Читать книгу The Traitor's Daughter - Joanna Makepeace - Страница 8

Philippa woke to find sunlight coming through the unshuttered casement and almost blinding her. She slipped from the bed, careful not to waken her mother who was still sleeping beside her. She went to the window and found, to her delight, that the mist and dampness of the previous day had disappeared and the sun was already well up. She gave a sigh of relief. Provided that Peter was well enough to travel after yesterday’s misadventure, they would be able to make an early start and be well on their way before midday.

She had slept well considering how frightened and disturbed she had been last night. Exhaustion had taken its toll of them both. Her thoughts went to the stranger lord who had come to their help. It had been extremely kind of him to put his private chamber at their disposal, but she recalled her mother’s alarmed expression when he had announced that he had recognised her. It would be well if they could avoid seeing him again, though Philippa doubted that that would be possible.

A sound from the bed alerted her to the knowledge that, despite her care not to disturb her mother, Cressida had woken and was already sitting up.

“Is there something wrong?” she enquired doubtfully. “Have you heard someone at the door?”

“No, no one. The inn servants are already about their business. It is a fine day. We should be able to leave soon after breakfast as long as Peter is well enough.”

Cressida thrust back the bed covers and stepped from the bed. “I’ll dress at once. We must call a physician to Peter if there is need.”

Philippa went to her mother’s side to help her dress. Since they had decided it would be best, for this journey, to travel without a maid in attendance, it had been necessary for them to help each other with back lacings.

Once her mother was dressed she hastened to dress herself and was relieved that she had done so when she heard a knock on the door.

Peter Fairley’s voice called softly, “It is I, my lady, Peter. I have brought you some breakfast.”

Philippa hastened to let him in, relieved to see he was up and about.

“Peter, how are you this morning?”

He set down a tray on which was laid fresh manchet bread, a small pot of honey and a plate of ham and cold meats and a stoup of ale.

“I’m very well except for a bump on the back of my head as big as a pigeon’s egg.” He rubbed it ruefully. “I blame myself for total lack of caution. I could have put us all in danger.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Cressida reassured him. “Who would expect to be attacked in the inn yard?”

“To speak truth, anyone should, my lady. My only excuse is that we were all tired and chilled and I was in haste to see to your needs.”

“Well, all is well.” Cressida smiled. “We will breakfast quickly and try to make an early start.” She frowned in thought. “I have some coin left which, fortunately, I kept in a money belt beneath my gown, but the loss of some of our funds in the robbery is dire. We shall have to be careful on the journey and settle for accommodation not of the best.” She had already put out a small pile of coin upon the bed. “Take that and make the best bargain you can over mounts, Peter, but first, have you eaten?”

“Yes, my lady. I shall get off at once. Sir Rhys’s man, David, speaks of a reasonably honest horse coper, who has a stable in the street behind the harbour.”

“Good.” Lady Wroxeter nodded her approval.

Then Philippa said thoughtfully, “Did you discover anything about our rescuer of last night, Peter? Unfortunately he appeared to recognise Mother and we are anxious to avoid his company now.” She coloured. “That seems to be very ungrateful, but you understand the need better than any of us.”

With his hand on the door latch, Peter turned, clearly hesitant to speak. “Sir Rhys Griffith, my lady, is master of the greater part of my lord Earl’s estates. His father was granted them following the battle of Redmoor, for his services to the new King. Sir David was killed in a hunting accident a year ago.” He grinned somewhat wolfishly. “He was somewhat appropriately gored by a boar and did not recover from the wound which festered, and his son, Rhys, who had been knighted the year before, inherited.”

There was a deadly silence as the three exchanged alarmed glances.

Philippa exclaimed hotly, “So the man has robbed my father of his lands and—”

“He cannot be held responsible for what his father did at Redmoor,” Cressida reproved her gently, “but I confess this news is catastrophic. The man could prove a very real danger to us, indeed.”

“He has enquired after you both,” Peter said grimly. “I’m afraid that it will prove very difficult for us to leave the inn without encountering him.”

“And his manor is far too close to Gretton for our peace of mind,” Lady Wroxeter said regretfully.

Philippa paled. “Do you think our going there could put Grandmère and Grandpère in danger?”

