My Lady Deceiver

by June Francis

  ‘What did you think? That I would dally with my brother’s betrothed?’ he said in mock horror. ‘Do you always suspect any man who touches you to indulge in a flirtation?’ Taking her hand, he said, ‘Jump!’

  Philippa jumped, for she had no choice as he leaped the stream on the word. As soon as they were on the other side, she pulled her hand from his. In a voice that quivered, she said, ‘You are the first man who has ever laid a finger on me, and if you … ’

  ‘The very first? I am overcome by such a singular honour. My brother will be pleased by such faithfulness — after all these years.’

  Philippa could not fail to hear the mockery in his taunting voice, and vexed, wishing she had a string of lovers who had adored her and about whom she could boast, she turned and ran up the slope.

  Guy caught up with her as she reached the trees. ‘That was a stupid thing to do!’ he snapped. ‘You could have tripped in the dark. What did you think I was going to do?’ He took her arm. ‘Now stay with me.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Philippa struck at his hand. ‘For some reason you are deliberately trying to embarrass me. First you say I look like a slattern, then you mock me because I am chaste and have kept myself for your brother,’ she panted. ‘Would you have me be a harlot?’ Guy stared at her through the shadowy darkness beneath the trees. ‘You misunderstand me. I admire such purity in a woman, and I am surprised, that is all.’

  ‘Surprised at what?’ She was still, wanting to know, and prepared to listen.

  He caught her chin with gentle fingers, and tilted it. ‘I am surprised that no one has ever flirted with you. Has no lover truly ever written verse in praise of your eyes? Would they say, I wonder, that they sometimes sparkle like iridescent raindrops when the sun shines through leafy boughs in a forest?’

  Her heart was racing, and it was infuriating that his touch and words should have such an effect on her. ‘Very pretty,’ she said in a humorous voice. ‘I don’t see how you can see all that! And when you could see my eyes — you compared them to a cat’s. You are a liar, Master Milburn — and an accomplished flirt!’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ he murmured dolefully. ‘Or is it that you are not used to having pretty words spoken to you — about yourself?’ His fingers caressed the curve of her jaw.

  ‘I — I know I am not pretty — or beautiful, so let us have an end to this nonsense!’ Her voice quivered slightly.

  Guy released her. ‘Of course. It is nonsense — but pretty nonsense. And you are mistaken, Philippa. Whoever told you that you were without attraction … ’ He left the sentence unfinished with an abruptness that teased her thoughts all the way to the inn.

  So many pairs of eyes turned towards them that Philippa was immediately conscious of the tightness of the brown gown, its shortness, and the tangles in her hair. Her first instinct was to turn and go out again, but Guy took her elbow and urged her to the end of a table. They sat on stools, and she stared down at the trestle top, reluctant to speak or to look at him.

  A platter was put before her, on it a fowl steaming in a shining red-brown sauce. She realised how hungry she was, and fell upon the food. It tasted of garlic and honey and red wine, and was delicious. The wine set at her elbow was also surprisingly good. She had rarely stayed at an inn, but realised, gazing about her, that the host would have to cater for the wealthy as well as the poorer pilgrims who frequented the road to Canterbury. At last she could eat no more and leaned back against the whitewashed wall, sipping her wine, her eyes closed.

  ‘You feel better now?’

  Philippa forced her eyelids wide. Guy had one elbow on the table, his chin cupped in his palm, while he swilled the wine round in his cup. She nodded, in no mood for dispute.

  ‘Now are you able to answer a few questions?’ He was gazing at her from drowsy blue eyes.

  ‘What questions?’ She rested both elbows on the table. A yawn escaped her, despite her efforts to prevent it.

  ‘Not many. I won’t keep you from your pallet. Were any of the peasants loyal to your father? Did he have a bailiff who could take charge of manorial matters in his absence?’ Guy took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Some would be, but the majority were swayed by the words of the hedge-priests. Rose told me that was how it was.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘She was my maid. We had known each other all our lives. Tom, her brother, led the revolt. It was she who told me about my father and warned me to flee., A tremor shook her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry if this is painful for you,’ Guy said gruffly. ‘But what of the bailiff?’

