My Lady Deceiver

by June Francis

  My Lady Deciever

  June Francis

  © June Francis 1988

  June Francis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1988 by Mills & Boon Limited.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Historical Note

  Chapter One

  Someone was coming! Philippa Cobtree let the lid of the chest slip from her fingers, sending a crash reverberating against the wooden walls of the deserted hall. Swiftly she stuffed the leather package down the front of her gown until it stuck. As the front door burst open she turned, her hands gripping the chest behind her.

  ‘I thought you would still be here,’ gasped the maid who had entered at a run. ‘They are coming, and you must flee!’

  ‘Where’s my father, Rose?’ she asked in a trembling voice, moving forward with haste, her blue linen skirts brushing the rush-strewn floor. ‘I will not go without him!’

  The two girls faced each other. Both were fair-haired, of a similar height, and had been born in the same month of the same year. After a momentary hesitation Rose spoke huskily: ‘There is nothing you can do for him. You must go now!’ She seized Philippa’s arm, and began to pull her towards the back of the hall. ‘I fear for you, the mood they are in!’

  Philippa shook off the maid’s hand, and halted. Her face was pale and her heart beat with thick, heavy strokes. ‘Tell me, what have they done to him?’

  Rose cast a glance over her shoulder before answering, a shadow darkening her pretty features. ‘He is dead.’ Her voice shook. ‘He — is — dead!’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ Philippa stared at her, the green eyes dilated. ‘It can’t be true.’ Her voice broke on a sob.

  ‘Whether you believe me or not, now is not the time to delay. You must go!’ insisted Rose roughly, pushing her out of the doorway with frantic hands.

  Instantly the clamour of men’s voices sounded on the evening air. It was all too real, thought Philippa, her legs feeling as if they could not support her. ‘How did he die?’ She choked on the words.

  Rose made no answer; she did not know how. So she forced her mistress on, past the bakehouse, the storeroom, the stables, until they reached the wicket gate set in the wall at the furthest end of the herb garden.

  ‘I shall leave you here. Go swiftly!’

  ‘Rose, tell me, did he have a priest?’ Philippa’s face was taut with anguish, her fingers curled tightly on the gate.

  Only for an instant did the maid’s hand tighten over hers. ‘It happened so quickly.’

  ‘I see.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘Do you come with me or stay with them?’

  ‘It would be best if you went alone. Tom … ’ Rose’s expression revealed her anguish. ‘I shall tell them you weren’t here.’

  ‘Tom!’ Philippa’s voice was bitter. ‘If it weren’t for your brother, Rose Carter, the others wouldn’t have listened!’

  ‘Maybe, but you don’t know what it’s like to be a serf!’ she cried. ‘Best you go to London, and now! If you get there, I shall try to find you.’ She turned and raced back to the house.

  Just for a second Philippa stared after her, then turned, opened the gate and ran. Within moments the long grass of the waste was whipping her legs as she sprinted towards the forest looking dark and massive ahead. The breath rasped in her aching lungs and throat as she reached the trees, but still she ran on, with pain spreading in her side. There was a place she was heading for, and she was nearly there. The hollow tree was in sight. Years ago it had been struck by lightning, and her brothers had told her it was haunted, the home of a wood-spirit.

  From the front of her gown she pulled the leather package and hid it in the hole in the tree. Then she slid to the ground, resting her back against the trunk, her legs, aching and trembling, stretched out in front of her. The agony of not knowing what the rebellious serfs had done to her father was a nagging thought that would not be still. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she rolled over, burying her face in her hands, and cried.

  Eventually the tears ceased and she turned on her back, staring up at the golden-green leaves that laced overhead. A slight breeze set the branches moaning, and at any other time being alone in the forest at nightfall would have terrified her. But now it was a haven. Trees and plants did not turn on their masters, refusing to work or to obey, nor did they demand higher wages and the right to be free. Within hours on this day Philippa’s safe world, bound by her father’s command and his manor limits, had collapsed.

  Would that her father had heeded the rumours about the serfs roaming the Kentish countryside, gathering in great numbers, destroying the rolls that contained their names and the records of their dues towards their lords. Houses had been pillaged, sometimes destroyed, and many landowners had fled to London in terror. Her father had refused to go, not believing that his villeins would revolt. If only the hedge-priests had not come, spreading dissatisfaction and rebellion among the men! She could picture them now in their ragged russet habits, their eyes fiercely fanatical with the strength of their cause. Freedom for all men, they had preached, saying that God had not ordained that some men should lord it over others. Already their brothers in Kent and Essex were throwing off the bonds of serfdom, and marching. Tom, Rose’s brother, ambitious and disgruntled, had helped the priests.

  Philippa’s fists curled tightly so that the nails dug into her flesh. Her father had not been cruel or harsh, but a man conscious of what was his due as lord of the manor. She had begged him not to go and talk with them, but he had refused to listen, ordering her to stop fussing and to take the roll and betrothal agreement from the chest and hide them. She doubted he had meant her to put them where she had, but there was nowhere else she could think of on the spur of the moment. What had they done to his body? Did it lie — unshriven, unburied — for the crows to find?

