by June Francis
Philippa scrubbed at her face with her sleeve, feeling strangely shy, now that she was alone with Guy again. What did Mistress Wantsum think of her? Although she had shown sympathy and kindness, she would be extremely practical, and not one given to dreams, she thought, trying to keep her mind from dwelling on how close Guy was sitting. His thigh was warm against hers, and she was very conscious of it, but she could not have moved away even if her life had depended on it. How weary she was — unbelievably so! Yet she had continued to walk while convinced that she could not put one foot in front of the other. Gazing down at her feet, she noticed a hole in the toe of her shoe.
‘You’ve nearly worn them out.’ It was as though Guy had read her thoughts.
‘Ay! You got me here, though. I don’t think I could travel another step, I am so tired.’
‘You think not? If you had to, you would.’ He put his arm along the back of the settle just behind her, and stretched his legs out.
‘I don’t think … ’ She broke off, and yawned, then took a sip of wine, and closed her eyes, leaning back.
‘What do you think? That you couldn’t?’ His fingers moved slightly to rest on the curve of her neck. He felt lazily content just to sit and gaze at her profile. Her downswept lashes brushed the sunburnt curve of her cheek, and he noted that freckles crowded the bridge of her nose and her upper cheeks.
‘Hmmm!’ Philippa nodded after several silent stretching seconds, and then took another drink of wine. Her body was already responding to its soothing properties, and because she was at rest after so many tense hours. She should really move away from beneath the caressing touch of his fingers, but that was also soothing, and she was so comfortable; even the silence between them was companionable. Yet she should not be thinking, or feeling, like this! He had a wife — and she herself was betrothed to his brother. Still she did not move.
‘What do you know about love, Philippa?’
The question took her completely by surprise, so that her eyes flew open and she stared straight into his face. ‘Love? I don’t understand?’ Her cheeks were warming, and her fingers trembled about the stem of the silver goblet.
‘Has no man ever spoken words of love to you, truly?’ The blue eyes drowsily studied her. ‘I still find that incredible. You have not even had a courtly lover?’
‘No — and — no! Why do you ask? Did your brother ask you to find out such things of me? I told you I am chaste. My father had me watched carefully.’ She could not disguise her irritation on remembering how strictly he had guarded her. ‘I have read of such practices, of course,’ she added in an uneven voice, ‘and consider that it might be quite delightful to have a man prostrate at one’s feet enslaved by one’s beauty and virtues!’
Guy’s mouth eased into a smile. ‘Speaking as a man, I find such practices over-rated. To worship — to look upon, but not to touch. I think my desire would soon pall.’
‘Perhaps.’ Her nose crinkled. ‘I am not a goddess, after all, and I suspect I have more faults than virtues. My mother was wont to say that I was too thin, too freckled, and too much of a dreamer.’
‘A dreamer?’ His fingers stilled. ‘What do you dream? Do you remember your dreams?’ His face was suddenly serious.
Philippa frowned. ‘Sometimes I have dark dreams.’ A shudder rippled through her, remembering just a part of the dream that had kept recurring lately. ‘But,’ not wanting to think about that, ‘my mother did not refer to sleeping dreams, but to my habit of what my brothers called painting pictures in my head. I used to make up tales — as well as listen to them.’ She flushed and fell silent. He might think her strange, just as her mother had.
‘What do you listen to? Psalters and books of hours … or romances?’ She had been hurt, he thought, having watched the expressions flit across her face.
‘What if I replied that I know of Dante and Boccaccio?’ Her eyes challenged him. ‘Also the Arthurian tales of chivalry, and Geoffrey Chaucer’s “Troilus and Criseyde”.’ There was triumph in her voice.
‘I would say that for a woman you have much talent.’
‘Do you know of Master Wycliffe’s heretical works?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘I have also heard with great interest his translation of the scriptures into English. One tale appeals to me especially, about a son who leaves home and wastes his inheritance, but is welcomed with much love when he comes home seeking forgiveness from his father. I understand it to be a story about God and his forgiveness. Indeed it is about love.’
