“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.”

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