Philippa curtseyed prettily and fled the tent, silently thanking her lucky stars that she had been able to escape him unscathed. What a little fool she had been to even consider a tête-à-tête with the French king. The man’s reputation as a lover more than preceded him. But Guy-Paul had been correct. She was clever, and her little performance had indeed fooled the king. She had escaped with her virtue still intact. And then she stopped. Where was she? She hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to where they were going when Guy-Paul brought her from the spectator’s seat. She was lost. And although it was late afternoon and the sun would not set for several more hours, the light between the tents was not strong. And the wind was blowing the dust up again, making it nearly impossible to see where she was going.
Well, she thought, if she walked to the end of the row of tents surely she would be able to see the field, and then she might find her way back to the English side. The line of tents seemed to go on forever. She came to the end of the row only to find another row before her, and the path straight before her ended. Should she go right? Or should she go left? She tried to remember in which direction the camps had been placed. The English camp was set to the west. She turned left, and continued walking. When she came to the end of this corridor of tents she was faced once again with the decision of which way to turn. She stopped to consider it very carefully. This was worse than any garden maze. Right! She should turn to the right. She could hear the noise of the crowds still milling about the field, and all she wanted to do was reach that field. These damned tents couldn’t go on forever even if it seemed they did. She was a woman alone, in the opposite camp. Damn Guy-Paul! He should have waited for her, but then he had thought his master would be successful in his seduction. She would never speak to him again! But she would have to, if she was to keep this unfortunate incident she had created from her husband’s knowledge. But should she? God’s bloody wounds! Where was the jousting field? What if it got dark? How would she find her way then?
Finally she saw the field ahead of her, and relief poured through her veins. But there was a group of knights standing talking to one another. Caution bade her move over just one row in order to avoid passing them. They were French, and she didn’t choose to place herself in the position of being accosted by a group of ordinary knights. Especially when she had just turned down their king, Philippa considered with a small chuckle. Then she saw a smaller group of men ahead of her. They were clustered in a small knot, but they were not knights. She wondered if she should consider them dangerous. She thought she should be safe, especially with the knights just a row over. The wind was higher now, and the dust began to blow. Philippa had to stop, for she could see nothing ahead of her now in the yellow brown haze. She knew she was practically upon the men ahead, yet she was suddenly fearful of moving forward under the circumstances.
And then her brain focused, shocked at the conversation she overheard. They were planning to kill someone. They were planning to kill Henry Tudor! She froze, terrified, for a long moment. What had she stumbled upon, and what could she do about it? And then Philippa realized that she was in the gravest danger of being killed herself. She would have to be extremely clever to extricate herself from this dangerous situation.
Her throat was so tight she didn’t think she could swallow. She was in fact barely breathing. Her legs felt like jelly beneath her. Philippa forced herself to be perfectly still, and then she drew a long, deep breath. And another. And another. Her aching throat eased and opened, allowing her to swallow. She had to be brave if she was to get through this and warn the king. Pressing herself back into the shadows of the tent, Philippa listened carefully.
Chapter 17
She could not see the men who spoke so easily of murdering King Henry. And fortunately they could not see her. But when the dust storm subsided and they did see her, would they realize she had overheard them? She listened more closely. Her French was excellent, but these men spoke it with some sort of local dialect. She could understand them, but only barely.
“It is agreed then?” a rough voice said.
“It is agreed. They will all be there in the same place at the same time. It is too good an opportunity for us to pass by, mesamis.We shall never again have such a chance. Instead of the cursed English always troubling us with their claims on France, we shall claim England. With the upstart Tudor, his pious Spanish wife, and the fat cardinal out of the way, our king will take custody of the princess Marie who is betrothed to our own Dauphin, and England will be ours in the chaos that follows these deaths. When the king learns what we have done for him we will all be well rewarded.”
“Will the emperor not object?” the second voice said. “The English queen is his aunt after all, and blood is valued among the Spanish. And are you certain we will be rewarded? Or will we be executed for what we have done?”
“Of course the emperor will be annoyed, you fool! But we have people in England who will grab the little princess from her keepers and bring her quickly to France. Our king may be angry at first, but he will see the advantages in what we have done. And the queen dowager will protect us, for we are her servants, are we not? Once King Francois has the English princess in his possession the marriage can be performed. Even the emperor would dare not defy the church. The threat the English have always been to us will be removed. France will govern England. And their noble families will come around quickly enough. They always do, don’t they? When push comes to shove they will think of themselves before anyone else.” And then there was laughter.
“The king’s salamander will be the signal, eh?”
“Oui!”
The wind was beginning to die down, and with it the dust storm. There was no place for her to hide. Philippa gritted her teeth. “Coming through!” she shouted, and pushed through the gloom towards the men whom she could now just make out. “Coming through! Make way for the countess of Witton! Make way!” She was almost upon them.
“What the devil ...” one of the men, a rough-looking fellow, exclaimed, and he stepped forward to block Philippa’s path.
“Get out of my way, you French baboon!” Philippa said in English, her tone decidedly haughty. She glared at the man.
“Did she hear us?” the second man asked.
“Move aside for the countess of Witton!” Philippa said boldly. And she shoved at the large man before her.
“How long have you been here, madame?” he asked her, grasping her wrists. “How long?”
“How dare you put your hands on me, sirrah!” Philippa shrieked, outraged. “Release me at once! I shall have you punished for this!” Her heart was hammering wildly. Could she get away with this? Could she convince them she didn’t understand them, or their language? She kicked the man holding her, hard.
He released her at once, leaping backwards and cursing, rubbing his shins. “The bitch kicked me,” he said to his two companions, who were now laughing at his antics.
“Madame,” one of the other men said,“parlez-vous français?”
“What?” Philippa replied. “What is it you say? Why do you not speak English? Damned French bandits! Let me pass at once. I shall have you arrested! Help! Help!” she began to shout. “Bandits! Thieves! I am being attacked !”
The three men looked horrified at her shrieks.
“She does not speak French,” one of them said. “She could not have understood what we said, and her cries will bring those who should not see us together. Let her go, Pierre, before she brings knights upon us. Look at her garments. She is a lady.”
The large man who had been blocking Philippa’s way snarled angrily. “I think we should strangle the bitch, and have done with it! I thought all these fine court ladies spoke French, but then they are English, Michel, aren’t they.” He stepped aside, opening the way for Philippa, and picking up her skirts she ran down the path between the tents, emerging with relief onto the jousting field once again.
The area was still crowded with spectators, and she felt safer. She slowed her pace and looked about for someone she knew, giving a cry of surprise when a hand clamped firmly about her elbow. Whirling, she found herself facing her husband, and Crispin did not look very pleased at all.
“Where have you been, madame?” he demanded of her. “And just what have you been doing?” His gaze was stem, and perhaps angry, perhaps worried.
“There is a plot, my lord,” she managed to gasp out. “A plot to kill the king!”
“Which king?” he snapped, suddenly looking alert.
