by Mary Lide
Pinioned hand and foot, terrified by the milling horses and hot-eyed men, Philippa remained crouched like a hare in its nest. Her eyes had grown wide, her skin pale; her breath came in great gasps. She had never seen men like this in her life and she struggled desperately to pull out of their reach. Their hard mouths, suddenly gaping into smiles amid the stubble of their beards, reminded her of hounds, all froth and teeth. The hands reaching for her were claws. It began to dawn on her that she herself was the quarry and in a panic she started to scrabble back towards the hedge, trying to snatch her skirts away, trying to shake herself free of that cruel grip, crying out to let her go.
The man Philippa had tossed on the ground had begun to grin, a sly grin, bright with anticipation. ‘By rights of capture the first turn be mine,’ he howled. First turn. First turn for what? Fear twisted her innards in a knot, starting the sweat upon her face. It dawned on her that for all her boasts that she was as good as any boy, dreadful, shameful things hung in the air simply because she was a girl. These laughing men were not laughing any more; dreadful shameful thoughts were hidden behind their eyes, and she was far from help. She began to struggle in earnest now; the more she struggled the more they seemed pleased, roused by her terror as they had been by her beauty, until the one who claimed first turn advanced purposefully, pushing her backwards with his foot and fumbling with his netherhose. As he threw himself down on her she tried to fight him off, holding tight to the bushes and screaming, turning her face to avoid his hot rough breath, twisting her body to avoid his.
Half a mile down the road, hidden behind some trees where he had stopped to help one of his men, their captain heard that scream, and swore. He had been uneasy at letting the rest of his troop proceed, although at their slow pace he should have had no difficulty in catching them. Today, more than usual, he had been watching them like a hawk. He knew how close they were to breaking point, but after all they had suffered he did not mean to let them break, not on this last part of their journey home. With a savageness born of weariness he heaved himself on his roan horse with as much agility as his broken ribs allowed, and swung into a gallop. He had been dreading a confrontation of some sort. Mercenaries are never popular and rape on a country lane would not endear them. He cursed again the stupid female who had let herself be caught; he cursed the fools among his troops who had let temptation get the better of them. He burst into their midst, flailing about him with the flat of his sword as if he would hack them all apart.
His men recognized his anger and concern, having come to know the mixture well. They scrambled out of his way, trying to pretend nothing had happened, putting on that air of injured innocence typical of soldiers everywhere; all, that is, except the first man, who still remained crouched over the woman he meant to have.
‘Stand back.’ The rough fury’s edge in the newcomer’s voice was terrifying. ‘Leave her alone.’ A string of soldier’s oaths followed, a violent clattering; the captain leapt to the ground with an agility that belied his wounds. Hurling himself on the crouching man he knocked him aside with one hard blow.
‘Nay,’ the trooper had wind enough to howl. ‘She came willing-like, so willing she threw herself in front of me. Ask her.’
Still gripping the branches she had wound about her fingers Philippa was obliged to look up. She was staring at scuffed boots, crusted with dirt, their sides slashed as if by spears or pikes. Above them rose long legs, encased in equally dirty hose, above them a doublet, mud-caked too, that once might have been velvet trimmed, now stained and flecked with rust, pulled awry over an even filthier shirt, all topped by a face on which anger was written in every line. The large dark eyes smouldered with rage, the long mouth was tight with it, the black hair, dark as a raven’s wing with a raven’s blue tint, was stiff and caked with it. But the face itself was surprisingly young to be a captain to this crew, unshaven, with long locks curling down to his ears, and sun-bronzed skin, shadowed beneath those fierce dark eyes with lines of fatigue and pain.
‘There’s no need to ask.’ Philippa let her voice out with a rush. ‘Do I look as if I tumble in the dust with men?’ She tried to pull herself to her feet, with as much dignity as she could, although the words came out in puffs and she still was shaking.
The dark eyes narrowed for a moment, then unexpectedly, seemed to smile. She could see he was taking in what his men had not, the way she spoke, the fine clothes beneath the mud, the velvet edging, the lace. And beyond all these things, the youthfulness, the inexperience.
