by Mary Lide
He held her close then, letting her burrow her head into his arms, comforting her at first almost absent-mindedly as he would a child. Her mouth was just beneath his own, he could touch it, gently to begin with, then more passionately as he felt her respond. All the frustrations of the day, hers and his, were suddenly in that kiss, as her lips parted to meet with his, as her arms went around his neck to hold him close. ‘Take me with you,’ she was saying between breaths, ‘do not leave me here. I cannot go back home.’
He felt her young body arch against his, pliable, ready for his. He felt his own body move to meet hers despite his wounds. And torn between wanting her, not wanting, he continued to kiss her ardently, and as eagerly she kissed him. In the end he pushed her away, holding her off with something between a sigh and groan. ‘Come, little mistress,’ he said with a half smile, that was more at himself than her. ‘It is not often I have such an opportunity, and I wish I could stay to enjoy it. But go I must. And so must you. Love on horseback is not exactly comfortable. And although I would do you no harm, it might not be good for you.’ He smoothed her hair again, cupping her face between his hands. ‘So let me take you back to Vernson Hall to your friends.’
‘I have none left,’ she told him, openly honest, her honesty clear like flame, touching him again despite herself, emphasizing her youthfulness. ‘Let me come with you. I would not even expect to ride with you, just keep you in sight. I would make no demands on you, just thank you for your protection. As I thank you now for what you have just done for me.’
He smiled, the same half smile. ‘I wish you could,’ he said, ‘but you know it cannot be.’ He unclasped her hands that were still holding him. ‘We must part,’ he told her softly but firmly, ‘but do not think too harshly of me.’ He hesitated. ‘And do not judge the past too harshly either,’ he said. ‘We cannot change it. I tell you this from my own experience who have already lost so many companions in this king’s war that I cannot bear to lose another one. That gallows-tree back there has not been used in many years, and God willing, will not be used again, as long as the house of Tudor keeps the peace as it promised to. Better to fight abroad, say I, than fight our fellow countrymen.’
She tried to wipe her eyes, tried to appear calm, although her chin still trembled. ‘Are you a Tudor man?’ she asked him finally, seriously. Her little attempt at pride touched him as much as her tears had done. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But my family was for Lancaster first as yours I think was for York. That was over long ago.’ He straightened in the saddle. ‘And now,’ he said gently, we’ll take you back.’
He turned the horse away from the hedge, and redirected it towards the ploughed fields, wading resignedly through the red mud that mired it to its hocks. The gallows with its black outline, like a half-completed cross, sank back behind the hedge and was lost to view. And slowly almost regretfully he brought her to the gates which she had left, it seemed, hours ago. And there he set her down.
She detained him one last time. ‘And if,’ she asked almost shyly, with a smile that had both sweetness and longing in it, ‘I should wish to thank you, what name shall I ask for?’
He smiled back. ‘In the king’s court,’ he said, ‘I shall use my father’s name. He was Lord Richard Montacune, of Netherstoke, in Northumberland, a northern shire. My men and I left from there, over a year ago, and there I return, God willing so. But to my friends, I am known as Dick.’
Now it was his turn to hesitate before taking up her hand, holding it loosely between both of his. ‘I would that we were friends,’ he said. And as she continued to look at him, ‘Come sweetheart,’ he said almost helplessly. ‘A kiss is not so great a thing, that it means the end of the world. There will be plenty of others in time.’ She suddenly flashed her full smile at him, like a burst of sunlight. ‘Oh,’ she said, simple as a child, wise as a woman, ‘I did not mind. It is only I wish you would kiss me once again, so I should remember you. And so that you might have something to remember me by.’
And laughing now himself, with an effort that caused him more pain than he cared to admit, he stretched down and lifted her so he could. ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘fare you well. But if I may presume one last time, keep you safe at home. There are many soldiers on the run these days. And the Tudors have long memories. My men and I will ride on; we’ll not trouble you again. Tell your stepfather to guard you well. Pray for me.’
He lifted her hand to his lips with a courtier’s gesture. Then resolutely touching his horse’s sides he sent it trotting down the way he had come, not turning back although she almost hoped he would. And she was left alone once more.
