Читать книгу The Traitor's Daughter - Joanna Makepeace - Страница 6

Summer 1503

Philippa Telford stole a hasty glance at her mother as they stood together with their squire, Peter Fairley, on the quay at Milford Haven. Her mother had been very sea sick during their crossing from the port of Damme, in Burgundy, and Philippa had been very concerned for her. The crossing had been rough and the two women had been almost thrown from their bunks several times; Philippa’s mother had not slept for one moment of the time. Philippa had tended her, since they had been unable to bring a maid with them from their lodging in Malines where Philippa’s father, Martyn, Earl of Wroxeter, served the dowager Duchess Margaret of Burgundy—the sister of England’s late King, Richard III. Now, on dry land at last, Philippa was anxious to get her mother quickly to an inn where she could rest and recover from the hardships of the journey.

She was glad that they had followed Peter’s advice and donned their warmest cloaks, since a mist had enveloped the harbour and coastline as they had disembarked and the air was chilly and damp, despite the fact that it was early summer. Philippa sighed as if this inclement weather was a presentiment of misfortunes yet to come.

Peter had already settled their dues with the captain of their carrack, Le Grande Dame, and had assembled their saddle bags of extra clothing and necessities upon the greasy cobblestones of the quay. The bad weather had, apparently, caused the town’s inhabitants to seek drier quarters and the quay looked bleak and almost deserted, which was fortunate, since it was imperative that their arrival should not be unduly noted.

Philippa could see a huddle of uninviting buildings, behind which were the faintest of blue outlines, veiled by the sea mist; she presumed them to be hills. The prevailing sea mist hid from the travellers the sight of other vessels docked in the harbour, though glimpses of tall masts and the creak of timbers came to them eerily from the dank half-darkness of the early evening. This, then, was Philippa’s first sight of the land which had been her mother’s home. Again a shiver ran through her. This place seemed exceptionally inhospitable. She prayed that matters might improve with better weather prospects in the morning when they began their journey to her grandfather’s manor near the town of Ludlow. Had not this land of Wales been described to her by many fellow exiles as a most beautiful one?

Peter led them to an inn situated at the far end of the quay, having discounted a tavern in the centre of the harbour, from which they could hear the sounds of noisy banter, as being unsuitable for his charges, and also considering the necessity of not encountering anyone from near the town of Ludlow who might be staying here in Milford on business in the harbour. It had been many years since the Countess of Wroxeter had been back in her home land, but it was essential that she should not be recognised by anyone who might have known her in childhood, before she had left her father’s manor to journey to Westminster where she had married the Earl and whom she had followed into exile almost twenty years ago. All three of them were acutely aware of the danger which threatened them constantly on arrival; only the dire need to be with Philippa’s grandparents during the serious illness of her grandfather Sir Daniel Gretton had brought them to this dank unwelcoming shore.

Philippa was wryly amused to see the inn’s crudely painted sign of the White Dragon creaking and swaying from the corner of the eaves.

“At least it is not a red dragon,” she murmured in her mother’s ear, recalling that her father had often referred to the court of King Henry VII at Westminster as the lair of the red dragon, contemptuously speaking of the Tudor King’s personal device of the red dragon. To Philippa’s father, the present English King would always be a usurper who had unlawfully taken up arms against his true King, Richard III, and, aided by traitors, had defeated him at the battle of Redmoor near Bosworth, where Wroxeter’s friend and liege lord, King Richard, had been slain. Now Philippa’s father was a proscribed traitor within his own home land, living in exile, unable to accompany his wife and daughter on this journey on threat of a hideous death should he be discovered and arrested.

Cressida made no answer, but Philippa could tell that her mother also was not impressed by the coincidence of the somewhat ominous inn sign.

The tap room appeared as crowded as the other tavern had been, but slightly less noisy. Talk stopped as the eyes of the men gathered round the scratched and stained tables were turned upon the newcomers in open curiosity. Philippa considered that they all looked vaguely alike to her, medium-sized, sturdily built men, dressed in homespun, dark avised; their language, which had come to her in snatches when they had entered the room, was totally incomprehensible to her.

Peter engaged in talk with a slightly taller shambling fellow who announced himself as mine host. He, at least, appeared to speak English, though his accent was very marked and singsong in rhythm.

“I require a private room for my sister, Mistress Weston, and her daughter, my niece. I am escorting them to visit a sick relative who lives near to Ludlow. Can you oblige, master innkeeper?”

The man shook his head emphatically. “I have but one private chamber which is already spoken for. The ladies must make do with the common sleeping room. There are but two women sleeping there tonight. You must sleep down here in the tap room, or the stable if you would prefer that.”

Peter turned to confer, but Cressida said hastily, “Peter, I would much prefer to sleep within the stable with Philippa and you nearby. Can that be arranged?”

The innkeeper scowled and the men seated nearby within earshot whispered to their neighbours. It seemed that only certain members of the company understood English and needed a translation of what had transpired. Curiosity increased. Strangers, most likely, some merchant’s wife and daughter, were usually content enough to share the women’s common sleeping chamber. An atmosphere of resentment seemed to grow within the tap room, making the ale-stinking place chillier than it had been at the outset when they had entered.

