by June Francis
‘Would you like to see my teeth?’ She had begun to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
He grinned. ‘That’s not necessary,’ he said smoothly, surprised that she had a sense of humour. Strictly serious and very religious, he remembered her being in the past. ‘My brother, having intended to go to Berwick with the Duke of Lancaster, was gored by a boar when hunting. He has been forced to curtail all activities, so he has decided to wed you, now that he has time on his hands.’ His voice was dry, and he cocked a dark brow.
Philippa let out a tiny gasp. ‘His words, or yours, Master Guy?’
‘I beg your pardon — I spoke without thinking.’ He inclined his dark head slightly. ‘In your present situation, Mistress Philippa, I would consider that my coming is an answer to your prayers in the cathedral. You have need of a man’s guidance and aid.’
Could she detect a note of mockery in his tones? ‘Then you would be wrong. The only thoughts in my mind concerned my father’s soul.’ She swallowed. ‘You do realise that — that … ’
He nodded, and gave a grimace. ‘That was what all that talk about murder was about, then … I’m sorry, Mistress Philippa. But I wish you could have told me last night who you were. It would have saved us both a lot of time and trouble.’ He blew out a weary breath and got to his feet. ‘I suppose I shall have to take you to London with me.’
‘London?’ She lifted her chin, not liking the way Guy had spoken. ‘You don’t have to do anything of the sort! You might not have noticed,’ she continued in a determined voice, ‘but I have no baggage with me. I have no other clothes, and barely any money. My home is burnt to the ground. I am filthy, hungry, weary to the bone … my serfs have revolted … ’
‘It seems that I came just in time, then.’ His gaze ruthlessly surveyed her appearance in the torn and dirty blue linen gown. Her hand went to her bosom, where there was a rent. He raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Somewhere we’ll find something else for you to wear. You can wash — and when we’ve put some distance between Canterbury and ourselves, we can rest and eat. Now, up with you!’ Before she could prevent him, his hand was on her arm and he was pulling her to her feet.
‘I must go back to my manor. I have left the rolls hidden there with all the names of the serfs, and the betrothal agreement. Could we not … ’
‘No!’ he said firmly. Then, hesitatingly, ‘You have more wit than I realised. Where have you hidden them?’ Philippa frowned, annoyed that he would not go back with her, and also reluctant to tell him.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘You still don’t think I am one of them, do you? I might believe in some of Master Wycliffe’s teachings, and have some sympathy with the serfs’ cause, but not to the extent of joining a revolt.’
‘I hid them in the hole of the wood-spirit’s tree. It was the only place I could think of,’ she stressed quickly, flushing. ‘I escaped to the forest before they burnt the house down.’
‘The wood-spirit’s tree?’ He smiled lazily. ‘And there was I thinking you a strict daughter of holy church! You still believe that tale your brother told you?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied indignantly. ‘It was the only place. I know it’s superstitious nonsense that trees have voices and souls. Besides, that tree was struck by lightning, so it’s dead.’ Her cheeks were extremely warm. His smile had grown. ‘Do we go back and get them?’
‘I think not. There are only the two of us, and if there are still rebels about, I don’t mind a fight. But I think you’ve been through enough for one day.’ His voice was sympathetic and caused tears to well in her eyes. She blinked them away, not looking at him. ‘Are they wrapped up to keep them intact and secure from damp and insects?’
‘In leather,’ she said unsteadily. ‘It will not last for ever.’
‘Nothing lasts for ever.’ He rubbed his unshaven chin, wishing he could bring her comfort somehow, but knew that there was no way. Only time would heal her grief. He had not wanted to come on this journey, but his brother had been insistent, making all sorts of promises, and he had agreed, hoping that, by doing so, the rift between them could be healed. Now it seemed that there would be just the two of them for the road, and his brother would not like that! Perhaps they might find the uncle in London. He would be the man to advise Philippa what action to take about the revolt on her manor. His own task was to get her to Yorkshire — and to his brother.