CHAPTER 3
——
Long after Richard Montacune had disappeared, Philippa stood listening. The steady clip clop of his horse’s hooves drummed like a heartbeat. Clear as glass she had an image of him: lean tall body, lean strong face, warm eyes beneath the frown. In a little while, she thought, he will ride up to his men bold as brass. ‘Gather up your gear and mount,’ he will say. ‘Are your boots jelled?’ And he will clap John of Netherstoke on his sound shoulder and tell him again not to be a fool. ‘Put aside your sulks,’ he will humour him. ‘Shall a country lass outwit us, when all the French army could not?’ And he will grin, chivvying them along, until, like fractious children, they will follow him. How far off is that Netherstoke, she thought; how many days to reach there? I wish that I were one of them. Pray for me. God keep you safe Dick Montacune, she thought. God bring you safely home again. And God keep me safe as well; God protect me from my stepfather’s wrath. A sense of premonition, like a foretaste of what was to come, sent its shiver down her spine.
She began to run. The gravel spurted up behind her heels like hail stones; her bedraggled skirts left long sweeps from side to side as if a rake had been dragged across the surface, the tall fir trees stood like sentinels. All seemed as silent as the grave; no one about, even the woodcutters paused in their hewing down of trees that were old when the house was built. She saw no one, the maids somewhere about their work, the men in the yard, only her mother’s nurse left alone, rocking ancient bones before the fire. Making for her own room under the eaves like a ship’s prow, she opened the main door. Inside the passage-way Master Thomas Higham was waiting for her.
He must have been standing there, watching for her in the half-shuttered light, like a fox in its den. A scrape of flint and candles flared. ‘So,’ Master Higham said, pretending to brush a speck of dirt from his cloak, ‘you have returned. You have been gone long enough.’ And in a whisper worse than a shout, ‘Harlot, have you no shame?’
His hand with the de Verne ring he wore bit into her flesh, but Philippa forced herself to stand still and face him. There was no way to dissemble where she had been, and had she tried, there on the stairs, hurrying from field and barn, came the servants to tell their tales. And behind them, appearing on cue, was the bailiff, her stepfather’s favourite, with his crooked grin and crooked walk, making sure all knew who the informant was. Almost wearily Philippa thought, my stepfather has been waiting to play this out, as if dislike has been in the making for years. Why does he hate me so?
He was all in green today, a shade to grace a man half his age, and, caught as she was beneath his arm, Philippa could see his face clearly. She recognized the fleshy self-indulgent mouth, the glinting eyes, the scowling frown. But the pretence was new. However much he might scowl or let anger show, underneath he was pleased. And it was that secret pleasure that was most frightening.
As if he guessed her thoughts, he took a step forward, pressing her back against the door until the hilt of his little knife was caught at her ribs. ‘Who were those men?’ he howled. ‘What one brought you back? How long have you known him?’ And like an actor on a stage he turned to the waiting crowd on the stairs and shouted, his voice always too loud for his size, ‘A whore, just as I always said. Blood will out. And what decent man will have her now?’ And in self-righteous wrath he brought his hand down on her cheek so that the r
ing scored a long red mark. But behind the mask of self righteousness he was grinning.
The force brought Philippa to her knees and when she tried to rise her head spun round. Pride urged her to defend herself; caution told her silence was safe. Suddenly all the events of last night, all the events of this day, came into focus, as if she had been looking at them upside-down, and now, unexpectedly, at last they made sense. And it was her stepfather’s secret pleasure that gave her the key. She stiffened her back and said the first thing that came into her head, making herself watch him for effect, making herself respond to him.
‘Your spokesthing,’ she told him, pointing at the bailiff who had been leaning against the railing post, enjoying a scandal he had revealed, ‘could have rescued me, if he hadn’t been scrambling for safety first.’ Her voice was cold. Years of breeding were in that voice, as if her forefathers spoke through her, all those who had been lords here when Master Higham’s kin had been peasants. ‘What did he see that was so bad? If you want the truth ask the man who knows. Ask Lord Richard Montacune.’ The effect at first was gratifying. Thomas Higham’s disappointment was obvious; clearly he had hoped for denials and tears, and he scowled in earnest while his bailiff began to splutter excuses. It dawned on Philippa that he had hoped that his bailiff had told the truth and that too was a thought to chill.
