by June Francis
She forced herself on, up one lane, down another, until she came to where her uncle’s house had stood. The buildings on each side were there still, but uncle William’s house had gone! A wave of disbelief and desolation poured over her, drenching her in misery as she stared at the heap of rubble, dirty straw and broken beams occupying the place where it had stood. A door opened in the next house, and a woman came out. Philippa looked wearily into the plump, disapproving face.
‘Good wife, prithee tell me where Master Elston has gone?’ There was hope in her voice. ‘I have come a great distance, only to find this.’ She waved an arm wildly to encompass the ruin. ‘Please tell me where I can find him?’
‘And why should I tell the likes of you?’ The woman shifted the basket on her arm. Philippa made to speak, but she rushed into further speech. ‘Besides, you are too late. Some apprentices and unruly elements from the fields pillaged his house. A fire they made of all his scrolls. He has most likely fled to London.’ She sniffed as her gaze ruthlessly took in the state of Philippa’s person and clothing. ‘Off with you! We want none of your sort. Be gone, or I’ll have my husband out to you!’
‘You are mistaken! I am Master Elston’s niece,’ protested Philippa. This could not be happening!
‘A likely tale! Now be on your way.’ The woman advanced on her, swinging her basket.
Philippa backed away and blundered up the lane, pushing her way through the crowds. With part of her mind she realised that the crowds were greater than usual for June. In July, the time when the feast of the Translation of Saint Thomas took place, the place swarmed with pilgrims.
Suddenly two boys, running, dodging and weaving, brushed past her and sent her tumbling backwards as her heel caught in the torn hem of her skirt. She would have hit the ground had two hands not grasped her firmly about the waist. Her feet sought a hold, and she trod on a foot; instantly she caught the sound of a swiftly bitten back oath.
‘If this is what happens to knights bent on rescuing damsels, it is no wonder it is going out of fashion!’ The biting humour in his voice did not conceal his northern accent.
‘I beg … your pardon!’ Philippa’s heart began to thud as he set her on her feet, facing him. Attempting to quash her inner trembling, she took in his appearance by daylight. The dark hair grew thick and smooth, and was bobbed just beneath his ears. There was a faint hollow under the cheekbones, and the curve of his mouth was cut with some beauty for a man.
‘You are unhurt?’ Long-lashed blue eyes regarded her with some exasperation.
‘If you would let go of my arm, sir!’ She struggled to free herself.
He frowned. ‘Do I not know you?’
‘No!’ The colour drained from her face as his eyes held hers, and she felt like a cony trapped by the hypnotic stare of a stoat.
‘I have seen you before,’ he said softly.
‘You are mistaken.’
Again Philippa attempted to free herself, but it would have been in vain if several men had not erupted out of an alley and forced them apart. Immediately she was away, squeezing between people, heading up the same alley. At its end, she spared a second to glance back, only to see him standing there, so turning left she ran round a corner, only to discover she had gone full circle. A swift look over her shoulder, and she was off again. A group of pilgrims were queuing to go inside the cathedral, and without hesitating, she dived in among them and wormed her way forward, inside the building. Her heart lifted when she could see no sign of the stranger.
She moved along with the pilgrims, thinking to hide in the cathedral for a while in order to allow the man time to give up his chase. She came to a spot where many had prostrated themselves full length on the floor in front of the richly decorated shrine of Saint Thomas. Kneeling, she had no mind for confession or reflection, although she did attempt to pray for her father’s soul, despite her agitation. She glanced about her, before moving on, noticing that the nave was still under construction. Her heart jumped into her throat as she caught sight of the man. Hurriedly she paced over to the tomb of Edward of Woodstock, father of the young king Richard II now on the throne of England. Black and gold, in full armour, the prince’s effigy had always roused her admiration, but now she could only think of hiding behind it. Her ears pricked, her head bowed and her heart beat wildly at the sound of approaching footsteps. They stilled, and after a few moments moved away again. Stealthily she peered round the corner of the tomb and saw a broad back clad in blue. The dark head was turned away.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another group of pilgrims wending their way in her direction, and, lost in their midst, she went with them to the altar bearing fragments of the broken sword of one of Becket’s murderers … watching, listening. Some of the people cried out and wept bitter tears at the sight of the gold-mounted portion of the saint’s skull that also lay there, but there were no tears left inside Philippa. Only an icy blackness clutched her heart as she stared at the relic. Once she had wondered and wept, but today the skull was just a skull, and the saint was as dead as her father. No miracle had saved either of them from their murderers.
