The Traitor's Daughter. Joanna Makepeace

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