Philippa (Friarsgate Inheritance #3)

Chapter 3

C ecily FitzHugh was gone. Even the detestable Millicent Langholme was gone. All of the younger girls had gone home now. Only Elizabeth Blount and Philippa Meredith remained. And in two days they would be moving with the queen to Woodstock. Dull, quiet, boring Woodstock for a dull, quiet and boring summer. The king and his remaining friends, for many had gone to their own estates now, would go on to Esher and Penhurst. They would spend their days hunting, and their nights in eating and laughter. The queen would spend her days in gentle pursuits and prayer. They would retire early. There would be few, if any, visitors. Oxfordshire was a pretty place, but without the company of a gay court it lacked interest for Philippa. But the queen loved its bucolic charms, and Woodstock’s five chapels where she might worship. She was particularly fond of the Round Chapel. Philippa despaired.

“Come,” said Bessie Blount the evening after Cecily’s departure. “We must have some amusement with the remaining gentlemen before we are off to the queen’s convent for the summer.” She handed Philippa a small goblet of wine.

“Where did you get this?” Philippa inquired.

“I stole it,” Bessie answered with a laugh. “It was some of that particularly fine Spanish Madeira wine Maria de Salinas left behind when she married last year. No one has used her rooms here at Richmond ever since. It was in a corner, on a shelf, in an alcove. It was obviously overlooked. I left it there until now. It would be a shame to waste it, and I think we need it considering the summer before us. God’s foot, I wish we were going with the king! Woodstock is so dull without him.”

Philippa downed the contents of the little goblet, and held it out for more. “ ’Tis good. I always wondered what this particular wine tasted like.” She sipped a bit more slowly on her second portion.

“Some of the lads are still here,” Bessie said. “I’m going to join them.’Tis probably the last time we’ll have the company of young men for a while. Would you like to come with me?”

“Who is here yet?” Philippa wanted to know.

“Roger Mildmay, Robert Parker, and Henry Standish,” Bessie said.

“Why not,” Philippa agreed. “I am already bored by the lack of lively company. I never thought I should miss even Millicent Langholme.”

Bessie laughed. “I know,” she said. “Come on then, and bring your goblet, for I am bringing the wine.” She stood and started out the door of the empty Maidens’ Chamber, turning to make certain that Philippa was behind her.

“Where are we going?” the younger girl wanted to know.

“To the top of the Canted Tower. No one will find us there,” Bessie said mischievously. “We don’t want to be caught dicing and drinking now, do we?”

“Nay,” Philippa agreed. She sipped from her goblet as they hurried along. The Spanish wine was so very good. It felt like sweet silk on her tongue.

They walked across the Middle Court, joined by the three young men as they went. The summer twilight lasted for hours, but they still carried a small lamp. The Canted Tower was four stories high. It was one hundred and twenty steps to the top. They made the climb, stopping now and again to giggle as the wine began to take its effect upon the two young women. The roof of the tower gave a fine view of the river and the countryside to the southwest of London. The roof was filled with azure and gold weather vanes adorned with the king’s arms. The men knelt, and began to dice. Soon both Bessie and Philippa joined them. The wine jug was passed around.

“I have no more money,” Philippa complained after a time. The dice had not been favorable to her this evening.

“Then let us bet with items of our clothing,” Henry Standish suggested, mischievously grinning.

“I’ll bet a slipper,” Philippa said, taking off her left shoe and tossing it into the center of their playing field. But soon she had lost her shoes, her stockings, and two sleeves. “Unlace my bodice for me, Bessie! My luck must turn soon,” she said. Bessie did not hesitate, and the bodice was shortly lost as well. Philippa began to struggle with the tapes holding her skirt up, but she was drunk now; and her fingers were clumsy.

Just as tipsy but a little more experienced, Bessie decided it might be wise to stop the younger girl from her rash action. The three young men were laughing uproariously. They, too, were half-undressed at this point. Only Elizabeth Blount seemed to be blessed with good fortune this evening. She had lost but two slippers.

Philippa began to sing a bawdy song she had heard in the stables one day, and her gentlemen companions joined in.

The cowherd cuddled the milkmaid. He cuddled her in the hay.

He kissed her in the hedgerows, for that is where they lay.

And then he swived her merrily, for it was the month of May!

With a hey nonny nonny, and a hey, hey, hey!

They collapsed laughing in a heap, delighted with their own drunken humor. Even Bessie was laughing, her hair undone and about her face.

