by Mary Lide
They dragged the dead man off the living, although the living scarcely breathed. With the help of the peasants Philippa had him carried within the hut whose owners squatted in a corner and watched anxiously. Edmund, himself bleeding from a dozen cuts, tried to bind the worst of Richard’s, until one of the women dared come close. She stretched out her hand gingerly to touch his arm, dabbing at it with a dirty smock, meanwhile shouting in her own tongue for water and salves. She worked quickly and efficiently, used to nursing wounds, binding the broken bones with soft cloths and making splints from pieces of wood. Something about her forthrightness brought the real world back. Philippa suddenly sat down on the dirt floor, her legs no longer capable of supporting her. And after a while, when she could move again, she came to sit by Richard’s side, holding one of his hands in hers. Another long night stretched ahead, the future looked darker then ever.
It was many hours before Richard stirred, his swoon having deepened into sleep. Meanwhile Edmund who himself had fallen into an exhausted doze, had wakened to the realization of how vulnerable they still were. ‘They’ll be back,’ he told Philippa, his face puckered with alarm. ‘I know them well, those French. They speak smoothly, but they’re as forked as an adder’s tongue. What of their dead? Won’t they return for them? And seeing what has become of Wolsey’s men, won’t they try to accuse us of ambushing them?’
All through the night, whilst the men had slept, Philippa had heard the peasants outside the hut. Now Edmund realized what they had been doing. The ice-crusted ground had made digging difficult so, using the hurdles as stretchers, they had dragged the English corpses and gear into the woods, leaving only the French ones. Their frantic activity almost done, they were preparing to leave themselves. Carrying their children and rounding up their animals, they were gathering their little possessions up, all in silence without complaint, as if they were too afraid to complain. Clearly they wanted no part in this struggle which ill-luck alone had caused to happen on their land. It meant nothing to them, and yet they knew they might yet be blamed if there was no one else left to blame. They knew it behoved them to be far away before Francis’s guards came back.
‘They mean to hide,’ Edmund told Philippa. ‘Some safe place they keep for emergencies. When they go, we go with them.’
He said persuasively, ‘Dick cannot stay here. True, the journey could be too much for him. But if they find him here, he will assuredly die. And so will we.’
Persuading the peasants to let them come was not easy, especially since his knowledge of French was limited. But he used the horses as bribes. There were plenty still loose in the courtyard where the peasants had left them alone. Peasants in these parts were not accustomed to horses, and this farm was too poor even to own an ox. Choosing ones with the duke’s brand, Edmund had the boys round them up and harness some to a kind of sled made from hurdles. He had Richard placed upon the sled, wrapped in cloaks and hidden under piles of rags. Finally, selecting the best three, he and Philippa mounted up, leading the third. The rest were driven into the forest to forage for themselves, with the understanding that when all was quiet again, the farmers could have first claim on them.
All this took time and taxed his strength, so that he too looked as pale as a ghost. But before the day was an hour old the peasants had started out, following an overgrown path that wound under the trees. The huddle of huts was left behind, as had happened many times in the past.
The path was one only the peasants could have known. Once under the trees they scattered so their trail was lost. Some doubled back; others began to drive animals to and fro to hide the prints of human feet. They continued in this way until the snow began to fall, not heavily as before, a light dusting, but sufficient to hide them and to cover the worst evidence left behind in the barn yard. Then they made more haste. In any case they did not go far. Deep in the woods there was a ridge that ran along a small river bed, now frozen solid. Under the ridge were caves hollowed out in the cliffs, long used as summer quarters when there were cattle to fatten in the river meadows on the other side. Some of these caverns stretched deep underground, large and wide enough to hide a company, and there they set up their camp.
They allowed the three fugitives shelter in the driest part of the cave, shared what food they had, little enough; gave good advice on which roads to take and roads to avoid, not much of it accurate since they seldom stirred beyond their own land. Once their ancestors had been soldiers, or so they claimed, and once a greater battle than this had been fought, so fierce that even now ploughs sometimes turned up pieces of bone or scraps of buckles and mail. The old name of the place was ‘La Croix’ they explained, because of the graveyard crosses that once had been raised there. And when Richard finally opened his eyes, they suggested that their welcome was over and all three should leave.
By now several days had passed. Edmund was almost fit again, although stiff and sore. The snows had tapered off and it was no longer cold. No sight or sound of pursuit had been heard and the peasants, creeping back from time to time to spy on their home, had reported that the French guards (who had returned as Edmund said they would) had left immediately. The time was right then for departure. If the sick man could ride.
Richard’s broken ribs alone should have kept him immobile, to say nothing of his other wounds. He made no resistance to the idea that they should all continue on; he only resisted coming all the way with them. ‘We go together to the coast,’ he said, his tone harsh, although he spoke in a whisper. ‘With Edmund’s help I can ride. When we reach England you and he will go to Netherstoke, where I will join you as soon as I can. After I have been to Richmond.’
At Philippa’s cry, he said in an even harsher voice that could not be argued with, ‘You did not think I would leave that task undone? What if the duke abandoned us; I do not abandon my word. Besides,’ he tried to grin, a faint imitation of it to soften the meaning, ‘I wish to alert the king that I too am a married man and my wife belongs to me.’ And nothing his companion or wife could say could change his mind.
