Philippa

by Bertrice Small

  “Will the emperor not object?” the second voice said. “The English queen is his aunt after all, and blood is valued among the Spanish. And are you certain we will be rewarded? Or will we be executed for what we have done?”

  “Of course the emperor will be annoyed, you fool! But we have people in England who will grab the little princess from her keepers and bring her quickly to France. Our king may be angry at first, but he will see the advantages in what we have done. And the queen dowager will protect us, for we are her servants, are we not? Once King Francois has the English princess in his possession the marriage can be performed. Even the emperor would dare not defy the church. The threat the English have always been to us will be removed. France will govern England. And their noble families will come around quickly enough. They always do, don’t they? When push comes to shove they will think of themselves before anyone else.” And then there was laughter.

  “The king’s salamander will be the signal, eh?”

  “Oui!”

  The wind was beginning to die down, and with it the dust storm. There was no place for her to hide. Philippa gritted her teeth. “Coming through!” she shouted, and pushed through the gloom towards the men whom she could now just make out. “Coming through! Make way for the countess of Witton! Make way!” She was almost upon them.

  “What the devil ...” one of the men, a rough-looking fellow, exclaimed, and he stepped forward to block Philippa’s path.

  “Get out of my way, you French baboon!” Philippa said in English, her tone decidedly haughty. She glared at the man.

  “Did she hear us?” the second man asked.

  “Move aside for the countess of Witton!” Philippa said boldly. And she shoved at the large man before her.

  “How long have you been here, madame?” he asked her, grasping her wrists. “How long?”

  “How dare you put your hands on me, sirrah!” Philippa shrieked, outraged. “Release me at once! I shall have you punished for this!” Her heart was hammering wildly. Could she get away with this? Could she convince them she didn’t understand them, or their language? She kicked the man holding her, hard.

  He released her at once, leaping backwards and cursing, rubbing his shins. “The bitch kicked me,” he said to his two companions, who were now laughing at his antics.

  “Madame,” one of the other men said, “parlez-vous français?”

  “What?” Philippa replied. “What is it you say? Why do you not speak English? Damned French bandits! Let me pass at once. I shall have you arrested! Help! Help!” she began to shout. “Bandits! Thieves! I am being attacked !”

  The three men looked horrified at her shrieks.

  “She does not speak French,” one of them said. “She could not have understood what we said, and her cries will bring those who should not see us together. Let her go, Pierre, before she brings knights upon us. Look at her garments. She is a lady.”

  The large man who had been blocking Philippa’s way snarled angrily. “I think we should strangle the bitch, and have done with it! I thought all these fine court ladies spoke French, but then they are English, Michel, aren’t they.” He stepped aside, opening the way for Philippa, and picking up her skirts she ran down the path between the tents, emerging with relief onto the jousting field once again.

  The area was still crowded with spectators, and she felt safer. She slowed her pace and looked about for someone she knew, giving a cry of surprise when a hand clamped firmly about her elbow. Whirling, she found herself facing her husband, and Crispin did not look very pleased at all.

  “Where have you been, madame?” he demanded of her. “And just what have you been doing?” His gaze was stem, and perhaps angry, perhaps worried.

  “There is a plot, my lord,” she managed to gasp out. “A plot to kill the king!”

  “Which king?” he snapped, suddenly looking alert.

  “Our king!” Philippa hissed at him. “Do you think I give a bloody damn about the French king? It is Henry Tudor who matters!”

  “When?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered.

  “Who are the assassins?” He was looking very exasperated.

  “I don’t know,” she told him for the third time.

  “God’s blood, woman!” he roared, causing those about them to stare. He lowered his voice. “There is a plot against the king, but you don’t know who, or where, or when, or even why. Are you mad then, Philippa? Has the heat of this dusty and damnable French countryside finally affected your wits?” He appeared even more irritable now.

  “Please, Crispin, not here,” Philippa pleaded with her husband. “Let us go back to our own pavilion, and I will tell you what I heard.”

  Almost dragging his wife by her arm, the earl of Witton made his way to where their horses were waiting. He boosted Philippa into her saddle and climbed aboard his own mount. Together they made their way back to the English encampment. The wind was rising again, and the sky was growing darker with the dust swirling up into the atmosphere. Some of the smaller tents were beginning to pull loose from their pegs and collapse onto the ground. They could hear the shouts of the French, frantic to keep their camp from blowing away entirely. Ahead of them they could see Queen Katherine’s open litter with its gilt columns. Its cloth of gold curtains with their red satin trim were blowing wildly in the winds. The queen was huddled inside, a scarf drawn about her face to protect herself from the fine stinging dust.

  Crispin and Philippa finally reached the comparative safety of their own tent. While it was swaying in the wind, the earl could see the pegs holding it to the earth were planted firmly. They dismounted, and he said to Peter, his serving man, “Bring the horses inside the tent. This is a nasty blow, and I don’t think it will end soon.”

  Peter nodded. “Aye, milord. I agree.”

