They walked in awkward silence until Phillipa, having apparently resolved to steer the conversation back to its prior course, said, a bit too brightly, “Have you heard about the ‘courts of love’ that Queen Eleanor and her daughter are convening in Poitiers? ‘Tis a rather fascinating custom from Gascony wherein the romantic dilemmas and grievances of lovers are argued before a panel of ladies—anonymously, through advocates, with the final judgment being delivered by the queen and her—”
“You can’t be serious,” Hugh interjected with a snort of laughter. “You find those ridiculous courts of love fascinating? And to think, I actually took you for a woman of some discernment!”
“Why should intimate relations between men and women be exempt from rules of civilized conduct?”
How careful should he be in choosing his words? Hugh wondered. The woman he was addressing, despite her aura of intellectual sophistication, was almost certainly a maiden. Most maidens were naturally ill at ease in regard to affairs of the flesh, yet Phillipa de Paris had not so much as blinked at that little alleyway tryst back there.
Opting for a middle ground in terms of frankness, he said, “What transpires between a man and a woman in bed, my lady, was never meant to be ‘civilized.’ ‘Tis a time to give vent to one’s animal nature, not stifle it.”
She made a little sound of irritation. “I’m speaking as much about passion of the heart, Sir Hugh, as of the...loins.”
“Passion springs from the loins, and there—if one has any sense at all—it remains.”
“Do you mean to say that physical desire supersedes desire of the heart and mind—that the spiritual union of two lovers comes second to mere animal gratification?”
A gust of derisive laughter escaped him. “This ‘spiritual union’ you speak of, this courtly new notion of romantic love, is a pretty fabrication invented by the ladies of the Poitiers court for the purpose of emasculating any man foolish enough to take it seriously.”
“Emasculating...” She laughed scornfully. “Really, Sir Hugh...”
“You haven’t seen them, as I have, the young knights and princes who’ve been snared in the net of courtly love. They mince about with their long, flowing sleeves and pointed slippers, fawning over the ladies like eager little puppies. They don’t hunt, they don’t joust, they don’t fly the falcons or throw the dice. All they do is recite vapid romantic verse about swooning larks and lighthearted starlings as they moon over their lady loves—a pathetic display.”
“You’ve been to the Poitiers court?” she asked.
He nodded. “I spent three months there about a year and a half ago. ‘Twas a novel experience. If you’d ever actually witnessed one of those courts of love, you’d not find them—”
“A year and a half ago...” Phillipa frowned as she stepped around a particularly bad patch of mud. “You were already working for Lord Richard by then. He had no objection to your spending three months away from—” She gasped and stopped in her tracks. “He sent you there! You were there as a spy! You were spying on the queen!”
Hugh paused long enough to uncork his wineskin and offer it to Phillipa, who shook her head. He had a squeeze, then continued walking. “This word ‘spy’ that you keep bandying about...”
“Lord Richard would only have sent you there at the behest of King Henry.” She scurried to catch up to him, mud sucking at her slippers. “Her own husband was having her spied upon?”
“Her own estranged husband, who had heard certain disconcerting rumors while he was in Ireland bringing Strongbow back into the fold and laying claim to his new lands.”
Phillipa took a second too long to respond, and when she did, her tone was just a bit too blasé. “Rumors?”
“Aye,” he said, watching her closely out of the corner of his eye. “‘Twas whispered that the Poitiers court had become a hotbed of sedition, with the queen at the center of a disloyal coalition planning armed revolt against the king. You’ve heard naught of these matters?”
She looked up at him, and with impressively feigned sincerity, said, “Nay. Should I have?”
“Nay.” But, of course, she had. Hugh sighed heavily, dismayed by her ability to lie right to his face even as he grudgingly admired it; perhaps espionage would come more easily to her than it had to him. “The major conspirators were said to be the king’s own sons, the three eldest—Henry the younger, Richard and Geoffrey.”
“‘Tis a sad thing,” she said, “for fathers and sons to become strangers to each other.”
“‘Tisn’t always easy,” Hugh said grimly, “being the son of a powerful man with lofty ambitions. Especially when his plans for you aren’t necessarily what you would choose for yourself.”