‘Alone?’ His question mocked. ‘Where is your escort, where your maids? Where are your shoes?’ He began to grin. ‘You ask overmuch indulgence of my men. I might have made the same mistake.’
His mockery made her gasp. ‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘Captain or not, deal with these scum as they deserve. Punish them, or I shall demand justice myself.’ He rammed his sword into its sheath but did not move, his legs apart, planted firmly on either side of her skirts.
‘Courtesy if you please,’ he corrected her. ‘These are men, my men in fact, and I am responsible for them. We have returned from fighting for your well-being, mistress, and are in no mood for silly games. If you plan to offer solace as a woman might, at least make up your mind to be quick and quiet.’
He shot a look at her. ‘And if you’ve the wish to be gone, then go, where you belong. But for God’s sake leave the ordering of my men to me.’
He strode away. She could hear him, quieter now, sending some back to retrieve their companion left behind, sending others ahead to search out lodging. His disinterest suddenly bothered her. In a day so full of mishap, it mattered that he should not misunderstand her. Free to scramble away, instead she went up to him and grasped his arm. As he rounded on her, ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘knock me down, you and your company seem good at that. But show me some courtesy in return. No one has accused me of falsehood before. I came through that hedge there, about my own affairs. I never knew your men were here. I have as much right as they to be in this place, upon this road. No, more, since all the land behind it belongs to me. The road you stand upon, the hills, the woods, all border de Verne property.’
The dark eyes narrowed again, and the lips tightened in a soundless whistle. Then the mouth twitched. ‘Am I to understand, lady,’ he said, with a wryness in his voice that she found equally infuriating, ‘that you wish me to apologize because my men did not recognize you? If this is de Verne land, who the devil are you?’
She drew herself up to her full height, not much beside his, especially since she had lost her shoes. ‘I am Philippa,’ she told him, proud as a peacock herself, ‘only daughter of Edward de Verne, once lord of Vernson Hall and the village which bears his name.’
There was no doubt of his surprise. His eyes (which were not so black as she had thought, more dark brown than black, fringed with long black lashes) showed a momentary hesitation, and he ran a perplexed hand through his hair so that it stood on end. ‘De Verne land,’ he repeated, looking round, as if he expected to see the name carved on the trees. ‘Then you must be “Sweet Ned’s” child.’ He gave her another long look, then smiled, a wholehearted, open and generous smile. ‘There was a brave and noble soul,’ he said after a pause, in which he seemed to be thinking of what to say. ‘And he died bravely, before the world, as he was a Devon gentleman.’
She had never heard her father spoken of in that way. ‘Sweet Ned’ had a pleasing sound, but as for his death, ‘You are mistaken, sir,’ she told him. ‘My father, God rest his soul, died here at Vernson Hall, of plague they say, the same year that I was born. But he was a Devonshire man, Edward de Verne, and perhaps a sweet man, although I do not claim that, never having heard him so described. But certainly he was my father, as my mother lived to tell.’
The young captain’s eyebrows contracted into a thin line and his mouth tightened to snap out some reply; he looked down his nose at her in a haughty way that seemed characteristic of him. ‘Edward, the last lord of the house,’ he repeated
impatiently. ‘There cannot be two men with the same name, and this, I presume, is Devon land; certainly not two in Devonshire.’ He would have said more but stopped himself, tugging at his shirt as if the collar had grown too tight, almost as if he were debating with himself. Finally discretion won. He limped back to his own roan and hauled himself into the saddle with an effort that this time was plainly visible. ‘Well, Mistress Philippa de Verne,’ he drawled. He had a pleasant way of speaking when he wanted, she thought, and his smile could almost be called attractive. ‘I beg your pardon. It seems that twice we have mistaken you. But if this is de Verne land, and if you are its mistress I think you might show my men hospitality rather than revenge. They have had a long hard journey so far, and a long hard one to come. It would be a Christian kindness to shelter them.’