“Aye,” the innkeeper growled, “if the lady insists, but if it’s food ye want you’ll have to be fetching it yourself. I can’t be waiting on folks across the courtyard. I’ve customers in plenty in here. You can eat here if ye’ve a mind to, all of ye.”

Cressida smiled politely and once more shook her head. “Innkeeper, I mean no offence. It is just that we are wearied and would eat and sleep in quiet. We shall be glad to see to our own needs, they will be simple enough, some ale, perhaps, and bread and meats or cheeses.”

“Oh, aye.” The man turned away, then taking a lanthorn from a hook behind him, came from his place nearest to the ale barrel in present use and moved towards the inn door.

“Come this way then, folks and I’ll show you the way to the stable. I take it ye’ve no horses of your own?”

“I intend to buy mounts for the land journey tomorrow,” Peter informed him. “We have only lately disembarked from the carrack, La Grande Dame, just in from the port of Bruges. My sister’s husband had been living there for some years as he has business interests there.”

The innkeeper sniffed and moved in his clumsy, shambling walk to the door, opened it and held up the lanthorn so they could see only dimly across the unlit courtyard. “Directly opposite is the stable door. There are only three stalls occupied at the moment. The lord who has taken my private bedchamber has a horse stabled there with that of his squire and my own cob is there as well. There’ll be plenty of room for the three of ye, and there’s clean straw in plenty for your beds.”

Peter thanked the man civilly and took the proffered lanthorn, murmuring that he would take particular care with it within the stable, then the three of them stepped outside into the mist—shrouded air again.

The cobbles of the courtyard were slick with rain and mist and they were forced to watch their steps, the ladies holding their skirts high to avoid any ordure or refuse from the inn or stable as they crossed.

“My pardon, my lady,” Peter murmured, “I had thought to provide you with better accommodation than this poor place this night. God’s blood, it appears that what they say about this benighted land of Wales is true, the inhabitants are barbarians. Did you hear those outlandish peasants chattering in their singsong tongue?”

“Peter,” laughed the Countess, “remember that I lived in the Welsh Marches throughout my childhood. We had many Welsh servants at the manor and, though I could not speak their tongue, I grew to respect and like them very much. We would have been regarded with just as much outright curiosity wherever we had fetched up. We shall do well enough if the stable is dry and we shall have privacy which is most important.”

“Yes, mistress, but you have had a rough time of it on board ship and I hoped for better conditions for you both than these.”

“I prefer to have you within call, Peter,” Cressida said quietly, “and I am sure you and my lord have slept in many worse places than this over the years.”

He glanced at her sharply and Philippa glimpsed a wry twist to his lips as he pushed wide the stable door and held up the lanthorn for them to enter before him. The missions the Earl had undertaken for the Duchess Margaret in her relentless intrigues against the Tudor king had often meant danger for them both and, indeed, they had many times been forced to live for quite long periods of time in disguise and in vastly uncomfortable circumstances.

The warmth and familiar scent of horseflesh met them and they heard the restless movement of wickering within the stalls as the horses were both disturbed by their unexpected arrival and alarmed by the sudden lanthorn light. Peter held the lanthorn high, glimpsed a hook suspended from the thatched roof to hold it and hung it securely. Surprisingly the place looked well kept. Obviously it had been cleaned that very morning, possibly in expectation of the arrival of the lord the innkeeper had spoken of. Philippa moved to inspect the mounts. Two were sturdy Welsh cobs, she surmised, one belonging to the innkeeper and the other to the lord’s squire. The third horse was a black courser, a large, heavy-boned, finely muscled animal, extremely valuable, she guessed. Of the three, this one was the most restive and she moved closer to the stall and spoke gently, reassuringly.

“Steady there, my beauty, we mean you no harm nor any to your master.”

Cressida uttered a sharp warning as her daughter reached out a hand to pat the creature’s velvet nose, aware of how dangerous destriers could be, bred for warfare as they were, but Philippa turned, shaking her head gently. She was patient and the sound of her soft voice did eventually reassure the animal and it stood docilely while she ran her hand gently down its silky well-brushed nose.

“There, there, I have no apple for you. Perhaps I will have tomorrow. I will try to find some and reward you all.”

Philippa adored horses and had very little opportunity to ride, let alone own a mount while at her parents’ lodging at Malines. Her father had been forced by limited means to hire mounts only when he had need, but he had managed to have his daughter taught to ride and she was glad now that she would have no problem during their journey to Gretton.

Peter had busied himself, piling up clean straw in one of the stalls furthest from the horses and the door for Philippa and her mother. He intended to make his own bed well away from them and near to the door so that he might be aware of anyone entering unexpectedly during the coming night. Possibly the lord’s squire would come before retiring for the night to ensure that all was well with his master’s horses and might intend to sleep within the stable. Peter frowned as he considered that might pose a problem and hoped the fellow would either sleep across his master’s doorway as he himself had been used to do for Lord Martyn or content himself in the warmer and more comfortable tap room. He would meet that problem if and when it presented itself.

Philippa sank down thankfully upon the sweet-smelling straw and watched as her mother took off her cloak and laid it down upon the bed Peter had formed for her.

