by June Francis
‘It depends on you.’ Guy sat up and rested an elbow on his humped knee. ‘How much further do you think you can go today?’
‘I don’t know. But I have no intentions of moving yet,’ she declared hotly. She wriggled, itching still. It would be fleas!
‘I haven’t asked you to. You need a rest.’ He snapped off a stem of grass and put it in his mouth.
‘I’m glad you realise that!’ She scratched her ankle vigorously.
‘You’ll only make it worse, you know,’ he murmured, his eyes on her bare legs, having been unable not to notice their shapeliness the evening before. ‘The only way to be rid of lice is to drown them.’
Philippa darted him an irritated glance, and was instantly aware of the amount of leg she was revealing. Flushing, she tried to pull down her skirts.
‘What small feet you have!’ Guy stretched out on his stomach and his fingers touched her toes. Instantly she drew her legs up, attempting to curl them beneath her skirts. ‘No, don’t. Wait!’ There was an intensity about his voice that caused her to still. His fingers curled about her ankle, and she made to withdraw, but he pinched her ankle so unexpectedly that she let out a scream.
‘That hurt!’ Her face was mutinous. ‘Did you have to pinch me so hard? I consider that you find pleasure in seeing me suffer.’ She struggled to pull her foot out of his grasp.
‘Then you are labouring under a misapprehension.’ His blue eyes teased as he licked his finger deliberately, and then rubbed the spot where the flea had bitten her ankle. ‘It’s not in making women suffer that I find pleasure in their company.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She frowned down at him. A lock of raven hair fell forward on his forehead, and her senses were unexpectedly stirred. ‘Then what do you find pleasurable!’ Immediately she was conscious of her words sinking into a well of silence that contained an untangible something she did not quite understand.
‘Do you really need me to tell you?’ he murmured, releasing her ankle, and sitting up. ‘Did your mother — or father — tell you so little about men?’ His blue eyes were quizzical.
‘No!’ she blurted out. ‘I know all I need to know.’ Suddenly she could not bear to stay any longer, with him so close to her, and laughing at her lack of knowledge where men were concerned. She stood up abruptly, and he looked up at her from lazy blue eyes.
‘I think I’ll just go for a walk — in that orchard over there. You — you don’t have to come with me. I want to be on my own.’
‘A walk?’ Guy smiled and shut his eyes, knowing he should not tease her, but she rose so beautifully. ‘Don’t be long,’ he murmured, not opening his eyes to watch her go.
Without pausing to put on her shoes or to look back at him, Philippa almost ran to the orchard. Once within its shade, she slowed and let her gaze roam, and noticed some berries near the ground just ahead. They were strawberries, small and sweet, and she picked several, popping them in her mouth, enjoying their flavour. Then she saw the wall not far away. Perhaps there would be people, she thought, and they might have a horse that they would exchange for … for her silver buttons? What had Master Guy said … It all depended on her. She walked unhurriedly towards the wall. It was quiet among the trees but for the birdsong and the whispering of leaves. Through some open gates she went and up a rutted path, eventually coming into a courtyard.
Flies buzzed about a pile of maturing dung. There was a well, and a man winding up a bucket. With a heavily beating heart, she halted abruptly. He saw her the moment she began to back away.
‘Come a-calling, have you? Come to see if somebody’s at home? Well, they ain’t. All gone to London.’ His smile showed broken, rotting teeth, and a scrawny elbow poked through a hole in the sleeve of a filthy grey tunic.
Philippa turned to run, but he covered the space between them more quickly than she would have thought possible. She tried to pull away as he seized her in a painful grip. He fastened a wiry arm about her waist, lifting her off her feet as she struggled to free herself.
‘You filth! Let me go!’ she cried in a panic-stricken voice, kicking at his legs.
‘Don’t call me filth!’ he rasped, seizing a handful of hair and dragging her head back. ‘You don’t dress like a lady, but you speak like one. But John Ball, the preacher, says we are all equals now.’ His breath was rank, and caused her to cough. Forcing her head painfully back, he stretched her throat so that she found it difficult to draw breath. She tried to scream, but could not. His eyes were as dark as charcoal in a face the colour of pale yellow cheese. This was no serf, she found herself thinking. Gaol pallor! The serfs had been freeing the prisoners! The blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins.