‘About God’s love — not about retribution?’ She laughed mirthlessly, touching her blistered toe with careful fingers.
‘You don’t believe in love?’ he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His face was parallel with hers.
Philippa knew then that they were not talking about God. ‘Oh, I believe in love,’ she declared recklessly. ‘But I don’t ever intend falling in love. Love means suffering, and I have suffered enough … To languish because some man will not smile on me is too foolish to contemplate!’
‘What of Hugo?’ he persevered, smiling slightly, interested in her views, thinking her a woman of many surprises.
Philippa took a deep draught of the wine before answering. ‘Now that is foolishness you speak! What has love to do with marriage?’ she mocked. ‘Real love is ill-fated and is never reciprocated. Should one indeed marry, love would die because of the commonplace task of everyday living. One would see that the other was not perfect, after all, but possessed many a human fault,’ she finished unsteadily.
‘I never thought to come upon a woman of such good sense. We think alike, Philippa, and I did not realise it. My experience taught me that is so, but as for you … ?’ Slowly his long-lashed gaze scrutinised her features. ‘You know then what marriage is about?’
‘Of course!’ She sat up, resting her back against the wooden upright of the settle. ‘It is about duty and doing what one’s parents dictate. About protection, rearing children, and about what one can bring to one’s spouse in the way of possessions.’
‘How dull it sounds!’ He leaned back, his elbow on the top of the settle. ‘To worship at the shrine of another’s wife, to flirt, to languish … is that not how the troubadours see love? It is a courtly love. Look, but don’t touch! Do you know the poem Chaucer wrote? His White Lady is said to be Blanche of Lancaster, John of Gaunt’s first wife. He wrote it for the duke after she had died of plague.’
Philippa nodded. She felt as if they were treading on dangerous ground. Was he flirting with her? Had he tired of his own wife, and sought a little excitement elsewhere? She was furiously indignant. ‘Chaucer might have felt love for the duchess, but as for the duke … Does he not have another wife now? He also has a mistress whom he has forced to live in open adultery with him — and their children. I count his actions as cold and calculated!’ She flung the words at him.
Guy’s brow had creased. ‘Why so angry, Philippa? Can you blame a man in such a situation for trying to have it so — to live with his love? See! I disagree with you. I think he loves his mistress and would marry her if he could, but would it make any difference to how they feel for each other? Having consummated that love, will it still burn itself out in the everyday task of living? Or, if it is kindled the more often, will it not flare and burn steadily?’ Guy pressed in a low voice, watching the conflicting emotions flicker in her green eyes.
Unsettled by his argument, Philippa did not know how to answer, but eventually replied. ‘For most, love is a dream, and just as unlikely to come true — in the way one would wish.’
‘Is it? I wonder. I know some whose relationship I envy.’
There was a silence, and into it broke a voice. ‘What were you two talking about when I came in? You sounded so intent.’ Beatrice set down the tray she was carrying. A man-servant followed, carrying another.
‘We did not hear you coming, Beatrice.’ Guy stood and walked stiffly to the table. He sat on a bench, looking up at his cousin,
but he addressed Philippa. ‘Do you remember, Philippa, that Dante’s ill-fated love was named Beatrice? He was only nine years old when they met, and he never forgot her.’
She got up and came towards him. ‘But they did not marry, I think. I doubt they even knew each other when he wrote about her. He made her out to be so perfect a maid that, eventually, she was made a saint.’ She yawned, and took a seat opposite him.
‘By Saint Beatrice herself, Guy, what a subject for conversation at this time of night! No wonder Mistress Cobtree is ready to fall asleep,’ exclaimed Beatrice, amusement in her voice. ‘Eat, and then sleep,’ she commanded, sinking to the bench next to Philippa. ‘Guy and my husband often discuss Dante, and it sends me to my bed. Myself, I am more concerned with this life, and what we are to have for dinner on the morrow!’
Philippa’s expression lightened. ‘You have set before us a feast, Mistress Wantsum. Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘It is my pleasure.’ Beatrice beamed. ‘Help yourselves to what you want.’
