My Lady Deceiver

by June Francis

  Her hostess was gazing out of the window when she entered the solar, but turned when she heard her feet. ‘You are feeling better?’

  ‘Much better.’ Philippa crossed the chamber and stood next to her. In the past few days, how many times had she stood at this window, looking out and worrying? Always they had returned. God willing, they would return this time. Even as she thought of them, there came the noise of voices, the whinny of horses and the scraping of shoes on the step.

  Beatrice flew downstairs, but Philippa followed more slowly, unbelievably weary.

  ‘James, tell us quickly — what has happened?’ his wife blurted out as she entered the hall.

  ‘A drink of ale, then news, good wife.’ James kissed her, and then sat down with an air of relief.

  Philippa stared at Guy, who cocked a brow, smiled faintly, and then reached for the jug of ale himself before Beatrice could get a hand to it. The first brimming cup he gave to James, then filled another for himself. Both men drank deeply. Guy finished first.

  ‘The king has won the day.’ He addressed Philippa. ‘Master Walworth, who fortunately wore armour under his garments, rode back to London and called on all those willing to fight. Sir Robert Knolles, an old campaigner from the French wars, brought a company of lancers and rode straight through the peasants to take up a position with us by the king’s side. But the king already had them perfectly under control. How he did it I don’t know, but they were on their knees to him. They were soon surrounded, and some of the military were for slaughtering half of them in order to teach them a lesson!’

  The king would not have it,’ James interrupted. ‘He said that most of them had only been brought to London by fear and threats, and gave them leave to go home.’

  ‘Home?’ cried Philippa, starting forward.

  ‘Most of them have already gone. Some of the ringleaders have been taken in charge. Some fled, and are being hunted down. The men of Kent have been escorted through London and over the bridge.’

  ‘What of their leader?’ asked Philippa.

  ‘He’s dead,’ replied Guy. ‘Old Walworth dragged him out of Saint Bartholomew’s, where he had been taken, and … ’ Graphically he drew a finger across his throat.

  ‘Then it is over,’ said Philippa, sinking on a bench.

  ‘For us, it is,’ Guy murmured. ‘We leave within the hour, for the evening tide takes that ship I spoke about. You had best make haste and pack what you can take.’

  ‘Within the hour?’ Her voice rose to a squeak. ‘But you have not eaten.’

  ‘I can eat later on the ship. Beatrice, would you be so kind as to provide us with some bread and meat — whatever you can spare?’

  ‘Of course! But so soon, Guy? And just when Philippa and I could see the sights of London without worrying.’ She frowned.

  ‘It can’t be helped.’ Absently he dabbed at his cut eye, which was bleeding a little. ‘I must wash and change and pack, in that order, immediately. Will you come, Philippa?’

  She nodded and rose, to meet Beatrice’s searching glance. It seemed an age since their conversation that morning. But once again she was reminded that it was Hugo to whom he was taking her — Hugo, who was her future husband. They were both silent as they went up the stairs. She packed the little she had, and then knocked on entering his chamber.

  His dark hair was damp, and he had changed into a burgundy doublet with slashed sleeves that showed blue, over which he wore a burgundy surcote. No longer did he look tired, but rather as though filled with impatience.

  ‘You are ready?’ He took her bundle from her hand.

  ‘As ready as I ever shall be! You were not hurt at all?’ It was she who opened the door, not loitering.

  ‘No. I gather you did not tell Beatrice? And it was you who sent the men?’

  ‘Ay! And she had not noticed that I had been missing. You told James?’

  ‘No! Although it might come out that the men were sent by a woman. I thought to ask — but James didn’t, presuming it was Walworth’s doing.’ His arm brushed her shoulder. ‘It was well thought of — and no harm came of your being there. Although … Did it serve your purpose, Philippa?’

  How could she answer that? She was still not sure what her purpose had been. ‘I have seen history in the making,’ she said slowly. ‘I saw my king vanquish a foe by bravery! Do you think he will keep his promises to the serfs?’

