“I regard myself as your protector.”

Rhys continued, “Though the wars are over, the times are still troubled. The king’s men are everywhere and soldiers, off duty, can pose problems for vulnerable women. I am sure that I do not have to explain that to you?”

“Are you our protector or our jailer?” she said stonily, and his eyes opened wide and darkened.

Hastily she added, somewhat lamely, “I meant that—I do not understand why you should appoint yourself our guardian.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps because fate cast you both before me as being in need. Is that not a good enough reason, my lady?”

Haughtily she shook her glorious hair, which lay unbound in heavy red-gold waves upon her shoulders. He felt a strong desire to pull her toward him and run his fingers through it. He took himself firmly in hand. She was young, vulnerable and under his protection. He must hold himself in check.

The Traitor’s Daughter
Joanna Makepeace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOANNA MAKEPEACE

taught as head of English in a comprehensive school before leaving full-time work to write. She lives in Leicester, with a Jack Russell terrier called Jeffrey, and has written over thirty books under different pseudonyms. She loves the old romantic historical films, which she finds more exciting and relaxing than the newer ones.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

Summer 1503

Philippa Telford stole a hasty glance at her mother as they stood together with their squire, Peter Fairley, on the quay at Milford Haven. Her mother had been very sea sick during their crossing from the port of Damme, in Burgundy, and Philippa had been very concerned for her. The crossing had been rough and the two women had been almost thrown from their bunks several times; Philippa’s mother had not slept for one moment of the time. Philippa had tended her, since they had been unable to bring a maid with them from their lodging in Malines where Philippa’s father, Martyn, Earl of Wroxeter, served the dowager Duchess Margaret of Burgundy—the sister of England’s late King, Richard III. Now, on dry land at last, Philippa was anxious to get her mother quickly to an inn where she could rest and recover from the hardships of the journey.

She was glad that they had followed Peter’s advice and donned their warmest cloaks, since a mist had enveloped the harbour and coastline as they had disembarked and the air was chilly and damp, despite the fact that it was early summer. Philippa sighed as if this inclement weather was a presentiment of misfortunes yet to come.

Peter had already settled their dues with the captain of their carrack, Le Grande Dame, and had assembled their saddle bags of extra clothing and necessities upon the greasy cobblestones of the quay. The bad weather had, apparently, caused the town’s inhabitants to seek drier quarters and the quay looked bleak and almost deserted, which was fortunate, since it was imperative that their arrival should not be unduly noted.

Philippa could see a huddle of uninviting buildings, behind which were the faintest of blue outlines, veiled by the sea mist; she presumed them to be hills. The prevailing sea mist hid from the travellers the sight of other vessels docked in the harbour, though glimpses of tall masts and the creak of timbers came to them eerily from the dank half-darkness of the early evening. This, then, was Philippa’s first sight of the land which had been her mother’s home. Again a shiver ran through her. This place seemed exceptionally inhospitable. She prayed that matters might improve with better weather prospects in the morning when they began their journey to her grandfather’s manor near the town of Ludlow. Had not this land of Wales been described to her by many fellow exiles as a most beautiful one?

Peter led them to an inn situated at the far end of the quay, having discounted a tavern in the centre of the harbour, from which they could hear the sounds of noisy banter, as being unsuitable for his charges, and also considering the necessity of not encountering anyone from near the town of Ludlow who might be staying here in Milford on business in the harbour. It had been many years since the Countess of Wroxeter had been back in her home land, but it was essential that she should not be recognised by anyone who might have known her in childhood, before she had left her father’s manor to journey to Westminster where she had married the Earl and whom she had followed into exile almost twenty years ago. All three of them were acutely aware of the danger which threatened them constantly on arrival; only the dire need to be with Philippa’s grandparents during the serious illness of her grandfather Sir Daniel Gretton had brought them to this dank unwelcoming shore.

Philippa was wryly amused to see the inn’s crudely painted sign of the White Dragon creaking and swaying from the corner of the eaves.

“At least it is not a red dragon,” she murmured in her mother’s ear, recalling that her father had often referred to the court of King Henry VII at Westminster as the lair of the red dragon, contemptuously speaking of the Tudor King’s personal device of the red dragon. To Philippa’s father, the present English King would always be a usurper who had unlawfully taken up arms against his true King, Richard III, and, aided by traitors, had defeated him at the battle of Redmoor near Bosworth, where Wroxeter’s friend and liege lord, King Richard, had been slain. Now Philippa’s father was a proscribed traitor within his own home land, living in exile, unable to accompany his wife and daughter on this journey on threat of a hideous death should he be discovered and arrested.

Cressida made no answer, but Philippa could tell that her mother also was not impressed by the coincidence of the somewhat ominous inn sign.

The tap room appeared as crowded as the other tavern had been, but slightly less noisy. Talk stopped as the eyes of the men gathered round the scratched and stained tables were turned upon the newcomers in open curiosity. Philippa considered that they all looked vaguely alike to her, medium-sized, sturdily built men, dressed in homespun, dark avised; their language, which had come to her in snatches when they had entered the room, was totally incomprehensible to her.

Peter engaged in talk with a slightly taller shambling fellow who announced himself as mine host. He, at least, appeared to speak English, though his accent was very marked and singsong in rhythm.

“I require a private room for my sister, Mistress Weston, and her daughter, my niece. I am escorting them to visit a sick relative who lives near to Ludlow. Can you oblige, master innkeeper?”

The man shook his head emphatically. “I have but one private chamber which is already spoken for. The ladies must make do with the common sleeping room. There are but two women sleeping there tonight. You must sleep down here in the tap room, or the stable if you would prefer that.”

Peter turned to confer, but Cressida said hastily, “Peter, I would much prefer to sleep within the stable with Philippa and you nearby. Can that be arranged?”

The innkeeper scowled and the men seated nearby within earshot whispered to their neighbours. It seemed that only certain members of the company understood English and needed a translation of what had transpired. Curiosity increased. Strangers, most likely, some merchant’s wife and daughter, were usually content enough to share the women’s common sleeping chamber. An atmosphere of resentment seemed to grow within the tap room, making the ale-stinking place chillier than it had been at the outset when they had entered.

“Aye,” the innkeeper growled, “if the lady insists, but if it’s food ye want you’ll have to be fetching it yourself. I can’t be waiting on folks across the courtyard. I’ve customers in plenty in here. You can eat here if ye’ve a mind to, all of ye.”

Cressida smiled politely and once more shook her head. “Innkeeper, I mean no offence. It is just that we are wearied and would eat and sleep in quiet. We shall be glad to see to our own needs, they will be simple enough, some ale, perhaps, and bread and meats or cheeses.”

“Oh, aye.” The man turned away, then taking a lanthorn from a hook behind him, came from his place nearest to the ale barrel in present use and moved towards the inn door.

“Come this way then, folks and I’ll show you the way to the stable. I take it ye’ve no horses of your own?”

“I intend to buy mounts for the land journey tomorrow,” Peter informed him. “We have only lately disembarked from the carrack, La Grande Dame, just in from the port of Bruges. My sister’s husband had been living there for some years as he has business interests there.”

The innkeeper sniffed and moved in his clumsy, shambling walk to the door, opened it and held up the lanthorn so they could see only dimly across the unlit courtyard. “Directly opposite is the stable door. There are only three stalls occupied at the moment. The lord who has taken my private bedchamber has a horse stabled there with that of his squire and my own cob is there as well. There’ll be plenty of room for the three of ye, and there’s clean straw in plenty for your beds.”

Peter thanked the man civilly and took the proffered lanthorn, murmuring that he would take particular care with it within the stable, then the three of them stepped outside into the mist—shrouded air again.

The cobbles of the courtyard were slick with rain and mist and they were forced to watch their steps, the ladies holding their skirts high to avoid any ordure or refuse from the inn or stable as they crossed.

“My pardon, my lady,” Peter murmured, “I had thought to provide you with better accommodation than this poor place this night. God’s blood, it appears that what they say about this benighted land of Wales is true, the inhabitants are barbarians. Did you hear those outlandish peasants chattering in their singsong tongue?”

“Peter,” laughed the Countess, “remember that I lived in the Welsh Marches throughout my childhood. We had many Welsh servants at the manor and, though I could not speak their tongue, I grew to respect and like them very much. We would have been regarded with just as much outright curiosity wherever we had fetched up. We shall do well enough if the stable is dry and we shall have privacy which is most important.”

“Yes, mistress, but you have had a rough time of it on board ship and I hoped for better conditions for you both than these.”

“I prefer to have you within call, Peter,” Cressida said quietly, “and I am sure you and my lord have slept in many worse places than this over the years.”

He glanced at her sharply and Philippa glimpsed a wry twist to his lips as he pushed wide the stable door and held up the lanthorn for them to enter before him. The missions the Earl had undertaken for the Duchess Margaret in her relentless intrigues against the Tudor king had often meant danger for them both and, indeed, they had many times been forced to live for quite long periods of time in disguise and in vastly uncomfortable circumstances.

The warmth and familiar scent of horseflesh met them and they heard the restless movement of wickering within the stalls as the horses were both disturbed by their unexpected arrival and alarmed by the sudden lanthorn light. Peter held the lanthorn high, glimpsed a hook suspended from the thatched roof to hold it and hung it securely. Surprisingly the place looked well kept. Obviously it had been cleaned that very morning, possibly in expectation of the arrival of the lord the innkeeper had spoken of. Philippa moved to inspect the mounts. Two were sturdy Welsh cobs, she surmised, one belonging to the innkeeper and the other to the lord’s squire. The third horse was a black courser, a large, heavy-boned, finely muscled animal, extremely valuable, she guessed. Of the three, this one was the most restive and she moved closer to the stall and spoke gently, reassuringly.

“Steady there, my beauty, we mean you no harm nor any to your master.”

Cressida uttered a sharp warning as her daughter reached out a hand to pat the creature’s velvet nose, aware of how dangerous destriers could be, bred for warfare as they were, but Philippa turned, shaking her head gently. She was patient and the sound of her soft voice did eventually reassure the animal and it stood docilely while she ran her hand gently down its silky well-brushed nose.

“There, there, I have no apple for you. Perhaps I will have tomorrow. I will try to find some and reward you all.”

Philippa adored horses and had very little opportunity to ride, let alone own a mount while at her parents’ lodging at Malines. Her father had been forced by limited means to hire mounts only when he had need, but he had managed to have his daughter taught to ride and she was glad now that she would have no problem during their journey to Gretton.

Peter had busied himself, piling up clean straw in one of the stalls furthest from the horses and the door for Philippa and her mother. He intended to make his own bed well away from them and near to the door so that he might be aware of anyone entering unexpectedly during the coming night. Possibly the lord’s squire would come before retiring for the night to ensure that all was well with his master’s horses and might intend to sleep within the stable. Peter frowned as he considered that might pose a problem and hoped the fellow would either sleep across his master’s doorway as he himself had been used to do for Lord Martyn or content himself in the warmer and more comfortable tap room. He would meet that problem if and when it presented itself.

Philippa sank down thankfully upon the sweet-smelling straw and watched as her mother took off her cloak and laid it down upon the bed Peter had formed for her.