Glancing over her shoulder she saw no sign of her pursuer, and quickly left the group to make her way to the door. She was almost there, when a hand reached out and seized her sleeve.
‘Unhand me!’ she cried, struggling to pull her arm free.
‘I’ll be damned if I will!’ he said in a terse voice. ‘I haven’t hunted in every nook and cranny of this place to let you go so easily.’ His blue eyes studied her intently. ‘I’m certain you were there last night!’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she insisted, lowering her face swiftly. ‘If you do not let me go, I shall scream!’
His dark brows drew together, and his mouth thinned. ‘I shall not stop you.’ The hand on her arm tightened so that it hurt, and she opened her mouth, gazing frantically about her, wondering why nobody took notice of her plight, then realised that the Mass was about to begin. Years of training reasserted themselves, and she knew that creating such a disturbance would not be welcome.
‘Had second thoughts? Good!’ He smiled sardonically. ‘If you had screamed, I would have told them that you picked my pocket.’
Philippa gasped angrily. ‘I would deny it! Why don’t you let me go? I have done you no harm!’
‘I didn’t say you had. Neither have I done you any harm — so why run away?’ he said softly. ‘I saved you from falling, and all the thanks I received were several squashed toes.’
‘I begged your pardon for the toes. And I don’t converse with men I do not know, so release me, if you please,’ she demanded in a low voice.
‘You know my answer to that, little maid.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What are you frightened of? I want only to ask you a few questions.’
‘Why should I answer your questions? You are a stranger to me, and there are many strangers in Kent at this time who are not welcome.’ Even as she spoke, Philippa was aware that there was something familiar about his face, and this made her even more convinced that he was someone she had seen on her manor recently.
‘What harm would there be in answering a few questions?’ He frowned down at her, and his scrutiny of her features was just as keen as hers had earlier been of his. ‘There’s something about you. You’re hiding something. Perhaps you are a thief?’
‘Why should I hide anything from you? I don’t know you,’ she replied desperately, struggling again. ‘And I am no thief. How dare you say that!’
‘Why should I take your word?’ He grabbed her other arm, forcing her to be still. His face was grim.
Philippa stared up at him, still angry. ‘Why should I listen to you? Why should I even speak to you? You dare to touch me!’ Her green eyes flashed fire. ‘More likely it is you who are the thief — perhaps even a murderer. You are dressed finely, but one can never tell who is who these days.’
‘What are you babbling about, wench?’ he demanded in exasperated tones. ‘Yo
u’re talking nonsense. What’s this about murder? I am no murderer.’ The blue eyes were hard.
‘You mightn’t call it murder,’ she retorted in a quivering voice. ‘Perhaps you think you were justified? That your cause is the right one? But who are you to decide whether a life is worth ending or not?’
He stared at her incredulously. ‘I do not understand what you are talking about. But let us have a quiet conversation — elsewhere.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you, or to go with you.’ She had begun to tremble, her nerves stretched to breaking-point, then realised that he was listening not to her, but to a noise coming from outside.
The deep-toned babble grew in intensity, and suddenly men, ragged, thin and hungry-looking, came pouring through the doorway so that they were both forced backwards. He spun her round so that she was shielded from that flood of humanity by his body, but still they were pushed back and back until the pair of them were wedged against a pillar. Her nose was squashed against his padded doublet, and for a moment she felt as if she could not breathe and had to force her head up, gasping. Immediately the stench of unwashed bodies mingling with incense and burning candles was repugnant to her. Men like these had killed her father! The filthy scum had destroyed her home, had driven her uncle from Canterbury and made her a refugee in her own land! She trembled with the intensity of her emotions.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of here,’ rasped a voice in her ear.