“Hush, hush,” she said to them. “We shall be found out!”

“By whom?” Philippa demanded to know. “Everyone who might be fun except us has gone home to their own estates.”

“And why have you not gone home, my pretty maid?” Lord Robert Parker leered at her, his eyes going to her chemise, which was now open and revealing her breasts.

“To Cumbria? With naught but the company of sheep?” Philippa responded. “Even being closeted with the queen at Woodstock is better than that.”

“Cum-cum-Cumbria,” Lord Robert singsonged. “Poor Mistress Philippa! Who wants a lass with a Cumbrian estate and flocks of sheep?”

“Let’s have another drink!” Roger Mildmay said, taking a swig from the jug, and passing it around to his companions.

“I ... hic ... hate Cumbria!” Philippa declared. “Let’s dice, and see who will win my skirts. Or perhaps I can win back my bodice from you, Hal Standish.” She threw the bones, and then sighed, disappointed. “Well, have my skirt then. What is a bodice without its skirt?” She stood, and struggled with the garment’s tapes again. The skirt fell about her ankles.

“What the hell is going on up here?” a familiar voice roared, and the king stepped out onto the roof with Charles Brandon. His outraged glance swept the quintet of young courtiers. “Mildmay! Standish! Parker! Explain yourselves immediately.”

“We’re dicing, your majesty,” Philippa said tipsily. “And I can’t seem to win back my clothing. Luck is against me tonight, I fear. Hic!” And then she giggled.

Charles Brandon swallowed back his laughter. The girl was obviously drunk as a lord. “Hardly the proper young lady her mama was, eh, Hal?” he murmured low.

The king scowled. “Mistress Blount. You will help your companion back on with her garments, and then see that she goes to bed. And you will bring her to my privy chamber tomorrow morning after the mass. Is that understood?”

Elizabeth Blount was pale, and suddenly very sober. “Yes, your majesty,” she whispered low. She began gathering up Philippa’s discarded clothing and aiding her to dress, but Philippa was very drunk now. She began to sing about the cowherd and the milkmaid once again.

The king looked horrified. The three young men, also shocked into sobriety, struggled to restrain their hilarity, but when Charles Brandon burst into hearty guffaws they were unable to do so. The masculine laughter rang in the deepening twilight as it finally slipped into night. But when Philippa, hastily but fully clothed now, was pulled to her feet by Bessie Blount her legs gave way beneath her, and she slowly sank into a heap at the king’s feet, her auburn head using his boots as her pillow.

“So tired,” she murmured. “Tired. Hic!” And then in the sudden silence her actions had brought about they heard her begin to softly snore.

After a long moment in which no one seemed to be breathing, the king said in a weary voice, “Mildmay, take the little wench to her bed. Standish, you and Parker carry her down the stairs, then give her to Sir Roger. Mistress Blount, escort them, and you are both to remain in the Maidens’ Chamber until you bring Mistress Meredith to me in the morning. As for the three of you young gentlemen, you will return here where I will give you a lecture on the stars that can be seen tonight from this tower top. That way I can be certain that you are not in the Maidens’ Chamber. Mistress Blount, you will bar your door and I shall check it when I come down again. Do you all understand me? There will be no more nonsense here tonight. And as for you three gentlemen, I will expect you to be gone back to your own estates within the next two days. I am going to Esher, and you are not invited. Is that understood?”

“Yes, your majesty,” the trio chorused as one, looking very chastened already.

“You may come back at Christmas if you will,” the king continued, “but I do not wish to see you until then.”

“Yes, your majesty,” they said again. Then Lord Parker and Lord Standish picked Philippa up, one taking her feet, the other her shoulders. Followed by Sir Roger and Elizabeth Blount, they descended the Canted Tower with their burden.

Charles Brandon laughed again when one of the young men was heard to complain, “Jesu! The wench weighs more than I would have thought.” And another voice said, “ ’Tis deadweight, you fool!” The duke of Suffolk turned to his brother-in-law. “By God, Hal, Rosamund Bolton would have a fit if she knew how badly her daughter has behaved. What are you going to do?”

“The poor girl is heartbroken over the damned FitzHugh boy,” the king said. “And then Renfrew and his wife would not let her come to their daughter’s wedding for fear the Meredith lass’s sadness would spoil Cecily FitzHugh’s day, yet the two girls are the best of friends. I never expected that she would react in such a lewd manner. I must speak with the queen, although I believe I know what must be done.”