“There, Peter,” she said, “it is as I thought, we shall manage very well here and be spared any awkward questioning we might have to face within the common sleeping chamber. If you could go across and fetch us something to eat and drink, we can settle down soon and get some sleep. We have a long journey in front of us.”

Peter nodded, looked round to assure himself that he had made his charges as comfortable as he could, then moved to the stable door.

“I should keep this barred, my lady. Make anyone wishing to enter declare himself and, even then, I would advise you to wait for my return before admitting anyone.”

Philippa smiled in answer. “Be assured we shall do that, Peter.”

He left and she snuggled close to her mother, still huddling within her own frieze cloak. “Aren’t you chilly? I am still. Why don’t you put your cloak back on for a while?”

“No, don’t fuss. I am quite comfortable out of the damp air.” Cressida looked round the gloomy stable and gave a little petulant shrug. “I shall be glad when we are well on our way tomorrow.”

“Grandmère will be glad to see us.”

“Yes, indeed. I only hope and pray that we are in time to see your grandfather.”

Philippa made no answer. She was aware that her mother entertained little hope that Sir Daniel would continue to survive the collapse which he had suffered some two weeks ago, which had left him partially paralysed. The message which Lady Gretton had managed to send to her daughter in Burgundy had informed Cressida that her father had lost the power of his speech. Philippa knew, as her mother did, that attacks such as these were often followed by others, which, eventually, led to the death of the sufferer. Cressida had pleaded with her husband to be allowed to journey to Gretton to see her father and take with her their only daughter, his grandchild, whom he had never seen. Reluctantly, the Earl had given his permission and allowed Peter Fairley, his trusted squire and friend, to be their sole protector.

Philippa watched as her mother stretched wearily out on her straw bed.

“You do believe that we shall be safe,” she queried softly, “that at Gretton the servants can be trusted and…?” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

Cressida lifted her head and gazed doubtfully at her daughter in the flickering light of the lanthorn.

“Nothing can be certain, child. The servants have been with your grandparents for years and will, I believe, be discreet. They loved me as a child and they are all aware of the dangers. Travelling under assumed names, we should be safe enough, but if you are afraid I could instruct Peter to see you safe on a ship bound for home—”

“No, no, I insist on going with you. I am most anxious to see my grandparents,” Philippa declared passionately. “I am most concerned for your safety. Papa was saying that the King’s spies will be extra-vigilant since the Yorkist gentlemen will be in a state of great anger and agitation due to the summary execution of Sir James Tyrell and the lying confession about the murder of the Princes, which was published after his death.”

Cressida sighed heavily. “When will this realm be fully peaceful? I doubt if I shall see it in my lifetime, yet the Tudor King holds the state firmly. He should be able to do so,” she added bitterly, “he has managed to destroy all the rightful heirs who might have challenged him for power and then he married the Yorkist Princess, Elizabeth, in order to secure the loyalty of some of the disaffected nobles.”

Philippa bit her lip as her mother once more lay down. The journey had tired her so. She needed rest badly. Philippa had rarely seen her beautiful mother so downhearted and distressed, not even when the Earl, her father, had risked himself on hazardous adventures for his patroness, the Duchess Margaret, who had struggled over the last twenty years to bring down the Tudor monarchy.

Philippa’s father had made her aware of the situation which had made him a hunted traitor in his own land, even though she herself, now seventeen, had been born after the tragic events which had caused it.

She knew that for over fifty years, since 1450, there had been struggles for supremacy amongst the Lancastrian and Yorkist heirs of King Edward III. In 1461 the weak Lancastrian King Henry VI had proved so incompetent that his cousin, Duke Richard of York, had challenged him for power. He had been killed in the fighting which had broken out, but his son, King Edward IV, had finally won a bloodthirsty battle at Towton in Yorkshire and had then assumed the throne and ruled ruthlessly and competently for over twenty years, despite sporadic outbursts of violence which had threatened the peace. Unfortunately he had died unexpectedly in 1483, leaving the protectorship of the realm and care of his two young sons and older five daughters to the care of their uncle, his younger brother, Duke Richard of Gloucester.

Almost immediately the peace was threatened again due to the minority of the young King, Edward V, who was just thirteen years old when Richard brought him to London to be crowned. On the journey the Queen’s relatives made a bid for power which was defeated and two of them were executed. The Princes were placed for safety within the palace of the Tower of London, traditionally used to house the new monarchs before their coronations.

Philippa was aware that her father, Martyn, Earl of Wroxeter, had been a trusted friend of Duke Richard and eventually left his own estates on the Welsh Border to become his confidante and spy master.

The Bishop of Bath and Wells had made a surprise announcement at a meeting at the Tower, revealing that the late King’s marriage had not been lawful and therefore his children were illegitimate. He, himself, he had declared, had betrothed the king formally to Lady Eleanor Butler and that lady had still been living when the King had married the widow of a Lancastrian nobleman, Lord Grey of Groby, and betrothals were binding, so much so that a dispensation from the Pope was required to break one. This revelation had thrown the realm into disarray once more and Duke Richard had finally been persuaded to accede to the throne as King Richard III. Philippa’s father had served him faithfully and fought for him at the tragic battle of Redmoor two years later when Henry Tudor, descended from the Lancastrian, Prince John of Gaunt, and his mistress, Katherine Swynford, had arrived in England in a bid to seize the throne. The King had been treacherously betrayed by Lord William Stanley, who was married to Henry’s mother, and his brother, Sir William, on the very battlefield and had died in a last courageous charge.