‘We wants to be alone, don’t we, lovey?’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘There’s more of us filth in the house — but they be drinking best wine — later they’ll want some sport with you. But I’m going to have you first!’ His hold tightened, and still grasping her hair, so that tears glistened in her eyes, he dragged her back in the direction of the open doorway of a barn.
The dread and loathing evoked by his words had paralysed Philippa’s limbs, but as they reached the doorway, a cat shot out, and the man swerved, his grip loosening a fraction. Fear gave way to action as her eyes swept the dark interior of the barn, and she rammed her feet against the door-jamb. Then began a struggle in which she fought like one demented, and he was unable to get a good grip while attempting to knock her off her feet.
How she managed to release herself Philippa never fully comprehended, but suddenly she was free, and running across the courtyard. Halfway she managed to reach, before realising that he was behind, and whirling, she faced him, her breasts heaving, determined that he would not touch her again, but he seized her and catapulted her forward, her head caught him in the stomach and they both toppled over. Panting with fright, she managed to disentangle herself and scramble away, but did not get far before his outstretched hand clawed at her foot. She collapsed face down in the dust with a sobbing cry. Then she saw the feet.
Hoisting her up and out of the man’s hold was the work of seconds. Philippa stared into Guy’s furious face, and knew a different kind of fear. He set her on one side, and there was the gleam of a knife in his other hand.
The man gave a snarl, but before he was fully upright, Guy flung himself on him. They rolled over and over in the dust, grappling, and she had a job to see who had the upper hand. Then Guy’s knife was against the man’s throat, and he was pulling him up by the neck of his tunic. The man was forced back and back, then Guy kicked his legs from under him, causing him to collapse with a shriek into the heap of dung. The sound was quickly cut off as the hilt of the knife caught him hard under the chin. Guy turned and covered the distance between them in a couple of strides. He grabbed her by the wrist, and shouted, ‘This stupid episode has cost us time!’
Philippa shot one swift glance at his face. The sound of singing was suddenly loud, and the man on the dung-heap was stirring. Guy put a hand to her shoulder and pushed her from the yard, then he hurried her along the path and out of the gateway. He did not allow her to catch her breath, but forced her on until they reached the road. There they paused. Bending, he picked her shoes up and flung them at her. ‘Put them on!’
Philippa winced. ‘You — you don’t have to shout. How was I to know those men were there?’ Her teeth caught at her bottom lip to stop it trembling.
‘Of course you didn’t, but what made you wander off like that when you know the peasants have been roaming the countryside?’ Guy dragged the saddle-bags from the depths of a hawthorn bush. ‘It was a stupid thing to do!’
‘You didn’t stop me!’ she countered, her green eyes sparking.
‘You said you wanted to be alone — I didn’t think you would wander so far.’ His fingers ploughed through his thick dark hair. ‘It was a damned senseless thing to do!’
‘Do you have to swear at me?’ There were red spots of colour high on her cheekbones. ‘I’m tired of listening to you
.’ She picked up her shoes.
‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Cobtree,’ he retorted ironically, bowing slightly. ‘Perhaps you would rather I showed no concern?’
‘Is that what it is? I thought it was just sheer bad temper because I have wasted your time!’ She tossed her hair back, and swung her shoes angrily from the tips of her fingers.
‘Bad tempered?’ Guy drew a controlled breath. ‘You are enough to try the patience of a saint. And I’m no saint!’
‘I couldn’t fail to notice that,’ she snapped, letting the shoes drop to the ground.
‘What does that mean?’ Guy said in a dangerously low voice, dumping the saddle-bags and coming over to her.
Philippa moistened her mouth, suddenly nervous. ‘I — I was merely agreeing with you, that’s all!’
There was a silence while he studied her. ‘You had better turn round.’
‘Turn round?’ She stared at him with puzzled eyes.