“There, Peter,” she said, “it is as I thought, we shall manage very well here and be spared any awkward questioning we might have to face within the common sleeping chamber. If you could go across and fetch us something to eat and drink, we can settle down soon and get some sleep. We have a long journey in front of us.”

Peter nodded, looked round to assure himself that he had made his charges as comfortable as he could, then moved to the stable door.

“I should keep this barred, my lady. Make anyone wishing to enter declare himself and, even then, I would advise you to wait for my return before admitting anyone.”

Philippa smiled in answer. “Be assured we shall do that, Peter.”

He left and she snuggled close to her mother, still huddling within her own frieze cloak. “Aren’t you chilly? I am still. Why don’t you put your cloak back on for a while?”

“No, don’t fuss. I am quite comfortable out of the damp air.” Cressida looked round the gloomy stable and gave a little petulant shrug. “I shall be glad when we are well on our way tomorrow.”

“Grandmère will be glad to see us.”

“Yes, indeed. I only hope and pray that we are in time to see your grandfather.”

Philippa made no answer. She was aware that her mother entertained little hope that Sir Daniel would continue to survive the collapse which he had suffered some two weeks ago, which had left him partially paralysed. The message which Lady Gretton had managed to send to her daughter in Burgundy had informed Cressida that her father had lost the power of his speech. Philippa knew, as her mother did, that attacks such as these were often followed by others, which, eventually, led to the death of the sufferer. Cressida had pleaded with her husband to be allowed to journey to Gretton to see her father and take with her their only daughter, his grandchild, whom he had never seen. Reluctantly, the Earl had given his permission and allowed Peter Fairley, his trusted squire and friend, to be their sole protector.

Philippa watched as her mother stretched wearily out on her straw bed.

“You do believe that we shall be safe,” she queried softly, “that at Gretton the servants can be trusted and…?” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

Cressida lifted her head and gazed doubtfully at her daughter in the flickering light of the lanthorn.

“Nothing can be certain, child. The servants have been with your grandparents for years and will, I believe, be discreet. They loved me as a child and they are all aware of the dangers. Travelling under assumed names, we should be safe enough, but if you are afraid I could instruct Peter to see you safe on a ship bound for home—”

“No, no, I insist on going with you. I am most anxious to see my grandparents,” Philippa declared passionately. “I am most concerned for your safety. Papa was saying that the King’s spies will be extra-vigilant since the Yorkist gentlemen will be in a state of great anger and agitation due to the summary execution of Sir James Tyrell and the lying confession about the murder of the Princes, which was published after his death.”

Cressida sighed heavily. “When will this realm be fully peaceful? I doubt if I shall see it in my lifetime, yet the Tudor King holds the state firmly. He should be able to do so,” she added bitterly, “he has managed to destroy all the rightful heirs who might have challenged him for power and then he married the Yorkist Princess, Elizabeth, in order to secure the loyalty of some of the disaffected nobles.”

Philippa bit her lip as her mother once more lay down. The journey had tired her so. She needed rest badly. Philippa had rarely seen her beautiful mother so downhearted and distressed, not even when the Earl, her father, had risked himself on hazardous adventures for his patroness, the Duchess Margaret, who had struggled over the last twenty years to bring down the Tudor monarchy.

Philippa’s father had made her aware of the situation which had made him a hunted traitor in his own land, even though she herself, now seventeen, had been born after the tragic events which had caused it.

She knew that for over fifty years, since 1450, there had been struggles for supremacy amongst the Lancastrian and Yorkist heirs of King Edward III. In 1461 the weak Lancastrian King Henry VI had proved so incompetent that his cousin, Duke Richard of York, had challenged him for power. He had been killed in the fighting which had broken out, but his son, King Edward IV, had finally won a bloodthirsty battle at Towton in Yorkshire and had then assumed the throne and ruled ruthlessly and competently for over twenty years, despite sporadic outbursts of violence which had threatened the peace. Unfortunately he had died unexpectedly in 1483, leaving the protectorship of the realm and care of his two young sons and older five daughters to the care of their uncle, his younger brother, Duke Richard of Gloucester.

Almost immediately the peace was threatened again due to the minority of the young King, Edward V, who was just thirteen years old when Richard brought him to London to be crowned. On the journey the Queen’s relatives made a bid for power which was defeated and two of them were executed. The Princes were placed for safety within the palace of the Tower of London, traditionally used to house the new monarchs before their coronations.

Philippa was aware that her father, Martyn, Earl of Wroxeter, had been a trusted friend of Duke Richard and eventually left his own estates on the Welsh Border to become his confidante and spy master.

The Bishop of Bath and Wells had made a surprise announcement at a meeting at the Tower, revealing that the late King’s marriage had not been lawful and therefore his children were illegitimate. He, himself, he had declared, had betrothed the king formally to Lady Eleanor Butler and that lady had still been living when the King had married the widow of a Lancastrian nobleman, Lord Grey of Groby, and betrothals were binding, so much so that a dispensation from the Pope was required to break one. This revelation had thrown the realm into disarray once more and Duke Richard had finally been persuaded to accede to the throne as King Richard III. Philippa’s father had served him faithfully and fought for him at the tragic battle of Redmoor two years later when Henry Tudor, descended from the Lancastrian, Prince John of Gaunt, and his mistress, Katherine Swynford, had arrived in England in a bid to seize the throne. The King had been treacherously betrayed by Lord William Stanley, who was married to Henry’s mother, and his brother, Sir William, on the very battlefield and had died in a last courageous charge.

Since that time the Earl’s fortunes had been totally destroyed as he lived in almost penniless exile in Burgundy. Philippa knew, only too well, that her chances of finding a husband, since she had no dowry, were hopeless.

This business of Tyrell’s execution had heightened their danger, she knew. Sir James, like her father, had been a member of the late King’s household, but had been on a mission for King Richard to France at the time of Redmoor so had taken no part in that battle. He had made his peace with the new King, Henry, and had served the Tudor house, though his estates had been confiscated and he had been deprived of his official posts in Wales. He had been later appointed Governor of Guisnes and, for the following sixteen years, had remained in France, then, suddenly, he had been accused of treasonable correspondence with the Earl of Suffolk, the late King’s nephew. He had refused to surrender himself, but had allowed himself to be lured from the safety of his castle and on to one of King Henry’s ships in Calais harbour by the promise of safe conduct. He was then captured and taken to the Tower of London and, later, unceremoniously executed. After his death it had been announced that he had confessed to the murder of the Princes, King Edward’s young sons, who had disappeared from the Tower, on the order of their uncle. This slur upon the honour of the dead King Richard had naturally angered many of the late King’s former supporters. A little shiver ran through Philippa’s body, for she suspected that her father knew more about the fate of those young princes than he would ever divulge, not even to his closest family. Was this the reason why King Henry hated him so much and wished to have him in England directly in his power? She knew, only too well, that in the dungeons of the Tower men could be forced to divulge their closest-held secrets. If the King could hold the Earl’s wife and child as hostages, would not her father come to their help and surrender himself, as Tyrell had done? The secret of their journey to Gretton must be kept at all costs.

Her thoughts ranged to her friends, Richard and Anne Allard, who had been her companions four years ago when she had gone to Westminster to serve King Henry’s queen, Elizabeth of York. They had all been forced to flee together from England when Richard had involved himself in trying to help the young Earl of Warwick, who had been a prisoner in the Tower. Philippa sighed deeply as she remembered how that unfortunate young man had been executed with another pretender to the throne, Perkin Warbeck. Richard and Anne had been pardoned and returned to England. Philippa would have dearly liked to see them while she was here but knew that would be dangerous for all of them.

Peter appeared to be taking his time, she thought, and rose to go to the door and unbar it. After moments her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and she could see that the courtyard appeared to be deserted and she could see in the distance the dim glow of candlelight in the windows of the inn. Surely it would not have taken the innkeeper so long to provide Peter with a flagon of ale and bread and cheese? He would not linger, she knew, being always concerned for the safety of his charges. Philippa turned and looked anxiously towards her mother, who had sat up the moment she had heard her daughter stirring.

“What is it? Can you hear someone coming?”

“No, it is just that it is taking Peter rather a long time.”

“Has it? I must have dozed.” Cressida frowned. “It is unlike Peter to delay.”

“I think I should go and look for him.”

“Philippa, no. He warned us—”

“I know all that, but I don’t think we have a choice. I fear something might have happened to him.”

Cressida rose and joined Philippa at the stable door. Together they peered anxiously into the dark courtyard.

“It is indeed very strange that he hasn’t returned before now. Had it been anyone else but Peter…” Cressida shook her head worriedly. “He is not the man to allow himself to be drawn into some gambling ploy.”

“He would never leave us unprotected for so long. Something must have happened to him.”

The Countess shook her head again and bit her lip doubtfully.

“Mother, I must go back to the inn and ask after him.”

“I do not like that idea at all.”

“I don’t myself, but if anything has happened to Peter we have to know about it, even—” Philippa broke off abruptly, averting her face so that her mother should not see how very alarmed she was “—even if we cannot do much about it.”

She dared not put into words the fear that harm could have come to their squire and, if it had done, what they could possibly do without him as escort.

“You stay here by the door and keep watch.” Philippa put up her cloak hood and drew its comforting warmth about her. “I shall not be gone for more than a moment or two. The landlord is bound to know what has occurred. It may be that Peter heard of some suitable mounts for hire or purchase and thought it imperative to go immediately to find out about them.”

“At this late hour?”

“I know that it seems unlikely, but it is the only reason why he might have left us for so long.” Gently Philippa shook off her mother’s detaining hand upon her wrist. “Do not be anxious. I shall come back immediately and will not allow myself to be drawn into talk with any of the men in the tap room. At all events, most of them do not appear to be able to talk English.” She made a little wry twist of the lips in her attempt to humour her distraught mother.

Reluctantly Cressida released her and stood back as Philippa pushed the heavy stable door further open and, with but one reassuring glance behind her, stepped out into the yard. It seemed very black, but she could not take the lanthorn and leave her mother in darkness and she could just make out her way ahead by the flickering light of the candles within the inn building.

She was about halfway across when she heard some slight movement. She stopped dead still and listened, but her frightened heartbeats sounded so loud within her breast that she knew any other sounds would be drowned out by them. Reproving herself for cowardice, she crept forward cautiously. She was not wont to be so foolish. The sound could easily have been made by a night-prowling cat. She could hear the noise of talk now from the inn and she stopped again, calling upon her courage to enter the tap room alone. The outright impudence of the customers’ curiosity when they had first arrived made her hesitate. As Peter had said, the travellers had certainly not been welcomed. So intent on her determination to proceed was she that she went sprawling suddenly across something directly in her path. The breath was shaken out of her and she stifled a sudden cry, recovered herself and turned to stare down at the body of the man who was lying senseless, his head in a puddle. Her eyes had become more used to the darkness now, though it was a moonless night, and, as she crouched to examine the injured man, she knew instantly that it was Peter Fairley.

