Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Why? I thought you two were mates.” Phillipa took a sip of the claret, to which Altheda hadn’t added nearly as much water as was her custom.

  “We are. We just had a little...misunderstanding about my sister.”

  “A misunderstanding.”

  “We cleared it up.”

  “I don’t suppose you could have cleared it up by discussing the situation like reasonable people.”

  Hugh quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t know much about men, do you?”

  Bristling at his condescension, she said, “On the contrary, I’ve been surrounded by scholars and clerics my entire life—nearly all of them men.”

  “Geldings, the lot of them. They know less of what it takes to be a man than you do.”

  “And what, pray, do you feel it takes to be a man? The ability to pummel another man savagely?”

  “If I think he’s hurt my sister—or anyone else I care about—absolutely. Without hesitation. Or if he’s a threat to my kingdom, most certainly.”

  “Or if you’re paid enough?” she asked acidly.

  He took a slow sip of wine, again eyeing her over the rim—only this time he wasn’t smiling. “You ought to read Lord Richard’s letter, don’t you think?”

  Ah yes, the letter. Retrieving it from her document case, she squinted at the huge seal, which depicted a figure she took to be King Henry sitting on his throne, two unidentifiable objects in his outstretched hands. Inked on a corner of the missive were the words “Lady Phillipa de Paris, Oxford.”

  Phillipa broke the seal, pulled out the ribbons and unfolded the sheet of thick, crackling parchment.

  Chapter 3

  Hugh propped his elbows on the table, nursing his wine as he watched Phillipa read Lord Richard’s letter. He wondered how she would react when the justiciar revealed the truth about how she had come to his attention, and what this was really all about. Or perhaps his lordship would judge that information too sensitive to put in writing, and would expect Hugh to fill her in on the relevant background—including what they knew about her.

  He would find out soon enough.

  Her eyebrows had drawn together in concentration, producing a tiny furrow between the two graceful black ink strokes. She looked so serious, so intent, in striking contrast to her delicate features and girlishly exposed braids. Her hair, black and gleaming as a raven’s wing, was parted down the middle with excruciating precision and snugly plaited. Hugh’s gaze kept homing in on one lone wayward tendril, dampened by rain, that clung to the side of her face in a rather charming curlicue.

  She looked up, noticed the direction of his gaze, and reached up to brush the curlicue away.

  Hugh sighed.

  “It’s true,” she said in a tone of wonderment, nodding toward the letter. “He has some sort of...espionage mission in mind for me.”

  Hugh couldn’t help smiling. Despite Lady Phillipa’s cool intellectuality, she had the most expressive, childlike eyes. No doubt she thought of herself as worldly—those with formidable educations tended to confuse book learning with actual experience—yet she was anything but. There was a lamblike innocence to her, no doubt the result of having spent her entire life in the sheltered embrace of academia. She thought she knew a great deal; in reality, she knew almost nothing of real import.

  It was a dangerous state of mind for someone embarking on a clandestine mission for the crown, but Hugh knew better than to openly question the judgment of his immediate superior, who, as the king’s justiciar, happened to be the second most important man in England. And, although it had always rankled Hugh to be subject to the authority of others, fifteen years of military experience had accustomed him to heeding even those orders whose wisdom he doubted.

  “How much do you know of what Lord Richard has planned for me?” Phillipa asked.

  Hugh bought a moment by taking another swallow of the too-sweet claret. “What does he tell you in the letter?”

  “Not much, only that he’d appreciate my accompanying you to West Minster for an audience with him on a matter of great urgency for the kingdom—a covert matter—but you’d already told me that.”

  “Hmm.” So Hugh would have to brief her himself on the events leading up to this mysterious mission, including how Lord Richard had come to choose Phillipa for it.

  “Lord Richard can’t force me to come with you to West Minster,” she said. “He acknowledges as much in the letter. And, frankly, I can’t see uprooting myself from my life here just like that and setting off on a two-day journey with...” She dropped her gaze, and Hugh wondered what expression she was hiding. Distaste? Fear? Something else?