  Movement! She could hear movement! She lifted her head in fear, and immediately a cony darted away, its white tail bobbing. Beneath the hollow trees the dusk was gathering, and although she no longer gave credence to the tales of spirits, she had no great desire to stay in the forest all alone.

  Alone! Her brothers and mother had died in an outbreak of the plague years before, and now her father was gone. She pushed back a handful of ash-blond hair that had worked loose, and as she did so, her eyes fastened on the green gemstone on her middle finger. Touching it pensively, she recalled how Sir Hugo Milburn had placed it there — not that he had been a knight then!

  The betrothal had taken place nine years earlier, when she had been ten. He had been twice her age; an enormous young man towering over her. The ring had been much too big, the weight of the stone causing it to slip round on her finger. When they had stood her on a stool so that her head was level with his shoulder, how she had wished they had not. With his head so close to hers, he had appeared even more frightening, although her mother reckoned him handsome. Flaxen-haired, ruddy-complexioned, his pale grey eyes had gazed into her face — not unkindly, but with a definite critical appraisal — and she had been convinced that he found her wanting. So nervous had he made her that she had slipped from the stool and his brother Guy, standing just behind, had caught her. Shorter and more slender than his elder
brother, he had surveyed her with kindly, but teasing, brilliant blue eyes, before setting her back on the stool. She had stammered an apology, aware of her mother’s disapproving gaze. She had wanted to die! Especially when he kept his arm about her waist, and she had seen the two brothers exchange dancing mischievous looks.

  As the words binding her to the giant of a man at her side droned on, she had wished herself beautiful and composed, like the women in the courtly romances. Then suddenly the ceremony was over. Hugo had kissed her on one cheek, and a moment later his brother had kissed her on the other. Her betrothed had turned away in response to her father’s call, and it had been Guy who had helped her down from the stool, enquiring whether she still felt faint. What she had replied had passed from her memory, but he had kept hold of her hand until his brother turned back to them. Then he had given her hand into his, saying lazily, ‘Yours, I believe, brother. Take good care of her.’

  Her betrothed had attempted to make conversation, but her mother had strictly impressed on her that men expected women to listen to them and not babble out their own opinions. So she had answered in monosyllabic tones, and in the end Hugo had gone off to talk to her brothers. Afterwards there had been a feast, and she had disgraced herself by being sick halfway through the evening. She had been sent to bed, where she could still remember the relief at escaping from a world that made her fearful of failing.

  Two more days the brothers had stayed, but she saw little of them. Once Hugo had sat beside her while she sewed and she had tried hard to converse sensibly — but nerves made her tongue the more tied the longer he sat there. It had not been so arduous with his brother, who had just talked, not seeming to demand any response, telling her about his home in Yorkshire and how he would miss it. They were leaving for France in the train of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster — in the hope of making their fortunes. This had been said with a twinkle, and had brought a responding smile to her face. He had said she should smile more often.

  At their going, she had been able to summon up enough courage to wish her betrothed ‘God speed’ and to offer her face to him for a kiss. He had laughed and lifted her off her feet, giving her a great bear hug. Even so, despite the warmth of that embrace, she had sensed he wanted to be off. Her farewell to his brother had been more circumspect: a kiss on the forehead and a ‘God keep you’, before they had ridden off. That had been the last she had seen of either of them.

  There had been talk of a marriage taking place when she was fifteen, but instead Sir Hugo had gone abroad. Several times she had asked her father when she was to wed, but he had brushed aside her questions, saying he was in no haste to be rid of her. She had been content, in a way, with Rose for a companion. They had comforted each other after their mothers’ deaths, for Rose had also lost her mother in the plague.

  What had she said? Go to London. But how — and to whom? If only her own father had not been killed! She sniffed and wiped her eyes. Her father! What had they done to his body? Unable to stay still any longer, she scrambled to her feet, retracing her steps until she came to the edge of the forest.

  There was a fire burning … a great fire! Such a rage seized her that without pausing to think of the danger she began to run in its direction. Vaguely she was aware of singing, then she saw the line of torches bobbing a serpentine path towards the village. They had believed Rose after all, it seemed, and were not going to search for her.

  As Philippa walked through the garden, the heat of the flames caused her to recoil. What had she thought she could do? Her laugh was a travesty. She stood transfixed by the flames, watching until they died, and walls collapsed, sending sparks flying. The taste of smoke was in her mouth, and her eyes watered with more than the physical effects of the fire. It was as another wall collapsed in a shower of sparks that she saw it hanging from a beam, like a figure that danced in paintings of hellfire; some remnant of clothing still clung to the blackened form. The scream had barely left her throat before she slid to the ground.

  *

  At first when Philippa regained her senses, she thought it had all been a nightmare, until the hardness of the ground made itself felt and she rolled over, to see once more the dangling figure. Her limbs trembled, but she forced herself to stand. Then the rope suddenly snapped, and the body fell into the ashes. She would have run away in terror, only her legs refused to move. A long time she stood there, her eyes shut, forcing steel into her heart and limbs.