Lady Wroxeter shook her head. “I do not think so, though it will not enhance their reputation as Yorkist sympathisers. They are not proscribed and are in no danger of arrest.” The fingers of one hand tightened on the bedpost. “I am so very anxious to see them. It has been so long since—” She broke off, her voice choked with emotion, “Neither of them has ever seen you. I think we should take the risk.”

“But this man does know we are going there?”

“I imagine so. Since he lives so close I would think he is aware of how ill my father is. It is to be hoped that he will have enough humanity to leave us in peace and not inform the court authorities of our presence there.” She sighed. “Our visit will only be a short one. We dare not remain long.”

“You miss your home at Gretton, don’t you?”

“I always loved it dearly and when I heard of the proposed betrothal to your father I was most reluctant to leave it. Of course, then there was every possibility of being able to come home on frequent visits but since Redmoor…” She shrugged helplessly.

“You gave up everything to be with my father in exile, a safe secure home, money sufficient to fill all your needs, everything.”

Cressida smiled fondly. “When you fall in love, Philippa, you will understand that nothing is important save being with the one you love.”

Philippa bit her lip uncertainly. The way matters stood that possibility seemed very far off, if at all.

Her mother suddenly remembered that she had given Peter Fairley no instructions about settling their score. “I should have asked him to settle with the landlord on his way out to the horse coper,” she said. “The sooner we can leave the better.”

A decisive voice from the doorway settled the matter for her. “You need have no doubts on that score, Lady Wroxeter, I have already paid the landlord and the moment your man returns with your mounts we can leave immediately. It will be well to do so since the day promises to be a fine one.”

Sir Rhys Griffith stood poised in the doorway which Peter must have left slightly ajar in his agitation on leaving them.

“I beg pardon for the intrusion, but the door was open sufficiently for me to overhear what you said, my lady. May I come in?” He bowed courteously and Cressida, somewhat startled and flustered, nodded hastily.

“Please do so, Sir Rhys. This chamber is yours, after all, but I cannot allow you to stand our score. We have slept in this chamber, and most comfortably, I thank you, and have eaten two meals. I…”

He had advanced slightly and was regarding Philippa smilingly though he must have seen at once that her manner was somewhat hostile.

“You have no choice, my lady. I have already settled the matter. Under the distressing circumstances of last night it was the least I could do as a gentleman knight and for a neighbour.” He undid the purse suspended from the military-styled leather belt he wore round his waist and proffered a small leather bag to Philippa.

“There, mistress, is the coin that rascally thief stole from your man. I rose early, called on the constable with instructions as to charging the fellow and retrieved your money. You will need it when you arrive at Gretton or later on your journey home. You need not concern yourself about expenses occurred on the way to Gretton Manor since it will be my most pleasurable duty to escort you there.”

Philippa gave a great gasp of shocked surprise and anger. “That will not be necessary, sir. Peter Fairley, my father’s trusty squire, is perfectly capable of seeing us safe to Gretton.”

Her tone was now unmistakably hostile and his dark brows rose in assumed or real astonishment.

“Forgive me, Lady…?” He paused and looked enquiringly at Lady Wroxeter.

“My daughter is Lady Philippa Telford, Sir Rhys, and she owes her safety from molestation and her life to you,” Cressida put in hurriedly. Though she herself was anxious to be free of this man’s presence, she had no wish for Philippa to antagonise him deliberately.

He bowed again, smiling. “Forgive me again, Lady Philippa, but I must point out to you that neither you nor your squire appeared last night to be perfectly capable of protecting yourselves. It is my desire and my bounden duty to provide a suitable escort. Both my cousin David and I are soldier-trained and with your squire, who is too, we should prove a sufficient force to keep off any opportunity-seeking robbers on the road.” He shook his head, gently reproving, “I fear the roads of Wales are no more safe from thieves and outlaws than any other rural community, though preferable in many ways to the hazards of London town or even Ludlow after dark.”

Philippa looked to her mother for support in her rejection of the idea, but Cressida shook her head gently. “We shall be grateful for your continued care of us, Sir Rhys,” she said quietly.

Sir Rhys glanced round the chamber to see if their saddle bags were packed and nodded his satisfaction.

“I will inform your man Peter when he returns with the horses and send him up to you. I should not advise you to come down to the tap room until there is need. The clientele of this place is hardly salubrious, as yesterday’s misadventures bore out.” He bowed again and withdrew.

Philippa said angrily, “Why did you agree to his escort? We do not need or want his company.”