Philippa was suddenly aware of the stranger’s breath on her cheek and his eyes on her face. How close he held her, one arm wrapped about her waist, the other about her shoulders. The beating of her blood was loud in her ears, and his thigh was pressed against hers. Never had any man held her so closely, and had she been able, she would have wrenched herself out of his arms, because the experience was singularly disturbing.
The peasants surged past them and on into the cathedral’s vastness. Shouts filled the air, disrupting the Mass and causing the monks to turn in fright.
‘Come on!’ His hold slackened, and taking Philippa’s hand, he pulled her towards the doorway. Once there, he stilled as a name was roared from thousands of throats, and as one, they turned and gazed at the motley crowd. Some had fallen on their knees, apparently overawed by the soaring magnificence of the building. Still the shouts rang out, but no longer did the stranger delay. He pulled her out into a sunlight that beat down from a clear blue sky and on to face a crowd that was almost as great outside as inside the cathedral.
Again Philippa tried to free herself, but he kept hold of her wrist and plunged into the mass of people. Blindly she was forced to go with him, unable to see anything because she was not tall enough. Within that crowd she sensed the same tension, the breathless, excited waiting, and the uncertainty she had felt the day her father died. Now the mob wanted the archbishop’s head, it seemed. Chancellor of all England, him they blamed for the ills that plagued the country. She wanted to be out of Canterbury, somewhere safe, away from the peasants and from this man who forced her through the people with a ruthless determination that paid no heed to curses or toes trodden on. At last he reached a lane that was almost empty of people, and there he halted, steadying her as she swayed with weariness.
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder. ‘Can you not leave me alone? Have I not suffered enough from your kind this last night?’ she cried in a seething voice.
‘My kind? What do you mean by that, I wonder? You called me a murderer before.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I am no murderer — nor am I a lord who would beat you for any jewels you might have purloined last night.’
‘I never thought you a lord! A Lollard, sir, is what I deem you. One of those men who roam the country stirring up trouble and unrest in this realm.’ She turned from him and would have walked away if he had not forced her to a standstill.
‘A Lollard! You thought … ’ He rubbed his chin with his free hand, staring down at her intently. ‘Last night you were there on Cobtree manor — what were you doing?’
Philippa twisted in his grip. ‘What were you doing there, gone midnight?’ she countered, puzzled by his reaction to her words.
‘That’s my affair. A personal matter,’ he replied shortly. ‘Do you know where Master Elston is?’ His grip slackened.
‘Who?’ She attempted to conceal her shocked dismay.
‘You know whom I’m talking about!’ he snapped. ‘Was it because of Master Elston that you came here? Do you know where the Cobtrees are?’ There was a pucker between his sable brows. ‘Are you Mistress Cobtree’s maid? Did you come here seeking her, or the peasant army?’
‘I? Seek the peasant army?’ Suddenly her laugh rang out. ‘I hate the peasant army — I hate them!’ Her voice shook uncontrollably.
‘If that is so, then you seek your mistress. Or … ’ His eyes studied her intently.
Philippa’s mouth was suddenly dry, and she felt sick. ‘Master Elston’s gone to London, most likely,’ she said swiftly. That … is where everyone seems to be fleeing to these days.’ She began to walk on, her mind in a turmoil.
‘What about Master Cobtree? Perhaps you seek him here? Maybe you were his whore?’ He forced her to a halt by stopping straight in her path. ‘You wouldn’t be the first serf to lie with her master. Keep still a moment! You have a habit of not answering questions openly, so that I can learn little.’ He stared at her. ‘What is it?’ How pale she was — as if she might swoon, and she was trembling! ‘Listen — I don’t intend you any harm. I need to find your master and mistress.’
She stared at him from furious, glistening green eyes. His words had shocked her, and yet at the same time she realised that if he were seeking her father, he could not know that he was dead, and that meant he could not be involved in his murder. But who was he?