He made no sound as she carefully explored his clothing, wet with the damp mist, and she gave a little gasp of fear and pity as her fingers, when lifting his head, discovered some fluid more sticky. The wound was bleeding copiously. No wonder he was unconscious and made no answer to her softly uttered urging to answer her. Had he stumbled and fallen in the darkness? Like her he carried no lanthorn and it was just possible, but Peter was a cautious man and he would have waited before proceeding to cross, allowing his night vision to develop. Unless he too had stumbled across some obstacle in his path, it was unlikely. Terror struck her forcibly as she thought he must have been deliberately struck down, but by whom—and why? Surely it had been obvious to everyone in the tap room that they were not wealthy travellers—yet Peter had made it known that he was carrying a considerable amount of coin in order to hire or buy horses for their journey. To men living in poverty that would have been invitation enough to attack and rob him. She half stood up after her efforts to rouse him had failed and looked round apprehensively. Peter was a big man. She could not lift or drag him to the stable, but dare she call for assistance from the men in the inn?

As she stood for moments, irresolute, she was taken totally by surprise as brutal hands suddenly pulled her backwards and caught her wrists in a cruel grasp, thus freeing one of her attacker’s hands to clasp over her mouth before she could draw breath to call out.

“Softly there, my little beauty,” a voice, speaking in English, though with a singsong lilt she had come to identify as that of a Welshman, whispered in her ear. “There’s no call for you to be making a scene and, like as not, you’ll not end up as your servant there if you’re wise.”

She was trembling with anger as well as fear and tried desperately to free herself from the man’s grasp, but he continued to drag her backwards, her heels trailing helplessly on the cobbles. The fellow appeared to be alone and yet he was so strong that she feared he would be able to drag her where he wished and that she would be helpless to prevent him. Even in her desperation she feared for Peter. If she were unable to help him, he could die there in this dank straw-spattered courtyard, an ignominious end for a man who had faced often far greater dangers. And she—she could not doubt her own fate and knew with blinding clarity that her attacker would be unlikely to leave her alive after he had finished with her. Would he make for the stable? If so, her mother, also, was in deadly danger, but no, he was aware that the stable was inhabited and he would not risk her mother screaming for help and the possibility that in the ensuing chaos his prey would perhaps manage to free herself. She tried to keep calm. He obviously knew of some other shelter where he intended to drag her. If she waited for the opportunity, surely she would then manage to free herself momentarily, at least to shout out a warning to her mother. Yet, even so, she coolly debated the wisdom of that. Her mother would have a better chance of escaping this fellow’s attentions if she, Philippa, remained quiet and allowed him to do what he wished. As these thoughts raced through her mind there was no time for hysteria or panic. Her fear was absolute, but for the present, she was helpless to affect her own fate. The time it took to drag her to some secluded spot seemed elongated. In actual fact it could only have taken moments, yet she appeared to have opportunity to think out rationally what she could and could not do and what would be best for her mother’s safety. It would be only minutes now before she was pulled into shelter and she did not doubt that her molester would free her mouth only to render her senseless with a blow to the face.

She prayed to the Virgin and to St Catherine, the patron saint of maidens, to give her the courage to face what must be. Then, suddenly, miraculously, another voice spoke menacingly behind her. She could not understand the words for they were uttered, presumably, in Welsh, but the import was unmistakable. Abruptly she was released to fall forward onto her face.

Sobbing with terror, she scrambled up and half-turned to find her attacker had been seized from behind, as she herself had been, and, even in the dim light of the darkened courtyard, she could see the dullish gleam of a dagger held against the fellow’s throat. She staggered back, unsure if she were being rescued or had fallen into the hands of another merciless attacker. The man who had first seized her was crouching awkwardly, making inarticulate sounds of rage and fear. Unceremoniously he was dragged to his feet, still with the dagger menacing his throat, and pulled some distance clear away from her.

She could not see the man she hoped was her rescuer clearly, but by his bulky shape, wrapped in a dark frieze cloak, she realised that he was a big man, towering over his prisoner, who was now continuing to babble incoherently in Welsh, his terror only too apparent.

The newcomer spoke again commandingly and the blubbering ceased. Another sharp command, in English, this time, alerted a third man to the scene who, apparently, had been waiting his opportunity to come to the newcomer’s assistance.

“David, come, take possession of this fellow and cart him off to the nearest constable. I’ve felt him for weapons and found only a single dagger, but take care.” He tossed the weapon down at their feet where it clanged on the cobbles. “You can never tell with these ruffians where they manage to conceal others. Hold him for a moment while I secure his hands.”

Still trembling, Philippa felt unable to move, let alone run. She could not see clearly what her rescuer was about, but guessed that he had used some belt about his person to make her attacker secure. The fellow was still murmuring promises and pleas, which were abruptly cut short, so she thought he had been unceremoniously gagged.

The man addressed as David, also a well-muscled fighting man, judging by his lumbering bulk, jerked at his prisoner’s bound arms and dragged him away. Since he had made no answer to her rescuer’s orders but instantly obeyed them, Philippa gathered that he was used to doing so and was, probably, his servant.

She managed to let out a little, breathless gasp at last and the man who had come to her rescue came instantly forward and put out a hand to steady her.

“Are you hurt? You are, I take it, one of the English travellers just arrived at the inn and taken up residence with my horses in the stable, or so the landlord informs me?”

“Yes,” she whispered throatily, “I thank you, sir. My mother is in the stable and my…” she hesitated, then recollected herself suddenly and the need to guard her identity “…my uncle lies injured some paces off. No, I am not hurt, that fellow had only just grabbed me as—as I was trying to help my uncle. He—he took me by surprise but—but he had no time to—hurt me.”

“Thank the Virgin,” he said curtly. “Show me where your relative lies and I’ll summon assistance from the tap room, then you must go to your mother.”

She was feeling even more trembly now and she staggered and would have fallen had he not once more put out a sturdy arm to catch her. She felt an unaccountable tremor pass through her at the touch of his fingers and struggled a little to pull free, but he continued to hold her firmly.

“What is it? You are not afraid of me, are you?” The voice was clear, slightly lilting—as all voices, she thought, must be here in Wales or even on the Border, her mother had told her—but it was also hard, uncompromising, authoritative, and she wondered just who he was and if she could trust him. He had come to her rescue seemingly, but her attacker had known him or recognised his authority and she feared that he might question her, demand proof of her identity. He could well be a magistrate and answerable to the Crown for the good behaviour of those within his district.

“No, no.” She was afraid that reaction had set in and that she was liable to break into tears. That she must not do before this commanding stranger. “I am sorry, sir, that I have not yet recovered my balance, it seems. Please…”

She led him to where Peter lay and was thankful to see, as they approached, that Peter was slowly coming to himself now and giving sharp little cries of pain.

Philippa’s rescuer gestured her imperatively to stand slightly aside and dropped to one knee beside the sufferer and examined the head wound gently, as she had done. She marvelled at the gentle, sensitive touch of those strong large hands.

“It appears that he was struck from behind, possibly with the hilt of a dagger, mistress. Fortunately the wound does not seem to be too serious as already he is coming to himself. Head wounds can be dangerous and unconsciousness can sometimes last for hours—or even weeks.”

He stood up and removed his cloak so that now she could see that he was, indeed, a tall, muscular man with massive shoulders, though she thought by the hardness of his body, as he had held her momentarily against his chest, that there was not an ounce of surplus fat upon him. Obviously he kept himself in superb fighting form. Was he a soldier, a mercenary?—but his commanding manner gave her the impression that he had some standing in the district and was more than likely a knight. Could he possibly be the lord the landlord had spoken of?

As if in answer to her unspoken question he addressed her as he rose to his feet once more. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Rhys Griffith and, like you, I am accommodated at the inn.”

So her surmise had been correct. He was indeed lordly. No wonder the innkeeper had not offered to request that he vacate, for her mother’s use, the private room he had bespoken.

He was continuing. “You can leave this man’s care in my hands, mistress, and go to your mother. She will be frantic for news of you both, I am sure. I will see to it that your uncle is conveyed to the inn and then I will come and inform you what is best to be done.”

Philippa still felt that her limbs would let her down if she did not find some support soon and she had the strange feeling that she must not allow this stranger to touch her again, let alone hold her as closely as he had done formerly. She was close to tears again and inwardly she castigated herself, since her immediate danger appeared to be over and she had no outward reason to distrust this man—nor yet her own feelings regarding him. It was just that he had taken over so completely, overwhelmed her by his compelling personality. Yet he had said little to her to bring out this strange, dubious excitement. Certainly he had offered her no discourtesy. She struggled to find words to thank him adequately.

“I am—most grateful, sir. I do not know what would have happened had you not come…” She swallowed and averted her face from his hawklike gaze.

“I think you must certainly have realised what would have happened, mistress,” he said a trifle harshly. “I can understand your concern for your uncle but, really, you should not have ventured out of the stable alone.”

She was a trifle angered by that suggestion. He was reproving her for what had happened, as if it had been all her own fault. What would he have had her do, leave Peter to die out there while she remained in cowardly security within the stable?

“I had to go, sir,” she said haughtily, “there was no one else. As for the attack, it all happened so suddenly. My uncle left us to fetch food from the inn and he was such a long time gone that I was forced to believe something had happened to him—which, indeed, it had. I stumbled over his body and, while I was kneeling by him, I suppose I was so frightened and intent on my uncle’s fate that—that I did not hear anyone approach. This fellow grabbed me from behind before I could so much as pull away or cry out and—and…”

She sensed that he had relaxed his grim demeanour now, as he said more gently, “Best not to think about it any further as no real harm has been done.”

He put out a hand to offer to lead her towards the stable. She attempted to draw away from him so that he might not touch her again, but he would brook no denial and took her hand firmly and turned her towards the stable door.

“It was fortunate that I happened to come along when I did,” he said. “I have been visiting a friend in the town and came into the courtyard by the back way. Providentially we—that is, my squire David and I—heard noises, which indicated all was not well. I heard the man threaten you and instructed my squire to stand back while I came to your assistance. On rounding the gate post I saw at once that you needed it fast.”

She still could not see his features clearly and was glad that he must not be able to see her. She must be in a fine state after that terrible struggle. She could feel her hair straggling about her face and she wondered if she had transferred blood from Peter’s wound and filth from the cobbles on to her cheeks. Certainly her hand felt sticky and dirty and he must be aware of it. How stupid, she told herself, to concern herself about such paltry matters at such a time, yet her desire to remain aloof from all strangers on this journey and the strength and determination of this man made her acutely uncomfortable in his presence. She was also anxious that he should not get too close a glimpse of her mother or guess at the real reason for their need to sleep apart in the stable.

She had felt the fine wool of his sleeve and had smelled the tang of a good-quality leathern jerkin when she had been close to him and judged that he was, as he claimed, a knight. With luck they might never meet again, but she had a strange desire to see his face clearly before their final parting. Surely that was natural, she thought, simply a wish to see the features of the man who had saved her honour and her very life.

They were approaching the stable door and he released her hand. “I should go and give assistance to your uncle. Everything will be done for his comfort and I will ensure the future safety of you and your mother.” These last words were spoken in so stern a voice that she wondered if he suspected her attacker had been given information about the latest guest from someone inside the inn and was determined to investigate the matter further. She gave a little shudder and did not envy the men whom he would face in that tap room. He was one man, alone, yet he would deal with any rabble, she was sure of that.

A voice called anxiously from the opened door of the stable, “Philippa, is that you? Whatever is wrong? Peter has not returned and I am—frightened.” It was so unlike her courageous mother to sound so querulous and pitiful that Philippa’s heart bled for her, alone in that stable, fearful, dreading the worst for her daughter and her squire.