“And will you really make certain the Maidens’ Chamber is bolted and barred?” Charles Brandon teased the king.

“I will!” the king replied.

“Mistress Blount is a charming girl, isn’t she?” the duke of Suffolk noted.

“Aye,” the king answered him, and his gaze was thoughtful.

In the morning Philippa awoke with the worst headache she had ever had in all of her life. The morning light was hurtful. Her temples throbbed unbearably. She could barely move, but Bessie forced her from her bed. “I am going to die,” she insisted.

“Nay, you are going to get dressed, and we are going to mass. It is not like it is when all the girls and the other ladies are here. The queen will miss us if we do not appear. She can count those near to her right now on one hand.”

“What happened?” Philippa asked. “How did I get to bed, and in my shift?”

“Don’t you remember?” Bessie replied, grinning.

“Nay,” Philippa said, groaning faintly as she shook her head.

“You were gambling with your garments when you ran out of coins,” Bessie began. “Your luck was not running well last night. You lost your slippers and stockings. Both of your sleeves and your bodice. We sang bawdy songs, and drank a great deal. And then you lost your skirts as well.”

“I was only in my chemise?” Philippa looked horrified. “Oh, Jesu!”

“That was not the worst of it,” Bessie continued cheerfully. “The king came up to the roof of the Canted Tower with the duke of Suffolk to explore the heavens. He caught us. You sang him the same bawdy song with which you had earlier entertained us. He had me clothe you properly, and then before we might take our leave you collapsed, and fell asleep on his boots, snoring.”

“Ohh, sweet Mother Mary,” Philippa moaned. “I am ruined!” Her complexion looked almost pale green. “What happened next?” she asked nervously.

“The king had you carried downstairs to the Maidens’ Chamber. He told Roger and the others they were to go home and not come back until Christmas. He wants to see you after the mass in his privy chamber. I am to escort you there.”

“I am going to be sick,” Philippa said suddenly.

Bessie grabbed an empty chamber pot and, giving it to the younger girl, turned away as the sound of Philippa’s retching was heard. When it seemed as if all was well again she turned about. “We’re going to be late for the mass,” she said. “Rinse your mouth with rose water, and let us go. But whatever you do don’t drink any water right now. It will only make you vomit again. I’ll get you some wine later.”

“I will never drink wine again!” Philippa declared.

Bessie laughed. “Trust me. A bit of the hair of the dog who bit you will solve all of your problems. Well, perhaps not your headache.”

“I am going to die,” Philippa repeated. Then she rinsed her mouth, but she could not rid herself of the sour taste.

They hurried to the Chapel Royal, reaching it just as the queen was entering. Katherine turned, and looked at Philippa. Then turning away, shaking her head, she walked to her place. She knows, Philippa thought. Three years without a misstep, and now I have disgraced myself well and good. And all over a man who decided that he would prefer to be a priest rather than my husband. What was I thinking? Was I thinking at all? I don’t want to live at Friarsgate for the rest of my days. I want to stay here at court. What am I to do if I am sent away? I’ll never see Ceci again. Oh, damn! And all over Giles! I am a fool! A great and featherheaded booby. Oh, Lord! I think I’m going to be sick again, but I can’t. I just can’t! She swallowed back the bile in her throat, praying she might keep it down, and not embarrass herself further.

The mass was finally over and, escorted by Bessie Blount, Philippa made her way to the king’s privy chamber. The two girls stood waiting in the antechamber among petitioners and secretaries and foreign merchants seeking an audience with the king. Finally a page in the king’s livery came to fetch them.

“The king says that you may go, Mistress Blount,” he told Bessie, bowing politely to her. “Mistress Meredith is to follow me.”

“Good luck!” Bessie said, giving Philippa’s cold hand a quick squeeze, and then she hurried off to find her breakfast.

“This way, mistress,” the page said, leading her to a small door. He knocked upon it, and then flung the door open to usher her inside. Then he closed the door behind her.

“Come, my child,” she heard the queen’s voice say.

“Yes, come forward, Mistress Meredith, and explain to me your behavior of last night,” the king said sternly.

The royal couple were seated side by side behind an oak table before her. Philippa curtseyed, but she thought her head would fall off when she did. She swallowed hard, attempting to find her voice, and finally said, “There is no excuse for my wretched behavior, your majesty. But in my defense I can say I have never before acted in such a terrible manner, and I can assure your majesty that I never will again.”