Since that time the Earl’s fortunes had been totally destroyed as he lived in almost penniless exile in Burgundy. Philippa knew, only too well, that her chances of finding a husband, since she had no dowry, were hopeless.

This business of Tyrell’s execution had heightened their danger, she knew. Sir James, like her father, had been a member of the late King’s household, but had been on a mission for King Richard to France at the time of Redmoor so had taken no part in that battle. He had made his peace with the new King, Henry, and had served the Tudor house, though his estates had been confiscated and he had been deprived of his official posts in Wales. He had been later appointed Governor of Guisnes and, for the following sixteen years, had remained in France, then, suddenly, he had been accused of treasonable correspondence with the Earl of Suffolk, the late King’s nephew. He had refused to surrender himself, but had allowed himself to be lured from the safety of his castle and on to one of King Henry’s ships in Calais harbour by the promise of safe conduct. He was then captured and taken to the Tower of London and, later, unceremoniously executed. After his death it had been announced that he had confessed to the murder of the Princes, King Edward’s young sons, who had disappeared from the Tower, on the order of their uncle. This slur upon the honour of the dead King Richard had naturally angered many of the late King’s former supporters. A little shiver ran through Philippa’s body, for she suspected that her father knew more about the fate of those young princes than he would ever divulge, not even to his closest family. Was this the reason why King Henry hated him so much and wished to have him in England directly in his power? She knew, only too well, that in the dungeons of the Tower men could be forced to divulge their closest-held secrets. If the King could hold the Earl’s wife and child as hostages, would not her father come to their help and surrender himself, as Tyrell had done? The secret of their journey to Gretton must be kept at all costs.

Her thoughts ranged to her friends, Richard and Anne Allard, who had been her companions four years ago when she had gone to Westminster to serve King Henry’s queen, Elizabeth of York. They had all been forced to flee together from England when Richard had involved himself in trying to help the young Earl of Warwick, who had been a prisoner in the Tower. Philippa sighed deeply as she remembered how that unfortunate young man had been executed with another pretender to the throne, Perkin Warbeck. Richard and Anne had been pardoned and returned to England. Philippa would have dearly liked to see them while she was here but knew that would be dangerous for all of them.

Peter appeared to be taking his time, she thought, and rose to go to the door and unbar it. After moments her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and she could see that the courtyard appeared to be deserted and she could see in the distance the dim glow of candlelight in the windows of the inn. Surely it would not have taken the innkeeper so long to provide Peter with a flagon of ale and bread and cheese? He would not linger, she knew, being always concerned for the safety of his charges. Philippa turned and looked anxiously towards her mother, who had sat up the moment she had heard her daughter stirring.

“What is it? Can you hear someone coming?”

“No, it is just that it is taking Peter rather a long time.”

“Has it? I must have dozed.” Cressida frowned. “It is unlike Peter to delay.”

“I think I should go and look for him.”

“Philippa, no. He warned us—”

“I know all that, but I don’t think we have a choice. I fear something might have happened to him.”

Cressida rose and joined Philippa at the stable door. Together they peered anxiously into the dark courtyard.

“It is indeed very strange that he hasn’t returned before now. Had it been anyone else but Peter…” Cressida shook her head worriedly. “He is not the man to allow himself to be drawn into some gambling ploy.”

“He would never leave us unprotected for so long. Something must have happened to him.”

The Countess shook her head again and bit her lip doubtfully.

“Mother, I must go back to the inn and ask after him.”

“I do not like that idea at all.”

“I don’t myself, but if anything has happened to Peter we have to know about it, even—” Philippa broke off abruptly, averting her face so that her mother should not see how very alarmed she was “—even if we cannot do much about it.”

She dared not put into words the fear that harm could have come to their squire and, if it had done, what they could possibly do without him as escort.

“You stay here by the door and keep watch.” Philippa put up her cloak hood and drew its comforting warmth about her. “I shall not be gone for more than a moment or two. The landlord is bound to know what has occurred. It may be that Peter heard of some suitable mounts for hire or purchase and thought it imperative to go immediately to find out about them.”

“At this late hour?”

“I know that it seems unlikely, but it is the only reason why he might have left us for so long.” Gently Philippa shook off her mother’s detaining hand upon her wrist. “Do not be anxious. I shall come back immediately and will not allow myself to be drawn into talk with any of the men in the tap room. At all events, most of them do not appear to be able to talk English.” She made a little wry twist of the lips in her attempt to humour her distraught mother.

Reluctantly Cressida released her and stood back as Philippa pushed the heavy stable door further open and, with but one reassuring glance behind her, stepped out into the yard. It seemed very black, but she could not take the lanthorn and leave her mother in darkness and she could just make out her way ahead by the flickering light of the candles within the inn building.