Guy seized her shoulder and whirled her round so that she gasped. ‘No good,’ he remarked, and twisted her round again. ‘Perhaps you’ll agree with me that it was a damned foolish thing to do?’
‘What are you … What do you mean by twisting me round like that?’ Her expression spoke of her impatience. ‘I am not a maypole! If you are talking about that man, I still say that I could not have known he was there.’ She scowled at him, wishing he would not stand so close. He made her feel … She could not describe the sensation, because she had never felt this mingling excitement and nervousness before.
‘You do realise what would have happened if I hadn’t found you?’ Guy enquired softly. ‘A touch of gratitude would not go amiss, Philippa. Half the fastenings on your gown are torn.’
She lowered her head. ‘Of course I know.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘There’s nothing I can do now!’
‘I just wondered, after the way you spoke earlier,’ he said drily.
Her head shot up, and she flushed. ‘I did not consider what I was saying. My mother told me … what to expect, shortly after my betrothal.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You could not have been too concerned, or you would have come earlier and saved me from being manhandled by that filth,’ she added calmly.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Damn it, woman, you’re enough to try the patience of any man!’ He pulled her towards him. The blue eyes smouldered. ‘Perhaps this will teach you to be more careful in future.’ His mouth sought hers and found it, claiming it in a brutal kiss that crushed her lips.
Philippa struggled furiously. There was a peculiar panic inside her, then unexpectedly the pressure of his mouth eased. She thought he would free her, but instead he gathered her closer and continued to kiss her with an amazing gentleness; his mouth moved over hers in a way that was extraordinarily persuasive. Suddenly she knew that if he did not stop, she might easily succumb and respond to his kiss. Her limbs began to quake … then he released her, and she was aware of a vague disappointment.
‘Let that be a lesson to you!’ His breathing was a little hurried, as he bent to pick up the saddle-bags.
She scowled at him. ‘I don’t need to be taught what beasts men are!’ She pushed her foot inside a shoe.
‘I’ve been gentle with you,’ he murmured, frowning down at her.
‘Gentle? Humph!’ She pushed her other foot in her other shoe, wincing. ‘You had no right to touch me.’
‘No right at all,’ he responded promptly, swinging the saddle-bags over his shoulder, and beginning to walk away.
Exasperated, she stared after him. She had known he would cause trouble as soon as she had set eyes on him. Was it only two nights ago? In such a short space of time he had made her wonder how she would have felt if it was him she was going to wed, and not Sir Hugo. The thought left her strangely unsettled.
*
‘I can’t go any further,’ Philippa complained, swaying with exhaustion.
‘Just a little further. There’s an inn beyond the dip in the road,’ insisted Guy, easing the saddle-bags on his aching shoulder.
‘It is always a little further.’ She eyed him mutinously. ‘I can’t go on.’
‘If that is so, I’ll go on and come back for you in the morning.’ He showed no sign of the anxiety he felt about her ability to carry on to London on the morrow, and started to walk wearily.
She stared after him, filled with a sense of frustration. He had made no allowances for her since the episode with the peasant. Surely he must be as tired as she? She began to limp after him, and surprisingly it did not take her long to catch up. She wondered if he had deliberately slowed his pace.
Guy glanced down at her, and there was a softening in his expression. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ She made no answer. ‘If you consider this walk arduous, you should have been on the great march in 1373.’ She pretended not to hear, but her curiosity was roused. ‘I lost a horse then, also,’ he continued, despite her apparent lack of interest. ‘So did Hugo. When we set out from Calais in August there were fifteen thousand of us, but by the time we crossed the Auvergne in winter and reached our destination, only eight thousand were left.’
‘Why was that?’ She noticed the lines of weariness grooving his face, which was engrimed with dust. What a pair they must look! ‘Was there a battle?’
Guy shook his head. ‘That wily devil, Charles, who sat the throne of France then, would not come out from behind his castle walls to face our archers. He had learnt from past mistakes, perhaps. Most of the men died from cold and lack of food — and the illnesses caused by the conditions.’