“I should hope not, Philippa Meredith,” the queen said softly. “Your mama will be most upset to learn of this breach of good manners on your part.”

“I am so ashamed, your highness,” Philippa told the queen. “I remember little. Bessie Blount told me what happened when I awakened this morning. I have never done anything like that before. You know that to be so.”

“You were drunk,” the king said quietly.

“Yes, your majesty,” Philippa admitted, hanging her aching head.

“And most disorderly as well,” he continued.

“Yes, your majesty.” She felt the tears beginning to run down her face.

“You sang bawdy songs. A song I was surprised to find you knew,” the king said.

“I heard it in the stables,” Philippa told him.

“You gambled with your clothing, and had I not come upon you when I did who knows what else might have happened,” the king scolded her. “Why would a girl of such a good family endanger her reputation so? I knew your father, Philippa Meredith. He was a most honorable fellow. And your mother has always been a good subject as well, despite her marriage to a Scot. Her own service and kindness to this house ensured you a position with our queen. Would you throw away this chance given you?”

Now Philippa began to sob noisily. “Oh, no, your majesty! I am so proud that I serve my queen. I always want to serve her. I am so sorry! You must forgive me, your majesty. I cannot bear it that I have disappointed you so!” And she wept, her small hands covering her face.

The king looked uncomfortable. He did not like crying females. Getting up, he came from behind the oak table and put an arm about Philippa. He took out his own silk pocket square, wiping her eyes and face. “Do not wail, lass. It is not the end of the world,” he assured her. Then leaving the pocket square with her he retreated behind the table once again.

Philippa struggled to pull herself together. This was terrible. One did not howl like a baby in front of the monarch. But her head was aching so terribly, and her belly was roiling horrifically. “I ... I am so afraid you are going to send me away,” she finally managed to say. She wiped her wet face, and straightened her carriage.

“We are,” the king said, and he held up his hand to still further defense of herself. “But you will be allowed back, Philippa Meredith, when your family believes you are ready to come. The queen and I think you need to return to your family for a time. You have not been home in several years. We can see that your disappointment in Giles FitzHugh has unnerved you badly. And then to be forbidden your best friend’s wedding was a cruel disappointment as well. Your mother will need to see and speak with you about a possible new match, for you must certainly be married within the year, my child. And when your heart is at peace again, Philippa Meredith, and your mother is content to let you return to court we will welcome you gladly. We have arranged for you and your servant to begin your journey tomorrow. You will go with the queen’s party as far as Woodstock, and then continue on under our protection.”

I cannot argue, Philippa thought silently to herself. One does not argue with the king. And they have said I may come back. She curtseyed. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Be thankful few remain here at Richmond, Philippa Meredith,” the king said, “that few know of your indiscretion. It will be forgotten by the time you return, I am certain.” He held out his hand to her, and Philippa took it, and kissed the king’s ring.

“Thank you, your majesty. Your highness. Please accept my apologies for my unthinkable behavior of last evening. It will not happen again.” She curtseyed.

“You will carry a letter to your mother,” the king said, and then with a wave of his hand he dismissed her.

With an almost audible sigh of relief Philippa backed from the little privy chamber.

The queen turned to her husband. “Be as diplomatic as only you know how, my lord, when you write to Rosamund Bolton. I do want to see Philippa back at court in the future, and I know she does not wish to live her entire life in the north as her mother does.”

“ ’Tis strange,” the king remarked. “Rosamund never really liked the court. Her heart and her thoughts were always with her beloved Friarsgate. She could scarcely wait to return to it each time she was forced to visit the court. But her eldest child adores court, and is, I suspect, a born courtier. I wonder what will happen when mother and daughter meet this time. Philippa will not be content to remain in Cumbria.”

“But she is Friarsgate’s heiress,” the queen noted.

“I suspect that matters not,” Henry Tudor replied.

Philippa hurried back to the Maidens’ Chamber where she knew Bessie would be waiting. “I am being sent home,” she declared dramatically as she entered the room.

“What happened?” Bessie wanted to know. “You will be allowed back, won’t you? It would be terrible if you were exiled forever.”

“Aye, it would,” Philippa responded, “but I am to be allowed back eventually. The decision will rest with my mother, but I shall make her see reason. Both the king and the queen were there in his privy chamber. They scolded me roundly.”