She eyed him knowingly. “You’re speaking from experience, I take it.”
I’m speaking from idiocy. What was he thinking, scratching open old wounds for this woman he barely knew? What had transpired between Hugh and his sire had played itself out long ago; no use reliving it now. “Not only are the sons reputedly involved,” Hugh continued, “but so is William, king of Scots and Philip, count of Flanders, as well as the barons of Brittany, Aquitaine and Anjou...and even, if one credits it, King Louis of France.”
“Oh, dear.”
Oh, dear, indeed. King Louis, in addition to being King Henry’s longtime enemy, was also his queen’s first husband, having divorced Eleanor of Aquitaine after siring two daughters on her, the eldest of whom was Marie de Champagne.
“If the queen really is plotting rebellion,” Hugh said, “she’s keeping it well under wraps. She’s a brilliant woman, fully capable of nurturing this scheme in complete secrecy. I certainly learned nothing of value during my visit to Poitiers.” Possibly only because Hugh was more suited to open confrontation than slippery intrigue—especially at the time, when he was fresh off the battlefield. But then, Lord Richard’s various other operatives had unearthed no more than he.
“So, as far as the king is concerned,” she said, perhaps a bit uneasily, “the rumors are just that—unsubstantiated hearsay.”
“Aye, which puts him in an awkward position in terms of defending himself. How can he take action against his own wife—his own sons—without proof? He’s unpopular enough of late, what with the outrage over Becket’s death, and now this business with Rosamund Clifford. He betrayed his wife, and openly, which garnered great public sympathy for her. If he now takes her into custody without cause, he’ll be vilified. He can’t afford to act hastily, or with too few facts.”
After a moment of strained silence, Phillipa said, “This...service Lord Richard wants me to perform...it has something to do with these rumors, I take it.”
“Aye. King Henry is in Normandy at present. Recently the Count of Toulouse came to him privily, warning him that treason is, indeed, being hatched in Poitiers. All the king needs is proof of this treachery, and then he can take action against it. That, I believe, is where you come in, although I’m at a loss as to what Lord Richard means to do with you.”
“As am I.” Phillipa paused in front of a shuttered shopfront with a sign shaped like a boot hanging over the front door. “This is where I live—in two rooms upstairs.”
Hugh regarded the modest abode with bemusement; a baron’s daughter, living above a cobbler’s shop.
“This conversation has changed nothing,” Phillipa said. “I have no intention of accompanying you to West Minster. I am curious, however, as to how his lordship came to enlist my aid. And please don’t tell me again that it was my notoriety as a scholar. Even in the unlikely event that the king’s justiciar has heard of me, he’d have no reason to call upon my help with these matters. What makes him think I have any interest in them—or that my interests mesh with his? In fact, he took quite a risk, trying to recruit me. What if my sympathies lie with Queen Eleanor?”
“I suppose they might.” Hugh allowed himself a slow smile as he leaned against her front door and squeezed a long stream of wine into his mouth. “But they don’t.”
“Ah, but I do—and so does Lord Richard.” Hugh worked the cork carefully back into the mouth of the wineskin. “For some time now, he’s had me intercepting the correspondence of...certain parties as it crosses the English Channel.”
Her face, luminous in the quicksilver moonlight, grew even paler. “Certain parties...”
“Certain parties suspected of harboring ill-will toward the king of the English...parties such as Lotulf de Beauvais, canon of Notre Dame and longtime advisor to the tediously pious King Louis.”
“Uncle Lotulf?” Unfolding her arms, she took a step toward Hugh. “You’ve been...you’ve been reading my uncle’s letters?”
“Aye. The young acolyte he uses as a courier has a weakness for silver, I discovered, so ‘twas a simple matter to–”
“All of them?”
Soberly, Hugh said, “Yes, my lady. We have every letter he’s written to you for the past two years–or rather, copies of them. The originals were sent on to you, of course.”
He saw, again, that cornered look in her eyes, that furious sorting through of the situation, the weighing of possibilities and options. “But...I would have known. Those letters were bound and...and sealed...”