  ‘Walter? I think he would have remained loyal to my father. He went with him when he left the hall to go and speak with the villeins. Perhaps they allowed him to escape. He was once one of them, but he bought his freedom.’

  ‘There’s a possibility that he might return when the danger is past, and maybe carry on until he hears from you? He will know you are alive if the maid tells him.’

  She nodded. A wave of sadness and longing for the old days engulfed her. ‘Is that all?’ She stood up. ‘I would sleep.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ He picked the saddle-bags from the floor and led the way to the stairs up to the sleeping chamber.

  The room did not appeal to Philippa at all. Its roof was low-pitched, and the one window opening was too small to let in much air. It was stuffy, and already she could smell sweat, and hear people snoring and turning in their sleep. There would be lice, she was convinced!

  Guy searched for a space on the floor and beckoned to her. Near the window she lay down, pulling the blanket he had given her about her shoulders. Weariness flowed through her, seeming to tingle in her feet. Within moments she was asleep.

  *

  Guy woke suddenly, his hand going instinctively for the knife at his girdle. People were grumbling and a voice called for a light. The sound of muttering interspersed with moans was near at hand. He rolled over, blinking, and realised that it was Philippa. Leaning over, he touched her shoulder. ‘Hush, now,’ he hissed, ‘you’ll have everyone awake.’

  She stared up at him from dazed eyes, and then her fingers clutched his doublet. ‘You — will — not — let — them — burn me?’ she whispered. ‘You will not … ’

  ‘No!’ With an abrupt movement he covered her hand with his own. She must have been having a dream.

  ‘They were coming to fetch me. You won’t … ’ She kneaded the front of his doublet with a restless hand.

  ‘No!’ repeated Guy, remembering the first night he had seen her, and thought her witless. What had she said? She had been burying her father! ‘Never!’ he added, for good measure.

  ‘Never?’ she echoed, giving a tiny sigh. ‘You will not leave me?’

  ‘My word on it.’ Easy to say, he thought. It was only a dream that gripped her, after all. The horrors! What horrors had she seen? Considering the past twenty-four hours, he realised that she must have walked to Canterbury. There was more to Mistress Philippa Cobtree than a first look revealed.

  ‘You’ll stay with me?’ she pleaded fretfully, her fingers twitching beneath his.

  ‘Ay.’ Guy sighed, realising that the dream still gripped her and she was only half awake. He had to quieten her somehow, and he lay close to her, stroking her hair with his free hand. Eventually her eyes closed and her breathing became steady and quiet. Staring up into the darkness, he wondered about the rest of this journey. Damn Hugo! Her head shifted on his chest, and her soft body was warm against his. Damn Hugo! His eyes closed. It was still some distance to London. It was even further to Yorkshire, if they had only each other for company. After some time, he slept.

  When Philippa woke in the light-filled sleeping chamber, she felt as though in a cocoon of softness and warmth. Someone had wrapped her in two blankets, but the room was devoid of folk. Quickly she scrambled to her feet, bundling the blankets in her arms as the sound of voices beneath the window drew her. One of them was Guy’s. Had he wrapped her up so snugly? She warmed to
the thought, and leaning on the sill, looked out. It was a bright morning, although mist still curled over the fields, shrouding the grass and the far distance.

  ‘I tell you, the peasants are already marching,’ insisted an elderly voice from beneath the window.

  ‘You are certain that their destination is London?’ demanded Guy tersely.

  ‘I heard them, with my own ears, talking! The gates will be closed when the news reaches the city — if they can’t be turned back. I’m off now.’ Bells tinkled.

  ‘God go with you.’

  ‘And you, lad.’ There was the clatter of hooves, and then the soft tread of feet before a door was closed.

  Philippa turned from the window, her face anxious, and swiftly paced the room. She met Guy on the stairs, and for a second they paused. She could see where the dark hair swirled in a damp wave on the top of his head, and she felt his attraction. ‘You should have woken me earlier,’ she remarked in a stiff voice.