She was about halfway across when she heard some slight movement. She stopped dead still and listened, but her frightened heartbeats sounded so loud within her breast that she knew any other sounds would be drowned out by them. Reproving herself for cowardice, she crept forward cautiously. She was not wont to be so foolish. The sound could easily have been made by a night-prowling cat. She could hear the noise of talk now from the inn and she stopped again, calling upon her courage to enter the tap room alone. The outright impudence of the customers’ curiosity when they had first arrived made her hesitate. As Peter had said, the travellers had certainly not been welcomed. So intent on her determination to proceed was she that she went sprawling suddenly across something directly in her path. The breath was shaken out of her and she stifled a sudden cry, recovered herself and turned to stare down at the body of the man who was lying senseless, his head in a puddle. Her eyes had become more used to the darkness now, though it was a moonless night, and, as she crouched to examine the injured man, she knew instantly that it was Peter Fairley.

He made no sound as she carefully explored his clothing, wet with the damp mist, and she gave a little gasp of fear and pity as her fingers, when lifting his head, discovered some fluid more sticky. The wound was bleeding copiously. No wonder he was unconscious and made no answer to her softly uttered urging to answer her. Had he stumbled and fallen in the darkness? Like her he carried no lanthorn and it was just possible, but Peter was a cautious man and he would have waited before proceeding to cross, allowing his night vision to develop. Unless he too had stumbled across some obstacle in his path, it was unlikely. Terror struck her forcibly as she thought he must have been deliberately struck down, but by whom—and why? Surely it had been obvious to everyone in the tap room that they were not wealthy travellers—yet Peter had made it known that he was carrying a considerable amount of coin in order to hire or buy horses for their journey. To men living in poverty that would have been invitation enough to attack and rob him. She half stood up after her efforts to rouse him had failed and looked round apprehensively. Peter was a big man. She could not lift or drag him to the stable, but dare she call for assistance from the men in the inn?

As she stood for moments, irresolute, she was taken totally by surprise as brutal hands suddenly pulled her backwards and caught her wrists in a cruel grasp, thus freeing one of her attacker’s hands to clasp over her mouth before she could draw breath to call out.

“Softly there, my little beauty,” a voice, speaking in English, though with a singsong lilt she had come to identify as that of a Welshman, whispered in her ear. “There’s no call for you to be making a scene and, like as not, you’ll not end up as your servant there if you’re wise.”

She was trembling with anger as well as fear and tried desperately to free herself from the man’s grasp, but he continued to drag her backwards, her heels trailing helplessly on the cobbles. The fellow appeared to be alone and yet he was so strong that she feared he would be able to drag her where he wished and that she would be helpless to prevent him. Even in her desperation she feared for Peter. If she were unable to help him, he could die there in this dank straw-spattered courtyard, an ignominious end for a man who had faced often far greater dangers. And she—she could not doubt her own fate and knew with blinding clarity that her attacker would be unlikely to leave her alive after he had finished with her. Would he make for the stable? If so, her mother, also, was in deadly danger, but no, he was aware that the stable was inhabited and he would not risk her mother screaming for help and the possibility that in the ensuing chaos his prey would perhaps manage to free herself. She tried to keep calm. He obviously knew of some other shelter where he intended to drag her. If she waited for the opportunity, surely she would then manage to free herself momentarily, at least to shout out a warning to her mother. Yet, even so, she coolly debated the wisdom of that. Her mother would have a better chance of escaping this fellow’s attentions if she, Philippa, remained quiet and allowed him to do what he wished. As these thoughts raced through her mind there was no time for hysteria or panic. Her fear was absolute, but for the present, she was helpless to affect her own fate. The time it took to drag her to some secluded spot seemed elongated. In actual fact it could only have taken moments, yet she appeared to have opportunity to think out rationally what she could and could not do and what would be best for her mother’s safety. It would be only minutes now before she was pulled into shelter and she did not doubt that her molester would free her mouth only to render her senseless with a blow to the face.

She prayed to the Virgin and to St Catherine, the patron saint of maidens, to give her the courage to face what must be. Then, suddenly, miraculously, another voice spoke menacingly behind her. She could not understand the words for they were uttered, presumably, in Welsh, but the import was unmistakable. Abruptly she was released to fall forward onto her face.

Sobbing with terror, she scrambled up and half-turned to find her attacker had been seized from behind, as she herself had been, and, even in the dim light of the darkened courtyard, she could see the dullish gleam of a dagger held against the fellow’s throat. She staggered back, unsure if she were being rescued or had fallen into the hands of another merciless attacker. The man who had first seized her was crouching awkwardly, making inarticulate sounds of rage and fear. Unceremoniously he was dragged to his feet, still with the dagger menacing his throat, and pulled some distance clear away from her.

She could not see the man she hoped was her rescuer clearly, but by his bulky shape, wrapped in a dark frieze cloak, she realised that he was a big man, towering over his prisoner, who was now continuing to babble incoherently in Welsh, his terror only too apparent.

The newcomer spoke again commandingly and the blubbering ceased. Another sharp command, in English, this time, alerted a third man to the scene who, apparently, had been waiting his opportunity to come to the newcomer’s assistance.