Lady Wroxeter sighed. “I do not see how we could refuse. To do so would only appear ungrateful and incur his displeasure, if not his downright anger. We cannot afford to antagonise the man, not only for our sakes but for those of your grandparents as well. Since he is well aware of our destination he could inform on us after our arrival, so it makes little difference.”

“I would have preferred not to have his company,” Philippa said sulkily and her mother turned on her in sudden irritation.

“You were glad enough of Sir Rhys’s services last night, young lady. Be good enough to acknowledge our debt to him.”

“I doubt if he acknowledges any debt to my father,” Philippa snapped in answer and turned away to see to the final packing.

Philippa was forced to acknowledge Sir Rhys Griffith’s need for caution, however, when they were eventually called downstairs by his squire, who informed them that Peter Fairley had arrived with their horses and his master had declared himself ready to leave. The atmosphere in the tap room was decidedly frosty; the small number of men seated at the ale-spattered tables stared at the women in open hostility and the landlord was surly. Obviously news concerning their imprisoned companion had reached them and the blame for his likely fate placed at the women’s door. Sir Rhys received them cheerily and conducted them to the door with a show of deliberate courtesy. Philippa shivered in spite of herself and was glad of his presence.

Peter had managed to procure an elderly palfrey for Lady Wroxeter and two sturdy Welsh cobs for himself and Philippa. To her irritation, Sir Rhys insisted upon inspecting them before allowing his charges to mount. As if Peter was incapable of judging good horse flesh when he saw it, Philippa fumed inwardly. She watched, frowning, as Sir Rhys ran his hand down the legs of each of the mounts and inspected their chests and mouths. Apparently satisfied, he came back to the waiting group and nodded his approval.

“You have made as good purchases as possible under the circumstances,” he informed Peter.

“If you were not sure of his abilities, you should have accompanied him to the horse coper,” Philippa murmured under her breath and he turned and grinned at her. She was not sure if he had actually heard, but he made no comment.

“It is necessary to have good mounts for our journey,” he explained. “We have almost a hundred miles over undulating country, some of it mountainous.”

Cressida nodded. “I travelled it only once when—when I left England in 1486 and we were somewhat hurried,” she said quickly.”

“I imagine you have not ridden a great deal over the last years?” he enquired.

“No, there has been little opportunity or need,” she agreed.

Peter stepped forward to help his mistress into the saddle and Philippa was chagrined to find Sir Rhys at her side to do a like service for her. She found herself swung up lightly, the touch of his hand gentle yet firm upon her body. Confused by such close contact, she turned and fumbled awkwardly with the reins, only to find them deliberately placed into her hands.

“You are used to riding, Lady Philippa?” he enquired. “If not, you can ride with me.”

“That will certainly not be necessary, sir,” she said coldly. “Though I do not ride often in Malines, my father has been at pains to see that I learned well and had adequate practice.”

“Good. As I said to your mother, we have a hard ride in front of us.”

He stood back to confer with the two men, then gave a signal for all to mount up and swung himself lightly into the saddle of the courser an inn groom held ready for him. He moved his horse beside that of her mother’s as they rode beneath the courtyard arch and Philippa rode behind with the two squires flanking her.

The day was pleasantly warm and she flung back her cloak and slipped back her hood, allowing the sun’s gentle warmth to touch her body. Her new mount seemed amiable enough and soon became accustomed to her touch upon the reins and she leaned forward to pat the cob’s shaggy neck. Peter smiled at her encouragingly and she grinned back, thankful, at last, to be away from the inn.

Soon they were out of the mired streets of the harbour and free of the unaccustomed smells of sea air and tar and the green undulating countryside stretched before them. Yesterday’s misty dampness had refreshed the air and Philippa began to find the ride pleasurable.

She could hear Sir Rhys in talk with her mother and rode slightly forward so that she could catch everything which was said.

“I would suggest that we make three stops upon the way at inns known to me,” he said.

“But, Sir Rhys, I had thought Philippa and I might be accommodated at two nunneries I know of.” Lady Wroxeter hesitated, her colour rising, as she went on, “You must understand that expense is a feature of my decision…”

“I think not, my lady,” he brushed aside her objection. “Nuns are notoriously curious. They lead such sheltered lives that they are fascinated by the backgrounds and news brought from the outside world of everyone who comes to stay. I imagine you are anxious to avoid as much gossip as possible. Do not concern yourself about expense. I have already made provision for David and I upon the journey so it will be no extra drain upon our resources.”