‘We are going to London, then?’ Philippa had managed to swallow her tears. She rubbed at the dirt on her cheek before smoothing back her hair.
Guy nodded. ‘We could seek out your uncle.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘He will need to know about your father.’
‘I — I still find it hard to believe,’ she muttered. ‘He did not treat them harshly. I suppose it is the spirit of the times: the war with France and Castile; so few victories now. Even our holy church is threatened from within and without and does not provide guidance on what is right and wrong.’
‘Ay! Having two popes isn’t the best way of leading a church that is already weakened by dispute,’ commented Guy soberly, moving over to his horse.
She nodded. Some of what he had said was an echo of what the Lollards preached. Too many bishops and clergy chasing after power, pandering to the wealthy, reaping earthly rewards, instead of tending the poor of their flocks — and preaching about the kingdom of Heaven. She watched him saddle up his horse. Guy Milburn! He had changed from what she remembered of him. Not his features, or the colour of his eyes — but he was not so slim, and muscle showed where his hose hugged his calves and thighs. He wore the more fashionable shorter doublet, and it suited him. His shoulders had broadened also, and the expression on his face was not so youthful or carefree. What had been happening to him since last she had seen him? Little news had reached her about her betrothed’s family.
‘Are you ready?’ Guy led his horse over.
‘I’m not dressed for riding,’ she declared in embarrassed tones.
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ll have to manage as best you can.’ Putting his hands about her waist, he lifted her, then went over and flung wide the door. Instantly, shouts and screams were loud in their ears.
‘It looks as though we are going to have a rough ride. You’d better hold tight.’ His expression had darkened, but his blue eyes were bright with determination as he pulled himself up in front of her.
Philippa was nervous as the horse clip-clopped out into the lane. People were running towards them, pursued by a gang of ruffians. Across from the stable, shutters were being flung down and a man was climbing through the window of the house. Guy dug in his heels, and her nose collided with his spine so that tears came to her eyes. She clutched at the back of his doublet and let out a yell as a man ran up and sought to drag her from the horse. Guy twisted and kicked out at him, and the man fell back as the horse increased speed.
‘How well do you know Canterbury?’ Guy asked roughly, slowing, and gazing about him.
Philippa lifted her eyes and peered over his shoulder with some difficulty. ‘If you cross the Stour, we can skirt the city wall and come to the Westgate.’
‘So, left it is.’ Guy gave the horse its head, making Philippa cling more tightly. She closed her eyes, unaccustomed to such an undignified mode of travel, and prayed that she would not fall off.
‘Nearly there! You were right, good lass!’
There was warmth in Guy’s voice, which caused her spirits to rise. Relief soared within her as she caught sight of the Westgate’s immense twin towers soaring to the sky, peasants barred their path and she expected Guy to slow down, but instead he urged the horse on and like an arrow they shot towards the gateway. For a moment she thought the men would not give way, then they were scattering. They were through, and under the archway, over another branch of the river, and then cantering up the road to Whitstable. They passed Saint Dunstan’s church, and took the road to London.
‘I never thought we would get this far.’ Philippa’s voice broke the
long silence. ‘Back there, I thought you would have to stop.’
‘For the sake of a handful of men? No one in their right senses stands in the way of a galloping horse! I knew they would fall back. You weren’t hurt at the stables, were you?’
‘No.’ Philippa yawned, and her fingernails scraped the fine blue wool of his doublet. ‘I think they were after my girdle.’ She hesitated. ‘Was that why you thought I was a thief?’
‘In part, but I also recognised the betrothal ring on your finger. My mother had it from my father — and she died before your betrothal, so the ring was given to my brother,’ he replied in a conversational tone. ‘It was one of the prizes gained when my father fought in France with the old king.’ He eased weary shoulders.
