Hugh and Bess by Susan Higginbotham

good to you, who will protect you. Someone not liable to drop dead next week, perhaps. Someone such as Sir—”
      “You would pass me to someone else?”
      “Good Lord, no, not like that! But it will be lonely for you, and I thought that with—”
      “No, Hugh le Despenser!”
      Emma never called him “Hugh le Despenser” except when she was irritated with him. Hugh obediently subsided. Then Emma broke the silence herself. “I know you meant well, Hugh.”
      “I did, Emmy, truly. I thought only that otherwise you might be tempted too, and with a husband—”
      “I have a stronger will than you realize, Hugh, after all of these years. But yes, perhaps, one day I may be able to contemplate getting married to someone else. But it is not a step I can take now. You are not that easily replaced, for one thing.” She sighed. “I do wish we had had a child together, though.”
      “I do too, now,” Hugh admitted. In the early days of their relationship, after their first few heedless couplings, he had fretted over the possibility of getting Emma with child. He had gone so far as to try to withdraw himself from her just in time, but she had not allowed it. “I want your child, Hugh,” she’d whispered. “Please.” Hugh, despite some misgivings, had acquiesced, as there was no danger, after all, that their child would go hungry; he or she could marry respectably or find a congenial spot in the Church. It appeared, though, that all of his misgivings had been for naught, for in all their years together, Emma had never missed a monthly course, only been late a time or two. Emma had decided that her barrenness was a punishment for her sin, though Hugh had been secretly relieved. His own mother had borne him and nine other healthy babes safely, but not all women were so lucky, and it would have been a terrible burden had Emma died giving birth to his child.
      He thought of suggesting to Emma that she might be blessed with issue were she properly married, but wisely decided against doing so. Instead, Emma said abruptly, “What is your bride like, Hugh? You’ve said little about her except that she's the Earl of Salisbury's daughter and almost fourteen.”
      “Bess, as she hates me to call her? A bit spoiled by Papa Montacute, it would appear, and not at all pleased with the idea of having a Despenser for a husband, if I’m not mistaken. She's a pert little thing. When she's displeased with something I say, which so far has been quite often, she wrinkles her little nose, like this.” Hugh's own nose was not one that easily wrinkled, but he demonstrated as best he could. “It's quite fetching, actually.”
      “You sound half in love with her already.”
      “I could be, I suppose. Whether she comes to like me is another story altogether.”
      “Of course she will, Hugh.”
      He shrugged and reached for her again, but it turned out that neither of them, on this last possible occasion for them to make love to each other, was truly interested in doing so. Instead, they lay in bed holding each other for a while, then dressed and saw to the details of their day's business; Hugh to that of trying to forget his misery, Emma to that of moving her last things out of Hanley Castle. By mid-morning all of her goods were packed and headed in a cart toward her house. Then it was Emma's turn to leave also. She and Hugh walked silently out to where Emma's horse, a present from Hugh, had been saddled for her. Emma's own manservant stood well away as Hugh stepped up to help her onto her palfrey. “I know you can take care of yourself, you always have,” he said. “But you know you can always turn to me if you need assistance. Me, or any of my household.”
      “I know, Hugh.”
      “I love you.” He swung her up on the horse.
      She bent and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, Hugh.”
      He watched as she rode away, traveling the same path that he had ridden to her house on that summer's day