  He hesitated. ‘He might want to keep some of them. One could not help pitying many of those men, with their ragged clothes and half-starved bodies. It isn’t justice that so few have so much and so many have so little, but I doubt that those round the king will let him do what he wishes. They’ve had a fright; they have seen what it is like if the commons are allowed power — to have a say in what should be done, for justice’s sake. But always there must be the thought that had Tyler not been killed, what would have happened? They lost a leader who had audacity and ability — greed and courage as well, I should think — who would have swept away all that those who value order had built up. They hate lawyers — yet without law there would be lawlessness. We shall never know what would have happened if they had won and the king had lost.’

  ‘Then you think everything will go on as before? That my serfs will return … ’

  ‘Most likely. But I doubt if it will be exactly the same. They have felt their power also, and will not forget the feeling. To take away that which they hate the most is the only way to prevent such a rebellion again. Men should be free to choose their own destiny — but that day will not come for a long time.’

  They were both silent as they came into the hall.

  ‘It is sad that you must go when all is safe,’ declared Beatrice, coming over to her.

  ‘I shall see you again, perhaps,’ responded Philippa, giving a quick smile, not really believing it. ‘Thank you for all your kindness, which I appreciate more than you can realise!’ She kissed the older woman’s cheek.

  ‘So … little I could do for you, really.’ Beatrice hugged her. ‘How I wish all could be as you wish!’ She drew away. ‘May the saints go with you. Have a safe journey.’ James said, ‘Go now — the tide will not wait.’

  The Wantsums went with them out into the courtyard. The baggage was loaded on a horse, which one of the men would bring back. She was helped on to a pillion seat, then Guy hoisted himself up before her. Farewells were called, and they clattered through the gateway and out into the street.

  Philippa looked about her. Already people were setting about the task of clearing rubbish, and vendors cried their wares. Within days, she supposed, a semblance of normality would have cloaked the happenings of the last few days, but never would they be forgotten.

  Chapter Eight

  It was as they neared the river that Philippa noticed the girl. There was something familiar about the stumbling figure, although her fair hair was matted and loose about her drooping shoulders. As they passed, she twisted round to see the girl’s face.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, seizing Guy’s shoulder. ‘There is someone I know. I must speak with her.’ Urgency sharpened her voice.

  ‘There is no time, Philippa. We have a ship to catch,’ snapped Guy.

  ‘One moment, that is all!’ Already she was swinging her leg over, and sat precariously for a second before sliding from the horse as he pulled hard on the reins.

  The girl walking towards her would have gone past if she had not seized a handful of the torn and filthy gown. ‘Rose!’ she cried frantically. ‘Don’t you know me?’ The girl lifted dazed eyes. There was a smudge on her cheek and a bruise darkened her chin. She put a shaking hand on her arm. ‘Mistress Philippa, is it really you?’

  ‘Ay, ’tis me, Rose.’ She clasped her fingers tightly. ‘We have found each other at last!’

  A smile broke on the maid’s face. ‘I had given up hope of finding you. But here you are, praise the saints!’ They stared at one another, then Rose’s eyes went to the man sitting on the horse. ‘Where are you going? This
man … ’

  ‘He is Sir Hugo’s brother, Master Guy Milburn — you must remember them?’

  ‘I remember them. But what a fate — a kind fate — that brought him to you at such a time,’ said Rose in awe. ‘Did you meet him here?’

  ‘It is a long tale, Rose, and I have not the time to tell it now. We are in a hurry.’

  ‘Where do you go? Back home?’ Her throat moved. ‘You will not be finding Tom there.’

  ‘You have seen him, Rose? I did. Has he told you he remains in London? Does he hope to avoid being brought to justice by doing so?’

  ‘He is dead, Mistress Philippa. I met some of the men, and they told me. He went to John of Gaunt’s palace of Savoy and was blown to bits.’