He spoke formally, no longer the rough soldier but a gentleman, and his voice had a persuasion that was hard to resist. But there was still something hidden under those courtesies which puzzled Philippa. She knew hospitality was due to travellers, but how could she bring them home? Her stepfather’s parsimony was notorious. As was her habit when in doubt she gnawed her thumb, unaware of how innocent her indecision made her seem, and how young. It caused the captain to smile again, and, for a second, a look came over his face, as if he were allowing himself the luxury of appreciating her soft skin, her wide-set eyes, the brightness of her hair for all that it was snarled into ringlets; as if for a moment he let himself imagine the delights his men had dreamed of.
And what of those men? Intent on making herself known. Mistress Philippa had paid them scant heed, but their captain had been aware of them, even when his back had been turned. He sensed the uncertain mood of the younger ones and knew that Philippa’s hesitation had given them the opportunity they had been looking for. Their leader was the man Philippa had unhorsed. He was glowering, his square-jawed face suddenly stiffening into ugly lines, biding his time to make a move.
‘Scum is it?’ he now shouted, his voice thick, his north country speech pronounced. ‘Who be she to call us scum? De Verne is a name I recalls as well as you.’ And his fellows, muttering behind him began to step forward, closing ranks.
The captain remained calm. ‘Now lads,’ he told them, as casually as before, although his look grew sharp. ‘We are nearly home, no use to lose our senses over a woman. As for you, John of Netherstoke, there will be plenty more as good. What is one more to you?’
But to the girl he snarled an aside. ‘God’s my life, but you’re the fool, not to run when you had the chance. Get behind me, quick, before we are caught in an open brawl.’ And without giving her time to resist, he dragged her off her feet, pulling her willy-nilly over the rump of his horse so that it kicked, forcing her to cling to him in a flurry of petticoats, pivoting round all the while to ensure no one could creep up unawares, shifting his belt so that the hilt of his sword swung within easy reach.
It was too late to stop the malcontents with a show of force. One cried, ‘One wench perhaps, but it seems she’s yours, not ours.’ While that John of Netherstoke, still nursing his wounded pride, shouted, ‘Your commission ended overseas; here in England we be quit of it. De Verne land means traitor’s land. Shall a traitor’s whelp get the better of us? We’ve had a belly full of traitors. And what’s loyalty given us, except the threat of a hanging when we returned? I knows my rights. I claim that wench as soldier’s due, let no man say me nay.’
There was a hush. Philippa could feel a tension running down the captain’s spine and along his sword arm, as it seemed to tighten almost instinctively. Yet he leaned forward in the saddle, as if trying to reason. She sensed rather than heard the involuntary grunt of pain this movement caused but his voice remained unruffled. ‘Who bleats about conspiracy?’ he asked. ‘We left treachery behind in Guienne. When we sailed from France I swore that I would lead us safely home and I do not mean to be forsworn.’ He suddenly thrust out his hand imperiously, signalling out John of Netherstoke. ‘And you promised to follow me,’ he cried. ‘I’ll bring you back to your mother in one piece, although whether we carry you in a sack or you ride in on your own, is up to you. Knot up your tongue, John of Netherstoke, or by Christ, I’ll hang you in it myself. Mount up. We feed tonight at Vernson Hall; judge if the de Vernes be true or false when you have downed your first jug of Devonshire ale.’ He flashed a look about him, crowding that roan horse forward now to make the little group of men retreat. He waited a second time for Philippa to respond, a second time openly offering her a cue she could not misunderstand. She knew what was expected of her but shame kept her quiet.
Silence gave the malcontents the chance they wanted. They began to shout, disappointment fuelling their rebellion’s fire. ‘Nothing give, nothing have,’ one screamed, while their spokesman, John of Netherstoke, leapt forward and clasped her skirts, tearing at the flounces to drag her off, clawing at her, until his captain’s balled fist at his throat made him reel aside, gasping for breath, his legs buckling under him. The roan horse reared once more, pawed at the air, forcing the other men away. Then the captain gathered up the reins, and with a violent curse breasted through the hedge, tearing the top apart in a shower of dirt. Left behind in the road the soldiers bunched in dismay, not one daring the same leap. Shouts, recriminations, threats died away as horse and riders thundered up the hill towards the ploughed land ahead.