Sir Rhys gave a slight bow to the shadowy woman in the doorway. “Your daughter and—your brother have encountered some difficulties, lady. Your brother is injured and I intend to see that he is cared for. Please remain together in the stable until either I or my squire can come and inform you that all is well.”

Falteringly the Countess said, “But who are you, sir, and how—?”

“Your daughter will explain. Do not be alarmed.” He bowed also to Philippa. “Sit down upon the straw and recover yourself. I can see that you are still trembling. I will send you both some strengthening wine. Do not concern yourself about your attacker. He will not trouble you again. My squire will see to that.”

Before either woman could reply he had strode off in the direction of the inn doorway. After the stress of all that had occurred, Philippa fell sobbing into her mother’s arms.

Cressida forbore to question her daughter until the anguished sobbing had stopped, then she drew away from her, gently holding her at arm’s length, and stared into Philippa’s eyes searchingly.

“Tell me truly exactly what happened. Do not be afraid to do so. Whatever it is, I shall understand.”

Philippa drew a hard breath. “I was attacked but he—the attacker—could not finish—what—what he hoped. That gentleman came to my rescue in time. His servant carted the man off to the constable so—so I expect the knight must be well known here. He—he handled the whole episode with such authority—” She broke off and dabbed at her streaming eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Mother, it was all so dreadful and now—now I do not know what to make of the rescuer. If he is important here, he might well demand to know more about us and—”

“Child, calm yourself. I could not see him well, but he appeared civil enough. I thank all the saints that he was able to help you in time. Who knows what—what would have occurred had he not come so promptly.”

“He—he frightens me and—and I do not know why. He was kind and courteous, yet…”

“Philippa, you are naturally upset by everything that occurred and you are alarmed for Peter.”

“I know.” Philippa took a hard grip upon herself and tried to stop the trembling and deadly chill, which had seeped into her body and sapped her strength. “I am not usually so foolish. I am safe and unharmed but—but I cannot help thinking that this man could be dangerous to us.”

“But why? He came to our assistance and, once given, he will most probably forget our very existence.”

Philippa whispered, “I am not so sure of that. He said he would call on those people in the inn to help Peter. He was attacked as I was. I found him lying unconscious and his head was bleeding. I could not rouse him and then—and then—” Her teeth began chattering again as the full sense of shock assailed her. “I heard nothing. He must have been very practised in his trade for Peter to have been overcome like that.” She buried her face in her hands. “All the time I knew—knew what he—and afterwards that he would kill me and I did not even try to bite at the hand he held over my mouth and call out because—because—”

“You were afraid he would render you unconscious and then find me,” Cressida said quietly. “I know, child, I know.” She, too, drew a shuddering breath as she realised fully how close both of them had come to disaster and now—they must wait to discover if Peter would recover.

As if in answer to that unspoken fear, a voice called softly from the stable doorway, “May I come in, ladies?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Despite her recognition of the rescuer’s voice and the readiness of the invitation, Cressida stood protectively in front of her daughter as he entered and stood limned against the door post.

Stepping slightly clear of her mother, Philippa could see her rescuer more clearly now as the lanthorn light played on his tall, massive form, broad shoulders and slim hips. He was equipped with heavy broadsword and dagger and, though his clothing was of good quality, as she had felt when he had touched her, he was not richly clad, being in serviceable travelling garb of leather brigandine over homespun dark doublet and hose. He had a broad, open face with a dominating beak of a nose and firm chin, dark brown eyes set well apart, beneath a mop of dark hair curling to his shoulders. He had, apparently, scorned the present fashion of curled fringe, nor did he wear the new sleeveless long gown, lately worn at court. His tanned complexion spoke to her of a life spent mostly out of doors. There was an imperious air about him, but his manner towards them could not be judged arrogant. It was difficult for her to guess at his age, but she imagined that he must be in his middle or late twenties, for his massive form had not yet run to fat; she thought he had spent his life in soldierly pursuits and continued to keep fit by hard exercise.

He was unsmiling as he bowed to them courteously. “I do not think your escort has come to any real harm, my lady. He took a bad bang on the back of his head, which has bled profusely, but he had fully regained consciousness when we carried him into the inn and his wound has been dressed. He is resting in the tap room, concerned now about you both, naturally. I have made arrangements for you to be accommodated within the chamber allocated to me. You will be much more comfortable there and I shall do very well in the tap room where I can keep an eye on your—uncle.” There was a slight, sardonic curve of the lips as he uttered the last word and Philippa frowned, in doubt. Did he believe that her mother was travelling with her lover and wished to conceal the fact? She blushed darkly and averted her gaze from those piercing dark eyes of his. She was truly grateful to this man for his assistance, but he had no right to judge them contemptuously; however, he was putting himself out for their welfare and she felt constrained to utter words of heartfelt gratitude.

Though her immediate thought was to refuse his offer of the use of his private bedchamber, she knew it would be better for her mother if she accepted graciously.

“I have to thank you again, Sir Rhys, for all your kindness to three strangers and we accept most gratefully your kind offer.” She gave a little shiver of horrified remembrance. “Indeed, I think we could not remain alone here in the stable without feeling apprehensive after—after what happened.”

He nodded. “Naturally. Please, will you follow me and I will see you settled.”

He unhooked the lanthorn from its place and stood by the stable door to light their way. His free hand he proffered to the Countess as she stepped into the darkened courtyard. “Allow me, my lady. It is dark out here and the cobbles slippery. If you take your mother’s other hand, mistress, you will be less likely to slip.”

The landlord was obsequious as they entered the inn and Cressida went hastily to Peter, who was sitting up in a hard-backed chair by the fire looking pale and anxious, but, otherwise, his true self. Philippa was thankful that the blow did not appear to have affected his memory for he was lucid enough.

“Do not fret, sister. I am feeling better already after imbibing some of the landlord’s best wine. I’m only angered at myself for being less cautious and rendering you both without protection and leaving you open to danger.”

“This good knight has proved to be our saviour,” Cressida said reassuringly. “Now, rest, Peter and get well. We must see how you fare in the morning before we decide to travel.”

He was about to argue, but she prevented him with a gentle squeeze upon his hand.

Sir Rhys led them above stairs, after ordering the landlord to serve them with the best supper he could provide.

The room was surprisingly large and comfortably appointed. Philippa looked round appreciatively. “I am sorry, sir, that you must be put out….”

He laughed as he picked up a saddle bag which, presumably, contained a change of clothes and necessities for travelling. “I assure you that David and I have slept in far worse places than the tap room of this inn and, as I said, it will be wiser, considering that it appears to harbour thieves, a matter which I shall take up with our host. Please make yourselves at home and try to rest and, at last, sleep after your trying adventures. I will send David up with your belongings.”

He brushed by Philippa in order to reach the door and she felt herself trembling again at his touch. He bowed to her mother. “Please, Lady Wroxeter, accept my apologies for these unfortunate events, happening so soon after your arrival back in your native land after such a long absence.”

Philippa saw her mother give a great gasp of surprise and shock and she herself put a hand to her mouth in dismayed astonishment.

“Sir—”

He stemmed Cressida’s attempts at denial with a lordly wave of his hand.

“Sir Daniel Gretton’s beautiful daughter could not be mistaken for any other, my lady. Her fame spread through the Marches and I had the advantage of seeing you once with your father in the market in Ludlow. That was considerably before you married my lord Earl.” He smiled broadly. “I was merely eight years old then but, like all the other males in the district, I fell completely under the spell of Gretton’s faery princess.” His gaze passed to Philippa and dwelt on her slight form, trembling now with another fear that he was aware of their true identities. “Your daughter, my lady, has been blessed in inheriting your golden loveliness. I am honoured to be of service. I will pay my respects in the morning. Please excuse me now.”

He withdrew and closed the door before either of the astounded women could say a word in answer.

Chapter Two

Philippa woke to find sunlight coming through the unshuttered casement and almost blinding her. She slipped from the bed, careful not to waken her mother who was still sleeping beside her. She went to the window and found, to her delight, that the mist and dampness of the previous day had disappeared and the sun was already well up. She gave a sigh of relief. Provided that Peter was well enough to travel after yesterday’s misadventure, they would be able to make an early start and be well on their way before midday.

She had slept well considering how frightened and disturbed she had been last night. Exhaustion had taken its toll of them both. Her thoughts went to the stranger lord who had come to their help. It had been extremely kind of him to put his private chamber at their disposal, but she recalled her mother’s alarmed expression when he had announced that he had recognised her. It would be well if they could avoid seeing him again, though Philippa doubted that that would be possible.

A sound from the bed alerted her to the knowledge that, despite her care not to disturb her mother, Cressida had woken and was already sitting up.

“Is there something wrong?” she enquired doubtfully. “Have you heard someone at the door?”

“No, no one. The inn servants are already about their business. It is a fine day. We should be able to leave soon after breakfast as long as Peter is well enough.”

Cressida thrust back the bed covers and stepped from the bed. “I’ll dress at once. We must call a physician to Peter if there is need.”

Philippa went to her mother’s side to help her dress. Since they had decided it would be best, for this journey, to travel without a maid in attendance, it had been necessary for them to help each other with back lacings.

Once her mother was dressed she hastened to dress herself and was relieved that she had done so when she heard a knock on the door.

Peter Fairley’s voice called softly, “It is I, my lady, Peter. I have brought you some breakfast.”

Philippa hastened to let him in, relieved to see he was up and about.

“Peter, how are you this morning?”

He set down a tray on which was laid fresh manchet bread, a small pot of honey and a plate of ham and cold meats and a stoup of ale.

“I’m very well except for a bump on the back of my head as big as a pigeon’s egg.” He rubbed it ruefully. “I blame myself for total lack of caution. I could have put us all in danger.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Cressida reassured him. “Who would expect to be attacked in the inn yard?”

“To speak truth, anyone should, my lady. My only excuse is that we were all tired and chilled and I was in haste to see to your needs.”

“Well, all is well.” Cressida smiled. “We will breakfast quickly and try to make an early start.” She frowned in thought. “I have some coin left which, fortunately, I kept in a money belt beneath my gown, but the loss of some of our funds in the robbery is dire. We shall have to be careful on the journey and settle for accommodation not of the best.” She had already put out a small pile of coin upon the bed. “Take that and make the best bargain you can over mounts, Peter, but first, have you eaten?”

“Yes, my lady. I shall get off at once. Sir Rhys’s man, David, speaks of a reasonably honest horse coper, who has a stable in the street behind the harbour.”

“Good.” Lady Wroxeter nodded her approval.

Then Philippa said thoughtfully, “Did you discover anything about our rescuer of last night, Peter? Unfortunately he appeared to recognise Mother and we are anxious to avoid his company now.” She coloured. “That seems to be very ungrateful, but you understand the need better than any of us.”

With his hand on the door latch, Peter turned, clearly hesitant to speak. “Sir Rhys Griffith, my lady, is master of the greater part of my lord Earl’s estates. His father was granted them following the battle of Redmoor, for his services to the new King. Sir David was killed in a hunting accident a year ago.” He grinned somewhat wolfishly. “He was somewhat appropriately gored by a boar and did not recover from the wound which festered, and his son, Rhys, who had been knighted the year before, inherited.”

There was a deadly silence as the three exchanged alarmed glances.