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ whispered Philippa. ‘I heard the explosion — saw Tom a short time before — but never thought … ’

  ‘Ay! What an ending to his dreams.’ Rose threw back her head and gazed at her from feverish tear-bedewed eyes. ‘But it was no worse a fate than that which he dealt your father. It was he who killed him — and then to hang and bum his body … ’ Her voice faltered, and she plucked at her filthy skirts and lowered her eyes.

  ‘We go north, lass. Do you come with us?’ Guy’s voice tore the sudden heavy silence. ‘Your mistress could do with another woman’s company.’

  Rose lifted her head and looked at him. ‘North, you say?’ she said huskily. ‘I hear they’re a wild lot up there.’

  ‘No wilder than down here — less wild, if the last days are anything to go by.’ He smiled at her.

  A glimmer of response warmed Rose’s face and she stood arms akimbo. ‘You look a wild one, if that eye’s anything to judge by.’

  He grinned. ‘I swear I’m a respectable merchant and farmer. Come, lass, we must catch the tide. If you are coming too, get up behind the baggage.’

  ‘The tide,’ said Rose doubtfully. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We must go,’ said Guy, holding a hand down to Philippa. She took it, but hesitated.

  ‘Rose, please?’

  The maid heard the plea, thought of the past — and the future with a big question hanging over it. ‘I’ll come.’ She bounded forward as Guy pulled her mistress up, and was dragged unceremoniously on to the baggage by the groom. They set off at a gallop. The tide could not wait any longer.

  *

  The single sail bellied out in the wind as Philippa passed beneath it, and she clung to the side of the ship as it dipped and rose. Waves slapped and surged, sending spray flying. The wharves and buildings of London were dark against a gilded sky. Rose was below in their cabin, tired out by the events of the last few days. There had been little rest from walking for her, so she had told them. But Philippa was too restless to sleep, weary as she was.

  ‘I thought you would be asleep.’ Guy spoke at her shoulder, and instantly she was remembering all that was between them.

  ‘I decided to come and see what the city looks like from out here.’ She jumped as his elbow brushed hers.

  ‘The fairest of cities, she’s been called. And if the Savoy still stood, one could see it. It’s a pity,’ muttered Guy.

  She did not look at him but stared out over the sparkling gold-edged waves. Gazing upon his bruised face made her feel a need to reach out and touch him.

  ‘I’m glad we came upon your Rose. She will provide you with the company you need. It was necessary for you to have somebody.’

  ‘Necessary?’ She felt breathless, insecure, furious with him for making her feel so.

  ‘I’m a wild one,’ he mocked. ‘Didn’t you hear your maid say so? But you don’t need her to tell you that, do you?’ She looked at him quickly and away, and would have moved but the shifting deck only served to bring them closer. ‘You don’t agree with your maid?’

  ‘I know that you are no saint,’ she muttered. ‘But saints live in Paradise, so I would not expect to find one on earth.’ He was much too close for her comfort.

  ‘No temptation to drive them wild — no Philippa?’

  ‘I don’t drive you wild!’ protested Philippa desperately. Butterfly wings of sensation were fluttering uncontrollably up and down her spine. ‘Like a sister I shall be to you.’

  ‘A sister? Ha!’ he responded, suddenly grim-visaged. ‘You did not behave like a sister to me last night!’

  ‘You didn’t behave like a brother!’ she fired back, seeking to push past him, but she had not found her sea legs and stumbled over his feet as he turned.

  His hand shot out and prevented her from falling, but brought her close to him. A moment he gazed, then his mouth sought hers and found it. Hard and punishing was his kiss, and she resisted. Then unexpectedly his hold slackened, his fingers moved up and came to rest about her throat. He caressed tenderly the place where the pulse beat rapidly, and his lips buffed hers more gently, causing her to question such tenderness in a wild man. Her mouth opened beneath his, and she swallowed painfully. ‘I am betrothed to your brother.’ She said the words as if she had committed them to memory — just as she had her prayers when a child. There was silence except for the waves slapping the sides of the ship, and the shout of a seaman.

