Command Of The King Read online

  This attempt at pleasantry had been worse than his usual disdain. Philippa was used to disdain. And his urging on of his friend had seemed grotesque, as if Master Simeon himself had been uncertain how to proceed, and almost loath to start. Something her mother once had said seemed to ring in her ears. ‘When Thomas Higham looks pleased, beware of him.’ She had felt the blood drain from her face as she had looked from him to Master Simeon and back again, examining the older man more carefully. And what she saw had confirmed her fears.

  Master Simeon had obviously dressed with care. His clothes certainly would have better fitted a younger man for they had hung about him in folds, the yellow hose wrinkling about his calves, the yellow lining of his cape emphasizing the yellow of his skin. His strange unease had matched ill with his reputation for sharpness, and showed little of his famed legal skill. And when at length he had begun to speak, his lisping formality had been equally ill-suited to his words, revealing him not so much as a lawyer, full of cunning legality, but as a suitor, bashful and shy.

  ‘So, little mistress, it seems we are to be friends,’ he had brought out at last, rubbing his hands down his sides as if to dry the palms, and swallowing hard. ‘I hear,’ he had stammered after a while, ‘that you are in the market for a husband. Look no more; here he is.’ And he had struck a pose that would have looked foolish on a love-struck swain. When that had failed to impress he had winked as if to make her his confidante. ‘I have long been looking for a wife,’ he had said in more normal tones, ‘so why should not our two lives be joined as one? Together we could make a pair, you taking me and I taking you, so our twin needs be met.’

  Philippa’s own disbelief and shock must have shown for her stepfather had set down his goblet with a crash. ‘Master Simeon is a God-fearing man,’ he had cried, ‘as honest a widower as ever breathed, and a wealthy one. He wants a wife. He will not refuse a maid who is not all she thinks she is.’ And when Philippa had remained dumb, ‘He is willing, unlike most men, to accept you as you are, dowerless, without family or influence. In your place most wenches would count themselves fortunate. Think yourself lucky he asks for you.’

  Before Philippa could answer, the lady had stirred. ‘Wait now,’ she had purred. ‘These men, God save us, have no idea how to woo. They are too rough. What they mean is that your lack of dowry only enhances your own worth. And so it does.’ She had given the men a look from her hard eyes as if to say, ‘Watch your manners.’ To Philippa she had gone on, in the same soothing voice, ‘But although God knows Master Simeon is old enough to take maidenly reserve with a pinch of salt, on your part a little enthusiasm would not seem out of place. Come child (the expression had sounded all the more grotesque since it was one that Philippa’s mother had often used), come child, be sensible and accept. Besides, no doubt, out of his good heart, your stepfather will be generous and give you a little something from his own pocket to start you off, as good a beginning to married life as anyone’s.’

  Again, Philippa had been too startled to respond. Thought of a betrothal had never crossed her mind, certainly never with so old a man. But perhaps he appealed to her stepfather as a son-in-law. What would it matter that he were thrice her age? Master Simeon was someone her stepfather could rely upon, of his own rank and sort, someone who could understand his own needs, someone who probably had supported him before in some devious scheme. Master Simeon’s role she now understood very well, and her stepfather’s. But she still could not place the woman.

  Forcing herself to respond, the words seeming to stick in her throat, Philippa had made herself curtsy her thanks, pointing out that as she was still in mourning marriage was out of place. As for her lack of dowry, she had tried to explain, there must be some mistake, for she was her father’s only heir, now that her mother was deceased. But when she had questioned who the lady was, her stepfather had smiled unpleasantly; he might have been playing with his pot-fellows at hazard and had just produced the winning throw. ‘I thought you would never ask,’ he had said, almost triumphantly. ‘Meet my betrothed. Meet the new mistress of Higham Hall. She will grace my new house, which I mean to build when I have torn the old one down.’

  And he had flapped his cap again and bowed.