‘She lies,’ the bailiff hissed. ‘I saw them part. They have been lovers, that I swear. Only lovers act so indecently.’ He made a smacking sound, puckering his lips against his hand, making the servants grin, turning a delicacy into its mockery. ‘As for his being a lord, did he look like one, with his ragtag crew and his tired horse? Scratch beneath his airs you’ll find a thief, waiting to murder us in our sleep. And she,’ he pointed at Philippa, ‘led him on.’
‘He has already gone.’ Philippa tried to explain. ‘I told him there was no hope of hospitality here. I told him Vernson Hall was no place for gentlemen.’
Her scorn must have been apparent even to men as thick-skinned as Master Higham and his bailiff, but afterwards she was to regret having belittled them. Her stepfather began to splutter; his eyes bulged; if looks could have killed he would have plunged his dagger into her heart. ‘Lord, lord,’ he cried after a while, trying to control his rage, ‘any vagabond could claim a rank and any stupid slut believe him.’
That thought seemed to renew his confidence. He plunged into a new attack. ‘So while you turned up your nose at better men, refusing Master Simeon, you were planning to meet this ruffian! No wonder you spoke so tartly last night. How long have you known him, I say, and how many times have you met?’ And in full flight of fancy now he howled again, ‘Slut, who thinks to wed where she pleases. Isn’t that what you said? Let me tell you, madame, that a whore has little choice and no hope of sympathy.’
Again that thought pleased him. ‘I am master of this house,’ he cried again. ‘All you have comes from me. Marry as I order you or I brand you as wanton for everyone to scorn. Then find out what scandal is. Then find out what de Verne pride is worth, a whore, tainted with the mark of treachery.’
Something about his words recalled the ones of Lord Montacune. An idea began to fill her mind, blocking everything else so that she could only fix on it. It spread until it seemed to encompass the world, rising out from some dark place where it had been hidden, full of thoughts so deep they stifled her.
‘It is not your lands that I shame,’ she managed to choke out. ‘I do not even bear your name. But Richard Montacune knew me.’ She raised her chin. She could not know that to the watchers she seemed almost her father’s self, with his same fair hair and dark blue eyes, outfacing her enemies as once he had outfaced his. ‘What of my father, Edward de Verne?’ she cried, ‘how did he come to die that you should speak of treachery?’
And all through the house there rose a cry like a mourning cry long overdue.
Miles to the north where already the rain had come to shroud the moors that stretched in purple waves to the distant hills, Richard Montacune started round, as if he heard. He had been thinking of her as he rode along in the driving rain, and the memory had been like a ray of light. He could not get the feel of her out of his mind, the softness, the warmth, like a kitten. ‘Why Mistress Philippa,’ he was saying to himself, ‘there was no need to tell me who you were, with your head in the air as if you were a princess. I knew you all the time. Your face, your smile, your look were all familiar. I saw your father look like that once. And he saw me.’
His hands looped round the slippery reins were blue with cold, and shelter seemed a long way off. Behind him his men plodded on just as she had imagined them. Not that way she had cried. God pity her, he thought, when she finds out. ‘I told her her father met his death as a gentleman,’ he told himself, ‘I did not tell her I had seen him on the road to death.’
Now the gates of memory opened wide for him. He too was a child, brought to London by his uncle’s men, soon after war had caused his own father’s death. He had been standing with them, bewilderedly, until one of the guards had thought to hoist him up above the crowds, to watch the west-country rebels carted past. High in the air, he had had an unimpeded view of them, poor wretches, too terrified even to pray. Edward de Verne came last, the only lord among a group of peasantry, not one worth a king’s revenge, out of their depth in conspiracy, not knowing completely what conspiracy was.