Philippa forgot the unease she had felt over the conversation between Guy and herself, but the sudden exhilaration she had experienced was harder to dismiss. Sitting so close to him, talking about love, was something she could never forget, she was certain. She began to eat.
Beatrice smiled with delight, watching them enjoy their food. The tarts were delicious; the dried fruit in the egg custard tangy and sweet. When they were both replete, they sat back, sipping another goblet of exceedingly good Malmsey wine.
Guy had been right, thought Philippa, her eyes closed: she had eaten and drunk well beneath the Wantsums’ roof. The conversation between her hostess and Guy passed over her head, for she was almost asleep.
Then Beatrice was at her elbow, shaking her. ‘Come, my dear, you would be better in your bed. And Guy tells me that your feet are sore, and some salve would not come amiss. I shall show you to your chamber.’
Philippa rubbed her eyes. ‘I have need to wash, Mistress Wantsum. I am so dirty!’
‘There is water in your chamber. Come. Guy is waiting to see James, so we shall go up together.’ She put an arm about her waist and helped her up.
For only a second did Philippa’s sleepy gaze hold Guy’s, then she was going with Beatrice through a door at the side of the high table, and up the stairs. They passed through several rooms, but she was too drowsy to notice anything but that they were dimly lit, and that in one the bed was extremely large and covered with an embroidered coverlet, with a canopy above it, with silk hangings on each side.
The room they stopped in was smaller, but warm. The bed was narrow. On a stand, a metal bowl steamed gently. A young maid, yawning, was placing a towel on a stool. She bobbed a curtsy.
‘You will help Mistress Cobtree to undress and wash, Marjorie. She has lost all, because of the peasants.’ Beatrice bustled forward, having relinquished her hold on Philippa’s arm. ‘You have the soap?’ She turned to Philippa. ‘It is new and from Castile. The finest!’
‘We have talked of Castile,’ muttered Philippa, walking unsteadily towards the stand. ‘His wife is from Castile, isn’t she?’ She stifled a yawn.
‘If you refer to Catalina, my dear,’ murmured Beatrice, placing a small jar on a stool, ‘she died three years ago, in giving birth to a stillborn son. He has a daughter, Constance, but she often stays with my brother’s young family in Liverpool. A woman called Ann lives in, and keeps house for him … ’ She shook her head. ‘But there — Guy is in no haste to wed again, and is busy trying to make his fortune.’
Philippa stared at her, her eyelids drooping. ‘I did not know she was dead. He never told me.’
‘He doesn’t talk about it. To Guy, the past is the past. There is only one hurt he finds difficult to forget.’ Beatrice sighed, automatically smoothing the coverlet, her face absorbed. Then she shook herself. ‘Now you get into bed, my dear, and I’ll see you in the morning. Then I shall bring you some gowns to choose from.’ She smiled and left the room.
Philippa stared after her, a lightness in her heart — the meaning of which she did not intend to think deeply about. Then she turned and submitted herself to the maid’s ministrations.
Chapter Five
Philippa woke to the sun squinting through the edges of the shutters. The knock came again, and sleepily she called, ‘Come in!’
Beatrice entered, carrying some garments over her arm. ‘I have brought you the gowns I promised.’ Her expression was serious. ‘Guy thought you might rather stay in bed this morning than go with him to the Temple.’
‘Stay in bed? But he doesn’t know my uncle, and it would be much better if I went with him.’ She would have scrambled out of bed, except that she had no clothes on.
‘Now you are not to excite yourself. He is going with James, and they know your uncle’s name. They are bound to find him. Besides, it would be safer if you stayed here.’ Beatrice set the gowns down on the foot of the bed. ‘You should dress and then come down, and the maids shall prepare us some collops to break our fast.’
Philippa frowned. ‘What is it? What has happened?’ She would have risen, but Beatrice pushed her back against the pillows.
‘You must not worry, Mistress … Oh, this is silly. You must call me Beatrice, and I shall call you Philippa. It is likely that you will be in London for some days.’
‘What do you mean? Tell me, Mis — Beatrice, please!’ She gripped the coverlet tightly.
