woman lying beside him. Not that she was displeasing to the eye. Certainly not. She was blonde, buxom, and hazel-eyed – with a flat stomach, long legs, and an ample bottom. And Lord, what a vixen she was between the sheets!

Despite this, there was something in her expression that he did not care for. Though her face was alluring, he saw too much self-satisfaction in her smile whenever she came to him. She knew how to make sure that a man got his money's worth when paying for her services, and he himself had certainly spent a considerable amount of coin on her.