“But surely—”

Philippa saw him lean towards her mother and place a restraining hand upon hers. “Please, Lady Wroxeter, place yourself in my hands and, I assure you, you will reach Gretton without either incident or undue notice.”

Philippa considered what he had said and raised an enquiring eyebrow in Peter’s direction. He merely shrugged his shoulders in answer. They were in this man’s power and she realised they were helpless to change the situation.

She regarded his unyielding back as he rode ahead and mentally reviewed the encounter of the previous night. Her mother was right. Had this man not come to her rescue, they would not be travelling this road today. A great shudder ran through her at the thought. Had she not discovered that he was a loyal Tudor supporter and, worse than that, had inherited her father’s confiscated estates, she would have been more than ready to acknowledge her debt to him. What was his motive in offering them protection? Would he lead them into some manor upon the way where they could be arrested and held during the King’s pleasure in hopes that her father would come to England to plead their cause and try to obtain their release, so placing his head on the block? It was a likely prospect—yet how could they manage to evade this fate? Peter had clearly accepted defeat—for the moment. She must wait patiently until he was able to suggest some way of escaping Sir Rhys’s vigilance, but even should they accomplish this—and it would be difficult and hazardous—their plans to visit her dying grandfather would have to be abandoned and she knew her mother had set her heart upon this visit. She sighed a little too loudly and Sir Rhys turned in his saddle to regard her, eyebrows raised.

“Are you tired already, Lady Philippa? Do you wish to stop? I know that unaccustomed riding can cause saddle soreness.”

She blushed hotly at the thought and shook her head. “No, no, sir, I was just—considering the length of the journey facing us.”

“I shall try to make it as easy for you all as possible,” he returned mildly.

Their first stop for refreshment was in the Tudor stronghold of Pembroke. Philippa looked up at the looming castle apprehensively. Here, surely, Sir Rhys might well achieve his aim and put them in the hands of the King’s officers. More than likely he would obtain the King’s favour by so doing though, knowing the Tudor monarch from her days in attendance at Queen Elizabeth’s court, she doubted that he would be paid in coin or lands. King Henry kept a very tight hand on the treasury purse strings. Nevertheless all his supporters were well aware that to be in the King’s debt would be advantageous.

Sir Rhys drew his small company off the main street which was crowded with carts and market stalls, their proprietors calling hoarsely the worth of their wares to passers-by, into a street behind where he drew his mount up before an inn displaying the sign of the Red Lion. Despite her assurance to Sir Rhys that she was not weary, Philippa was glad to have Peter lift her down and to join her mother in the inn’s one eating room where a sweating landlord came obsequiously forward to enquire what service Sir Rhys required.

Curtly the knight ordered a dinner of meat and vegetable broth, pease pudding and what tarts the fellow had to offer which would please the ladies. Philippa and her mother were escorted up the rickety stair to a small dark chamber where a slatternly maid brought them water and towels, plus chamber pots, so that they might refresh themselves. Thankfully they returned to the eating room to find the food already upon the table. Philippa, who had been dry-mouthed with alarm at what might transpire in the next hour or so, discovered that, despite that, she was hungry and was glad of the hot tasty food and the rye bread which accompanied it. This inn was not apparently able to provide the fine white manchet bread to which Sir Rhys was more usually accustomed.

Her mother was rather quiet over the meal and Sir Rhys accepted her need for silence in courtesy. Above stairs, away from his presence, Philippa had thought it best not to alarm her mother with her fears. Catching her eye across the table, she understood that her mother had already considered the danger.

Nothing happened, however. They completed the meal, then David, Sir Rhys’s squire, rose to pay the score. Peter had already gone to assure himself that their mounts had been fed and watered. Sir Rhys offered his hand to Lady Wroxeter to lead her outside to the courtyard.

“I considered it wiser to chose a less frequented inn, this being market day,” he explained. “The fare was nourishing but hardly acceptable to finer palates used to food prepared in the Duchess Margaret’s establishment at Malines.”

Cressida shook her head. “The food was excellent and the place unexpectedly clean,” she replied.

Since Peter was engaged in mounting his lady upon her palfrey and David was still about his business in the inn, Sir Rhys lifted Philippa once more into the saddle.

“These merchant’s clothes form an excellent disguise, and were well chosen,” he remarked as he fingered the wool of her russet gown.