  On opening her eyes, her glance fell upon the spade leaning against the storeroom wall. Bury him! She must bury him! No sacred ground was available, but did not all the earth belong to God? Unsure about that, she knew she had to believe it, as she would have to believe that God, and the mother of Christ, and the saints would have mercy on her father’s unshriven soul. Somehow she managed the task, although it was as though someone else, at her mind’s dictate, did it for her. Someone else recognised the silver buttons as they parted from the charred fabric. She had given them to him for a New Year’s gift. They were placed in her purse. The tears rolling down, that other person automatically said the prayers for the dead while replanting a thyme-bush. Then that same person sat back on her heels, staring down at the newly-turned earth, her whole body aching with an unaccustomed painful lethargy. One more thing was necessary. Philippa walked across the hot ground, heedless of the pain that seared the soles of her shoes, and dragged a charred crossbeam from the ruins with the dirty spade. So intent was she on her task that she did not hear the sound of hooves.

  ‘What has happened here?’

  The wood fell from her fingers with a dull thud, and she stared up at the dark outline of horse and rider dominating the night sky.

  ‘Answer me! Or have your wits gone begging?’ She looked like a wild creature of the night, he thought, dismounting. Her hair was light coloured, but tangled in an unruly fashion about her dirty face, and on her shoulders.

  ‘You are a stranger, sir?’ Somehow Philippa forced the words out slowly. Her fingers tightened on the handle of the spade, since she had no cause to trust strangers.

  ‘A stranger to Kent? Ay. What has happened here?’

  ‘A fire! A — burning!’ She gasped out the words.

  He was silent, his eyes darting from the upturned face to the ruins of the still smouldering building. He stood, his hands on his hips, his shoulders flung back, wearing some dark garment. His hair was also dark, and his profile showed the etched outline of a jutting straight nose and square chin.

  ‘This is peasants’ work! What has happened to the folk who live here?’ He stared down at her, and she lowered her eyes.

  Was this some trick intended to make her give herself away? Had someone seen her running back to the house? He could be one of the men who had come with the hedge-priests, clever men, who could twist an argument. Stumbling back on her heels, she clutched the spade tightly. ‘I don’t know where they are, sir,’ she replied in a dull monotone.

  ‘What are you doing here? Are you one of the peasants come to gloat over this night’s work?’ He was growing impatient. She gave no answer. Was she half-witted? ‘Come, think, where have they gone?’

  Philippa got to her feet, still holding the spade. ‘They have both left this place,’ she answered dully. ‘You will have to search elsewhere for the Cobtrees.’

  ‘But where have they gone?’ he demanded with asperity, rubbing a hand across his chin. Something his brother had told him flickered in his mind. ‘Canterbury! Could they have gone to Canterbury?’ His insistent voice rose.

  Startled, Philippa dropped the spade. Her hands were shaking, and she felt cold. Why could he not go away and leave her alone in her grief?

  He seized her shoulder suddenly, and shook her. ‘Did they go to Canterbury?’

  ‘How should I know?’ she cried frantically, and tore herself from his grasp. Before he could prevent her, she was out of the garden and running like a hunted hare across the waste.

  He let her go, seeing no advantage in chasing her. There
were more important matters on his mind than hunting half-witted peasant girls. Perhaps he would find them in Canterbury? Best go and see.

  Philippa gazed after him from her hiding-place in the rank grass. Her head was muzzy, and no longer did she feel safe anywhere near her own house, or on her land. What could she do? Rose had told her to go to London, but it was so far! Who could help her? Forcing back a tumble of hair she rubbed her forehead, and the faintest gleam from her ring reminded her again of her betrothed. She had long tired of waiting for him, and part of her mind was convinced that he would never come to claim her. Although he had lands in Yorkshire, he was often elsewhere about the business of his lord, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. If he could be found, she would be able to leave everything in his hands, but who could help her to find him? She sighed, trying to think, then remembered her uncle William, who was a lawyer, the widower of her dead mother’s sister. He was just the man. She must force herself on and visit him.

  Pain was something she knew on rising. It burned in her arms and shoulders, her back, and on the soles of her feet. Tears took her unawares, and she dabbled at them, trying to wipe them away as she walked. Lifting a fold of the now filthy blue linen, she scrubbed at her face, determined not to give in to the wave of misery and fear that threatened to swamp her. Squaring her shoulders, she lengthened her stride. Fortunately the nights were short at this time of year, and the gates of the city would be open at dawn.

  *

  From dazed eyes Philippa cast a swift glance at the knots of men gathering on the corners of the crowded lanes. She had rested briefly in a field, but fear had prevented her from sleeping. Mercery Lane was in view, and for a moment, when she came to the booths and stalls set at its corner, she paused. The customary souvenirs were on display to entice the pilgrims visiting the shrine of Saint Thomas a Becket: the ampoules said to contain some of his blood; the Canterbury bells that pilgrims hung on their mounts’ bridles; badges to prove that one had visited the holy place. Maybe after she had found her uncle, and rested, she would go inside the cathedral church of Christ and pray for her father’s soul.