“Did you cry?” Bessie asked.

“I did,” Philippa admitted. “I was so embarrassed to do so before them too.”

“You were probably spared worse because you did. I have heard it said that the king hates a weeping woman,” Bessie told Philippa with a grin. “So, when do you depart?”

“I’m to go with the queen’s party as far as Woodstock, and then I will be escorted to Friarsgate from there,” Philippa explained. “Lucy has almost finished the packing. She will be delighted to learn we are going home. She, at least, has missed it.”

“Is it really so dreadful, this Friarsgate?” Bessie asked. “I come from Shropshire, you know. ’Tis said we have the worst winters in all of England. And my family name is not particularly great either. While I, too, love the court, I am always happy to see Kinlet Hall, and my mother. And I have not your good fortune in being the heiress to my family’s estates.”

Philippa sighed. “I know I am probably foolish, but I would gladly settle for a small estate in Kent, or Suffolk, or even Devon. My mother’s lands need especial tending. She and my uncle Thomas, who is Lord Cambridge, raise sheep, from which cloth is woven at Friarsgate, and then transported by means of their own ship to several countries for sale. They control, if I understand it correctly, just how much of their cloth they will sell, and to whom. While I am grateful for the revenues raised, most of it goes back into their business, and into Friarsgate itself. If I have learned one thing from my mother, it is that when you have responsibilities such as hers you must tend to them yourself. There are few, if any, who can be trusted to shoulder your burdens, even in part. I don’t want to spend my time in such labor, Bessie. I don’t want Friarsgate, because to possess it I must take responsibility for it. The court is where I want to live, in service to the king and the queen. I want a husband who is a man of the court, and will understand that because he also is in service to the monarch. My father, Sir Owein Meredith, was in service to the house of Tudor from the time he was six. He was knighted on the field of battle. I can just barely remember him, Bessie, but I loved him, and I admired him. I am probably more like him than I am my mother. In fact I am not at all like mama except in our features. Some at Friarsgate who remember back say I am like a great-grandmother of mine, but I would not know that.”

“Yours has always sounded like a loving family. Will your sisters join the court someday?” Bessie wondered.

“Banon is certainly old enough,” Philippa said. “She is the heiress to Lord Cambridge’s home, Otterly Court. And then there is my littlest sister, who like you is called Bessie. I don’t know them anymore, I fear.”

“But you will soon reacquaint yourself with them both,” Bessie Blount replied.

“Aye, and my little stepbrother, John Hepburn, and my mother’s sons by my stepfather. I shall certainly be a stranger to them all now,” Philippa remarked. “It is very strange having a stepbrother, and half brothers who are Scots, and not English.”

“Your summer will be interesting then,” Bessie concluded, “unlike mine, which will be uneventful. I had thought Maggie, Jane, and Anne were to remain with the queen this summer.”

“Jane’s mother grew ill, and she was needed at home. I am not certain if she will return. Maggie’s mother is Irish. She asked the queen for her daughter’s company so they might visit Maggie’s grandmother in Ireland. She is elderly. As for Anne, her family may have found a suitable match for her. They wanted her home so the gentleman in question might inspect her, and she him,” Philippa explained. “Aye, I fear your summer may be very dull, but I shall try and get back as quickly as I can.”

“I thought you said it was your mama’s decision as to when you return,” Bessie Blount said.

Philippa smiled. “I shall not be happy at home. If I am not content then no one will be content until they allow me to return to court, and the company of civilized folk.”

Bessie shook her head at her companion. “You really should learn to be more biddable, Philippa Meredith. Men do not like headstrong women.”

Philippa laughed. “I do not care. I am what I am, and no more. At least I am honest, unlike some. Millicent Langholme simpers, and blushes, but we both know that once she has a ring on her finger, Sir Walter will have one through his nose by which she will lead him to her ways and none other.”

Bessie laughed. “I cannot argue with you there,” she agreed.

The following day the queen and her party departed for Woodstock, while the king and his friends moved on from Richmond to Esher, where they would go hunting. Philippa was given a day to rest once they reached Woodstock, and then she departed with her servant, Lucy, for Friarsgate. She carried little luggage, for she had left most of her clothing at Lord Cambridge’s house near London. Her beautiful court garb would have no place at Friarsgate. And while she did not relish several months at Friarsgate, Philippa did not look forward to the long trip, and believed that with less baggage they would move more quickly.