  His eyes perused her face, and she felt herself flushing. ‘I thought you needed the rest. But now that you are up, let’s be on our way.’ He led the way down swiftly.

  ‘It is because of the peasants?’ Her expression was serious, the skimpy brown skirts billowing about her bare ankles as he opened the outside door.

  ‘You heard?’ He spun swiftly, and she saw that his horse was already saddled up, waiting.

  She nodded, concealing her trepidation, but her hands trembled as she gave him the blankets to put in the saddle-bags.

  ‘We’ll get to London before them,’ he said confidently. ‘Now, up with you.’ She stared at him, not as sure as he, then put her foot in his looped hands and dragged herself up. Within seconds, they were on their way.

  Chapter Three

  ‘The pilgrim I had speech with was saying that the peasants have a new leader — one Wat Tyler,’ Guy informed her. ‘It seems he has had experience of fighting in France and has organised them. They are marching to London to see the king, in whom they have a touching faith, thinking he can right all their wrongs.’

  ‘And when he can’t, what do you think they will do?’ Philippa moistened her lips. ‘Perhaps they’ll chop off a few heads?’ Her hand went to her throat. ‘Maybe they’ll even kill Richard?’ Her voice rose.

  ‘You’re letting your own experience colour your thinking,’ he said in an emotionless voice. ‘By the time they reach London, the gates will be closed against them. Do not worry until the need arises.’

  ‘You think we shall get there well before them?’ Philippa pushed back a handful of hair. It was still in a tangle.

  ‘There is no reason why we should not. The journey might be arduous because there will be little time to rest, but we’ll do it.’

  ‘When we reach London, what then? Where do we start looking for my uncle?’

  ‘The Temple is the headquarters of the lawyers. But I have business in the city of my own, as well, that I have to attend to.’

  ‘What is your business, Master Guy?’

  ‘Sheep — wool — cloth, in that order. My brother allows me to graze sheep on the manor, of which I am his steward.’

  ‘You have no land of your own?’ The surprise in her voice caused a flush to darken the back of his neck.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Your father made no provision for you?’

  ‘My father deemed it wiser to pass all his holdings to Hugo.’ There was a note of bitterness in his tones.

  ‘Most fathers make provision for their younger sons. I do not consider that just,’ she remarked frankly.

  ‘No more do I, Mistress Philippa. But why should you be concerned? It is your children that will be the richer because of my father’s action,’ he muttered vehemently. ‘One day I shall have all the land I need.’

  Philippa was silenced. Obviously Sir Ralph’s not making provision for his younger son had hurt deeply, and she was reluctant to ask any more questions. She knew little of her betrothed’s family, only that a bond had been forged on the battlefield at Poitiers in France between her father and Sir Ralph.

  The silence between them stretched. There were few workers to be seen in the fields, and the road was not as busy as she had expected. That could have been because of the news of the peasants’ army and its advance. The sun was already warm on her head, and the clear skies meant that the day would get even hotter as it progressed. A sudden violent jerk catapulted her forward, and if she had not had her arms firmly about Guy’s waist, she might have fallen from the horse. Her nose did indeed collide with his spine, bringing tears to her eyes. As for Guy, it was perhaps Philippa’s hold that saved him from being flung over the horse’s head. He slid sideways, one hand having clutched at the horse’s mane as the beast stumbled and slipped before it fell.

  Philippa closed her ears to the oaths Guy uttered as they climbed down. She watched him as he ran a hand over its neck, murmuring soothing words, his face drawn with concern. Thrice he checked each leg, but she did not need him to tell her that the front right one was broken. He stood silently staring down at his horse, his hands on his hips. He knew what had to be done, but did not want to do it. This journey seemed to have been ill fated from its beginning, but perhaps they would still see a satisfactory end to it. He gave a heavy sigh, and moved forward.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ She twisted a lock of her hair, her eyes on his face.

  ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’ His expression was stern as he began to unbuckle the saddle-bags. ‘We’ll have to walk.’

  ‘Walk! How far?’ She did not want to take him seriously.

  ‘All the way to London, if need be.’

  ‘You’re jesting,’ she exclaimed in dismay. ‘I — I couldn’t!’