Philippa exclaimed hotly, “So the man has robbed my father of his lands and—”

“He cannot be held responsible for what his father did at Redmoor,” Cressida reproved her gently, “but I confess this news is catastrophic. The man could prove a very real danger to us, indeed.”

“He has enquired after you both,” Peter said grimly. “I’m afraid that it will prove very difficult for us to leave the inn without encountering him.”

“And his manor is far too close to Gretton for our peace of mind,” Lady Wroxeter said regretfully.

Philippa paled. “Do you think our going there could put Grandmère and Grandpère in danger?”

Lady Wroxeter shook her head. “I do not think so, though it will not enhance their reputation as Yorkist sympathisers. They are not proscribed and are in no danger of arrest.” The fingers of one hand tightened on the bedpost. “I am so very anxious to see them. It has been so long since—” She broke off, her voice choked with emotion, “Neither of them has ever seen you. I think we should take the risk.”

“But this man does know we are going there?”

“I imagine so. Since he lives so close I would think he is aware of how ill my father is. It is to be hoped that he will have enough humanity to leave us in peace and not inform the court authorities of our presence there.” She sighed. “Our visit will only be a short one. We dare not remain long.”

“You miss your home at Gretton, don’t you?”

“I always loved it dearly and when I heard of the proposed betrothal to your father I was most reluctant to leave it. Of course, then there was every possibility of being able to come home on frequent visits but since Redmoor…” She shrugged helplessly.

“You gave up everything to be with my father in exile, a safe secure home, money sufficient to fill all your needs, everything.”

Cressida smiled fondly. “When you fall in love, Philippa, you will understand that nothing is important save being with the one you love.”

Philippa bit her lip uncertainly. The way matters stood that possibility seemed very far off, if at all.

Her mother suddenly remembered that she had given Peter Fairley no instructions about settling their score. “I should have asked him to settle with the landlord on his way out to the horse coper,” she said. “The sooner we can leave the better.”

A decisive voice from the doorway settled the matter for her. “You need have no doubts on that score, Lady Wroxeter, I have already paid the landlord and the moment your man returns with your mounts we can leave immediately. It will be well to do so since the day promises to be a fine one.”

Sir Rhys Griffith stood poised in the doorway which Peter must have left slightly ajar in his agitation on leaving them.

“I beg pardon for the intrusion, but the door was open sufficiently for me to overhear what you said, my lady. May I come in?” He bowed courteously and Cressida, somewhat startled and flustered, nodded hastily.

“Please do so, Sir Rhys. This chamber is yours, after all, but I cannot allow you to stand our score. We have slept in this chamber, and most comfortably, I thank you, and have eaten two meals. I…”

He had advanced slightly and was regarding Philippa smilingly though he must have seen at once that her manner was somewhat hostile.

“You have no choice, my lady. I have already settled the matter. Under the distressing circumstances of last night it was the least I could do as a gentleman knight and for a neighbour.” He undid the purse suspended from the military-styled leather belt he wore round his waist and proffered a small leather bag to Philippa.

“There, mistress, is the coin that rascally thief stole from your man. I rose early, called on the constable with instructions as to charging the fellow and retrieved your money. You will need it when you arrive at Gretton or later on your journey home. You need not concern yourself about expenses occurred on the way to Gretton Manor since it will be my most pleasurable duty to escort you there.”

Philippa gave a great gasp of shocked surprise and anger. “That will not be necessary, sir. Peter Fairley, my father’s trusty squire, is perfectly capable of seeing us safe to Gretton.”

Her tone was now unmistakably hostile and his dark brows rose in assumed or real astonishment.

“Forgive me, Lady…?” He paused and looked enquiringly at Lady Wroxeter.

“My daughter is Lady Philippa Telford, Sir Rhys, and she owes her safety from molestation and her life to you,” Cressida put in hurriedly. Though she herself was anxious to be free of this man’s presence, she had no wish for Philippa to antagonise him deliberately.

He bowed again, smiling. “Forgive me again, Lady Philippa, but I must point out to you that neither you nor your squire appeared last night to be perfectly capable of protecting yourselves. It is my desire and my bounden duty to provide a suitable escort. Both my cousin David and I are soldier-trained and with your squire, who is too, we should prove a sufficient force to keep off any opportunity-seeking robbers on the road.” He shook his head, gently reproving, “I fear the roads of Wales are no more safe from thieves and outlaws than any other rural community, though preferable in many ways to the hazards of London town or even Ludlow after dark.”

Philippa looked to her mother for support in her rejection of the idea, but Cressida shook her head gently. “We shall be grateful for your continued care of us, Sir Rhys,” she said quietly.

Sir Rhys glanced round the chamber to see if their saddle bags were packed and nodded his satisfaction.

“I will inform your man Peter when he returns with the horses and send him up to you. I should not advise you to come down to the tap room until there is need. The clientele of this place is hardly salubrious, as yesterday’s misadventures bore out.” He bowed again and withdrew.

Philippa said angrily, “Why did you agree to his escort? We do not need or want his company.”

Lady Wroxeter sighed. “I do not see how we could refuse. To do so would only appear ungrateful and incur his displeasure, if not his downright anger. We cannot afford to antagonise the man, not only for our sakes but for those of your grandparents as well. Since he is well aware of our destination he could inform on us after our arrival, so it makes little difference.”

“I would have preferred not to have his company,” Philippa said sulkily and her mother turned on her in sudden irritation.

“You were glad enough of Sir Rhys’s services last night, young lady. Be good enough to acknowledge our debt to him.”

“I doubt if he acknowledges any debt to my father,” Philippa snapped in answer and turned away to see to the final packing.

Philippa was forced to acknowledge Sir Rhys Griffith’s need for caution, however, when they were eventually called downstairs by his squire, who informed them that Peter Fairley had arrived with their horses and his master had declared himself ready to leave. The atmosphere in the tap room was decidedly frosty; the small number of men seated at the ale-spattered tables stared at the women in open hostility and the landlord was surly. Obviously news concerning their imprisoned companion had reached them and the blame for his likely fate placed at the women’s door. Sir Rhys received them cheerily and conducted them to the door with a show of deliberate courtesy. Philippa shivered in spite of herself and was glad of his presence.

Peter had managed to procure an elderly palfrey for Lady Wroxeter and two sturdy Welsh cobs for himself and Philippa. To her irritation, Sir Rhys insisted upon inspecting them before allowing his charges to mount. As if Peter was incapable of judging good horse flesh when he saw it, Philippa fumed inwardly. She watched, frowning, as Sir Rhys ran his hand down the legs of each of the mounts and inspected their chests and mouths. Apparently satisfied, he came back to the waiting group and nodded his approval.

“You have made as good purchases as possible under the circumstances,” he informed Peter.

“If you were not sure of his abilities, you should have accompanied him to the horse coper,” Philippa murmured under her breath and he turned and grinned at her. She was not sure if he had actually heard, but he made no comment.

“It is necessary to have good mounts for our journey,” he explained. “We have almost a hundred miles over undulating country, some of it mountainous.”

Cressida nodded. “I travelled it only once when—when I left England in 1486 and we were somewhat hurried,” she said quickly.”

“I imagine you have not ridden a great deal over the last years?” he enquired.

“No, there has been little opportunity or need,” she agreed.

Peter stepped forward to help his mistress into the saddle and Philippa was chagrined to find Sir Rhys at her side to do a like service for her. She found herself swung up lightly, the touch of his hand gentle yet firm upon her body. Confused by such close contact, she turned and fumbled awkwardly with the reins, only to find them deliberately placed into her hands.

“You are used to riding, Lady Philippa?” he enquired. “If not, you can ride with me.”

“That will certainly not be necessary, sir,” she said coldly. “Though I do not ride often in Malines, my father has been at pains to see that I learned well and had adequate practice.”

“Good. As I said to your mother, we have a hard ride in front of us.”

He stood back to confer with the two men, then gave a signal for all to mount up and swung himself lightly into the saddle of the courser an inn groom held ready for him. He moved his horse beside that of her mother’s as they rode beneath the courtyard arch and Philippa rode behind with the two squires flanking her.

The day was pleasantly warm and she flung back her cloak and slipped back her hood, allowing the sun’s gentle warmth to touch her body. Her new mount seemed amiable enough and soon became accustomed to her touch upon the reins and she leaned forward to pat the cob’s shaggy neck. Peter smiled at her encouragingly and she grinned back, thankful, at last, to be away from the inn.

Soon they were out of the mired streets of the harbour and free of the unaccustomed smells of sea air and tar and the green undulating countryside stretched before them. Yesterday’s misty dampness had refreshed the air and Philippa began to find the ride pleasurable.

She could hear Sir Rhys in talk with her mother and rode slightly forward so that she could catch everything which was said.

“I would suggest that we make three stops upon the way at inns known to me,” he said.

“But, Sir Rhys, I had thought Philippa and I might be accommodated at two nunneries I know of.” Lady Wroxeter hesitated, her colour rising, as she went on, “You must understand that expense is a feature of my decision…”

“I think not, my lady,” he brushed aside her objection. “Nuns are notoriously curious. They lead such sheltered lives that they are fascinated by the backgrounds and news brought from the outside world of everyone who comes to stay. I imagine you are anxious to avoid as much gossip as possible. Do not concern yourself about expense. I have already made provision for David and I upon the journey so it will be no extra drain upon our resources.”

“But surely—”

Philippa saw him lean towards her mother and place a restraining hand upon hers. “Please, Lady Wroxeter, place yourself in my hands and, I assure you, you will reach Gretton without either incident or undue notice.”

Philippa considered what he had said and raised an enquiring eyebrow in Peter’s direction. He merely shrugged his shoulders in answer. They were in this man’s power and she realised they were helpless to change the situation.

She regarded his unyielding back as he rode ahead and mentally reviewed the encounter of the previous night. Her mother was right. Had this man not come to her rescue, they would not be travelling this road today. A great shudder ran through her at the thought. Had she not discovered that he was a loyal Tudor supporter and, worse than that, had inherited her father’s confiscated estates, she would have been more than ready to acknowledge her debt to him. What was his motive in offering them protection? Would he lead them into some manor upon the way where they could be arrested and held during the King’s pleasure in hopes that her father would come to England to plead their cause and try to obtain their release, so placing his head on the block? It was a likely prospect—yet how could they manage to evade this fate? Peter had clearly accepted defeat—for the moment. She must wait patiently until he was able to suggest some way of escaping Sir Rhys’s vigilance, but even should they accomplish this—and it would be difficult and hazardous—their plans to visit her dying grandfather would have to be abandoned and she knew her mother had set her heart upon this visit. She sighed a little too loudly and Sir Rhys turned in his saddle to regard her, eyebrows raised.

“Are you tired already, Lady Philippa? Do you wish to stop? I know that unaccustomed riding can cause saddle soreness.”

She blushed hotly at the thought and shook her head. “No, no, sir, I was just—considering the length of the journey facing us.”

“I shall try to make it as easy for you all as possible,” he returned mildly.

Their first stop for refreshment was in the Tudor stronghold of Pembroke. Philippa looked up at the looming castle apprehensively. Here, surely, Sir Rhys might well achieve his aim and put them in the hands of the King’s officers. More than likely he would obtain the King’s favour by so doing though, knowing the Tudor monarch from her days in attendance at Queen Elizabeth’s court, she doubted that he would be paid in coin or lands. King Henry kept a very tight hand on the treasury purse strings. Nevertheless all his supporters were well aware that to be in the King’s debt would be advantageous.