  “With the likes of me,” he supplied.

  “Quite. Lord Richard evidently anticipated my feelings on the matter, because the letter is mostly about you.”

  “Me?”

  “I gather he was attempting to reassure me of your background and character, inasmuch as you’re a complete stranger to me and I’m expected to cheerfully place myself in your keeping for the next two days.”

  And for some time after that, seeing as they would undoubtedly be working together, but Hugh decided that there would be plenty of time for her to discover that once she was in West Minster and committed to the enterprise.

  “What did his lordship tell you about me?” Hugh asked.

  Phillipa cast him a ominous look. “Nothing to offset your having held a knife to my throat and threatened to rape me.”

  Hugh let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve gone over that. I was just—”

  “You were just testing my mettle.” She lifted her goblet, glaring at him as she took a drink. “How do you suppose Lord Richard would react if he knew how effectively your own actions had discredited every admirable thing he said about you?”

  Not well. Hugh forced himself to smile carelessly as he redirected the conversation. “He said I was admirable?”

  Consulting the letter, she said, “He writes that you’re the eldest son of one of the most noble houses in England, and that your father, William of Wexford, groomed you from infancy to be—” she raised her eyes to his, her expression dubious “—the greatest knight in Christendom?”

  Hugh drained his goblet and reached for the jug. “He failed.”

  Her gaze lit on his unshorn hair, his earring, his grimy leather tunic. “Yes, well...Lord Richard still appears to hold you in the highest regard. Let’s see...” she mused, scanning the letter. “Here it is. ‘By the time he was twelve, young Hugh of Wexford was widely renowned for his skill with the sword. He was dubbed at eighteen, whereupon he became a stipendiary knight, his swordsmanship legendary as he spent the next fifteen years engaged in foreign battles.’”

  The fingers of Hugh’s nearly-useless right hand curled automatically around the bowl of his goblet, as it had done countless times around the silver-gilt pommel of the sword he no longer bothered to carry.

  “‘Sir Hugh came into my service these two years past,’” Phillipa read, “‘through the recommendation of Richard de Clare, lord of Chepstow and earl of Pembroke, known also as Richard Strongbow, for whom Hugh had fought in Ireland. An injury he incurred while capturing Dublin had obliged Hugh to retire his sword— ‘“ Phillip glanced toward Hugh’s mutilated hand as it cupped the goblet “‘—but Strongbow felt that a man of his backbone and valor might nonetheless prove of invaluable service to me. And so he has.’” Phillipa refolded the letter and slipped it back into her case. “I thought you only fought for foreign kings.”

  “I fought for whomever promised the most gold. Three years ago that happened to be Strongbow. He’d taken it into his head to reinstate the exiled king of Leinster, marry this fellow’s daughter, and inherit his lands. Which he did, with my help and that of a good many other paid soldiers, only to end up having to surrender his nice new chunk of Ireland to King Henry and hold it as his vassal—which I knew all along was bound to happen.”

  “But you also knew you’d end up with a purse full of gold, and that was all th
at really mattered, wasn’t it?”

  Hugh would have taken more umbrage at her tone if the statement itself weren’t, God help him, the plain and simple truth. Quietly he said, “Perhaps some day, when you’ve had more experience of the world, we can have this conversation. In the meantime, I’m afraid I haven’t the patience for it.”

  She held his gaze for a long moment before dropping her gaze to her goblet. That thoughtful little crease reappeared between her brows. “Why did you become a stipendiary knight?” Looking up, she said, “You were dubbed by whom—your sire’s overlord?”

  “Aye, but I was made to pledge fealty to my father as well, and it was understood that I would remain at Wexford under his command, at least until he’d finished molding me into his vision of the ultimate chevalier.” He raised his goblet to his mouth. “You ask too many questions.”

  “‘Tis the curse of the scholar.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “So, you turned mercenary even though you were sworn to remain in your father’s household and serve him?”

  He nodded curtly. “The day after I was dubbed, I left Wexford for good.”