  Inside, the earl led his wife past the partition that served to divide the tent, waving Lucy away for the moment. He sat in one of the two chairs and pointed to the other. “Sit down,” he said to Philippa, “and explain yourself to me, madame. I go to find you among the queen’s ladies, only to be told you have gone off with my cousin. Surely you realize that Guy-Paul is not a man to be trusted. He was a sly boy, and I saw immediately upon our renewing our acquaintance that he had not changed. What the hell were you doing with him, Philippa?”

  “You’re jealous!” she said, astounded to hear herself voicing the words. Why on earth would he be jealous? She was his wife, of course, but certainly he understood that she had an honorable nature, that she would never betray him. Why should he feel so strongly about her being with his cousin?

  “Answer the question, madame,” the earl said.

  “King Francois saw me at the queen’s banquet. He admired me. He wished to meet me. I saw no harm in it,” Philippa explained.

  “You saw no harm in being served up like a lamb to that great lecher?” the earl shouted at her. “What happened between you two?” he demanded. His eyes were cold.

  “Nothing happened!” Philippa shouted back, enraged that he should doubt her. “How dare you impugn my honor, Crispin? I am your wife and not some court whore!”

  “A woman alone with that king stands in danger of losing her good name, madame. And it is my name, damnit! Where was my cousin while you met Francois de Valois? And who else was there, or were you alone with that seducer of women?”

  “Your cousin left me with the French king,” Philippa said coldly. “The little turd scuttled away like the dung beetle he is. Were it not for the king’s servant, I should have had my good name compromised, Crispin. I hope you will speak to Guy-Paul about his less than chivalrous behavior. I know that I shall never acknowledge his existence again. Now if you are through making certain that your possession was not damaged or used by another, I shall tell you what I overheard as I was attempting to make my way through the French camp and back here.”

  God�
��s blood! the earl thought irritably. Was that what she thought? That he considered her only his possession ? Did she think he could make love to her the way he did and have no feelings for her? He gritted his teeth. “My concern was only for you, little one. I could not find you, nor could I find that bastard with whom I share blood. I ... I ... never mind! Tell me about this alleged plot you think you overheard.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Crispin,” Philippa snapped. “As I was desperately attempting to find my way back to the jousting field I was caught in one of these dust storms that we have been having recently. It was then I heard them, and what I heard froze my blood in my veins. There were three of them. From what they said I believe them to be in the service of the dowager queen Louise of Savoy. The largest of the trio is Pierre. Another is Michel. The third was not named, and he remained silent. They spoke of murdering King Henry, the queen, and the cardinal.”

  “To what purpose?” he wondered aloud.

  “They said they had compatriots in England who would steal Princess Mary away from her keepers and bring her to France. Once here her marriage to the Dauphin would be celebrated.”

  “And England would be France’s,” the earl finished.

  “They said not even the pope would stop it,” Philippa continued.

  “Nay, he would have no grounds, the betrothal having been agreed upon by both Henry Tudor and Francois de Valois,” the earl remarked.

  “And they said our great families would not oppose them,” she told him.

  “Some would, and look for another English heir. Others would side with France because they had the princess. It would be civil war, Philippa.” He shook his head. “I thought we were past that when the differences between Lancaster and York were settled. The question of England’s throne has been raised before. When Duke William of Normandy overcame the last of the Saxon rulers, Harold. When Stephen and Matilda fought each other for years. The wars between the roses of Lancaster and York.” He sighed. Then he said, “What else did you overhear?”

  “They mean to do it sometime when they are all together, and they said that the salamander would be the sign,” Philippa replied.

  “The salamander is the French king’s personal sign, but from what you have said he is innocent of any involvement in this plot. His mother, however, is another matter altogether. The woman is fiercely ambitious, and I would put nothing past her. She would do anything for her son, but murdering a king of England, his queen, and the cardinal is quite a grand scheme. I wonder if she knows, or if these men are acting on their own? Still, I shall have to speak to the cardinal, and he may want to talk to you, Philippa. How fortunate it is that you overheard this intrigue. You are certain that these conspirators did not see you.”

  “Of course they saw me when the dust died down, and they accosted me for they were afraid, but I pretended not to understand them. I spoke English to them, and was quite imperious. Make way for the countess of Witton!” She giggled. “The one called Pierre wanted to strangle me, but the one called Michel said my clothing indicated I was of some importance, and there would be questions. He thought since I didn’t speak French it would be safe to let me go, and so they did. I was frightened to death, but I never showed it. And I was quite rude, as they expected an English lady to be when dealing with mere French minions,” she finished with a grin.

  “You could have been killed,” he said softly. He felt his heart ache at the thought of losing her. Not once had he ever told her he loved her, but he realized now that he did. What if she had died never knowing that he loved her?

  Outside there came a great shouting, and Peter ran out to see what it was. He came back several minutes later to tell them that the French king’s huge pavilion had just blown away in the windstorm. “Their tents were flimsily affixed, my lord. There has been but slight damage among our tents.”