Late in the afternoon before her departure Philippa was called to the queen’s privy chamber where a gentleman stood waiting by Katherine’s side. The queen was seated, and looked rather pale today.

“Come in, Philippa,” the queen beckoned her.

Philippa entered, and curtseyed to the queen.

Katherine smiled. “This is Sir Bayard Dunham, my child. He will escort you and your servant safely home to Friarsgate. He has his instructions, and carries a letter for your mother. You will be accompanied by a dozen men-at-arms from my own service. You will leave at first light in the morning.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Philippa replied, and curtseyed again.

“You will take with you our kindest regards to your mother, and tell her that I hope you will be returned to my service by the Christmas revels,” the queen said. “If you are ready, of course, and cured of your malaise over the FitzHugh boy.”

“Yes, madame!” Philippa smiled broadly. She was already cured of her pique over the duplicitous Giles FitzHugh, for her little adventure at the top of the Canted Tower had done that, but the queen would not believe it, she knew.

“Go along now, my child. May the Blessed Mother protect you in your travels, and bring you safely home,” Katherine said.

“And may God and his gracious son, our lord Jesu, protect your highness, and give you your heart’s desire,” Philippa said, curtseying a final time as she backed from the room followed by Sir Bayard Dunham.

The queen acknowledged the girl’s prayer with a gracious nod of her head.

In the queen’s antechamber Sir Bayard said, “I hope you understand that first light means just that, Mistress Meredith. We shall not waste half the day away waiting for you to finish your toilette. How large a baggage cart will you have?”

“My court clothing is hardly suitable to Cumbria,” Philippa said quietly. “Both my servant, Lucy, and I will carry what we will need, sir. I am not fond of long journeys, and while I do not relish a summer on my mother’s estates I am anxious to get there. We will ride until dark each day, I hope. And I assume you have arranged for our accommodations along the way, Sir Bayard.”

“I have,” he said, not in the least offended by her tart manner. Then he bowed neatly. “I shall see you in the morning then, Mistress Meredith.”

Philippa curtseyed to him politely and then, turning, walked away. Finding Lucy she told her, “Our escort is Sir Bayard Dunham. He’s a tough old bird, and I have seen him about the court. We are to leave at first light, and he means it.”

“I’ll see we’re up, and have some food in our bellies,” Lucy responded. She had matured since that day she rode into Edinburgh with Philippa, both of them openmouthed at the sight of the first city either had ever seen.

“Will you come back to court with me, Lucy?” Philippa asked suddenly. “I know you have missed Friarsgate far more than I have.”

“Of course I’ll come back with you!” Lucy exclaimed. “If you brought someone new they would be of no use to you at all. A few months at Friarsgate, and I’ll be cured of any desire to remain there indefinitely.” The tiring woman chuckled, patting her young mistress’s arm. “Why, I can already smell the stink of the sheep!”

Philippa laughed. “Aye, just thinking about it I can too.”

In the morning with the sun not even up yet, but their stomachs full of good oat stirabout, freshly baked warm bread that had been covered in butter with plum jam, and the queen’s finely watered wine, they awaited Sir Bayard by the stables where the grooms held their horses, and a troop of armed men were already mounted. Their escort rushed up, obviously embarrassed that he had overslept.

Philippa and Lucy mounted their animals, and Philippa said, “Where is the food basket, please?”

“Right here, m’lady,” the captain of their guard said, pointing to the back of his saddle where a wicker container had been strapped.

Philippa turned to Sir Bayard. “Are we ready then, sir?”

He glowered at her, certain she was mocking him, but her face showed no sign of humor, and so he nodded first to her, and then to the captain. They left Woodstock Palace, moving through the town of the same name, and out onto the road north. When they had ridden for about an hour Philippa reached out to touch Sir Bayard’s sleeve. Startled, he looked at her. She handed him a small wrapped napkin, but said nothing. Opening it as they rode along he saw a thick piece of buttered bread with a sliced egg and a piece of ham atop it. Philippa had already looked away, and was engaging her servant in conversation. His belly rumbling, Sir Bayard Dunham ate the breakfast she had so thoughtfully provided for him, thinking that perhaps this young girl was not as flighty as he had assumed she was. As were all the queen’s maids of honor usually.

They traveled almost the same exact route Philippa had taken when she had come to court. The route her mother had taken those many years ago. They rode through beautiful Warwickshire with its great castle and green meadows. The justly famous dreadful roads in Staffordshire had not changed at all, and while it did not rain, the river crossings were still difficult.