Sir Rhys drew his small company off the main street which was crowded with carts and market stalls, their proprietors calling hoarsely the worth of their wares to passers-by, into a street behind where he drew his mount up before an inn displaying the sign of the Red Lion. Despite her assurance to Sir Rhys that she was not weary, Philippa was glad to have Peter lift her down and to join her mother in the inn’s one eating room where a sweating landlord came obsequiously forward to enquire what service Sir Rhys required.

Curtly the knight ordered a dinner of meat and vegetable broth, pease pudding and what tarts the fellow had to offer which would please the ladies. Philippa and her mother were escorted up the rickety stair to a small dark chamber where a slatternly maid brought them water and towels, plus chamber pots, so that they might refresh themselves. Thankfully they returned to the eating room to find the food already upon the table. Philippa, who had been dry-mouthed with alarm at what might transpire in the next hour or so, discovered that, despite that, she was hungry and was glad of the hot tasty food and the rye bread which accompanied it. This inn was not apparently able to provide the fine white manchet bread to which Sir Rhys was more usually accustomed.

Her mother was rather quiet over the meal and Sir Rhys accepted her need for silence in courtesy. Above stairs, away from his presence, Philippa had thought it best not to alarm her mother with her fears. Catching her eye across the table, she understood that her mother had already considered the danger.

Nothing happened, however. They completed the meal, then David, Sir Rhys’s squire, rose to pay the score. Peter had already gone to assure himself that their mounts had been fed and watered. Sir Rhys offered his hand to Lady Wroxeter to lead her outside to the courtyard.

“I considered it wiser to chose a less frequented inn, this being market day,” he explained. “The fare was nourishing but hardly acceptable to finer palates used to food prepared in the Duchess Margaret’s establishment at Malines.”

Cressida shook her head. “The food was excellent and the place unexpectedly clean,” she replied.

Since Peter was engaged in mounting his lady upon her palfrey and David was still about his business in the inn, Sir Rhys lifted Philippa once more into the saddle.

“These merchant’s clothes form an excellent disguise, and were well chosen,” he remarked as he fingered the wool of her russet gown.

Angrily she flashed back at him, “These garments are no disguise, sir. We live in virtual penuary at Malines while you live in luxury on my father’s estates.”

He looked from the tip of her proudly held young head to her little booted foot resting in the stirrup. How very lovely she was, even dressed, as she was, in these dull, outmoded clothes. Her golden curls peeped provocatively from beneath her simple linen coif, for she had thrown back the hood of her travelling cloak.

He had said earlier that she possessed the same golden loveliness of her mother, but in Philippa now that beauty was enhanced by vibrant youth. Her skin glowed with health and her green-blue eyes, almost turquoise in the sunlight, sparked with angry vitality. There was a seeming childlike fragility about her in her exquisite petiteness, which he had noted when he had come to her rescue in that darkened courtyard. It had brought out a protective tenderness in him, yet now his pulses raced as he thought how much of a true woman she was. He sensed the intensity of her bitterness towards him, read it in the set of her little pointed chin, in that hauntingly elfish, heart-shaped face, in the hard-held line of her lips, despite their sensuous fullness, which now he longed to lean forward and kiss.

He had met and known many women at court, and other, more earthy voluptuous beauties who had lived on his estates and granted him favours, daughters of his tenants and servants, but none had stirred him as this woman did.

When Philippa had risen, trembling, from her attacker and he had felt her quivering fearful young body pressed against his heart, he had recognised the inner strength of her, the courageous determination to recover quickly so that she could rush to her mother to warn and protect her, her genuine concern for their squire, even under the stress of her own ordeal.

She was in fighting form now, and amused admiration for her warred within him with the sudden surge of desire which ran through him.

He chuckled inwardly. She would need to be managed—for her own safety and that of those she might imperil if she gave way to rashness brought on by her own contempt for him.

“Ah,” he murmured, his dark eyes flashing in understanding, “so that is the rub, Lady Philippa, and the direct cause of your suddenly adopted hatred for me. Your man has informed you about my estates and how my father obtained them.

“I hate no one, sir,” she said coldly. “That would be against the teaching of Holy Church. Contempt would be nearer the mark to explain my feelings towards you.”

“You think I should have refused to accept my inheritance?” He gave a little dry laugh. “I would have thought you would have gained a better knowledge of the ways of the world than that, Lady Philippa. I am quite sure your father’s many services to the late King won him the preferment he both desired and earned.”

She went white to the lips and, seeing her unwillingness to reply to that shot, he bowed and moved towards his own mount.

Lady Wroxeter had not been able to hear their conversation, but, feeling instinctively that Philippa had insulted their escort, she turned in the saddle and gave her daughter a warning look.

They travelled for the rest of the day without incident and arrived at dusk at an inn on the outskirts of Carmarthen. Sir Rhys had chosen one less fashionable but apparently clean and respectable. He arranged for a private chamber for the ladies, informing the landlord’s wife that Lady Wroxeter was a cousin of his, who was travelling with her daughter and brother to visit a sick relative who lived in the Marches. He, himself, he said cheerily, would make do with the common chamber and, as Peter Fairley announced his intention of sleeping with their horses in the stable, he ordered David, his squire, to join him there.

After a hearty meal the ladies retired and assisted each other to undress.

“Philippa,” Lady Wroxeter said, wrinkling her brow in concern, “you have not quarrelled with Sir Rhys, have you? I asked you to have a care. I thought there seemed something of an atmosphere between you after our stop for dinner. We are in enough danger as it is. Do not antagonise the man.”

Philippa shrugged irritably. “I merely made it clear to him when he passed an opinion on our state of dress that our straitened circumstances are due in part to his enrichment at our expense.”

“But that is hardly true. King Henry would have granted your father’s lands to, if not Sir Rhys’s father, then another one of his supporters after your father became a proscribed traitor.”

“But Sir Rhys’s father turned traitor to his rightful king at Redmoor,” Philippa snapped.

“I doubt if Sir Rhys was quite old enough to fight for the Tudor either at Redmoor or Stoke and can hardly be blamed for what his father did,” Cressida reminded her. “In all events, those battles were over long ago and we have your future to consider now.”

“You wish that my father was not so concerned with the Duchess Margaret’s machinations?” Philippa posed, somewhat shocked by such a suggestion.

“Like most women, I wish your father would sometimes consider the cost of his outdated allegiance and think a little more of us,” Cressida rejoined tartly. “I love your father with my whole heart and will remain loyal to him whatever he chooses to do, but I do have you to think about.”

Wearily she climbed into bed and Philippa thought it best to say nothing further.

She lay wakeful. Her fears had been thoroughly aroused in Pembroke and would not be put to rest. Her mother had not been present during that dreadful journey to the coast, four years ago, when she had been forced to flee from England with her friends, the Allards. The King’s body squire, John Hilyard, had followed them and attempted to take Philippa prisoner, to hold her hostage for her father’s compliance to King Henry’s will. It had been a hard fight when he had overtaken them and Philippa had been little more than a child then, but she had known real heartstopping fear that they would be killed. John Hilyard had paid the price and lost his life as a consequence of that encounter and his body had been thrown over a hedge. In retrospect she recalled how they had all set their teeth and struggled on, their friend, Sir Adam Westlake, severely wounded in the fight and Richard Allard still suffering from the effects of the torture he had endured as King Henry’s prisoner in the Tower of London. Report of Hilyard’s death must have reached the King. Philippa doubted if she would ever be forgiven. If she could be captured now, on this visit, how great a prize she and her mother would be if Rhys Griffith decided to hand them over. Somehow she must convince her mother of their danger and try to escape from Rhys’s clutches.

Cressida had fallen into an exhausted slumber at her side. Cautiously Philippa climbed from the bed and pulled her gown over her head, but was forced to leave it unlaced at the back. She thought it most likely that, despite his avowed intention of staying with the horses, Peter had more than probably stolen back to sleep nearer to his charges. She must seek him out and confer with him about their next move.

She looked back to see if her mother had wakened but Cressida stirred, then turned over and went back to sleep again. Philippa gave a little sigh of relief, stole to the door and carefully undid the latch. She had not dared to light a candle and found herself in total darkness on the landing when the door opened. The crack in the shutter had lightened her chamber sufficiently well for to see there, but now the blackness appeared absolute and she hesitated for moments to allow her eyes to adjust. After a second or two she could begin to see dimly in greyness and was about to step forward when she stumbled against something soft and yielding right before her feet.

“Peter,” she called softly but, before she could bend to examine the sleeping form further, her ankles were caught in a tight hold and she fell backwards into the arms of the man who had risen, cat-like, into a crouch at her advance. A hand fastened cruelly over her mouth and almost cut off her breath.

A harsh whisper came from the darkness. “God’s Wounds, mistress, what are you about? Not again! Did your previous hazardous encounter teach you nothing?”

She struggled ineffectively in her captor’s arms, realising, in fury, that she had been caught by the very man she had wished to avoid.

“If I remove my hand, will you cry out and waken everyone in the inn?” he demanded softly. “If not, shake your head and I will oblige.”

She shook her head vigorously and he released the gagging hand so that she could draw in ragged gasps of breath again. Her knees felt weak—she feared they would let her down and leaned against the door for support. He had risen to his feet fully now and was still holding her by one shoulder, then he urged her silently but imperiously down the stairs where he pushed open the door of the tap room in front of her and thrust her inside.

“We can talk more privately in here.”

She made to argue hotly but he lifted a hand impatiently to prevent her, and stood facing her, hands on his hips.

“Now, mistress, I demand to know what business brings you from your chamber half undressed.” His eyes passed insolently over her body on which her gown hung loosely and one shoulder was bared to his hard gaze. “I take it that your mother is unaware of this escapade? What are you doing, Lady Philippa? Are you in search of Master Fairley?”

She was about to agree that she was until she understood by the hard gleam in his eyes that he thought her reason for doing so was quite unacceptable. Her cheeks flamed and she went hot with embarrassment and anger that he might have so little regard for her sense of propriety.

“How dare you question me!” she snapped impatiently and turned to hasten towards the door again in order to make her escape, but he caught her by the arm again and pulled her towards him roughly.

“I have every reason to do so since I have made myself responsible for your safety.”

“No one asked you to,” she flared back.

The room was, of course, deserted and she was aware that her voice had risen and that she might well have awakened someone upstairs who might come to discover what was causing a disturbance in the night. The room seemed chilly and she turned towards the fire where the embers had been banked down but a residual warmth was still being given out. Despite the day’s summer warmth, it had been kindled to allow mulled ale and spiced wine to be produced for travellers and customers who requested it. She realised suddenly that she was quite alone with this man she regarded as an enemy and knew that her shivers were caused by something other than the chilliness of the summer night.

Tiredly she said, “Allow me, sir, to return to my chamber now. I am wearied.”

“Not too wearied to be wandering about. I will allow you to go, mistress, when you provide me with a suitable explanation for this wanton behaviour.”

“It does not concern you. I do not have to answer to you, sir.”

He did not favour that remark with an answer, but released her arm and stood dominatingly before her, feet apart, arms folded.