Angrily she flashed back at him, “These garments are no disguise, sir. We live in virtual penuary at Malines while you live in luxury on my father’s estates.”

He looked from the tip of her proudly held young head to her little booted foot resting in the stirrup. How very lovely she was, even dressed, as she was, in these dull, outmoded clothes. Her golden curls peeped provocatively from beneath her simple linen coif, for she had thrown back the hood of her travelling cloak.

He had said earlier that she possessed the same golden loveliness of her mother, but in Philippa now that beauty was enhanced by vibrant youth. Her skin glowed with health and her green-blue eyes, almost turquoise in the sunlight, sparked with angry vitality. There was a seeming childlike fragility about her in her exquisite petiteness, which he had noted when he had come to her rescue in that darkened courtyard. It had brought out a protective tenderness in him, yet now his pulses raced as he thought how much of a true woman she was. He sensed the intensity of her bitterness towards him, read it in the set of her little pointed chin, in that hauntingly elfish, heart-shaped face, in the hard-held line of her lips, despite their sensuous fullness, which now he longed to lean forward and kiss.

He had met and known many women at court, and other, more earthy voluptuous beauties who had lived on his estates and granted him favours, daughters of his tenants and servants, but none had stirred him as this woman did.

When Philippa had risen, trembling, from her attacker and he had felt her quivering fearful young body pressed against his heart, he had recognised the inner strength of her, the courageous determination to recover quickly so that she could rush to her mother to warn and protect her, her genuine concern for their squire, even under the stress of her own ordeal.

She was in fighting form now, and amused admiration for her warred within him with the sudden surge of desire which ran through him.

He chuckled inwardly. She would need to be managed—for her own safety and that of those she might imperil if she gave way to rashness brought on by her own contempt for him.

“Ah,” he murmured, his dark eyes flashing in understanding, “so that is the rub, Lady Philippa, and the direct cause of your suddenly adopted hatred for me. Your man has informed you about my estates and how my father obtained them.

“I hate no one, sir,” she said coldly. “That would be against the teaching of Holy Church. Contempt would be nearer the mark to explain my feelings towards you.”

“You think I should have refused to accept my inheritance?” He gave a little dry laugh. “I would have thought you would have gained a better knowledge of the ways of the world than that, Lady Philippa. I am quite sure your father’s many services to the late King won him the preferment he both desired and earned.”

She went white to the lips and, seeing her unwillingness to reply to that shot, he bowed and moved towards his own mount.

Lady Wroxeter had not been able to hear their conversation, but, feeling instinctively that Philippa had insulted their escort, she turned in the saddle and gave her daughter a warning look.

They travelled for the rest of the day without incident and arrived at dusk at an inn on the outskirts of Carmarthen. Sir Rhys had chosen one less fashionable but apparently clean and respectable. He arranged for a private chamber for the ladies, informing the landlord’s wife that Lady Wroxeter was a cousin of his, who was travelling with her daughter and brother to visit a sick relative who lived in the Marches. He, himself, he said cheerily, would make do with the common chamber and, as Peter Fairley announced his intention of sleeping with their horses in the stable, he ordered David, his squire, to join him there.

After a hearty meal the ladies retired and assisted each other to undress.

“Philippa,” Lady Wroxeter said, wrinkling her brow in concern, “you have not quarrelled with Sir Rhys, have you? I asked you to have a care. I thought there seemed something of an atmosphere between you after our stop for dinner. We are in enough danger as it is. Do not antagonise the man.”

Philippa shrugged irritably. “I merely made it clear to him when he passed an opinion on our state of dress that our straitened circumstances are due in part to his enrichment at our expense.”

“But that is hardly true. King Henry would have granted your father’s lands to, if not Sir Rhys’s father, then another one of his supporters after your father became a proscribed traitor.”

“But Sir Rhys’s father turned traitor to his rightful king at Redmoor,” Philippa snapped.

“I doubt if Sir Rhys was quite old enough to fight for the Tudor either at Redmoor or Stoke and can hardly be blamed for what his father did,” Cressida reminded her. “In all events, those battles were over long ago and we have your future to consider now.”

“You wish that my father was not so concerned with the Duchess Margaret’s machinations?” Philippa posed, somewhat shocked by such a suggestion.

“Like most women, I wish your father would sometimes consider the cost of his outdated allegiance and think a little more of us,” Cressida rejoined tartly. “I love your father with my whole heart and will remain loyal to him whatever he chooses to do, but I do have you to think about.”