  “Do you mean you severed your ties with your family, just like that?”

  “With my father. My sister was in London by then, or I wouldn’t have left. And my mother had died after Joanna was born.”

  “But...aren’t you heir to Wexford? What of your inheritance?”

  “My father isn’t lord of Wexford outright—he holds it for his overlord, who might or might not grant me its keeping when the time comes.”

  “But still...you’d sworn an oath of fealty. What of—”

  “There comes a point,” Hugh said, “when a man must decide whether he’ll conform his life to the expectations of others, or carve his own path through the forest—and if that path involves a measure of sacrifice, well, it also yields the freedom to go one’s own way, to be one’s own master. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying, my lady, having carved out your own rather unique path in life.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, her great brown eyes reflecting the dancing flame of the oil lamp. “Yes. I understand perfectly.”

  A weighty silence fell between them, punctured moments later when a group of scholars burst into the tavern, laughing uproariously and demanding wine—although most of them had clearly had their fill of it elsewhere. They took over a nearby table, upon which they proceeded to pound with their fists in an apparent attempt to hurry Altheda along.

  Raising her voice to be heard above their rowdy neighbors, Phillipa said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly go with you to West Minster, Sir Hugh. Please tell Lord Richard that, whereas I appreciate his confidence in me, I must regrettably decline his request to—”

  “Let’s not discuss this here,” Hugh said, with a glance at the table full of drunken scholars. “‘Twould be better to go outside, where no one can hear us, but if it’s still raining—”

  “It isn’t, but there’s nothing to talk about. My mind is made up.”

  And he had his orders; leaving Phillipa de Paris in Oxford was not an option. “How can you be so sure it’s stopped raining?” he asked, the undercroft in which they sat being windowless and thick-walled.

  “Their cappas are dry,” she said, nodding toward the group who had just entered.

  “So they are,” Hugh murmured, impressed with her swift deduction. “Come, then.” Rising from his bench, he extracted some pennies from his purse and tossed them on the table. “You keep a set of rooms here in town, I understand. Kibald Street, isn’t it?”

  She stood, scowling. “Just how much do you know about me?”

  “Far too much to suit you, I’m sure.” Just wait till you tell her everything...

  Plucking her mantle off the peg, he helped her on with it, smoothing the damp wool over her shoulders, which felt fine-boned, almost fragile, beneath his hands.

  Stiffly she said, “If you think I’m letting you into my flat—”

  “My intent is merely to walk you home,” he said mildly. “Think what you will of me in other respects, but I’ve never yet forced my way into a lady’s chamber. You may not credit that, after my little demonstration back there in the alley, but it’s the plain truth. You’re in no danger from me.”

  She looked away, adjusting her mantle. “Very well, then.”

  Not only had the rain ceased, but the clouds that brought it had dissolved in the storm, leaving the sky blessedly clear and the streets awash with moonlight. The night air was mild, and had that freshly scrubbed quality that sometimes lingers after a summer shower. It would have been the perfect June evening for a stroll had not the roads beneath their feet transformed during the storm into veritable rivers of mud.

  “I assume you’re aware,” Hugh said, glancing around to make sure no one else was about, “that Queen Eleanor left England and the king’s side two years ago, and now makes her home at her palace in Poitiers.” It was her husband’s public flaunting of his affair with Rosamund Clifford that had prompted the formidable Eleanor, Countess of Poitou, Duchess of Aquitaine and Queen of England, to retire in fury and mortification to her ancestral city. There, in her balmy homeland in southwestern France, she established a new and distinctly distaff royal court presided over by her daughter, Marie de Champagne, where the Frankish beau monde mingled with poets and troubadours, philosophers and clerics.

  “Yes, I’ve heard much of the court of Poitiers,” Phillipa said, holding her skirts daintily off the ground as she picked her way around the worst of the puddles—a futile effort, inasmuch the hem of her tunic was already soaked with mud. “They say Queen Eleanor and the Countess Marie have taken a keen interest in developing a code of manners that can be applied to...attachments between men and women. ‘L’amour courtois,’ they call it. The idea is that love affairs should be conducted in accordance with certain rules of chivalry and courtliness.”