  ‘A worthy dame.’ After a while Master Simeon had felt obliged to pipe up. He had been noticeably quiet during this last exchange, perhaps not liking the idea explicit in the word ‘dowerless’, and grateful to the lady for that hint of generosity. Now, regaining confidence, as if relieved the worst had been said, he had gone on in a wheedling tone, much as he might use to convince a recalcitrant juror, ‘So, Mistress Philippa, no need to be coy. Your hesitation, although to your credit, has no place in this room. Your stepfather, your new stepmother, give their accord, and so must you. Why, even your blue eyes suggest compliance.’ And he had wheezed out compliments, in a splutter of courtship, a grandsire aping a grandson.

  Caught between them like a mouse batted back and forth, Philippa had felt the ground rock beneath her feet. Only some unexpected reserve of strength had made her realize that if she did not stand up for herself she would be overwhelmed. Defiance was new to her, but since there was no one else to rely upon she had made herself articulate. ‘My eyes may be blue,’ she had said at last, ‘but they see clearly what is beneath my nose. Master Higham is free to marry whom he likes; that is none of my concern. But Vernson Hall belongs to me. Who else should it belong to? As for changing its name, it has been called after my forebears for over three hundred years; who would call it otherwise? And when I wed it comes with me, along with all my father’s lands.’

  At these words, Master Simeon had looked uncomfortable, shuffling his feet in their pointed slippers and rubbing his hands. She had heard him mutter under his breath, ‘You said she would cause no difficulty. You called her lively, not shrewish. I am too old to welcome trouble in my own household, even if you have paid me well for it, and I certainly have no place for shrews.’

  Her stepfather had silenced him with a slap on the back. ‘Be a man,’ he had cried. ‘You are in too far to draw out.’ And to Philippa, ‘Keep a civil tongue,’ he had said, ‘or a whip will clamp it shut. Your claim to Vernson Hall ends when I marry to beget sons, or when you do, as I mean you shall.’

  His repetition of his new marriage plan had sickened Philippa, to think that this woman would take her mother’s place. But it had pleased the woman. She had leaned forward importantly so that her full breasts showed above the square-cut neckline, and had spread her skirts of rich taffeta, to make them rustle. When she had smoothed her lap one of the de Verne rings had shone on her finger like a challenge. ‘My dear,’ she had cooed, dove calm, ‘I would not speak out of place. But as a bride I would like to have my new husband and new house to myself, without a great stepdaughter about, almost my age. Why, they will think we are sisters.’ She had giggled falsely. ‘Now, when I was as young as you,’ she had preened herself, ‘when I married my first husband, my father had to beat me every day until I agreed. How I cried!’ She had pulled at Philippa’s arm, adding in a confidential tone, ‘But when that first husband died, see how rich I became. Master Simeon is as rich, and if you wait a while, so will you be.’ And she winked in her turn, as if to suggest that, woman to woman, they could understand each other on this point.

  ‘I am no horse to be flogged,’ Philippa had cried at last. ‘Nor do I need to marry wealth. Find some other suitor if you wish me to wed. This one needs a nursemaid, not a wife. Hire some other lawyer to do your work. For I do not believe a word.’

  What an uproar had ensued. Even now, this morning, the shouts still reverberated like the falling of those trees. How her stepfather had howled; how his accomplice had looked pale and wiped his face as if regretting his offer; how the lady had scowled, every attempt at friendship gone. All three had begun to speak at once, such a jumble of lawyer’s talk, of agreements and bargainings, of dispositions, legal rights, king’s courts, that she could scarcely disentangle them. They might have stay
ed arguing all night had not her stepfather, gritting his teeth in suppressed rage, pushed her from the room, promising further speech when she was in a ‘gentler’ mood, a reprieve that was meant to soothe Master Simeon as much as her. But the sleepless night that followed had not brought that change of heart; only, in the shiftings of predawn, a clarification of some parts. So that now, walking back and forth in the autumn garden of her home, she could begin to marshal her thoughts, as if to put some sense to them.

