‘Is your mistress in?’ he enquired of the servant girl, and soon he was inside.
Sir Peregrine had been to battle several times. He had killed four men in hot blood, each of them entirely justifiably, and was quietly confident in his prowess with sword and lance, and content to know that in war he did not flinch. He would hold his position as arrows rained about him, or as a fearsome lancepoint thundered towards him, gripped by a knight on a massive destrier.
So why did he feel this emptiness in his belly, and the cold sweat on his spine as he waited here to see Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam again?
It was always the same when he went to meet a lady for whom he had high regard. He would feel a similar trepidation, bordering on fear, convinced that he must surely make a fool of himself. Or that he was entirely wrong in his estimation of the lady’s feelings towards him. How might a man tell what a woman wanted? They were always so unreadable. A man would be easy. If he wished to be a friend, he would smile and speak warmly; if not a friend, he would be reserved; if an enemy, he would be rude and objectionable. Sir Peregrine had experienced all of these. But a woman … She was a mystery not so easily solved.
‘Sir Peregrine! How good of you to come and visit me again.’
‘It is my pleasure, Lady Isabella. I am very glad to see you once more. I hope I find you well?’
‘Very well,’ the lady said, and walked to a seat, waving graciously to him to sit as well. ‘I hope you are too?’
‘Certainly! Never better! Hah!’ Sir Peregrine felt his face freeze over as he reviewed in his mind what he had just said, and his eyes became glassy. ‘I …’
‘Perhaps you would like a little wine?’ she asked kindly.
‘I would be glad of some,’ he admitted.
She stood and went to the sideboard herself, motioning to her maidservant to leave them, and then pouring his wine herself.
It was a revelation to him. He had not been alone with a woman for many months indeed. And it was hardly in keeping with the proprieties of polite custom for a man and woman to be together in such proximity. And then he heard the distinct sound of a jug clattering on the side of a goblet.
Peering closely, he saw that Lady Isabella stood stiffly, trying to hold the jug to the goblet with an easy nonchalance, but the show was betrayed by her nervous shaking making them rattle. She threw him an anguished look.
He stood, and in a moment had crossed the room to her. Taking the jug from her trembling hands, he set it down, and then the two of them stood staring at each other for what he thought was an age. He wanted to take her in his arms, but there was always this damned reticence that sprang from his upbringing. A man should not grasp a woman, not until he was sure he possessed her heart. Instead he sighed, and half turned away.
‘It is difficult, Sir Peregrine, when you find that your feelings are the same as a maiden’s, and yet you have been married. I am no child. I’m a woman, and yet the trials of such a meeting are so troublesome.’
‘I know, my lady. Perhaps it would be better were I to leave you now.’
‘Do you wish to?’
‘In God’s name, no!’
‘Then please stay, Sir Peregrine.’
‘You wish it?’
‘More than anything. I am lonely, and I feel you are too. We could comfort each other.’
‘You believe it too?’ he breathed. His heart was pounding like a hammer in a forge.
‘Yes, I really do.’
Montreuil
So it was agreed, then. Richard de Folville nodded as the others broke up their meeting. It was clear enough that there was no longer safety for them all here in Montreuil, especially not for the duke. They would have to move away. And as the duke himself had pointed out, it would be far better for them all to head to the west, where there were more sympathisers who could aid them, rather than travel all the way to the south to the duke’s own lands.
It was the queen who had objected to his travelling to Guyenne. Although he was the Duke of Aquitaine, which incorporated the vast territories of the south, as she pointed out, ‘My son has never visited the area. He has no loyal followers there, but my husband has many. There are a lot of his friends in Guyenne who are there to fight for him. If you think that it is dangerous here, because a few men from his entourage could cross the Channel, how much more dangerous would it be for him in the lands which are even now in revolt?’
It was true. The French were massing along the borders of Guyenne again, in the face of the English refusal to honour past agreements, and to allow her son to travel there at such a time would have been sheer lunacy.
‘Then he will have to stay with us,’ had been Mortimer’s contribution. He was firm in his opinion that the only safe place for the duke was with Mortimer’s own men.
Richard de Folville wondered at that. It seemed much more likely that Mortimer just didn’t want the lad out of his sight. It was plain enough that he had an eye to his own protection, and that would mean keeping the king’s son nearby. That way, he would continue to keep the queen on his side, he would have a greater bargaining potential with the English and French kings, and he would also be able to conclude the negotiations which all had heard of now, to have the next English king married to a suitable heiress. Mortimer and Queen Isabella both had their minds fixed on a wedding with Philippa of Hainault. She was almost nine years old, so a little young for the duke, but that was no impediment. And more to the point, her father had ships and men. Mercenaries from Hainault would be a marvellous bonus to Mortimer if he was serious about invading England again, and Richard was sure that this was the plan.
All well and good. He hoped they would take him with them, and then he could win the usual reward of a fighter — a full pardon for his past behaviour. At which point he could return to Teigh, and resume his life.
If he wanted to. It was hard to imagine returning to that life of tedium: taking up the cure of souls, watching over the men and women of the area, holding Mass, praying until his knees were calloused, feeling the damp coldness seep into his legs and arse, and occasionally drinking a sup or two of wine — when he could afford it.
The alternative was to live life to the full. To take to the roads with his sword in his hand, and help himself to what he wanted from the world. That was more appealing.
But first he would have to have the pardon, and the assurance that these fellows would be able to win the upper hand. Bearing in mind the cretins running the country now, he had little doubt that these would find England ready to greet them with open arms, were they to try to return.
It was just as they were discussing the plans for the departure to Hainault, that a messenger had arrived from that very place. He passed a note to Mortimer, who opened it after studying the seal.
‘What does it say?’ the queen demanded.
‘Your friend the Despenser sent those men to catch your son,’ Mortimer said. He whistled through his teeth in wonder. ‘Despenser has negotiated with the peers of France to have you evicted from the realm here, or to have you and Edward killed.’
Duke Edward leaped to his feet. ‘I don’t believe you! My father would never-’
‘He would not have been told of this plot,’ Mortimer said. ‘Very well — that decides matters. You will both have to remain with me in my entourage. Come, we must arrange for all our belongings to be readied for departure early in the morning.’
Paul cleared his throat nervously. ‘My lord duke, I think that would be a mistake.’
Mortimer rounded on him. ‘Are you a strategist, Priest?’
‘Hear him, Sir Roger,’ the duke said. ‘We discussed this yesterday. Speak, Tutor.’
‘I only mean this: if there are to be more attacks with men trying to kill the queen and the duke, you would be better to have them separate. Let the queen travel to Hainault, but the duke go away from her.’