These discussions alarmed the peasant folk. Not used to strangers they could not understand, they had grown restive at close quarters with them. They had promised to let them come with them; that did not mean keeping them indefinitely. If the young English milord rode out before he could stand did not all lords ride before they walked? Let them go, before their enemies came hunting them. They gathered in corners, not smiling now, anxiety furrowing their foreheads, suspicions making their eyes sharp. Forced into leaving then, Edmund and Philippa had no choice but to accept Richard’s decision. But privately they agreed that he could not make that journey on his own; if he went to Richmond they went with him. But they kept that thought between themselves.
They left therefore sooner than they meant, Edmund in front, on guard, Philippa leading Richard in the rear, where she could help him. He could use his right arm to guide the horse but not to put any pull on it and he had to rely on his friend to heft him in and out of the saddle. His face was white and drawn, but he still could smile. Nor would he show weakness even if it should kill him. And letting Edmund lead the way, they began the long trek home. Philippa thought, he has left France like this before, wounded, in hiding, and her heart bled for him.
During those days in the cave Philippa had had time to think of many things. The fight, the deaths, the violence, had blurred into nightmare, although she would always have the mark left by the sergeant’s sword. Mary Tudor’s perfidy had cut deeper. Although, on looking back, through all these months she had known her, Philippa realized that possibility of betrayal had always been there, held in reserve. Now fear and hostility had released it. To think that Richard Montacune would risk his life for a man so treacherous as the duke seemed to her incomprehensible, so incomprehensible in fact that she did not believe it. She was convinced that Richard had other plans in mind and watching him now as he rode along, not whistling as he often did, simply concentrating on staying on his horse, she tried to ima
gine what he thought. He was not a foolish man, obsessed with revenge as that sergeant had been; he knew his enemy. What then would take him back to Richmond into his enemy’s stronghold? These questions nagged at her unceasingly. But when they reached the coast at last, then they nagged no more. For they found there what would resolve some of the doubt for her.
CHAPTER 13
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They had made good time, good that is for a sick man who was as weak as a kitten, and for a woman who would have found the ride hard under any circumstances. But Richard and Edmund knew this region well. They had traversed it often; in their role as messengers it was the route they would have taken if they had been with the duke as they had planned. The out-of-the-way inns in obscure villages were still available to them, and Richard’s money could buy them anonymity. The snows which had hampered other travellers were almost gone and the roads were clear. At times the sun almost shone and every day saw Richard’s recovery assured. Had their mission not been so hazardous, had Richard not held firm to his purpose, they might even have been happy. But on the coast the ports were still ice-bound, the boats trapped at their moorings. And when they arrived at Calais they found the duke and his duchess there.
The duke and duchess had made no secret of their return. Escorted by Francis’s guards they turned it into a royal tour, staying with lords and abbots along the way, as if on a triumph. They had been in no hurry it seemed, content to enjoy themselves. Installed in the royal castle, their French escort gone now they were on English soil, the duchess and her new friends had begun to celebrate the wedding in fitting fashion. Amid such merriment it was not difficult for three more English to slip in after dark and find a room in a town where everything seemed English.
The duke however was in a sombre mood. Married to the woman he had always sworn to have, basking in her warm regard, he should have been happier than he was. He had lost weight, slept badly; his hand shook, the hand that had once earned him the reputation of the best swordsman in England. Thoughts of his brother-in-law had returned to haunt him, that brother-in-law in whose castle he now resided and whose messengers were waiting for the first sign of thaw to take fast ship to report the news. Sometimes as he looked at his new wife, when she slept, or when she chattered with the hosts upon whose hospitality they had thrust themselves, he began to find her small pouting mouth and dark eyes not as innocent as they had once seemed. And other things bothered him. He could not get the thought of Richard out of his, mind, someone whom he had counted as a friend. He had not dared ask the French what had become of him; he almost did not want to know. And another characteristic he had begun to dislike in his wife was her refusal to speak of the young woman. But the duke thought of her. The last thing he wanted was to be confronted by these ghosts of his conscience.
Richard said nothing when he realized that the man who had betrayed him was here in the same town. And it was still difficult to know what he thought. In these days of travelling he and his wife had grown close, sharing the same fears and simple pleasures, sharing the same friendship with Edmund Bryce. But that night, when it was dark, Richard stood up, and buckled on his sword. ‘Take care of her,’ he said to Edmund before he left; nothing more. And Philippa who knew him well enough by now not to protest, guessed at once what he was going to do. She said nothing either, but when he had gone, she begged Edmund to follow him.
Richard walked with difficulty and his left arm was still strapped to his side. The last day’s ride had wearied him but he refused to let his weakness show. He caught up with the duke just as Charles was entering the castle gates after being entertained by the Governor of the town. The duke’s men recognized Richard first and would have crowded round had he not waved them back. And so it was he and the duke came face to face under the portcullis where the wall torches flared.