  First, it was certain that her stepfather meant to marry her off, so that, in some way, he could keep her lands for himself. Secondly, Master Simeon was intended to be the means by which those lands were kept, and she as bride was to be the reward for his help. But thirdly, and most importantly, if she were the bribe, and if her stepfather had restrained his anger last night, so as not to frighten Master Simeon away, mayhap those plans were not as sound as he had made out. ‘I know a girl has little choice,’ Philippa told herself. ‘I know my stepfather is stronger than I am. But he cannot force me to wed. And I do not have to give up my lands.’

  Brave words these. The difficulty lay in turning words to deeds. Were I that boy he spoke of, she thought, I might succeed. As a mere girl what can I do? Is not a girl as good as a boy; does not a daughter have rights as well?

  She thought, this house was sufficient for my father and for my father’s father. It sheltered them all through their lives. My father died here in his bed. It should be good enough for me. But she also thought, my mother, God rest her soul, was never happy here, for all she used to say she was, and seldom complained. Yet the truth is that nothing went well for her since my father’s death and she married a second time. I do not know why she wed as she did, but I do know she regretted Thomas Higham as her choice. And she was afraid of him. But that does not mean I have to be afraid; I do not have to show him my fear.

  Down the garden path she went, quickly now, her mind made up, past the orchard and the vegetable plots, out of the small wicker gates that led to the back road, as if escaping everything that troubled her, as if to put it out of mind.

  The back road was narrow, more like a track, trenched with rut of cart and plough. One way it edged around the park beyond the main gates to where, in a dip of the hill, the village of Vernson lay grouped about the church. She guessed that the villagers would be standing there at their doors, listening, waiting for the trees to fall. Fear is what they were whispering about, she thought, fear that Master Higham will destroy them too, after he has destroyed Vernson Hall. They need someone to rely upon, they should be protected as well.

  The left-hand track ran straight through open or common land, until it joined a main highway. Eastward, that highway led beyond her small world into a larger one, out of Devonshire, out of western England, across a kingdom. Usually she went no further than the edge of the common land, avoiding a thing that had once frightened her. Yet today she sensed that this was the way she must go, as if some impulse were compelling her.

  It was colder in the open, and the wind blew fitfully. Her wooden clogs were not made for walking in and rubbed her heels and the dust made her eyes smart. Presently she came to the junction with the highway. She stared at it for a while, where it wound about and up and down in a thin white line. Then she turned aside, over a stile, and began to follow the direction in which it led, but on the inner side of the hedge. She had not gone back along the road itself, not since she was a child and had once passed a thing that haunted her. This way, shielded by the high thick hedge, she thought she could avoid seeing it again. Nevertheless, she kept her head bent and her eyes half-closed. Behind her lowered eyelids an image started out at her as she had seen it then, a strange bare tree dangling with fruit. There is a game children play on All Hallow’s Night, bobbing for apples strung on a line and she had cried out at the sight, clutching the groomsman who had carried her, until, realizing what she was looking at he had spurred his horse around. Never had she gone that way again, to look upon the gallows tree with its fruit of men. But off the road, through the fields, what danger was there of seeing it, a thing so full of dread that she had never dared mention it. Off the road, who would look for her, a girl running away from home. In her heart she knew that soon both fears would join as one.

  The soil of the fields was red and thick, the rich soil of a Devon farm. The mud clung to the sides of her clogs making them so uneven that she had to scrape them off. Her skirt hems were soon dyed a deep dull red; before her, flocks of seagulls took to the air, and settled back like snowflakes after she had passed. This is where the wealth of de Verne land comes from, she thought, not from cheating and stealing and legal tricks, such as Thomas Higham and Master Simeon love. This land is in my blood and bone. Even if my stepfather tears down my house and changes its name he cannot take that from me.

  On she trudged, a small resolute figure, across those fields where since ancient times master and men had lived in accord. Ahead of her, the pasture stretched with its great sweep of grass. And beyond again, the last of those hedges where she would regain the road. She thought, a hundred years on from now, a hundred hundred perhaps, what will it matter, Master Simeon’s and my stepfather’s schemes? If a girl like me should run through these fields as I am doing now, she would follow the same track, keep to the same contour of the valley and hill, cross the same stream. Even we do not own the land; it owns us. She thought, now that both my poor mother and father are dead it is my duty to hold firm; I must keep what was theirs for the good of everyone. Here is the end of my father’s estate; beyond it stretches the whole wide world. Here is where I should make my stand. God grant me the strength to uphold it.