‘But you and Sir Hugo survived. I remember your talking about what a great adventure it was going to be — and how rich you would be when you returned.’
He grimaced. ‘We did not realise, when we left, that the days of capturing French noblemen and ransoming them for a small fortune were over.’ He shrugged. ‘But we learnt to survive, and when in Calais, I discovered that there were other ways of setting out to make a fortune.’
‘Wool?’ She halted, and he nodded. They stood on the crown of the hill.
‘It would be easier to make that fortune if the war ended.’ He gazed down at the sweep of open rolling countryside and the inn below by the wayside. ‘It’s time the Plantagenets gave up their dream of regaining the throne of Valois. The rebellion of the serfs is the direct result of levying poll-taxes to raise money to pay for such a senseless dream, which in the end will prove unattainable.’ He took her arm and led her to the inn.
It was as they were drinking their ale that the man came in. Finely robed in a surcote of scarlet cloth over a blue tunic, he was of ample girth. They exchanged glances as he looked at them. He first surveyed a huddle of men, then made his way down the table to approach Philippa and Guy.
‘You have no objection to my joining you good folk?’ He pulled out a stool and sat before they could answer. ‘What a day it has been!’ He rubbed his hands together and his round dark eyes shone. ‘Profitable, though, profitable!’ He smiled expansively, his double chin wobbling. ‘You are on your way to London, good folk?’
Guy nodded morosely. Philippa yawned, and took another drink of ale. She would be glad to get to bed. The man was not put off.
‘You know the peasants are marching this way?’ He picked up his spoon as a bowl was set before him. ‘I have been in their company. Some are feeling the weight of their sins after all this pillaging and burning. I have made a small fortune, I tell you, selling them absolution.’ His voice had sunk to a whisper, and he winked.
Guy was suddenly alert and leaned forward. ‘How far are they from here? We left them at Canterbury.’
‘Travelling by way of Maidstone I have come.’ The pardoner picked up a hunk of bread and began to chew noisily. ‘They have freed that unrepentant sinner John Ball from prison, and he has convinced them that they have a chance of achieving all their aims. Their leaders plan to make them march through the night, hoping, I suppose, to surprise the city.’
Philippa stared at him agha
st, and Guy stiffened, his hand tightening about his cup.
‘You are sure of this?’ He took a deep draught of the ale, his eyes intent on the man’s face.
‘They are in good heart, and I doubt not they could do it,’ replied the pardoner, nodding vigorously as he chewed. ‘John Ball and this Tyler would have all the king’s council’s heads sliced from their shoulders, as well as Lancaster’s.’
‘I can believe it! Would you like to drink with us?’ Guy smiled.
‘That’s handsome of you, my good man. Thank you, thank you.’
Guy signalled to a serving-man. ‘You have had a good day, you say. Travelled far?’
‘Came on horseback from Dover this last week. But a good day? Ay! Managed to part with a piece of Peter the apostle’s sail. Over a thousand years old, with not a single hole in it!’ His whole body shook as he laughed inwardly.
‘A good day indeed,’ murmured Guy, not allowing his distaste to show. ‘What else did you manage to get rid of?’
Philippa only half listened, wondering why Guy passed the time of day with him, encouraging him to talk and plying him with drink. Since she had come to know him a little, she had thought Guy Milburn would not have crossed the street to pass the time of day with this type. Pardoners gave the church a bad name. Having licences to sell pardons up and down the country, they often tricked the gullible into buying all sorts of so-called relics. Once she had come across one who swore that the blue cloth he was prepared to part with, at a small cost, was part of the Virgin Mother’s veil — and that it would bring healing and great blessing to all who touched it. He had been sent on his way speedily!
Moodily Philippa gazed at the two men. She was so tired that her whole body seemed to feel one big ache. When would Guy stop listening and drinking and suggest it was time to retire? The thought of going upstairs alone in this inn was abhorrent, for its occupants seemed an unsavoury lot. What they would do in the morning she was past caring. The news of the peasants depressed her, but she could do nothing about it. Sleep was her main thought.