  ‘Bear that in mind, then — always,’ he whispered against her mouth.

  ‘I have, since I was ten years old,’ she replied in a barely audible voice. ‘Perhaps you should remember it also,’ she added with a touch of spirit, and a hint of a sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘I try.’ His expression clouded, and releasing her, he turned away across the unsteady deck.

  She stared after him, before swaying and stumbling in his wake. Hampered as she was by her skirts and stinging tears, she nearly fell down the ladder that led to her cabin. When at last she lay on the lower bunk, she could only pray that being in love was a passing phase and that tumbling out of it was as easy as falling into it. Then she could face meeting the man who awaited her in Yorkshire — could face being his wife.

  *

  Sitting on the deck the next morning with Rose, eating a breakfast of smoked bacon and rather hard biscuit, Philippa tried to keep her attention on the scene about her, while not allowing her eyes to wander too often to where Guy stood on the poop deck conversing with the master. His longish black hair beneath the turbanned liripipe was whipped about his face by the strong breeze that filled the sail. Only once had his glance washed over her when she came on deck. A brief nod in so doing, and that was all. Her spirits were low but she was determined to appear cheerful.

  Now that they were out of the estuary and into the North Sea, all the tales she had heard about sea monsters and pirates were more real and believable. Mermaids, sea serpents that could drag a ship to the bottom, and fish as large as Jonah’s whale were said to frequent these waters! Pirates were said to abound, who were not necessarily French or Spanish, or even Scots. There was hostility and rivalry enough between the different seaports that dotted the English coast to turn the crews from the harbours to piracy. Earlier that morning she had prayed and included a prayer to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, and just for added security she had sent a petition winging to Saint Thomas, who was believed to take an interest in those who dared the dangers of sea voyages. Hopefully the saints would not be kept busy on her behalf, she thought sardonically, suddenly thinking of her father’s death.

  She frowned, and scanned the deck once more. The gentle low clucking of several hens confined in a cage to provide food for the journey attracted her attention. Their voice was so familiar that it soothed. The deck dipped and rose, dipped and rose, seeming to go deeper each time as the day wore on. Spray flew high, scattering myriad icy droplets over them. Philippa pulled her blue surcote tighter over the scarlet gown.

  ‘Mistress Philippa!’ Rose spoke suddenly, disturbing her thoughts. ‘Master Milburn is signalling to you.’

  She looked up. ‘You go, Rose, and see what he wants.’

  The maid nodded and went. Listening to her feet, Philippa was tempted to watch her progress across the deck an
d her meeting with Guy, but resisted. It seemed an age before she returned.

  ‘Master Milburn says there’s a squall coming up, and that we are to go to the cabin,’ declared Rose, clutching at the cargo lashed to the deck, which was sheltering them from the worst of the wind.

  ‘You have been all that time just to tell me this?’ said Philippa crossly. The wind had whipped colour into Rose’s face, and clad in one of the more serviceable gowns Beatrice had given her, she looked extremely pretty.

  ‘He was asking after your manor — wanting to know the number of labourers in the fields, and the craftsmen our village could boast.’

  ‘If he wished to know more about my manor, he should have asked me.’

  ‘But you sent me to him,’ Rose parried irritably. ‘He said I had a good grasp of manorial affairs.’ She smiled slightly.

  ‘Is that so surprising? You sat with me when my father discussed such matters.’ Why she was so annoyed she could not quite understand, but then as she looked at her, she wondered if Guy had deliberately kept her talking. Rose did not have freckles, and her eyes were a lovely hazel, brown and green flecked. Her nose was dainty, and there was a hint of a cleft in her firm round chin.

  The sun suddenly vanished, and she looked up. A heavy mass of black cloud was being tumbled across the sky in their direction. Another curl of spray arched and flung water, drenching them both. They gasped, and instinctively clung to each other as the next wave slammed the ship.

  ‘Let us go below,’ cried Philippa, rising with a shiver, and clutching at the tarpaulined cargo.