He smiled indulgently. “‘Tis no great challenge to reseal a letter so that it looks as if it’s never been opened. There are little tricks—”
“Of course you would have your little tricks,” she muttered, turning away from him and rubbing her temples with quivering fists. “So I suppose you know...you know...”
“That your uncle, being an intimate of King Louis, has surmised that a plot is underway to dethrone King Henry? Yes, and I must say, it was damnably indiscreet of him to share this conjecture with you in writing. And even more ill-advised to state outright that he’s all in favor of this insurrection, Henry Plantagenet being a—how did he put it?— ‘wife-stealing, archbishop-murdering, fornicating minion of Lucifer,’ while his darling Louis Capet is all but canonized already. We know everything, my lady. Every last damning detail.”
“Damning it may be, in your eyes and Lord Richard’s,” Phillipa said in a quavering voice, “but you’ll do well to remember that my uncle is a subject of France, and as such you’ve no right to...to punish him, or...” Her gaze traveled to the jambiya now sheathed once more on Hugh’s hip.
“I’m not an assassin, my lady,” he said quietly. Before she could savor her relief, he added, “The crown does, however, employ other men for that purpose, men with venom in their veins who kill for sport—and who don’t give a fig whether or not they’ve got the ‘right’ to do it.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured, looking suddenly very young and very lost. Perversely, Hugh’s instinct was to gather her up and reassure her that Lord Richard’s threat to her uncle was an empty one—if, indeed, it was—but duty kept him leaning insolently against this door as she wrung her hands and fretted. He’d been charged with delivering Phillipa de Paris to the lord justiciar at West Minster Palace Thursday morning, and if that required him to fill her with terror for her uncle’s well-being, so be it. It was her own fault, for being so mulish and uncooperative. He didn’t feel sorry for her.
He shouldn’t feel sorry for her.
Hugh sighed in disgust. “You should know,” he said, “that we intercepted your letters as well—those to your uncle, that is, or most of them.”
“Of course,” she murmured, nodding distractedly. “Of course.”
“That’s how we know that your sympathies lie, not with Queen Eleanor and her sedition, but with King Henry. In one recent letter, if you recall, you told your uncle that after seven years in Oxford, you considered yourself more English than French, and felt a certain allegiance to the English king. You repeatedly attempted to dissuade Canon Lotulf from getting involved in any ‘ill-conceived mischief’ King Louis might be cooking up with Queen Eleanor—to no avail, of course. Methinks your uncle is as stubborn as you are.”
“My uncle is a good man,” she said with heartbreaking earnestness, those great, dark eyes of hers shimmering wetly. “He...he took us in as his wards, my sister and I, when the typhoid killed our mother. We were just two little children he’d never laid eyes on before, four years old—”
“My lady...” Pushing away from the door, Hugh took a step toward her.
This time she didn’t recoil from him, but actually reached out and laid a hand on his chest—very lightly, yet he fancied he felt her touch all the way through his thick leather tunic and shirt. It felt like a hand reaching inside him to gently squeeze his heart.
“And he took us in,” Phillipa continued desperately, her gaze never leaving his, “and brought us up, as a kindness to my father—or so I thought for years, but once, right before I left Paris for Oxford, he told me the truth.”
“My lady.” Hugh closed his hand—his good left hand—over hers. “Please...”
“He said he’d told my father he wouldn’t be able to live with two little girls underfoot, that he was too busy with church business to be responsible for us, and that Papa should ship us off to a convent school...but then he met us. Once he saw us, with our dolls clutched to our chests and our faces streaked with tears, he couldn’t send us away. He said he might not have loved us instantly, but he knew without a doubt that he would grow to love us as he loved life itself. He raised us, Sir Hugh, not like mere wards, but as if we were his own daughters—although he gave us as much freedom as if we were sons. He gave me everything, let me study under the greatest teachers in Paris, taught me how to think independently—”
“My lady, please listen to me,” Hugh implored, squeezing her hand, which shivered beneath his.