Wearily she climbed into bed and Philippa thought it best to say nothing further.

She lay wakeful. Her fears had been thoroughly aroused in Pembroke and would not be put to rest. Her mother had not been present during that dreadful journey to the coast, four years ago, when she had been forced to flee from England with her friends, the Allards. The King’s body squire, John Hilyard, had followed them and attempted to take Philippa prisoner, to hold her hostage for her father’s compliance to King Henry’s will. It had been a hard fight when he had overtaken them and Philippa had been little more than a child then, but she had known real heartstopping fear that they would be killed. John Hilyard had paid the price and lost his life as a consequence of that encounter and his body had been thrown over a hedge. In retrospect she recalled how they had all set their teeth and struggled on, their friend, Sir Adam Westlake, severely wounded in the fight and Richard Allard still suffering from the effects of the torture he had endured as King Henry’s prisoner in the Tower of London. Report of Hilyard’s death must have reached the King. Philippa doubted if she would ever be forgiven. If she could be captured now, on this visit, how great a prize she and her mother would be if Rhys Griffith decided to hand them over. Somehow she must convince her mother of their danger and try to escape from Rhys’s clutches.

Cressida had fallen into an exhausted slumber at her side. Cautiously Philippa climbed from the bed and pulled her gown over her head, but was forced to leave it unlaced at the back. She thought it most likely that, despite his avowed intention of staying with the horses, Peter had more than probably stolen back to sleep nearer to his charges. She must seek him out and confer with him about their next move.

She looked back to see if her mother had wakened but Cressida stirred, then turned over and went back to sleep again. Philippa gave a little sigh of relief, stole to the door and carefully undid the latch. She had not dared to light a candle and found herself in total darkness on the landing when the door opened. The crack in the shutter had lightened her chamber sufficiently well for to see there, but now the blackness appeared absolute and she hesitated for moments to allow her eyes to adjust. After a second or two she could begin to see dimly in greyness and was about to step forward when she stumbled against something soft and yielding right before her feet.

“Peter,” she called softly but, before she could bend to examine the sleeping form further, her ankles were caught in a tight hold and she fell backwards into the arms of the man who had risen, cat-like, into a crouch at her advance. A hand fastened cruelly over her mouth and almost cut off her breath.

A harsh whisper came from the darkness. “God’s Wounds, mistress, what are you about? Not again! Did your previous hazardous encounter teach you nothing?”

She struggled ineffectively in her captor’s arms, realising, in fury, that she had been caught by the very man she had wished to avoid.

“If I remove my hand, will you cry out and waken everyone in the inn?” he demanded softly. “If not, shake your head and I will oblige.”

She shook her head vigorously and he released the gagging hand so that she could draw in ragged gasps of breath again. Her knees felt weak—she feared they would let her down and leaned against the door for support. He had risen to his feet fully now and was still holding her by one shoulder, then he urged her silently but imperiously down the stairs where he pushed open the door of the tap room in front of her and thrust her inside.

“We can talk more privately in here.”

She made to argue hotly but he lifted a hand impatiently to prevent her, and stood facing her, hands on his hips.

“Now, mistress, I demand to know what business brings you from your chamber half undressed.” His eyes passed insolently over her body on which her gown hung loosely and one shoulder was bared to his hard gaze. “I take it that your mother is unaware of this escapade? What are you doing, Lady Philippa? Are you in search of Master Fairley?”

She was about to agree that she was until she understood by the hard gleam in his eyes that he thought her reason for doing so was quite unacceptable. Her cheeks flamed and she went hot with embarrassment and anger that he might have so little regard for her sense of propriety.

“How dare you question me!” she snapped impatiently and turned to hasten towards the door again in order to make her escape, but he caught her by the arm again and pulled her towards him roughly.

“I have every reason to do so since I have made myself responsible for your safety.”

“No one asked you to,” she flared back.

The room was, of course, deserted and she was aware that her voice had risen and that she might well have awakened someone upstairs who might come to discover what was causing a disturbance in the night. The room seemed chilly and she turned towards the fire where the embers had been banked down but a residual warmth was still being given out. Despite the day’s summer warmth, it had been kindled to allow mulled ale and spiced wine to be produced for travellers and customers who requested it. She realised suddenly that she was quite alone with this man she regarded as an enemy and knew that her shivers were caused by something other than the chilliness of the summer night.