His very attitude and the fact that he had dispensed with the courtesy of affording her her proper title but had addressed her as “mistress”, rather than “my lady”, fired her to anger once more.

“If you must have an explanation, yes, I was, indeed, looking for Peter.”

“Why?”

The single word was uttered without any courteous preamble.

“As I have said, it is of no concern of yours. I—I—” She flailed about in her mind for an acceptable reason. She dared not give him the true one. “I—I simply wanted to talk with him—about the problems of the journey and—and did not wish to alarm my mother.”

“You are sure you have no other reason for not alarming your mother?” The question was disconcertingly blunt, so much so that she gasped aloud.

“Are you suggesting—?”

“I am suggesting nothing. The facts seem plain enough. You get up in the middle of the night, half undressed, in order to see your father’s squire. It requires little more speculation on my part.”

In sudden fury she lashed out at his cheek, but he caught her hand before it could do damage and held it in a punishing grip, so that she cried out in pain. “Little hell cat,” he murmured softly and deliberately.

She struggled to free herself. His grasp was delivering real pain and she knew there would be bruises to show for it in the morning. He released her at last and she stumbled backwards.

“How dare you!” she stuttered, very close to tears. “How dare you imply that Peter and I would—” Her breath ended in a splutter of unutterable rage. “Why, Peter, unlike you, is the soul of honour. He is totally devoted to our interests and discreet and my father trusts him with all our lives…”

“I do not doubt that, mistress,” he said grimly, “but can he trust him with his daughter’s honour? Last evening, as I recall, you were supposedly out looking for him then because you said he was late returning to you and you were worried about him.”

“That was the truth,” she retorted, sparks flying from her lovely blue-green eyes. “Perhaps you would like to question my concern for his welfare and put that down to a dishonourable reason. I imagine you are less concerned about the welfare of your own retainers.”

He was silent for a while, not rising to her taunt, watching the angry rise and fall of her breasts, the looseness of her unfastened gown more than normally revealing. Once more he marvelled at her loveliness, so exquisitely formed, like a faery sprite, more beautiful than he had remembered her mother to have been when she had captivated his boy’s heart so long ago. He felt an ungovernable anger. Philippa Telford might look like a child, but she most certainly was not. He had the evidence of that before his eyes. She was radiantly lovely, enough to seduce the whole of the male population within the Duchess Margaret’s court, he thought, yet she was here in search of her father’s squire, a man surely too old and unworthy to be her lover. Was he judging her too harshly? Was she really innocent at heart, simply anxious to talk with the man, as she had said, about the difficulties of the journey ahead? Unaccountably he found himself wanting to believe her. She was so young—sixteen, seventeen perhaps—and he believed her parents had kept her well chaperoned. Yet, the thought came to him that, beautiful as she was and well born, she had not concealed how poverty-stricken they were in exile in Burgundy. She must be fully aware of how difficult it was going to be for her father to provide her with a suitable husband. How galling that must be to her…

He sighed heavily. In her present mood he was going to find it hard to convince her that this rash behaviour was indiscreet, if not downright dangerous.

“Lady Philippa, you know, I am sure, that this is a difficult and dangerous time for your mother and you. It behoves you to be circumspect.” He lifted a hand imperiously as she made to interrupt him. “No, hear me out. I cannot imagine why you should wish to seek out your father’s squire at this hour of the night, but there must be no more of these escapades. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she grated through clenched teeth. “I would like to know just why you were sleeping outside our door rather than in the common chamber where you said you would be.”

“I have already explained. I regard myself as your protector,” he returned mildly. “Though the wars are over, the times are still troubled. King’s men are everywhere and soldiers, off duty, can pose problems for vulnerable women. I am sure that I do not have to explain that to you.”

“Are you our protector or our jailer?” she said stonily and his eyes opened wide and darkened to obsidian.

Hastily she added, somewhat lamely, “I meant that—I do not understand why you should appoint yourself our guardian.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps because Fate or the Virgin cast you both before me as being in need. Is that not a good enough reason, mistress?”

Haughtily she shook her glorious hair, which lay unbound in heavy red-gold waves upon her shoulders. He felt an irresistible desire to pull her towards him and run his fingers through it. What was she doing, he thought savagely, appearing before a man in the night like that? Had she no sense of decorum? Didn’t she realise what temptations she could arouse in men? He took himself firmly in hand. She was young, vulnerable, and under his protection. He must hold himself in check.

“I am not sure,” she said icily, “whether either my mother or I are gladdened that fate decided to take such a hand in our affairs. Now, sir, will you please stand aside and allow me to return to my mother?”

He nodded slowly and stepped aside from the door so that she might move towards it unhindered. He could not allow himself to touch her, not again.

He said a trifle hoarsely, “Certainly, Lady Philippa, but be assured that I shall resume my post outside your door the moment you are settled inside.”

She did not deign to reply, but sulkily moved past him and mounted the stairs back to their chamber.

He followed and settled himself, seated with his back to their door. He was bewitched as if she had thrown faery dust before his eyes and taken possession of his very soul. How could this have happened to him and so suddenly? Not only was she so beautiful that just to look at her caused an ache within his loins, but she had spirit and courage. He could only pray that those very virtues he admired in her did not bring her into further dangers.

He pondered upon her reaction to his unvoiced accusation that she was wandering out to meet her lover. She had rejected it out of hand and with considerable indignation. Could he believe her? Would she not, if caught out like that, react in exactly that way? And had he any right to be angered by her behaviour?

He allowed himself a little secret smile. Certainly she had made no bones about admitting the fact that she despised him. Why? Simply because he was in possession of her father’s former lands? Had she expected to arrive in England and find those estates and manor houses empty and neglected? Was it not usual for the victor in any combat to hand out spoils to his supporters? At Duchess Margaret’s court, intrigue-ridden as it was, she could not be unaware of those situations.

He had recognised Lady Wroxeter on sight and on impulse offered her his protection on this journey. He knew of the distress of her parents at being so long parted from their daughter by circumstances they were powerless to alter and of the present serious illness of Sir Daniel. It had seemed reasonable and his duty to assume responsibility for the safety of his neighbour’s kin. He had not expected such a hostile reaction from Lady Philippa. He sighed. They would be thrown together for several more days. In honour he must control his growing feelings for her. He had gravely insulted her by his suggestion that she had acted wantonly. There would be time for him to discover if he were, in fact, mistaken and, if so, to attempt to repair the damage.

The darkness upon the landing was beginning to lighten to grey. He settled himself more comfortably, yet in a position to continue his nocturnal watch.

Philippa stole back to her bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping mother. Her cheeks were still hot with embarrassed fury directed at the man who was separated from her only by the thickness of the chamber door. Her plan would have to be abandoned. Rhys Griffith would not move from his post this night. She would have to try to find some other opportunity to have talk with Peter away from the man’s insufferable vigilance.

She punched the straw-filled pillow violently to relieve her feelings and wriggled down in the bed. Yet sleep evaded her. The vision of the man’s dark presence continued to dominate her thoughts. She tossed and turned restlessly. She had never before encountered a man so bluntly and insultingly spoken. No one in the Duchess’s retinue, nor even any nobleman at Queen Elizabeth’s court at Westminster, would have dared to question her so accusingly. He was hateful and she had no way of proving to him how shamefully wrong he was in his suspicions. Peter was a dear and trusted friend whom she had known from childhood. Never could she think of him as—she blushed inwardly at the thought—as a lover. Even if they had had more intimate feelings towards each other, neither would have behaved so indecorously. Peter would have regarded such desires as a blot upon the knightly honour to which he had once aspired. Knowing how vulnerable her position was at court, she had been particularly careful that she was never alone in any man’s company, since her dowerless state would have made it impossible for any man to offer her honourable marriage.

Rhys Griffith had immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. Indignantly she asked herself what business it was of his? He had no hold over her. It was as if he were—jealous! The idea was laughable.

Once more she pounded her pillow in impotent fury. Somehow she must convince him that he had accused her falsely, but without alerting him to the true reason for her determination to meet with Peter privately for that could put them all in danger. Strangely she was most anxious that Rhys Griffith should not think ill of her, though, for the life of her, she could not understand her own reason for caring.

Chapter Three

They travelled by easy stages through the lovely Welsh countryside, through Carmarthen, Landovery and Buith Wells, and stayed at last at an inn in Leominster. The weather stayed fine. The rain, which had fallen before their arrival in Wales, had laid the dust and the roads were reasonably comfortable as a result, neither too miry or too dusty and hard ridged.

As on the stops they had made previously, the inn Sir Rhys had chosen was comfortable and clean without being luxurious or fashionable. Philippa had had no opportunity to speak with Peter Fairley privately during the journey. Though they had ridden side by side, she was conscious that Sir Rhys, riding with her mother only some yards ahead of her, could hear anything they had to say and, therefore, she had had to talk of everyday things, the comforts or disadvantages of the inns they stayed at, the beauty of the scenery, or the weather. At all times, whether he was looking at them or not, Philippa was aware that she and Peter were under close scrutiny and it irked her.

At Leominster she had an excuse at last to follow Peter down to the stables, hoping to find him alone. Her little Welsh cob, of whom she had grown very fond, was limping just a little by the time they arrived and she expressed a desire to go and ask Peter to discover, if he could, the reason and pronounce his opinion on whether she were well enough to proceed next day. Sir Rhys was absent from the eating room for the moment and Philippa’s mother nodded her agreement.

Philippa was fortunate to find Peter alone and he was, as she entered the stable, examining the cob’s right fore hoof.

He looked up, smiling, as he saw Philippa. “She has gathered a small stone. It isn’t serious. I’m removing it now.”

“Will she be able to carry me tomorrow? I don’t want to further lame her.”

“Yes, my lady, she will be fine when she’s rested.”

Philippa approached him and looked back to see that no one was near the opened doorway.

“I’ve been anxious to speak with you alone since we left Milford Haven.”

He nodded. “It has proved difficult. I would have preferred to have closer access to your mother, also, but it seemed unwise.”

“Peter, do you think we are in danger from this man?”

“Sir Rhys? I doubt it, though he is the King’s man. Had he any intention of betraying us he would have done so before now.”

“Yet he could involve my grandparents in the crime of harbouring us if we are discovered there after we have actually settled in at Gretton. Should we not try to part from his surveillance after we leave Ludlow and, perhaps, postpone our arrival at Gretton?”

Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Neither you nor your mother are proscribed traitors. There can be no real reason why you should not visit. I, on the other hand, could find myself arrested both for having fought at Redmoor and at Stoke and for being in your father’s service and close confidence. However,” he said, smiling. “I do not believe that Sir Rhys Griffith thinks I am important enough for him to concern himself about my doings.”

“I am not so sure of that,” Philippa replied coolly.

He glanced at her quickly. “Oh?”

“He thinks you are my lover or that you aspire to be.”

Peter’s expression of alarm was so comical that Philippa burst out laughing and she quickly explained to him what had occurred when she had attempted to slip out on that first night in Pembroke to see him.

“I hope you disabused him of that idea. Your mother would be scandalised and as for your father’s reaction to such news—” He broke off, horrified.

Teasingly she said, “Don’t you find me attractive, Peter?”