  ‘Damn it, woman, do you think I would make jests about such a thing?’ He dropped the saddle-bags on the ground and pulled a knife from his girdle. ‘Start walking … I’ll catch you up.’

  They exchanged glances. ‘Cursed hole!’ she muttered in a shaky voice. ‘Do you … ?’

  ‘It’s kinder,’ Guy’s voice rasped. ‘You go on.’

  Philippa turned and walked away, not looking back. He caught up with her a few moments later, the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. His face was set with a fierce sadness.

  ‘I’m sorry about your horse.’ She touched his arm. ‘He was a fine beast.’

  He nodded, and attempted a smile. ‘I had him since he was a foal.’ The blue eyes were bright, and he had to clear his throat. ‘I am sorry you have to walk … Perhaps we’ll be able to get another horse along the way.’

  ‘You aren’t to blame, and if the peasants can march, so can I.’ She knew it was unlikely that there would be another horse available.

  ‘Good girl.’ Briefly he touched her arm. ‘It’s not impossible; the only matter is that it will take longer.’

  He did not need to say any more, thought Philippa, trying to match her stride to his as they began to walk. If it were going to take longer, that meant they might not reach London before the peasants. She supposed it all depended on her.

  After a while, her feet began to drag, and annoyance clouded her face. She could not manage to keep up with Guy any longer. Lifting a hand, she shielded her eyes from the sun. It would take her at least ten minutes to catch up with him, if he would even wait. Sweat beaded her forehead and her throat was dry with dust. She saw him raise a hand and began to walk again, but before she had covered half the distance, he was on the move and she could have wept with sheer frustration. Leaving the road, she walked on the grass verge, pausing only to take off her shoes. When the road veered slightly and took him altogether from her sight, suddenly she was aware of the emptiness of the landscape. The whisper of the wind in the grass and trees was an eerie voice crying to the sky. She shook her head and gave a low laugh. Was she getting fanciful now? Perhaps that was the effect of tiredness. When at last she rounded the bend, Guy was sitting beneath the shade of an oak, drinking from a flask. She flung down her shoes.

  �
��Why did you not wait for me?’ she demanded angrily. Her face was red from the sun and damp with perspiration. The brown gown stuck to her, and she itched. Her feet had several blisters, which had burst, and she was annoyed to see him looking so cool and comfortable.

  ‘If I had set my pace to yours, we would still be three miles back. I discovered in France that when the need arises one can walk miles with bleeding feet and half asleep, rather than be left to die by the wayside.’ There was an expression of cool satisfaction on his face. ‘I was right! You carried on walking because you had to.’

  ‘No thanks to you!’ she exclaimed in a seething voice. ‘I suppose, if I had not caught up with you, you would have presumed I was dead and left me where I had fallen?’ She dropped on the grass, stretching herself flat on her stomach, and buried her burning cheeks beneath her arms. The ache over her eyes eased.

  ‘I knew there was still plenty of walking in you,’ he said softly, the barest hint of a quiver in his voice.

  ‘And how did you know that?’ she asked sarcastically, lifting her head slightly. ‘You were too far ahead to have seen me drop down dead.’

  ‘You didn’t drop down dead,’ he murmured, ‘unless you’re a ghost?’ He poked her with his toe, and she wriggled away from him. ‘No ghost. Would you like a drink? Or aren’t you thirsty?’

  Philippa sat up, giving him a furious glance as she took the leather flask from him. The first mouthful of ale was so refreshing — exquisitely so — that she held it in her mouth for a moment before allowing it to trickle down her throat.

  ‘Hungry?’

  She nodded, and he tossed a napkin with some bread and cheese on her lap before stretching himself out on the grass and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t drink all the ale,’ he said in dulcet tones. ‘It has to last us all day.’ Guiltily Philippa stopped gulping, and wiped the top of the flask before replacing the stopper. She began to eat. Even the food last night had not tasted so good, but never had her body been worked so physically hard as during the last two days. When the last crumb had vanished, she sat gazing at her bare feet. She sighed. ‘How long do you think it will take us to reach London?’