Tiredly she said, “Allow me, sir, to return to my chamber now. I am wearied.”

“Not too wearied to be wandering about. I will allow you to go, mistress, when you provide me with a suitable explanation for this wanton behaviour.”

“It does not concern you. I do not have to answer to you, sir.”

He did not favour that remark with an answer, but released her arm and stood dominatingly before her, feet apart, arms folded.

His very attitude and the fact that he had dispensed with the courtesy of affording her her proper title but had addressed her as “mistress”, rather than “my lady”, fired her to anger once more.

“If you must have an explanation, yes, I was, indeed, looking for Peter.”

“Why?”

The single word was uttered without any courteous preamble.

“As I have said, it is of no concern of yours. I—I—” She flailed about in her mind for an acceptable reason. She dared not give him the true one. “I—I simply wanted to talk with him—about the problems of the journey and—and did not wish to alarm my mother.”

“You are sure you have no other reason for not alarming your mother?” The question was disconcertingly blunt, so much so that she gasped aloud.

“Are you suggesting—?”

“I am suggesting nothing. The facts seem plain enough. You get up in the middle of the night, half undressed, in order to see your father’s squire. It requires little more speculation on my part.”

In sudden fury she lashed out at his cheek, but he caught her hand before it could do damage and held it in a punishing grip, so that she cried out in pain. “Little hell cat,” he murmured softly and deliberately.

She struggled to free herself. His grasp was delivering real pain and she knew there would be bruises to show for it in the morning. He released her at last and she stumbled backwards.

“How dare you!” she stuttered, very close to tears. “How dare you imply that Peter and I would—” Her breath ended in a splutter of unutterable rage. “Why, Peter, unlike you, is the soul of honour. He is totally devoted to our interests and discreet and my father trusts him with all our lives…”

“I do not doubt that, mistress,” he said grimly, “but can he trust him with his daughter’s honour? Last evening, as I recall, you were supposedly out looking for him then because you said he was late returning to you and you were worried about him.”

“That was the truth,” she retorted, sparks flying from her lovely blue-green eyes. “Perhaps you would like to question my concern for his welfare and put that down to a dishonourable reason. I imagine you are less concerned about the welfare of your own retainers.”

He was silent for a while, not rising to her taunt, watching the angry rise and fall of her breasts, the looseness of her unfastened gown more than normally revealing. Once more he marvelled at her loveliness, so exquisitely formed, like a faery sprite, more beautiful than he had remembered her mother to have been when she had captivated his boy’s heart so long ago. He felt an ungovernable anger. Philippa Telford might look like a child, but she most certainly was not. He had the evidence of that before his eyes. She was radiantly lovely, enough to seduce the whole of the male population within the Duchess Margaret’s court, he thought, yet she was here in search of her father’s squire, a man surely too old and unworthy to be her lover. Was he judging her too harshly? Was she really innocent at heart, simply anxious to talk with the man, as she had said, about the difficulties of the journey ahead? Unaccountably he found himself wanting to believe her. She was so young—sixteen, seventeen perhaps—and he believed her parents had kept her well chaperoned. Yet, the thought came to him that, beautiful as she was and well born, she had not concealed how poverty-stricken they were in exile in Burgundy. She must be fully aware of how difficult it was going to be for her father to provide her with a suitable husband. How galling that must be to her…

He sighed heavily. In her present mood he was going to find it hard to convince her that this rash behaviour was indiscreet, if not downright dangerous.

“Lady Philippa, you know, I am sure, that this is a difficult and dangerous time for your mother and you. It behoves you to be circumspect.” He lifted a hand imperiously as she made to interrupt him. “No, hear me out. I cannot imagine why you should wish to seek out your father’s squire at this hour of the night, but there must be no more of these escapades. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she grated through clenched teeth. “I would like to know just why you were sleeping outside our door rather than in the common chamber where you said you would be.”

“I have already explained. I regard myself as your protector,” he returned mildly. “Though the wars are over, the times are still troubled. King’s men are everywhere and soldiers, off duty, can pose problems for vulnerable women. I am sure that I do not have to explain that to you.”

“Are you our protector or our jailer?” she said stonily and his eyes opened wide and darkened to obsidian.

Hastily she added, somewhat lamely, “I meant that—I do not understand why you should appoint yourself our guardian.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps because Fate or the Virgin cast you both before me as being in need. Is that not a good enough reason, mistress?”