The duke gave ground. He did not say anything either, simply drew back into the shadows like a man afraid, drawing the fur collar of his cloak as if to hide himself. Nor did Richard address him by rank or title, but spoke abruptly to the point. ‘I was looking for you. I supposed I would find you at Richmond. I had two messages to deliver there. One was on your behalf, although since now you blare it so openly I think it will not be news when I get there. The other concerned my wife. Your wife owes her life to mine, and until recently held my wife as friend. You brought both into intimacy (and in that sense may be held responsible for their relationship). I am here now to give fair warning what my message is.
The Archbishop Wolsey promised my wife just pardon. I say “just” since he knows, and you and I and the duchess know, that my wife has done nothing wrong. I mean for the world to know. I shall tell the king so. And I shall make claim on her behalf for her lands, as the Archbishop bribed her.’
The duke gaped at him. In all his life, he had never been spoken to with such a show of contempt, and it stung his pride. He growled with anger and reached for his sword. In a moment he would have been in a public brawl with a man who scarcely could move, let alone defend himself, had not Edmund Bryce rushed in between. ‘My lord,’ he shouted. ‘Hold back.’ And to Richard, ‘Dick, you fool, you cannot fight him in this state. Let me fight him in your stead.’
The effort to draw his own sword had left Richard gasping for breath, so that he had no words to berate his friend as he deserved. As for the duke, suddenly realizing who Edmund was, he cried out, ‘You too. Then is she safe as well?’
‘No thanks to you.’ Knowing who the duke meant, if anything Edmund was more blunt. ‘And if you survive you can thank her yourself.’ He rounded on the duke, all his young eagerness suddenly spilling out for the last time. ‘We fought them, as we always said we would, and we bested them. You did not even stay to watch.’
‘No.’ The duke’s answer was as blunt. ‘And you cannot best him, lad. Wolsey has the jump on us. He is now the king’s chief councillor, his right hand man, more powerful than I ever was, privy to all the king’s secrets. If anyone can intercede for me with Henry, he can. I do not dare offend him. I shall throw myself upon his mercy too, and pray he persuades the king to favour us.’ He suddenly cried out, ‘It is not easy to be thrust into exile, made second where you have long been first. It is not easy to be wed to a queen, who is sister of a king. But what I can do for you I will. And what my wife can do for Philippa de Verne I swear in her name, as my own is Charles Brandon.’
He looked from one young man to the other. ‘I swear then,’ he corrected himself bleakly, ‘in the name of our former company, which once was as dear to me as you.’ Perhaps at the time he meant what he said; perhaps he thought he could persuade Mary Tudor; perhaps he believed he had some honour left. Neither Richard nor Edmund believed him. And the duchess felt the same way. Her eyes grew close with spite when she heard what had occurred. She did not like to hear herself criticized. She had enough on her mind as it was, she cried, keeping her husband’s spirits up; no need to have new promises made on her behalf, nor reproaches for past ones. Did he think she intended to let her husband diminish himself, arguing with two hot-heads, not worth the time of day?
But later that night Philippa came close to where Richard lay, speaking softly to him. ‘My love,’ she begged him again, ‘I wish that we could leave at once. I do not trust them. I want never to see them again. I care nothing for what was my land. It is only you I want.’
‘I care,’ he said, it is the least that I can do for my wife who has suffered enough because of them; and for her father whom I felt I knew. The rest I admit is pride, for myself.’
‘I prefer you alive,’ she cried. ‘Now you will be as caught as I am.’
‘I already am,’ he whispered back. ‘I was caught, long ago, when I saw you first and stole you from my men. They were right to say I had. And when we get back home, you shall tell John of Netherstoke yourself. As now you shall show me.’ And under cover of the night, she did, his wounds this time not hampering him.
The next day the thaw began, with great creaks and groaning from
the ice, which in such an unusual way had kept the boats in port. Now all those ships that could be commandeered were readied to sail with the tide, for, despite the blizzards on land, the sea had been calm. The duke and his lady departed in grand style, as if, now the die was cast, they meant to brazen it through, as if defiance was their best hope with the king. Behind them, Lord Montacune and his wife and friend sailed in a smaller boat, more like a fishing smack, but sufficient for them. And although it was true that, as perhaps for the duke, what would happen when they reached shore was not yet clear, they accepted that, confident it would be the last obstacle before they reached home.
On the harbour wall, the king’s men were waiting for them.
The list of indictments against them both was endless, as the ducal party had given testament. Theft, murder, capture of a queen without her consent, ambush and collusion, treason, any one of the accusations could have hanged them. They listened almost without comment; so much for Charles Brandon’s word.
The guards held Richard fast while these charges were read, supposedly because he was most dangerous—although one look at him could have shown how unable yet to raise defence. They left Philippa on the edge of the quay, presumably a girl not likely to do them harm, and they ignored Edmund Bryce completely since he had not been named as accomplice. For the last time Edmund Bryce acted as go-between.
‘Run, run, my lady,’ he screamed, pushing between her and the guards. He had his sword out, flashing dangerously, forcing them to retreat along the quay on the seaward side, their prisoner with them. And hearing Richard’s own voice shouting the same command, with one startled look, Philippa slipped over the landward side, where the ground below was flat and firm.