  Taking Philippa by the shoulders, the earl looked down into her face. “Promise me that you will remain here, little one. I must go and speak with Wolsey It is up to him to decide what to do about this matter.” He kissed her forehead. “I will come for you if the cardinal wants to see you. Go with no one else. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, and watched as he left her. There had been an odd look in his eye when he had spoken to her that she did not understand. Philippa stood up, and then sat down again. The realization of the danger she had been in was now beginning to sink in. She looked after Crispin, but he had quickly gone. He had been very angry when he had first found her. She had accused him of being jealous. Was he jealous? And if he was, why was he jealous? He had to know she would do nothing to bring shame upon his good name. She knew he knew that. So why was he jealous?

  A tiny curl of possibility began to awaken in her brain. Was it possible, just possible, that Crispin St. Claire actually cared for his wife? Liked her? Loved her? She had no knowledge other than that he had given her, but surely a man did not make love to his wife the way her husband did if there was not something pleasing about the lady. Philippa sighed. The queen would not know such things. Royalty were different from ordinary folk. Lucy would not know. Her practical serving woman had never been in love in her life. Only her mother would have such answers. But she was in France, and Rosamund was in the north of England. Philippa sat quietly waiting. She had no other choice in the matter.

  “Is there another banquet tonight?” Lucy was at her side.

  Philippa nodded. “Go to one of the queen’s women, and say I ask to be excused. That the wind and the dust have given me a terrible aching in my head. That I will wait upon her highness in the morning before the mass.”

  “Are you alright?” Lucy wanted to know.

  “I am not certain,” Philippa responded. “Go now!”

  “I’ll come right back,” Lucy promised, and hurried off.

  Now that the storm had passed, Peter led their horses back outside and tied them to the railing set up for that purpose. Returning, he shoveled up the manure and removed it. Lucy returned, and Philippa gathered the two servants to her side and told them what she had overheard, and that the earl had gone to inform the cardinal.

  “You can say nothing,” she warned them. “I do not know what the cardinal will do, but I expect he will want to catch the conspirators if he can. We must give them no advantage over us,” Philippa finished.

  “What a terrible thing!” Lucy said, genuinely shocked.

  “I’ll keep me ears open, and me mouth shut,” Peter offered.

  Philippa smiled. “It will all be resolved to the good,” she assured them.

  “You might have been killed,” Lucy said. “And what would I have told your mother then? And Annie would have killed me.”

  The remark made Philippa laugh. “I fear life back in England is going to be intolerably dull for us, Lucy,” she teased her serving woman.

  Both Lucy and Peter chortled.

  “It has surely been more interesting for me since you married my master,” Peter admitted with a small grin. “If your ladyship doesn’t mind me saying so.”

  Crispin returned with the news that the cardinal wanted to see Philippa, but that he would come under cover of darkness to their pavilion, for it would seem odd if she appeared in his quarters. There were too many people around the cardinal, and that would lead to too many questions. He would come after the evening’s banquet.

  “I have sent word to the queen that I am ill,” Philippa said. “I did not think I could face a large gathering tonight so soon after learning what I did this afternoon.”

  The earl nodded. “I will go, and I will bring Wolsey back here myself with only one servant. No one will think it odd that we are together given my previous service.” He smiled a small smile. “Here I was supposed to be the one listening for information that might be of use to the king, and I have heard nothing that everyone else does not know, until today when my wife stumbled upon a scheme that could change the face of our world as we know it. Thank God you did overhear these men, Philippa,
but I am even more grateful that you escaped them unscathed.” His previous anger over her foolish visit to King Francois seemed now to be forgotten.

  “I have told Peter and Lucy,” Philippa said. Why did his eyes warm so when he looked at her?

  “Aye, they should know, and they are wise enough to keep silent,” he replied. Then he put his arms about her and tipped her face up to his. “Promise me you will go nowhere alone until this matter is settled,” he said.

  “I promise,” she said breathlessly, and then he kissed her tenderly, and Philippa melted against him. If only he would love her, she thought, and then wondered why such an idea had come into her head. She was his wife. It didn’t matter if he loved her or not. But it did, she suddenly realized. But why did it matter? She didn’t understand why it mattered so much to her. Yet it did. She wanted to go home to England. She wanted to see her mother, who could surely explain all these puzzlements to her.

  “You must not think when I kiss you,” he gently teased her.

  “I was thinking how much I like it when you kiss me,” she flattered him. “I believe that I like being married to you, my lord husband.”

  His heart leapt beneath his doublet. “I am glad that you do, Philippa, for I find that I enjoy being your husband. Far more than I ever anticipated.” He kissed her again. “I miss our bedsport,” he murmured in her ear. “Do you?”

  She nodded, blushing. “I was also thinking I cannot wait to get home to England, my lord. I think perhaps that I have had enough of the court for now. I want to see my family in the north. I want you to meet them, and know them. My stepfather will want to take you grouse hunting. He does love the sport muchly. I want you to see Friarsgate.”