“David, come, take possession of this fellow and cart him off to the nearest constable. I’ve felt him for weapons and found only a single dagger, but take care.” He tossed the weapon down at their feet where it clanged on the cobbles. “You can never tell with these ruffians where they manage to conceal others. Hold him for a moment while I secure his hands.”

Still trembling, Philippa felt unable to move, let alone run. She could not see clearly what her rescuer was about, but guessed that he had used some belt about his person to make her attacker secure. The fellow was still murmuring promises and pleas, which were abruptly cut short, so she thought he had been unceremoniously gagged.

The man addressed as David, also a well-muscled fighting man, judging by his lumbering bulk, jerked at his prisoner’s bound arms and dragged him away. Since he had made no answer to her rescuer’s orders but instantly obeyed them, Philippa gathered that he was used to doing so and was, probably, his servant.

She managed to let out a little, breathless gasp at last and the man who had come to her rescue came instantly forward and put out a hand to steady her.

“Are you hurt? You are, I take it, one of the English travellers just arrived at the inn and taken up residence with my horses in the stable, or so the landlord informs me?”

“Yes,” she whispered throatily, “I thank you, sir. My mother is in the stable and my…” she hesitated, then recollected herself suddenly and the need to guard her identity “…my uncle lies injured some paces off. No, I am not hurt, that fellow had only just grabbed me as—as I was trying to help my uncle. He—he took me by surprise but—but he had no time to—hurt me.”

“Thank the Virgin,” he said curtly. “Show me where your relative lies and I’ll summon assistance from the tap room, then you must go to your mother.”

She was feeling even more trembly now and she staggered and would have fallen had he not once more put out a sturdy arm to catch her. She felt an unaccountable tremor pass through her at the touch of his fingers and struggled a little to pull free, but he continued to hold her firmly.

“What is it? You are not afraid of me, are you?” The voice was clear, slightly lilting—as all voices, she thought, must be here in Wales or even on the Border, her mother had told her—but it was also hard, uncompromising, authoritative, and she wondered just who he was and if she could trust him. He had come to her rescue seemingly, but her attacker had known him or recognised his authority and she feared that he might question her, demand proof of her identity. He could well be a magistrate and answerable to the Crown for the good behaviour of those within his district.

“No, no.” She was afraid that reaction had set in and that she was liable to break into tears. That she must not do before this commanding stranger. “I am sorry, sir, that I have not yet recovered my balance, it seems. Please…”

She led him to where Peter lay and was thankful to see, as they approached, that Peter was slowly coming to himself now and giving sharp little cries of pain.

Philippa’s rescuer gestured her imperatively to stand slightly aside and dropped to one knee beside the sufferer and examined the head wound gently, as she had done. She marvelled at the gentle, sensitive touch of those strong large hands.

“It appears that he was struck from behind, possibly with the hilt of a dagger, mistress. Fortunately the wound does not seem to be too serious as already he is coming to himself. Head wounds can be dangerous and unconsciousness can sometimes last for hours—or even weeks.”

He stood up and removed his cloak so that now she could see that he was, indeed, a tall, muscular man with massive shoulders, though she thought by the hardness of his body, as he had held her momentarily against his chest, that there was not an ounce of surplus fat upon him. Obviously he kept himself in superb fighting form. Was he a soldier, a mercenary?—but his commanding manner gave her the impression that he had some standing in the district and was more than likely a knight. Could he possibly be the lord the landlord had spoken of?

As if in answer to her unspoken question he addressed her as he rose to his feet once more. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Rhys Griffith and, like you, I am accommodated at the inn.”

So her surmise had been correct. He was indeed lordly. No wonder the innkeeper had not offered to request that he vacate, for her mother’s use, the private room he had bespoken.

He was continuing. “You can leave this man’s care in my hands, mistress, and go to your mother. She will be frantic for news of you both, I am sure. I will see to it that your uncle is conveyed to the inn and then I will come and inform you what is best to be done.”

Philippa still felt that her limbs would let her down if she did not find some support soon and she had the strange feeling that she must not allow this stranger to touch her again, let alone hold her as closely as he had done formerly. She was close to tears again and inwardly she castigated herself, since her immediate danger appeared to be over and she had no outward reason to distrust this man—nor yet her own feelings regarding him. It was just that he had taken over so completely, overwhelmed her by his compelling personality. Yet he had said little to her to bring out this strange, dubious excitement. Certainly he had offered her no discourtesy. She struggled to find words to thank him adequately.

“I am—most grateful, sir. I do not know what would have happened had you not come…” She swallowed and averted her face from his hawklike gaze.

“I think you must certainly have realised what would have happened, mistress,” he said a trifle harshly. “I can understand your concern for your uncle but, really, you should not have ventured out of the stable alone.”

She was a trifle angered by that suggestion. He was reproving her for what had happened, as if it had been all her own fault. What would he have had her do, leave Peter to die out there while she remained in cowardly security within the stable?

