She could not see the man she hoped was her rescuer clearly, but by his bulky shape, wrapped in a dark frieze cloak, she realised that he was a big man, towering over his prisoner, who was now continuing to babble incoherently in Welsh, his terror only too apparent.
The newcomer spoke again commandingly and the blubbering ceased. Another sharp command, in English, this time, alerted a third man to the scene who, apparently, had been waiting his opportunity to come to the newcomer’s assistance.
“David, come, take possession of this fellow and cart him off to the nearest constable. I’ve felt him for weapons and found only a single dagger, but take care.” He tossed the weapon down at their feet where it clanged on the cobbles. “You can never tell with these ruffians where they manage to conceal others. Hold him for a moment while I secure his hands.”
Still trembling, Philippa felt unable to move, let alone run. She could not see clearly what her rescuer was about, but guessed that he had used some belt about his person to make her attacker secure. The fellow was still murmuring promises and pleas, which were abruptly cut short, so she thought he had been unceremoniously gagged.
The man addressed as David, also a well-muscled fighting man, judging by his lumbering bulk, jerked at his prisoner’s bound arms and dragged him away. Since he had made no answer to her rescuer’s orders but instantly obeyed them, Philippa gathered that he was used to doing so and was, probably, his servant.
She managed to let out a little, breathless gasp at last and the man who had come to her rescue came instantly forward and put out a hand to steady her.
“Are you hurt? You are, I take it, one of the English travellers just arrived at the inn and taken up residence with my horses in the stable, or so the landlord informs me?”
“Yes,” she whispered throatily, “I thank you, sir. My mother is in the stable and my…” she hesitated, then recollected herself suddenly and the need to guard her identity “…my uncle lies injured some paces off. No, I am not hurt, that fellow had only just grabbed me as—as I was trying to help my uncle. He—he took me by surprise but—but he had no time to—hurt me.”
“Thank the Virgin,” he said curtly. “Show me where your relative lies and I’ll summon assistance from the tap room, then you must go to your mother.”
She was feeling even more trembly now and she staggered and would have fallen had he not once more put out a sturdy arm to catch her. She felt an unaccountable tremor pass through her at the touch of his fingers and struggled a little to pull free, but he continued to hold her firmly.
“What is it? You are not afraid of me, are you?” The voice was clear, slightly lilting—as all voices, she thought, must be here in Wales or even on the Border, her mother had told her—but it was also hard, uncompromising, authoritative, and she wondered just who he was and if she could trust him. He had come to her rescue seemingly, but her attacker had known him or recognised his authority and she feared that he might question her, demand proof of her identity. He could well be a magistrate and answerable to the Crown for the good behaviour of those within his district.
“No, no.” She was afraid that reaction had set in and that she was liable to break into tears. That she must not do before this commanding stranger. “I am sorry, sir, that I have not yet recovered my balance, it seems. Please…”
She led him to where Peter lay and was thankful to see, as they approached, that Peter was slowly coming to himself now and giving sharp little cries of pain.
Philippa’s rescuer gestured her imperatively to stand slightly aside and dropped to one knee beside the sufferer and examined the head wound gently, as she had done. She marvelled at the gentle, sensitive touch of those strong large hands.
“It appears that he was struck from behind, possibly with the hilt of a dagger, mistress. Fortunately the wound does not seem to be too serious as already he is coming to himself. Head wounds can be dangerous and unconsciousness can sometimes last for hours—or even weeks.”
He stood up and removed his cloak so that now she could see that he was, indeed, a tall, muscular man with massive shoulders, though she thought by the hardness of his body, as he had held her momentarily against his chest, that there was not an ounce of surplus fat upon him. Obviously he kept himself in superb fighting form. Was he a soldier, a mercenary?—but his commanding manner gave her the impression that he had some standing in the district and was more than likely a knight. Could he possibly be the lord the landlord had spoken of?
As if in answer to her unspoken question he addressed her as he rose to his feet once more. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Rhys Griffith and, like you, I am accommodated at the inn.”
So her surmise had been correct. He was indeed lordly. No wonder the innkeeper had not offered to request that he vacate, for her mother’s use, the private room he had bespoken.
He was continuing. “You can leave this man’s care in my hands, mistress, and go to your mother. She will be frantic for news of you both, I am sure. I will see to it that your uncle is conveyed to the inn and then I will come and inform you what is best to be done.”
Philippa still felt that her limbs would let her down if she did not find some support soon and she had the strange feeling that she must not allow this stranger to touch her again, let alone hold her as closely as he had done formerly. She was close to tears again and inwardly she castigated herself, since her immediate danger appeared to be over and she had no outward reason to distrust this man—nor yet her own feelings regarding him. It was just that he had taken over so completely, overwhelmed her by his compelling personality. Yet he had said little to her to bring out this strange, dubious excitement. Certainly he had offered her no discourtesy. She struggled to find words to thank him adequately.
“I am—most grateful, sir. I do not know what would have happened had you not come…” She swallowed and averted her face from his hawklike gaze.
“I think you must certainly have realised what would have happened, mistress,” he said a trifle harshly. “I can understand your concern for your uncle but, really, you should not have ventured out of the stable alone.”
She was a trifle angered by that suggestion. He was reproving her for what had happened, as if it had been all her own fault. What would he have had her do, leave Peter to die out there while she remained in cowardly security within the stable?
“I had to go, sir,” she said haughtily, “there was no one else. As for the attack, it all happened so suddenly. My uncle left us to fetch food from the inn and he was such a long time gone that I was forced to believe something had happened to him—which, indeed, it had. I stumbled over his body and, while I was kneeling by him, I suppose I was so frightened and intent on my uncle’s fate that—that I did not hear anyone approach. This fellow grabbed me from behind before I could so much as pull away or cry out and—and…”
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