After the barest of hesitations, Beatrice spoke. ‘The peasants are on the other side of the Thames at Blackheath, and are demanding to see the king. Apparently last night they set the prisoners free at the Marshalsea and set fire to several buildings.’
Philippa’s face paled. ‘Oh no!’
‘You are not to be downcast.’ The older woman’s expression was uneasy. ‘We have my husband’s men on watch at the gates, and they are locked. And, besides, they might never set foot this side of the Thames.’
‘Your guard said that there were men on this side who would be willing to let them in. There are ways and means, he said,’ murmured Philippa soberly.
‘He was probably exaggerating.’ Beatrice took her hand. ‘You must not worry. The council will have to do something now that the peasants are here!’ She forced a smile.
Philippa was not reassured. ‘They should have acted before now, and not allowed matters to go so far! The danger is real.’ She removed Beatrice’s hand, swung her legs out of the bed, and grabbed one of the gowns at its foot. ‘I must find out what is happening.’ Her voice was emotionless, her expression impassive.
‘Philippa! You cannot go outside the gates. Guy said … ’
‘Guy said! Guy said!’ Her fear erupted into a tirade. ‘He forced me to walk and walk, with my feet bleeding, telling me all the time that we must get to London before the peasants, and then we would be safe! But it seems to me that I have escaped one horror only to face a more terrible one. I should not have come with him! I should not have come!’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘But I will go to seek my uncle, whatever he says.’ She inched the green gown towards her.
Beatrice placed a hand over it. ‘If that is how you feel, then I shall go with you,’ said she in resigned tones. ‘But there is no need for such haste.’ Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked at Philippa’s rebellious expression. ‘It is much too late to catch up with them. You must let Marjorie braid your hair, and I shall give you a headdress. Do not be angry with Guy; he is doing what he thinks is best for you,’ she pleaded. ‘Really, you should rest those feet of yours, and I must find you some shoes. The only thing is that my feet are smaller than yours,’ she said, with a pucker of her smooth white brow.
Philippa’s anger partially dissolved and she experienced a stab of mortification. ‘I’m sorry. You must think me ungrateful, but truly I’m not. It is just that the last few days … ’ A tremor quivered in her voice. ‘Everything changed so suddenly. Still I find it hard to realise that it is all true. That my father is dead, and I have no r
oof over my head. I know Guy meant well … but I must find my uncle.’
‘Guy will do his best to find him, my dear. But even if he doesn’t, he will take you to Yorkshire.’
Philippa nodded slowly, her expression not showing the disquiet she felt. To go to Yorkshire alone with Guy Milburn would certainly be unwise. She had to find her uncle, despite all Beatrice’s remarks about Guy and her husband doing so! If matters were as serious as they sounded, they might not have time to search for him properly. As for staying here meekly and resting her feet! She had been able to walk to London, so to search its streets should not be beyond her capabilities. Besides, she had a mind to see herself how matters were. She bit her lip and regarded Beatrice seriously. ‘Do not be angry with me,’ she pleaded, ‘but I must go. My father told me to stay and wait, and he never returned. I cannot remain here just waiting and waiting. You have shown much patience and kindness to me, so please understand? And there is no need for you to come with me. I know London well enough not to lose myself.’
Beatrice’s expression showed shock. ‘But you cannot go alone! What will Guy say? You are a lady! If they do get into London, God only knows what might happen to you.’
‘I’ll risk it,’ declared Philippa in a determined tone. ‘If you are worried about my looking like a lady, there is no need. Pass me that brown homespun in the corner, and my own shoes. My hair can stay as it is.’
‘Oh, my dear, should you be doing this?’ wailed Beatrice, sinking on to the bed.
‘What else is there for me to do? There was rioting and pillaging in Canterbury, but I survived.’ For a moment she quailed, remembering it might have been different if Guy had not been with her. ‘Everything will be all right this time, unless they get inside the walls, of course.’ She scrambled out of the bed naked, and swiftly snatched up the gown from the corner, not looking at the older woman. It was the work of minutes to dress and pull on her shoes, not without some difficulty or pain.