‘Pardon my bluntness,’ he said quietly, touching her arm, ‘but I have little time to waste, to consider your sensibilities.’
‘Do you?’ Her voice trembled. ‘That is apparent, sir, but I am no thief or whore.’ She stepped back and round him.
‘No?’ He allowed her to walk on, and fell in by her side. ‘Then who are you? You were there last night. I remember … ’ his face creased in concentration, ‘you had a spade in your hand.’
‘I did?’ Philippa slowed as she came to a corner. Her throat was tight, and so was her chest. She did not want to think of last night. A smell of burning teased her nostrils, and the crackle of flames was unexpectedly loud. For a moment she thought it was her imagination, that her senses were deceiving her, then she rounded the corner. A mass of men cavorted round a fire, throwing rolls and parchments into its heart, chanting and cheering as they did so. Fear gripped her, and she drew back hurriedly, bumping into the stranger.
‘What is it? You’re frightened!’ He grabbed her arm.
He seems concerned, thought Philippa in surprise. The ground was going up and down, and the buildings and his face were beginning to blur. ‘You — You want to know what I — I was doing last night?’ Her tongue ran over dry lips. ‘I — I was burying him. They burnt his body … and I was burying … him.’ Her legs gave way beneath her.
Hands lifted her, and he spoke, but she could not make out the words, only that they seemed to be curses. Then her head drooped on his arm and she lost consciousness.
Chapter Two
For a moment Philippa lay still, gazing up with unfocused vision at the face so close to hers, then she struggled to sit up.
‘Easy now!’ He pulled a face as he forced her down on the mound of straw. Then he moved away to lean against a wooden partition, behind which a horse stirred. ‘Do you feel like telling me who you are?’
‘Telling you?’ She drew a shaky breath, studying his face.
He nodded, his attention firmly fixed on her, the narrow-cheeked face serious. ‘Either you are a thief, or … ’
‘I am no thief,’ she declared vehemently. ‘I wish you would stop saying I was. Who are you that you take such an interest in me? Who are you to accuse
me all the time?’
‘I know who I am — it is you that I wish to learn more about.’ He folded his arms. ‘If you are not a thief, then … ’ sighing, ‘you must be — incredible as I find it — Mistress Philippa Cobtree.’
‘Why should you find it so incredible?’ she demanded, her cheeks flushing.
He came closer, and sat back on his haunches. ‘Because you don’t look in the least as I remember you, except … ’ he gazed at her, ‘your eyes are still cat’s eyes.’
‘Cat’s eyes?’ she exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeper for some inexplicable reason. ‘I don’t have cat’s eyes!’ She clenched her fingers, for he was uncomfortably close, and she was unable to back away as she would have liked to.
‘I hazard you have claws, too!’ His face showed the slightest of smiles.
Her green eyes flashed, but she made no answer to his comment, merely saying, ‘You have the advantage of me, sir. You seem to know me, but … ’
‘I am Guy Milburn. It’s not the least bit flattering that you don’t recognise me, Mistress Philippa,’ he said dolefully. ‘I have an excuse, since you were only a child when last I saw you, and you have changed much.’ A whey-faced girl with no breasts or hips — that was how his brother had referred to her before he had left Yorkshire.
‘Sir Hugo? Is he here too?’ She sat up hurriedly, dismayed, realising that it was not only because she had been a child when last he saw her that he had not recognised her.
‘No,’ he replied shortly. There was a flicker of some emotion deep in his eyes.
‘No! Then where is Sir Hugo?’ Philippa hunched her knees and pillowed her chin on them, annoyed.
‘My brother is in Yorkshire,’ replied Guy, attempting to see beyond the dirt of her face. Her nose was small, but slightly freckled still across the bridge. He remembered the freckles, and the green eyes, which were really too large for cat’s eyes, although they slanted slightly upward at the outer edge. Her mouth was a little large for her small face, and she had a dimple in her chin. No beauty, but definitely more comely than he had remembered.