His brown eyes surveyed her somewhat myopically. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, Lady Philippa, barring your mother when she was the age you are now, but I would never betray your father’s trust, you know that. I love you as a…” he sought blindly for words “…as a beloved sister perhaps. I would gladly die for you if there were need, but—”

“You do not love me in the way the troubadors sing of. I understand,” she said blithely, “and that is just as well for I, too, regard you as a dear, elder brother.” She frowned, considering. “Then you do not think we should try to escape Sir Rhys?”

He sighed. “It would prove impossible. If he should decide to call out a search for us, all roads to any coast would be blocked.”

She bit her lip uncertainly. “Then we can do nothing?”

A cool voice from the doorway answered her with another question. “What is it you wish to do, Lady Philippa?”

She turned guiltily to face Sir Rhys as he entered, his cold gaze passing from her to Peter.

“We were conferring about my mount, sir,” she retorted, staring back at him defiantly. “You may have noticed she was limping when we arrived and Peter tells me she has picked up a loose stone which he has removed. I thought we might require the services of a smith.”

“Ah.” He did not take his gaze from her for moments and then turned to Peter. “Will she be fit to carry your mistress tomorrow, think you?”

“Oh, yes, Sir Rhys, there should be no difficulty about completing our journey.”

“Good. We do not wish for any delay as I am sure your grandmother will be anxious to see you, Lady Philippa. Now, if you will come at once, supper will soon be served and your mother will wish you to join her.”

He held out his hand commandingly and she was forced to take it and allow him to lead her from the stable after a murmured “thank you” to Peter.

Outside she snatched her hand from his grasp and rasped. “I wish you would not insist on spying on me when I am with Peter. I have told you before, he is my father’s trusted squire and companion and nothing more to me than a friend.”

He regarded her quizzically. “Since you give me your word on that, Lady Philippa, I must believe you, but I do regard it as my duty to keep you safe from…” he paused, thoughtfully eyeing her speculatively “…all harm.”

She flounced ahead of him into the inn and hastily went to join her mother at the table. Lady Wroxeter was puzzled by the strange gleam she saw reflected in her daughter’s eye. She had known throughout the journey that Philippa had strongly resented their need to accede to Sir Rhys Griffith’s desire to escort them to Gretton, but tonight she thought something further had passed between them. She sighed inwardly but said nothing. This problem would soon resolve itself. Tomorrow they would arrive at Gretton and she doubted if they would see more of their protector. Her father had written on several occasions that his neighbours were inclined to shun him, since he was found to be under the displeasure of the King and her parents had become virtually isolated on their own manor.

Philippa was particularly interested in the small market town of Ludlow next day as they rode in. This was their nearest town and her mother knew it well. Unlike Milford Haven, it seemed relatively clean and peaceful in the afternoon sun since today there was no market and no vociferous traders. Most of the shops were closed apparently over the dinner hour and there was a sleepy air about the place, dominated as it was by the former Yorkist stronghold of Ludlow Castle. She glanced at the grim walls curiously as they passed through. Here it was that Edward, the elder of the two Yorkist princes, had finally ridden out to meet his uncle, Richard, on his momentous journey to London to be crowned. It had never happened. He and his brothers and sisters had been declared illegitimate, the two boys placed in the royal apartments of the Tower of London from which they had mysteriously disappeared. She thought how furiously angry her father had been to learn only days ago that a proclamation had been made that Sir James Tyrell, recently executed, had confessed to their murder on the instructions of their uncle. She bit her lip uncertainly and cast a glance at her mother, who had turned in the saddle, finding her also tight-lipped. Did her mother believe the slanderous tale, despite her father’s avowals that the confession was a lie which had either been forced from Sir James while in Tudor hands or fabricated after his death, a lie which could not be denied? Sir Rhys had reined in his mount in order to allow the two ladies to view the castle. Philippa cast him a venomous glance. Undoubtedly Sir Rhys believed it.

As they left the town Philippa was impatient to reach their home manor, but her anticipated pleasure was shadowed by the fear that they might not find her grandfather alive.

Sir Rhys gestured her forward as they entered her grandfather’s lands so that the two women could be together. Philippa saw that her mother’s eyes were bright with unshed tears and she reined in close and, reaching out, took her gloved hand in her own encouragingly.

“We have come as soon as we could, ma mère, I am sure we shall be in time to—” She broke off, too emotionally choked to continue.

Sir Rhys said quietly, “I saw your grandfather just before I left for Milford Haven. I was able to conduct some business for him there. He was incapacitated but able to talk and was as well as could be expected. Your grandmother informed me that the physicians had told her they had no reason to fear the worst.”

Lady Wroxeter nodded, grateful for his reassurance. So he did visit her parents, apparently, undeterred by his neighbours’ unpopularity. Her mother must have had cause to be grateful to him during those recent difficult and anxiety-ridden weeks.

Philippa was filled with surprised delight when she caught her first sight of Gretton Manor. The evening sunlight caught the mellow building with its strong rays. The undercroft was stone built, with an upper storey of timber and plaster lath painted yellow which showed to advantage against the dark-stained oak beams. The manor house itself was approached through a gatehouse arch which at one time had housed a guard room but, probably due to the settled times and King Henry’s proscriptions against the keeping of retainers, was now disused. From the front it was not possible to see the outbuildings and stables but, as the small party approached, grooms ran quickly forward to take the lead reins of their horses. One gabbled to Sir Rhys in Welsh, which he answered fluently. Any hopes Philippa might have had that he would leave them now, having delivered them safely home, were dispelled as both Sir Rhys’s horse and his squire’s were led off with their own. Peter Fairley lifted her down and she turned, a little flustered, to see a woman standing upon the top step leading to the hall to greet them. She came down immediately the moment she recognised the new arrivals. Cressida, who had been assisted to dismount by Sir Rhys, ran to her with a little choking cry of mingled delight and anxiety. Philippa could see little of her grandmother’s features as her head was bent over the shoulders of her weeping daughter. She could just distinguish that Lady Gretton was of no great height, like her daughter and grandchild, and was plumply rounded in build.

Philippa came hesitantly towards the two and just caught the whispered questions each gave to the other.

“Father, is he…?”

“Well enough, child, and very anxious to greet you, but not sufficiently recovered to come from the hall yet.”

Lady Gretton had posed her question even more softly.

“Martyn, is he safe?”

Philippa’s mother’s answer was even softer, barely whispered. “He was safe in Malines and well when we left him a sennight ago.”

Lady Gretton gave a little satisfied sigh. “Good. It was unsafe for him to venture with you. Times are troubled here, even yet.”

She looked up and held her arms wide for Philippa to run into them. “Come, child. You will never know how long we have waited to have a sight of you.”

Philippa was enveloped in a motherly embrace, scenting the fresh, country fragrances of rosemary and lavender. She was hugged so tightly she could hardly breathe and withdrew finally a little breathless, half-laughing and half-crying in the sudden emotion of greeting.

Now she could see that Mildred Gretton was indeed short and plumply attractive still in late middle age, but with nothing about her of her daughter and granddaughter’s famed ethereal beauty. Her pleasant features were relatively unlined except for the little crinkles around her round, dark eyes, which betokened good humour. She was dressed in a dark green silk gown, somewhat outdated but of excellent quality, and she wore a small tight-fitting linen cap, but had not yet adopted the new French fashion of attached velvet veil Philippa had seen worn at the English court.

Still holding her grandchild by one arm, she turned smilingly to Sir Rhys Griffith.

“Rhys, how good to see you here, and in the company of my loved ones. As always you are very welcome to Gretton. Daniel will be so pleased to see you.”

He bowed courteously. “Thank you, Mildred, but I will not stay. I have business to conclude at home and you both will wish to have this time with your loved ones alone. I found them on the harbour at Milford Haven and made it my business to see them safe to Gretton. How is Sir Daniel?”

“As you saw him a week ago, Rhys. He frets that he cannot yet walk well or sit a horse. He sleeps below stairs as getting him above to our bedchamber has proven irksome, but the physician has hopes that he will soon be able to proceed further afield with the aid of a stick.”

Philippa gazed from her grandmother to Sir Rhys. So, they were obviously on good terms, which she found puzzling. She could but hope that Sir Rhys would honour his acceptance of their need for privacy and stay away from Gretton for some time. He was bidding farewell to her mother and she came to herself with a sudden start as he came to her side and held out his hand.

“I must make my excuses, Lady Philippa. I am delighted to hear that you will find your grandfather in good health considering his infirmities. I shall call on you all soon to assure myself that you want for nothing.”

She surrendered her hand a trifle unwillingly and murmured a polite word of gratitude for his care of them during the journey and he bent and kissed her palm. She found herself doubtfully regarding his retreating back as he left with his squire to move to the stable to retrieve his mount after it had been fed and watered. Her feelings were strangely mixed and bewildering, as if she was unsure when or if their paths would cross again and whether that would please or alarm her.

She followed her mother and grandmother up the entrance steps, through the screen doors and into the manor’s hall. A man sat near a fire, which was burning on the side hearth despite it being mid-summer, and rose with difficulty at their entrance, leaning hard on a sturdy oaken stick. An elderly woman standing behind the chair clucked at him warningly as Cressida ran to him and he rocked on his feet with the suddenness of her fierce embrace.

“Now, master, be careful. Mistress Cressida, mind your father’s condition.” Her admonition was unheeded as the two, locked together in the first joy of their meeting, were unconscious of the presence of any other within the hall. Philippa stood back a little shyly as, finally, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mother, helped by the elderly attendant, assisted her father back into his chair. Lady Gretton stood some little distance away, holding her granddaughter tightly by her hand. At last Cressida turned and stood aside a little from the seated figure, who was now leaning forward eagerly to view the newcomer.

“And here, Father, is Philippa. Come, child, and kiss your grandpère.”

Philippa, released by her grandmother, came forward and dropped to her knees before the old man. She saw that despite his illness his large, big-boned form had not withered. He had a shock of white hair reaching in curls to his shoulders and his broad, open countenance was still weatherbeaten as if, previous to the stroke which had laid him low, he had enjoyed an active, outdoor life. Like her mother, there were tears upon his cheeks and he bent and took Philippa’s face between his two large hands, scrutinising her carefully, then he looked up at his daughter and wife who had come closer to the chair, and smiled.

“I had the most beautiful daughter in England and this, her child, and Wroxeter’s, looks like being as lovely, and I can see spirit here in her eyes and courage. You have your mother’s looks, child, but I think there is something of your father’s courage and intelligence in the steadiness of your gaze and the intentness of your concern, aye, and stubbornness in the tilt of your chin, too.” He looked upwards to the elderly attendant who was standing behind his chair. “Don’t you agree, Alice? She’s the child of both of them right enough.”

The woman gave a little snort and stared down at Philippa, who returned her scrutiny curiously.

Her grandfather chuckled. “This is Alice, your mother’s nurse and your grandmother’s maid now, aye, and, over these last weeks, my nurse too, though I could wish her in purgatory some days when she bothers me with her strictures.”

“For your own good and you know it,” the woman scolded. “The doctor says you’ll do well enough if you take your time, but you will rush to do things.” Her expression was kindly, though her voice somewhat harsh, and she went scarlet with pleasure as Cressida seized her by the shoulders and planted a hearty kiss upon her lined cheek. She hugged her former charge, grinning at Philippa over Lady Wroxeter’s shoulder.

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