“He may be misguided about King Henry,” she said in a thin, wavering voice, “but that’s just because of his regard for Louis Capet. He’s an old man, very obstinate at times, but very devout and very good at heart. He’s a wonderful man, Sir Hugh, and—” Her voice snagged. “And if any harm came to him, I think it would kill me.”
Tears trembled in her eyes, on the verge of spilling over, as she continued to hold Hugh captive to her imploring gaze.
Hugh felt curiously starved for air. “I...he doesn’t have to come to any harm, your uncle.”
“Nay?” She blinked, and wet rivulets coursed down her face.
Hugh released her hand to wipe away the tears. They were hot to the touch, her cheeks warm and soft as a babe’s.
“He...he’s nobody, really,” Hugh heard himself saying, “just a tame old churchman, not an actual conspirator. It needn’t be necessary to...that is...” Don’t let her tears sway you, Hugh rebuked himself, abashed to have let her get to him this way. Remember your objective.
Her eyes grew wide as that busy little mind of hers sorted through what Hugh was too flummoxed to say outright. “You mean it needn’t be necessary to have him...” Her gaze traveled to the jambiya, then back to his face. She retreated a step, breaking contact with him. “As long as I cooperate, is that it?”
Hugh drew in a fortifying breath. “Let’s put it this way—I can’t vouch for what will happen if you don’t work with us. But if you do, I can’t conceive that Lord Richard would allow your uncle to be...penalized for harboring a few eccentric notions. He is an old man, after all, and we’re civilized—”
“Please, please don’t tell me how civilized you are,” she said shakily, “mere moments after threatening, if only implicitly, to have a harmless old man murdered.”
Hugh held his tongue while she turned her back on him, rubbing her forehead. Facing down kilij-wielding Turks was child’s play compared to this.
“So, that’s it then,” she said dispiritedly. “I balked at shoving my entire life aside to serve the justiciar of England in some capacity that is, as yet, a complete mystery to me, so now you’re blackmailing me. If I want my uncle to stay safe and sound, I must let you drag me away to play the spy for Lord Richard.”
“All
that’s really expected of you at this point,” Hugh said evenly, “is that you allow me to escort you to West Minster for the audience with Lord Richard. He’ll tell you then what he has in mind for you. If, after hearing him out, you still want no part of it—” he shrugged “—you’ll be free to return to Oxford, confident that your uncle will be left in peace.”
She turned back around, searched his eyes. “Verily?”
“Verily. But I hope his lordship can convince you to aid us in our cause. After all, it’s a cause you believe in—the right of the duly crowned king of the English, Henry Plantagenet, to remain on the throne. And mayhap...” Hugh hesitated, but then plunged on ahead. “Mayhap ‘twill do you some good, getting away from Oxford for a while and seeing a bit of the real world.”
She arched an eloquent brow. “You think I’m that sheltered?”
With a chuckle, he said, “I know you’re that sheltered, my lady. ‘Twill be interesting to see how you equip yourself when you’ve got more than docile little clerics and scholars to deal with.”
“Is that a dare, Sir Hugh?”
“Absolutely,” he said with a grin, thinking this was a person who prided herself on rising to challenges. “I’ll leave you now so you can get some sleep—we’ve got an exhausting journey ahead of us. We’ll need to get an early start, so I’ll come round for you at sunrise.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked. “The inn outside Eastgate?”
He shook his head. “That Augustinian priory against the city wall to the south.”
“St. Frideswide’s? That’s where I keep my mare, Fritzi. Don’t come by for me. I’ll meet you there, in the stables, when the bells ring prime.”
“All right, then. Oh—pack lightly. I’ve got no packhorse.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said with a wry little smile. “I’ve only got one other tunic.”
A baron’s daughter with two gowns to her name, Hugh mused as he retraced his steps along Kibald Street on his way to St. Frideswide’s. Yet somehow he wasn’t surprised. Phillipa de Paris was a rather singular entity, to be sure, but the disparate halves of her—the guileless noble maiden and the urbane Oxford scholar—seemed to fuse together in a way that made a curious sort of sense. There was a certain logic to her, and by extension a certain predictability.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 39