What madness had made Edward de Verne try to overthrow the Tudor king and restore a Yorkist line? Why had he risked his life and the lives of his poor followers? ‘I saw her father pass,’ Richard said to himself. ‘I watched him, in his torn and sodden shirt, until the cart lurched round a corner, throwing him off-balance against the rails; in my dreams I still watch him. I did not see him die, but others did. I hope I make as brave an end.’
They brought him last to the place of execution but he faced the executioners first. ‘I go before you,’ he told his companions, to give them heart. ‘As I led you in the past so shall I lead you to the end.’ And he smiled at them, and smiled at the butchers who would murder them. Sweet Ned’ they called him, like a child himself, believing in some old Yorkist dream, fighting the same old civil wars. Yet lacking the greed that makes traitors out of most men; believing what he had been told, out of some old loyalty. And who even in the hour of his death had time to spare for a frightened child.
God in heaven. Richard Montacune jerked awake as his horse stumbled, the ache in his ribs worse than before, the driving storm, the mud, bringing him back to the present. Who could forget ‘Sweet Ned’? he thought. Not I who saw him pass and witnessed his last smile to me. Nor the Tudor king who had his remains brought back to hang on the gallows near his home. His story has been a thread woven through my life. Seeing his daughter today made me feel that she too was part of it. He thought, she would not seem so out of place, even in my own castle at Netherstoke. It would be good to have such a girl waiting there, although to tell truth I have never thought of wife or child before, and lack the means to keep them if I did. Soft arms, although they gripped too hard; soft young body, moulded to your back; little breasts just budding to shape, lips soft as silk. Dear God, he thought, a man could go mad imagining such things. Yet if all were equal in this unequal world, I’d risk much so she and I might meet again, as I think we were meant to meet. I’d not mind having her smile at me. God give her courage, he thought, such as perhaps her father had; God spare her from the cruelty of men who would use that knowledge to do her harm. As for Philippa, so for him, a shiver of apprehension ran down his spine.
In the doorway of Vernson Hall, Master Higham smiled. ‘So now you know,’ he said softly, savouring the thought, ‘what your mother tried to keep from you. I told her it would never work. Why else do you think she married within weeks of your father’s death if not to try to hold on to his lands?’ He smiled again a wide-lipped smile, full of delight. ‘And why else should I have married her except to keep them tight, so Henry’s men shouldn’t claim them first. Traitor’s land
is lost land, miss. If I’ve got it thank Master Simeon. And thank him too, for his generosity to you. He’s waited long enough for repayment. But,’ and now his eyes grew cold, he stiffened like a hound, ‘you never, ever, will lay your hands on it. Your father disinherited you when he put his neck in that hangman’s noose.’
Years of hatred suddenly burst out like bile. ‘He thought he was a king himself, with his little army, with his fair hair and handsome face that all the women doted on. What did it do for him? And what good did it do your mother to yearn for him, or what good me, who never stood a chance with her? And what good you, you silly fool, playing into my hands like this? Take Master Simeon and be done with it.’
But although she felt the ground reel, although that hatred sucked her under into darkness, ‘No,’ she shouted it him again. ‘No, no, no.’
Thus the battle between them began, one which she had known from the start must be hard and would test her strength. Isolated from neighbours and those who might have been her friends, she was cut off from everyone. Within the house itself, her stepfather’s servants had replaced the de Verne ones who might have been loyal to her for her father’s sake. And in any case, what sympathy could she hope for, a mere girl, disobedient to a man’s will, a disgrace which the world would condemn. She thought, but other people do not give up, even when things look dark. She thought, my father did not. Nor did Richard Montacune. She thought, true I have only one kinsman left, my mother’s brother, a sea-captain, perhaps drowned years ago, in any event someone I do not know and who does not know me; I cannot rely on him. Again brave words; they could not hide how alone she felt.
‘No, is it?’ her stepfather screamed. ‘We shall see what your no means. Kept in your room until you agree, you’ll sing to another tune. Master Simeon will seem a blessing in disguise before we’ve done.’ And on the stairs, over-seeing the servants, the new wife-to-be held her hands up in pretended shock at a stepdaughter’s stubbornness.