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“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.”