Haughtily she shook her glorious hair, which lay unbound in heavy red-gold waves upon her shoulders. He felt an irresistible desire to pull her towards him and run his fingers through it. What was she doing, he thought savagely, appearing before a man in the night like that? Had she no sense of decorum? Didn’t she realise what temptations she could arouse in men? He took himself firmly in hand. She was young, vulnerable, and under his protection. He must hold himself in check.

“I am not sure,” she said icily, “whether either my mother or I are gladdened that fate decided to take such a hand in our affairs. Now, sir, will you please stand aside and allow me to return to my mother?”

He nodded slowly and stepped aside from the door so that she might move towards it unhindered. He could not allow himself to touch her, not again.

He said a trifle hoarsely, “Certainly, Lady Philippa, but be assured that I shall resume my post outside your door the moment you are settled inside.”

She did not deign to reply, but sulkily moved past him and mounted the stairs back to their chamber.

He followed and settled himself, seated with his back to their door. He was bewitched as if she had thrown faery dust before his eyes and taken possession of his very soul. How could this have happened to him and so suddenly? Not only was she so beautiful that just to look at her caused an ache within his loins, but she had spirit and courage. He could only pray that those very virtues he admired in her did not bring her into further dangers.

He pondered upon her reaction to his unvoiced accusation that she was wandering out to meet her lover. She had rejected it out of hand and with considerable indignation. Could he believe her? Would she not, if caught out like that, react in exactly that way? And had he any right to be angered by her behaviour?

He allowed himself a little secret smile. Certainly she had made no bones about admitting the fact that she despised him. Why? Simply because he was in possession of her father’s former lands? Had she expected to arrive in England and find those estates and manor houses empty and neglected? Was it not usual for the victor in any combat to hand out spoils to his supporters? At Duchess Margaret’s court, intrigue-ridden as it was, she could not be unaware of those situations.

He had recognised Lady Wroxeter on sight and on impulse offered her his protection on this journey. He knew of the distress of her parents at being so long parted from their daughter by circumstances they were powerless to alter and of the present serious illness of Sir Daniel. It had seemed reasonable and his duty to assume responsibility for the safety of his neighbour’s kin. He had not expected such a hostile reaction from Lady Philippa. He sighed. They would be thrown together for several more days. In honour he must control his growing feelings for her. He had gravely insulted her by his suggestion that she had acted wantonly. There would be time for him to discover if he were, in fact, mistaken and, if so, to attempt to repair the damage.

The darkness upon the landing was beginning to lighten to grey. He settled himself more comfortably, yet in a position to continue his nocturnal watch.

Philippa stole back to her bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping mother. Her cheeks were still hot with embarrassed fury directed at the man who was separated from her only by the thickness of the chamber door. Her plan would have to be abandoned. Rhys Griffith would not move from his post this night. She would have to try to find some other opportunity to have talk with Peter away from the man’s insufferable vigilance.

She punched the straw-filled pillow violently to relieve her feelings and wriggled down in the bed. Yet sleep evaded her. The vision of the man’s dark presence continued to dominate her thoughts. She tossed and turned restlessly. She had never before encountered a man so bluntly and insultingly spoken. No one in the Duchess’s retinue, nor even any nobleman at Queen Elizabeth’s court at Westminster, would have dared to question her so accusingly. He was hateful and she had no way of proving to him how shamefully wrong he was in his suspicions. Peter was a dear and trusted friend whom she had known from childhood. Never could she think of him as—she blushed inwardly at the thought—as a lover. Even if they had had more intimate feelings towards each other, neither would have behaved so indecorously. Peter would have regarded such desires as a blot upon the knightly honour to which he had once aspired. Knowing how vulnerable her position was at court, she had been particularly careful that she was never alone in any man’s company, since her dowerless state would have made it impossible for any man to offer her honourable marriage.

Rhys Griffith had immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. Indignantly she asked herself what business it was of his? He had no hold over her. It was as if he were—jealous! The idea was laughable.

Once more she pounded her pillow in impotent fury. Somehow she must convince him that he had accused her falsely, but without alerting him to the true reason for her determination to meet with Peter privately for that could put them all in danger. Strangely she was most anxious that Rhys Griffith should not think ill of her, though, for the life of her, she could not understand her own reason for caring.