‘I remember my father telling me.’ Her voice was uneven, and her fingers moved restlessly on his back. Suddenly everything seemed unreal, as though she existed in a bubble and was looking out on the passing scene. Was it really true that her father was dead? It seemed unbelievable, yet here she was with Guy Milburn going to London, so it could not be a dream! His back was warm beneath her fingers, and she was aware of the slightest smell of sweat and lemon. Life truly did have to go on, even if one wanted to catch time back and rerun it, hoping and praying that the ugly and terrifying had not been true. She glanced down at herself. What a fright she must look! She gripped the horse more firmly with her thighs, despite her discomfort. Her skirts were all pulled askew, revealing her calves; there were no bags in which to put her legs for modesty’s sake.
‘I wish I were on my manor,’ she whispered, half to herself; thoughts of the future were unexpectedly frightening. ‘Could you not take me back? I would see it once more to convince myself that it all really happened.’
‘What are you saying?’ Guy sounded weary. ‘It seems to be like nonsense. If it had not happened, would we be here on our way to London?’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘I’ll get you there as quickly as I can. And then to Yorkshire.’
‘Yorkshire? It is so far away. Why has your brother waited so long before wedding me? It is not very flattering!’ She swayed with weariness; her hands went round his waist, and she rested her head against his back. ‘My father kept saying that he was in no haste to be rid of me, but I knew he, too, wondered why Sir Hugo did not come to claim me.’ She yawned sleepily. ‘I fear my father tired of keeping a watch on me. Perhaps it was that your brother did not consider me? I do not think he regarded me highly when we were betrothed.’
‘It would be diplomatic of me not to answer that, Philippa.’
She caught the smile in his voice, and sat up straighter. ‘Why? If it were true, say so! I was not blind all those years ago. I knew he did not find me attractive, but I was only ten years old. What did he expect?’ she asked indignantly.
‘Not what he is getting now, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he replied blandly.
‘What does that mean?’ Was he laughing at her? ‘I know I am filthy, but I don’t always look like this.’
‘I never doubted that for a minute — once I realised who you were. I meant that you have altered. You have more to say for yourself, for a start, and have more spirit.’
‘It was hard for me to utter a word among you four men all those years ago! Besides, my mother did not encourage me to be anything other than meek and mild. I suppose she thought that was how men liked women, but after she and my brothers died, I discovered that my father enjoyed talking to me. He encouraged me to do so many things. But perhaps your brother is as my mother thought him, and he would prefer me to be a wife who is docile. And, besides, marriage is a business — not a union of souls and lovers,’ she said dispassionately.
‘You are speaking like a woman of good sense. So many women have their heads stuffed with romantic dreams! It is good that you don’t expect my brother to be like a knight in a tale, who would woo you with words and stay constantly at your side. He will expect you to provide him with several lusty sons, to control his household for him, to be obedient in all that he asks of you. There you have your future in a nutshell.’
‘It sounds just as I expected, and just as unexciting.’ She sighed, and they both fell silent, too exhausted for further conversation.
The sun was almost touching the horizon, its rays sending shining swaths of gold across the gentle, undulating countryside, when at last Guy halted by a stream. A wild cherry stood like a sentinel on the bank, its browning blown petals a carpet for the horse’s hooves.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ Philippa’s weariness was apparent in her voice, as she lifted her head and stared about her.
‘I thought you might like to tidy yourself,’ said Guy, dismounting. ‘You surely don’t want to go inside the inn looking like that?’ He held up a hand to help her down, but her green eyes had darkened, and ignoring his hand she clambered from the horse.
‘I suppose you are ashamed to be seen with me.’ She folded her arms across her breast, not looking at him.
‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ he responded with a barely controlled impatience. ‘But if you want to go inside looking like a slattern, I am too tired to argue.’
‘Where is this inn you speak of?’ she asked.
‘It’s beyond the trees, up that slope on the other side of the stream.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll go and see if they have room. And whether I can find you something else to wear.’
‘You would leave me here alone?’ Her eyes widened, and she clutched at his sleeve.
