Joanna Makepeace - The Traitor's Daughter

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.