“I had to go, sir,” she said haughtily, “there was no one else. As for the attack, it all happened so suddenly. My uncle left us to fetch food from the inn and he was such a long time gone that I was forced to believe something had happened to him—which, indeed, it had. I stumbled over his body and, while I was kneeling by him, I suppose I was so frightened and intent on my uncle’s fate that—that I did not hear anyone approach. This fellow grabbed me from behind before I could so much as pull away or cry out and—and…”

She sensed that he had relaxed his grim demeanour now, as he said more gently, “Best not to think about it any further as no real harm has been done.”

He put out a hand to offer to lead her towards the stable. She attempted to draw away from him so that he might not touch her again, but he would brook no denial and took her hand firmly and turned her towards the stable door.

“It was fortunate that I happened to come along when I did,” he said. “I have been visiting a friend in the town and came into the courtyard by the back way. Providentially we—that is, my squire David and I—heard noises, which indicated all was not well. I heard the man threaten you and instructed my squire to stand back while I came to your assistance. On rounding the gate post I saw at once that you needed it fast.”

She still could not see his features clearly and was glad that he must not be able to see her. She must be in a fine state after that terrible struggle. She could feel her hair straggling about her face and she wondered if she had transferred blood from Peter’s wound and filth from the cobbles on to her cheeks. Certainly her hand felt sticky and dirty and he must be aware of it. How stupid, she told herself, to concern herself about such paltry matters at such a time, yet her desire to remain aloof from all strangers on this journey and the strength and determination of this man made her acutely uncomfortable in his presence. She was also anxious that he should not get too close a glimpse of her mother or guess at the real reason for their need to sleep apart in the stable.

She had felt the fine wool of his sleeve and had smelled the tang of a good-quality leathern jerkin when she had been close to him and judged that he was, as he claimed, a knight. With luck they might never meet again, but she had a strange desire to see his face clearly before their final parting. Surely that was natural, she thought, simply a wish to see the features of the man who had saved her honour and her very life.

They were approaching the stable door and he released her hand. “I should go and give assistance to your uncle. Everything will be done for his comfort and I will ensure the future safety of you and your mother.” These last words were spoken in so stern a voice that she wondered if he suspected her attacker had been given information about the latest guest from someone inside the inn and was determined to investigate the matter further. She gave a little shudder and did not envy the men whom he would face in that tap room. He was one man, alone, yet he would deal with any rabble, she was sure of that.

A voice called anxiously from the opened door of the stable, “Philippa, is that you? Whatever is wrong? Peter has not returned and I am—frightened.” It was so unlike her courageous mother to sound so querulous and pitiful that Philippa’s heart bled for her, alone in that stable, fearful, dreading the worst for her daughter and her squire.

Sir Rhys gave a slight bow to the shadowy woman in the doorway. “Your daughter and—your brother have encountered some difficulties, lady. Your brother is injured and I intend to see that he is cared for. Please remain together in the stable until either I or my squire can come and inform you that all is well.”

Falteringly the Countess said, “But who are you, sir, and how—?”

“Your daughter will explain. Do not be alarmed.” He bowed also to Philippa. “Sit down upon the straw and recover yourself. I can see that you are still trembling. I will send you both some strengthening wine. Do not concern yourself about your attacker. He will not trouble you again. My squire will see to that.”

Before either woman could reply he had strode off in the direction of the inn doorway. After the stress of all that had occurred, Philippa fell sobbing into her mother’s arms.

Cressida forbore to question her daughter until the anguished sobbing had stopped, then she drew away from her, gently holding her at arm’s length, and stared into Philippa’s eyes searchingly.

“Tell me truly exactly what happened. Do not be afraid to do so. Whatever it is, I shall understand.”

Philippa drew a hard breath. “I was attacked but he—the attacker—could not finish—what—what he hoped. That gentleman came to my rescue in time. His servant carted the man off to the constable so—so I expect the knight must be well known here. He—he handled the whole episode with such authority—” She broke off and dabbed at her streaming eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Mother, it was all so dreadful and now—now I do not know what to make of the rescuer. If he is important here, he might well demand to know more about us and—”

“Child, calm yourself. I could not see him well, but he appeared civil enough. I thank all the saints that he was able to help you in time. Who knows what—what would have occurred had he not come so promptly.”

“He—he frightens me and—and I do not know why. He was kind and courteous, yet…”

“Philippa, you are naturally upset by everything that occurred and you are alarmed for Peter.”

“I know.” Philippa took a hard grip upon herself and tried to stop the trembling and deadly chill, which had seeped into her body and sapped her strength. “I am not usually so foolish. I am safe and unharmed but—but I cannot help thinking that this man could be dangerous to us.”

“But why? He came to our assistance and, once given, he will most probably forget our very existence.”

Philippa whispered, “I am not so sure of that. He said he would call on those people in the inn to help Peter. He was attacked as I was. I found him lying unconscious and his head was bleeding. I could not rouse him and then—and then—” Her teeth began chattering again as the full sense of shock assailed her. “I heard nothing. He must have been very practised in his trade for Peter to have been overcome like that.” She buried her face in her hands. “All the time I knew—knew what he—and afterwards that he would kill me and I did not even try to bite at the hand he held over my mouth and call out because—because—”

“You were afraid he would render you unconscious and then find me,” Cressida said quietly. “I know, child, I know.” She, too, drew a shuddering breath as she realised fully how close both of them had come to disaster and now—they must wait to discover if Peter would recover.