“Outrageous! No excuse for this!” Sir Bayard muttered to himself.

When they reached Shropshire Philippa remembered that Bessie Blount had said that her father’s hall was there. “Will we stay at Kinlet Hall?” she asked.

“Nay, worse luck,” Sir Bayard responded. “ ’Tis not on our direct route.”

At that moment a large flock of black-faced sheep began to cross the road, and her escort swore beneath his breath.

“Get those damn animals out of our path!” he ordered the men.

“No, no!” Philippa cried. “If you scatter the flock the shepherd will have a difficult time gathering them all up, and they may lose some of the beasts. We must not cost the farmer who owns them any of his animals. We can wait.”

“You are knowledgeable about sheep?” Sir Bayard said, curious.

“My family’s wealth comes from sheep, and their wool,” Philippa answered him. “These are a breed named after the county. Their wool is particularly fine. My mother has several flocks of them.”

Sir Bayard Dunham looked surprised by her answer. Then he said, “I knew your father, you know.”

“I can still remember him even though he died when I was very young,” Philippa said.

“A good man,” Sir Bayard replied brusquely. “Loyal. Honest. Knew how to do his duty. He had no sons?”

“Nay,” Philippa answered. “Not living.”

The flock of sheep had finally crossed over the road, and the shepherd gave them a friendly wave as he pulled his forelock in a gesture of thanks. They moved on north and west towards Cumbria, going through the flat county of Cheshire and into the forested Lancaster. The desolately barren hills they next traversed told Philippa that they were finally in the tiny slice of West-moreland they needed to go through.

“We should be in Carlisle tomorrow,” Philippa said. “And then just another day and a half of travel to reach Friarsgate. We have been extremely fortunate, Sir Bayard, for it has not rained upon us one day.”

“Aye,” he agreed, nodding. “Traveling at this particular time in the summer is usually dry.”

“Will you join the king at Esher when you return?” Philippa asked him.

Sir Bayard shook his head. “I was assigned some years ago to the queen’s service,” he told her. “I am no longer young enough to keep up with the king.”

Reaching Carlisle the next afternoon they stayed in a guesthouse that belonged to the monastery of St. Cuthbert’s. Philippa’s great-uncle, Richard Bolton, was prior, and it was by chance that he was in Carlisle when they arrived. Hurrying from the church to the guesthouse, he greeted her. He was a tall, distinguished man with bright blue eyes.

“Philippa! Your mother did not say you were coming home. Welcome!” He lifted her down from her mount.

“I have been sent home, great-uncle, but whether in disgrace or not I shall not know until my mother reads the queen’s letter. I am, however, invited back to court at Christmas to resume my former duties.” She kissed his cheek.

“Well, if you are invited back,” Richard Bolton said, “the infraction cannot be too serious, I suspect. Would it have to do with Giles FitzHugh, my child?”

Philippa’s hazel eyes grew stormy. “That dastard!” she told her great-uncle.

“Ahh, then it does,” he replied, the tiniest of smiles touching his lips at her expletive. “My dear Philippa, when God calls, as I can certainly tell you, you must listen. There simply is no other solution, and Rome can weave a magnificent spell. I understand he will have a place in the Vatican itself. Obviously the church sees great things for Giles FitzHugh. I am afraid that marriage and a northern estate pale in comparison.”

“Obviously,” Philippa responded dryly. “I have gotten past my disappointment, great-uncle, but the second son of an earl was quite a coup for mama. What she will do now I do not know. There are no young gentlemen of my acquaintance who want a girl with estates like mine. Far from court, and a vast responsibility. And I am now past fourteen. I am, I fear, doomed to spinsterhood.”

“I am certain that Rosamund will find a solution to your problem, my child,” the cleric answered her quietly. “Perhaps this is God’s way of bringing you home to us.”

“I will be returning to court, great-uncle. Of that you may be certain,” Philippa said grimly. “I shall not be shackled to some bumpkin because my mother thinks he will take good care of her beloved Friarsgate. I know it means more to her than I do, than anything else does. But I am not my mother.”

Richard Bolton’s eyes grew troubled. Philippa might not love Friarsgate, but she was every bit as stubborn as his niece, Rosamund, was. It would not, he suspected, be a peaceful summer for the extended Bolton-Meredith-Hepburn family.