  Partly afraid, partly eager, she began to run towards her future.

  CHAPTER 2

  ——

  Coming up that same east road, newly arrived at one of the little coastal ports, an entirely different group was approaching. They were as slow as Mistress Philippa was quick, although they rode on horseback. They were English, but far from home as their north-country voices showed, and they and their horses were tired. From time to time the poor beasts lowered their heads to the thick grass verges, and the men let them graze. They were mercenary soldiers, up for hire; or had been. Their swords and pikes were sharp and clean and they kept their breastplates on, although they themselves were dirty, travel-stained, their faces unshaven, their feet wrapped in rags. Many had been wounded, yet they still held to some semblance of discipline, maintaining a sort of casual watch. But they had that glazed look of men not sure that they had returned to England, from that French hell that had buried them. These were the remnants of the king’s first expedition, those he had sworn to hang if he could lay his hands on them. He had no need to threaten them; defeat had already done most of his work for him.

  If these men thought of anything they were longing for plates of hot food, goblets of good strong English ale, and clean soft beds, with a willing wench to share with them. The last thing they expected was to have a wench tumble in their midst.

  Brisk walking through those autumn fields had helped restore Mistress Philippa de Verne’s spirits. She swung her scarf loose, hitched up her skirts out of the mud, kicked off her clogs and hose to feel the autumn grass between her toes. Let Thomas Higham try to demolish my house and marry me off to steal my land she thought, that does not mean he will succeed. And giving wing to her thoughts she scrambled down towards the last hedge, a thick west-country hedge, banked with turf and briars. Finding a gap she thrust through the bramble canes, until she pitched headlong onto the road, under the hooves of the leading horse.

  It shied and snorted, backing away, jarring the others in the line, unseating one man, and leaving another grasping for his reins. Those closest to her snatched for their swords; those in the rear shouted encouragement; the fallen man rolled and clasped his wounded arm, bellowing in outrage. Crouched in their midst Mistress Philippa covered her head with her hands to avoid being trampled on, and stared about her in alarm.

&
nbsp; ‘Now, by Christ,’ the wounded trooper finally found breath to gasp, ‘this is too much.’ He tried to lever himself up, his square, northern face streaked with mud, his round eyes hard. Shooting out his good arm he grasped her ankle fast. He meant of course that to be tossed on his back by a maid was a final insult, but his fellow soldiers were quick to take his meaning in another sense. Snatching stealthy glances round to ensure their captain was not in sight, they began to laugh. ‘Not too much for me,’ one cried, while another, slapping his horse to make it side-step wickedly, rephrased the jest. Or if for you, not for us,’ a willing wench, and here she was, a gift from heaven; no wonder they all sat up straight and their eyes gleamed. Those who were young as most were, raw recruits, culled from some border arm or country village) licked their lips, flicked back their hair, grown overlong and full of lice. The older men put up their swords and unbuckled their belts, preparing for action. Food, ale, sleep, suddenly those needs could wait. After the whores of Guienne, a clean English one would be more than welcome and would serve as proof, nothing better, that they were safe in England.

  They were dirty, hungry, anger running beneath the surface. For six months they had seen good comrades die unnecessarily; even their own generals had abandoned them. Unpaid, forced to find their own way home, no wonder they felt God meant them to enjoy themselves. The wounded man still held Philippa’s foot; another grasped her by the arm; a third, coming from behind, caught her by her long hair and whistled as he saw her face. ‘Marry, come up,’ he crooned, trying to take her chin between forefinger and thumb. ‘We means no harm. You’ll not refuse us, certain sure, soldiers of the king, returned from foreign parts. Don’t we deserve some recompense, better’n what he planned for us? Shouldn’t it be an honour to greet us?’ And he spat and cleared his throat, already savouring that welcome.