As if in answer to that unspoken fear, a voice called softly from the stable doorway, “May I come in, ladies?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Despite her recognition of the rescuer’s voice and the readiness of the invitation, Cressida stood protectively in front of her daughter as he entered and stood limned against the door post.

Stepping slightly clear of her mother, Philippa could see her rescuer more clearly now as the lanthorn light played on his tall, massive form, broad shoulders and slim hips. He was equipped with heavy broadsword and dagger and, though his clothing was of good quality, as she had felt when he had touched her, he was not richly clad, being in serviceable travelling garb of leather brigandine over homespun dark doublet and hose. He had a broad, open face with a dominating beak of a nose and firm chin, dark brown eyes set well apart, beneath a mop of dark hair curling to his shoulders. He had, apparently, scorned the present fashion of curled fringe, nor did he wear the new sleeveless long gown, lately worn at court. His tanned complexion spoke to her of a life spent mostly out of doors. There was an imperious air about him, but his manner towards them could not be judged arrogant. It was difficult for her to guess at his age, but she imagined that he must be in his middle or late twenties, for his massive form had not yet run to fat; she thought he had spent his life in soldierly pursuits and continued to keep fit by hard exercise.

He was unsmiling as he bowed to them courteously. “I do not think your escort has come to any real harm, my lady. He took a bad bang on the back of his head, which has bled profusely, but he had fully regained consciousness when we carried him into the inn and his wound has been dressed. He is resting in the tap room, concerned now about you both, naturally. I have made arrangements for you to be accommodated within the chamber allocated to me. You will be much more comfortable there and I shall do very well in the tap room where I can keep an eye on your—uncle.” There was a slight, sardonic curve of the lips as he uttered the last word and Philippa frowned, in doubt. Did he believe that her mother was travelling with her lover and wished to conceal the fact? She blushed darkly and averted her gaze from those piercing dark eyes of his. She was truly grateful to this man for his assistance, but he had no right to judge them contemptuously; however, he was putting himself out for their welfare and she felt constrained to utter words of heartfelt gratitude.

Though her immediate thought was to refuse his offer of the use of his private bedchamber, she knew it would be better for her mother if she accepted graciously.

“I have to thank you again, Sir Rhys, for all your kindness to three strangers and we accept most gratefully your kind offer.” She gave a little shiver of horrified remembrance. “Indeed, I think we could not remain alone here in the stable without feeling apprehensive after—after what happened.”

He nodded. “Naturally. Please, will you follow me and I will see you settled.”

He unhooked the lanthorn from its place and stood by the stable door to light their way. His free hand he proffered to the Countess as she stepped into the darkened courtyard. “Allow me, my lady. It is dark out here and the cobbles slippery. If you take your mother’s other hand, mistress, you will be less likely to slip.”

The landlord was obsequious as they entered the inn and Cressida went hastily to Peter, who was sitting up in a hard-backed chair by the fire looking pale and anxious, but, otherwise, his true self. Philippa was thankful that the blow did not appear to have affected his memory for he was lucid enough.

“Do not fret, sister. I am feeling better already after imbibing some of the landlord’s best wine. I’m only angered at myself for being less cautious and rendering you both without protection and leaving you open to danger.”

“This good knight has proved to be our saviour,” Cressida said reassuringly. “Now, rest, Peter and get well. We must see how you fare in the morning before we decide to travel.”

He was about to argue, but she prevented him with a gentle squeeze upon his hand.

Sir Rhys led them above stairs, after ordering the landlord to serve them with the best supper he could provide.

The room was surprisingly large and comfortably appointed. Philippa looked round appreciatively. “I am sorry, sir, that you must be put out….”

He laughed as he picked up a saddle bag which, presumably, contained a change of clothes and necessities for travelling. “I assure you that David and I have slept in far worse places than the tap room of this inn and, as I said, it will be wiser, considering that it appears to harbour thieves, a matter which I shall take up with our host. Please make yourselves at home and try to rest and, at last, sleep after your trying adventures. I will send David up with your belongings.”

He brushed by Philippa in order to reach the door and she felt herself trembling again at his touch. He bowed to her mother. “Please, Lady Wroxeter, accept my apologies for these unfortunate events, happening so soon after your arrival back in your native land after such a long absence.”

Philippa saw her mother give a great gasp of surprise and shock and she herself put a hand to her mouth in dismayed astonishment.

“Sir—”

He stemmed Cressida’s attempts at denial with a lordly wave of his hand.

“Sir Daniel Gretton’s beautiful daughter could not be mistaken for any other, my lady. Her fame spread through the Marches and I had the advantage of seeing you once with your father in the market in Ludlow. That was considerably before you married my lord Earl.” He smiled broadly. “I was merely eight years old then but, like all the other males in the district, I fell completely under the spell of Gretton’s faery princess.” His gaze passed to Philippa and dwelt on her slight form, trembling now with another fear that he was aware of their true identities. “Your daughter, my lady, has been blessed in inheriting your golden loveliness. I am honoured to be of service. I will pay my respects in the morning. Please excuse me now.”

He withdrew and closed the door before either of the astounded women could say a word in answer.