  “You do realize,” Hugh said as they turned onto Kibald Street, “that this so-called ‘courtly love,’ for all its elaborate rules of conduct, embraces some fairly unorthodox ideas. Illicit love affairs are not only tolerated at the Poitiers court, but encouraged, because nothing must stand in the way of Cupid’s arrow. Marriage is seen as stifling to true love, and seduction—especially of someone else’s husband or wife—is considered something of an art form.”

  “Yes, I know.” She laughed at his nonplussed expression. “Did you think such revelations would shock me? I’ve spent my life exchanging ideas with some of the most enlightened minds in the world. I’ve studied under more than one man who was excommunicated for heresy. Radical ideas don’t frighten me, Sir Hugh. They invigorate me!”

  The back of Hugh’s neck prickled with a vague awareness, a presence—and then he heard it, a sound like an indrawn breath, coming from an alley just up ahead.

  Pausing, Hugh raised a hand to silence Phillipa, who’d opened her mouth to speak.

  There came a low grunt, followed by someone hissing, “Shh!” Hugh reached for his jambiya, but of course it wasn’t there.

  He wheeled around, seizing Phillipa by the waist and yanking the weapon out of its sheath. Pressing a finger to his lips, he cocked his head toward the alley.

  She nodded, her eyes enormous.

  He motioned her to back up to the corner and stay there. Creeping up to the mouth of the alley, he steeled himself and strode swiftly inside, jambiya outstretched.

  A woman’s startled laughter brought him up short—as did the sight of the buxom redhead braced against the alley wall with her skirts rucked up, her exposed legs—white as milk in the moonlight—clasped tightly around her companion’s hips as he tupped her with abrupt, pounding strokes. Hugh couldn’t see the fellow’s face, because it was turned away, but he was tonsured and wore the cappa, albeit disheveled.

  He lowered the knife in his hand.

  The wench met Hugh’s eyes as she rocked against the wall, smiling with practiced seduction. She held his gaze, the tip of her tongue gliding over her rouged u
pper lip in a gesture of crude sexual promise. “You’ll have to wait till I’m done with this one here, love,” she said hoarsely. “and ‘twill cost you three pennies.”

  The black-clad scholar whipped his head around, snarling, “Bugger off!” at Hugh. He was a spotty youth no more than sixteen.

  “Certainly.” Hugh backed up a step, inclining his head like a courtier exiting the royal presence. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Tuppence, then!” The whore called out as her customer griped and swore. “You look like a man who could give a girl a tumble she’d not soon forget.”

  “And you’re just the woman to inspire it,” he said magnanimously. “But alas, I’m engaged elsewhere.”

  “So I see,” the wench said, her gaze shifting to focus over Hugh’s shoulder.

  Turning around, Hugh saw Phillipa standing at the entrance to the alley, taking in the couple rutting against the wall with surprising equanimity. Hugh supposed she must have stumbled across many such back-alley assignations over the years, especially since she insisted upon walking the city streets alone at night. Still...

  “Enjoy your...engagement.” The whore returned her attention to her young customer, placating him with an ardent kiss as she moved against him in a carnal rhythm.

  When Hugh turned back toward Phillipa, she was gone. He exited the alley, only to find her strolling along as if nothing untoward had occurred. As he came up alongside her, she handed him back his scabbard. “It’s been digging into me—I’ll have bruises tomorrow.”

  Refastening the scabbard to his belt, Hugh said, “I, uh...I’m sorry you had to see that...I mean, what was going on...back there.”

  “That alley is popular with the ladies of the town.” Her indifference seemed a bit forced. “Sometimes there’s more than one couple in there, and once there were two women and...well...”

  “Indeed.”

  “Not that I look,” she said quickly. “I certainly don’t peer in there every time I pass by.”

  “That’s very circumspect of you,” said Hugh, thinking, I would look.