Terrified by this fresh outbreak of violence, Philippa caught snatches of his oaths, Christ’s balls, the least of them, what a simpleton she was, dear God, without the sense she was born with, not even the decency to offer hospitality, were they lepers? Well, he might have known, women ever misery. And what a greater fool was he, to risk his men in argument. God’s life, but they had done her no real harm, not as great as the harm she did, to undo their fellowship. She felt the injustice of it like a knife, and yet at the same time realized there was some truth to what he said. But before she could tell him so she sensed that he, in turn, had calmed down and was regarding her quizzically over his shoulder, almost amused. Now it so happened that, terrified of being thrown to the ground she had been clinging to him all this while, and even, as he slowed, had continued to wrap her arms about his waist, hanging on for dear life. A gasp of pain forced her to pay attention as he prised her hands loose.
‘Have you never sat a horse before, nor ridden with a man? You squeeze me half to death.’ His wry grin made her blush. She pulled away, so abruptly she would have slid down the horse’s tail had he not caught her to bring her upright. Held against him like that, so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek, Philippa had another chance to look at him. She had not noticed before the pallor underlying the sun-brown of his skin; nor the slash on his forehead beneath the curls. She had not realized that the specks on his shirt were not from rust but blood. ‘Dear God,’ she could not keep the dismay from, her voice, ‘you are hurt,’ remembering suddenly the halting limp, the involuntary gasp. He returned her look levelly. ‘It is a soldier’s lot,’ he told her, with the same wry smile. ‘No more than what my men have suffered. I told you, mistress, they were brave. But if you, on the other hand, are, as you say, heiress to Vernson Hall (and I think you are, for you are very much like your father in hair and looks, and perhaps in smile, although you have not yet smiled at me), I wish you had welcomed us. It would have made things easier for them and me, and would have avoided this unpleasantness.’
Once more she hung her head not sure how to reply. And when she glanced up she saw he was watching her with that same concentrated concern that seemed to be habitual to him. ‘Or is it,’ he asked, more softly, ‘that the mistress of the hall has run from home? In which case, we will set you down at your gates and bother you no more.’
Her downcast expression, her repeated gestures of indecision, gave her away, and touched him despite himself, for in truth he was tired and not much in the mood to play at nursemaid to some silly girl, not while he had his men to gather up, their confidence to rewin, their own journey to complet
e. He sighed. ‘Come then, show me the route to the back door; ’tis too cold for wandering far barefoot,’ and kicking his horse forward he headed for the closest hedge, looking for a weak place where he could rejoin the road, for the moment abandoning his companions.
When she saw what he intended she clutched him tighter than ever, his wounded ribs forgotten. ‘Not by the road,’ she cried. Her face had gone milk-pale, and tears were trembling on the edge of her thick eyelashes, although she had shed none before. ‘Keep to the fields on this side of the hedge if you please.’
He eyed her, a thoughtful appraising look, as if to ask, ‘What game is it that you are playing?’ When it became obvious that no pretence could have counterfeited such terror he curbed his impatience in a way that afterwards surprised him, and resettled her arms so that they did not press him so hard. All he said was, ‘Lady, my horse is too tired to push through those ploughed fields ahead. Nor do I have all the time in the world. My men will be waiting for me to return. They rely on me you see, and there’s a fact. But since you have obliged me to leave them so precipitously I should take it as a courtesy to be rid of you as soon as possible.’ Again he gave a wry grin.
‘I mean you no ill-will, you understand,’ he said, ‘but the road is shorter and easier. The quicker I leave you the quicker I go back for them. So, why not by the road?’
Her voice had grown so soft, that he had to catch her by the chin, forcing her head up. ‘Why not?’ he repeated more sharply. ‘Mother of God, what’s amiss with a simple highway that it forces us to go sliding through the mud, like ploughboys?’
When she gestured frantically, her voice gone beyond horror, for the first time he looked clearly in the direction she was pointing at. And there, coming over the line of bushes was the gibbet, black and stark, its chains rusting emptily away, where it had been standing all those years before.