‘It won’t be for long, and, besides I thought you might be glad of a few moments on your own,’ he replied in a gentler tone.
‘Of course! I am being foolish. It’s just that … ’ She took her hand from his arm.
‘I do understand — and I shall return as swiftly as possible.’ He mounted again, and the horse splashed through the stream.
She did not watch him go, but tossing her hair back, leaned over the water and placed her palms on the stony bottom. The water ran over her wrists, cooling them, and she stared into its shallow depths in an attempt to see her reflection — but the stream ran too swiftly. Swishing the water, she brought her hands up to her face and began to rub at the dirt. There was a lump in her throat as she thought of the last twenty-four hours.
By the time she had finished, the tingling effects of the water had revitalised her. A slattern! Was that how she appeared to him? She tried to smooth her hair, combing it with her fingers, but it was impossible to untangle the knots. Her gown would never be clean again. What would her father have thought of her in this state? The aching void that the lack of his presence caused was a pain so deep that tears caught her throat and made her eyes smart. She took the silver buttons from her fitchet and stared at them, remembering …
‘I’ve brought you a clean gown. That is, if you don’t mind plain brown homespun?’ Guy’s voice so startled her that she would have fallen into the water had he not leapt the stream and pushed her back on the bank. His hand was still warm on her shoulder as he knelt on one knee in the grass. ‘Were you falling asleep?’
She gazed up at him and shook her head wordlessly. When he saw the tears glistening on her lashes, he thought it wiser to say no more, and dropped the gown in her lap. ‘It was the innkeeper’s daughter’s.’ He lowered himself on the bank next to her.
Philippa’s hands folded about the gown; the fabric felt rough. She cast him a glance, which he caught. ‘Best to change here,’ he said quietly. ‘There is no privacy at the inn.’ She did not move. ‘You are perfectly safe with me,’ he added irascibly, running a hand over his chin, and turning his face away. ‘Hurry up, for I wish to make an early start in the morning.’
‘But … ’ began Philippa nervously, turning the gown over between her fingers.
‘But what … ?’ His voice rose as he turned and looked at her. ‘You didn’t want me to leave earlier. If you wish me to leave you here — in a state of undress — when it’s almost dark … ’ He made to rise.
‘No — No,’ she stammered
, glancing over her shoulder. ‘I did not think … ’ She pressed her lips firmly together as he averted his gaze and sat down again. With her eyes firmly on him, she rid herself of her old gown and pulled the new one over her head. Not without some difficulty could she ease it over her breasts and hips, wondering, as she did so, how old the innkeeper’s daughter was. Her fingers scrabbled for the fastenings at the back, but she could manage only a few. Perhaps they could be left undone? But on feeling the gap with her trembling fingers, she knew it would not do. She cleared her throat.
At the sound, Guy looked round. ‘You are ready?’ he drawled sleepily.
‘Not — Not quite. I can’t reach all the fastenings.’
‘Here, I’ll do them.’ He rose and came close to her. It was almost dark, and they could barely see each other’s faces.
‘Thank you.’ Philippa felt him part her hair, pushing it forward over her shoulders in an untidy mass. His fingers were cool and seemed to caress her skin, and she was suddenly aware of him, just as it had been in the cathedral. The thought caused her to fidget, and to wish he would hurry. When at last he finished and twirled her to face him, her thanks were flurried. His eyes gleamed, but he did not speak, only smoothing back her hair from her face. The back of his hand brushed her cheek, and she jumped.
‘You’re not frightened of me, surely, Philippa?’ There was a derisive note in his voice.
‘No, of course not! It is getting dark, so surely we should be going?’ As she backed away, he grasped her arm and pulled her towards him. ‘No! Don’t, please! Let me go,’ she squeaked, pushing a hand against his chest.
‘You would rather fall in the stream?’ he demanded as he let go of her.
She clutched at his sleeve as she teetered on the edge, and he snatched her back. ‘I’m sorry! I thought … ’