Chapter 6

T hey rejoined the court in mid-December only to learn that Queen Katherine had been in extremely delicate health these past few months. The king was firmly told by a group of physicians that the queen would never conceive again. Henry Tudor was not pleased. The Christmas revels had a pall over them as far as the king was concerned. He had no son. Henry Tudor had no heir. Why had God denied him? Was he not a faithful Christian? A good king? He was, by the rood, and yet he was being denied a son to follow him! His wife was old, and dried up. And she had never been able to sustain enough life in her babies that they lived, but for their one daughter, Mary. He was to be followed by a girl? No, by the rood! He would have a legitimate son and heir! He must! His thoughts went to his new mistress, who had eased his distress by whispering in his ear that she was carrying his child. A child to be born sometime in early summer.

Philippa was disappointed the revels would be subdued, but more for Banon than herself. “The Christmas Court is always marvelous. After Twelfth Night it seems that Lent is always just upon us. You will go home in the spring, and have had no fun.”

“Think of your poor mistress,” Banon said. “My heart broke for her the other day when you brought me to meet her. She is so frail, and she looks so sad. Yet she greeted me with kindness and a smile. I think she must have been pretty when she was young.”

“So mama has always said. But she also said Queen Margaret was prettier,” Philippa noted. “Hurry and get ready, Banie. We are due at court by afternoon. Dress warmly. The river will be cold.”

“Do you think that Cecily and Tony will return to court for the Christmas revels?” Banon wondered aloud.

“I hope so,” Philippa answered her sister, as she carefully adjusted her cord and chain belt with its dainty pomander case about her waist. Her gown was a violet-colored velvet with a panel of violet, cream, and gold brocade showing. It had a square neckline. The sleeves were narrow to the elbow, running into a wide deep cuff of rich fur with a false undersleeve of the brocade that had a frilled lace edging. She wore a French hood that was trimmed in tiny seed pearls and lace, set back on her head with a small back veil of delicate lawn. Lucy fastened a fine gold and pearl chain with Philippa’s emerald and pearl brooch, now made into a pendant, hanging from it. Philippa was very proud of this piece of jewelry, for it had been given to her by the king’s grandmother when she was born. Anyone who admired it was told the story. Fastening gold and pearl earbobs into her ears, Philippa completed her toilette and turned to see if Banon was ready.

Banon’s gown was of peach-colored quilted velvet with an underskirt of cream and gold brocade. Her sleeves were slashed to show cream silk beneath the velvet, and tied with gold cords. The neckline was square like her sister’s but with a pearl edging, and she had a twisted gold belt with a long tassel attached to it. Like her older sister she wore a French hood with a back veil. About her neck was a long strand of pearls with a gold and pearl pendant in the shape of a cross, and from her ears hung pearls.

They joined Lord Cambridge in his hall, which overlooked the river.

“Uncle!” Philippa exclaimed, seeing him. “Your clothing today is even more magnificent than yesterday! Next to the king you are surely the most stylish gentleman at court,” she teased him.

“I am more splendid than King Hal,” Lord Cambridge replied, “but we shall not quibble the point, darling girl. Do you like my hose? I thought to keep it plain so as not to detract from the glory of my doublet and my short coat.” He spun about so they might admire him, flashing his embroidered sleeves at them. “And what do you think of my shoes? I had them dyed to match my coat! And my embroidered gauntlets too.”

“Sky blue, gold, and white suit you, uncle,” Philippa said. “I particularly admire the pleated edge of your shirt collar, and your cap and plume.”

He grinned at her. “The whole suit was made to complement my fair coloring. There are few men who are true blonds as I am. Banon, have you nothing to say?”

“Uncle,” she told him, “you astound me with your incredible sense of fashion. While you have always dressed well, when we were back in Cumbria I would have never imagined you capable of such sartorial splendor.”

He chuckled. “Nay. Otterly is not the place for such garments. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed wearing clothing like this. Alas, it will not be for long.”

The servants were bringing them fur-lined cloaks, and setting them on their shoulders so they might exit the house for Lord Cambridge’s barge.

“Do you regret coming north, uncle?” Philippa asked him.

“Nay, darling girl, I do not. Court is far too exhausting now for a man of my age, and your mother means far more to me than gallivanting about after the king. Nay. At this time in my life Otterly suits me well, as does the quiet life. I have but come back to court to make certain that you are well settled, Philippa Meredith.”

She kissed his cheek. “I love you, Uncle Thomas,” she told him.

He smiled, pleased. This would be their second visit to court. They would soon be leaving London for Greenwich. Thomas Bolton was just beginning to slip into the thick of the court intrigue again. He had already picked up one delicious little rumor that the king’s new and very discreet mistress was the delightful Mistress Bessie Blount. It was also said that Bessie was expecting a child. Tom did not discourage Philippa from pursuing her friendship with the charming Bessie. Indeed, he went out of his way to seek out her company as well. Henry Tudor would not be jealous of him, particularly if Lord Cambridge were paying extravagant court to the girl, helping to defuse any serious rumors that might reach the queen’s ears which could cause Bessie to lose her place in the queen’s household. She would lose it eventually, of course, but now was not the time. Katherine was very fond of Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge, and if she had heard any gossip regarding his unorthodox inclinations she had refused to listen to them, for she saw nothing untoward in the man’s behavior. She would judge him by the Thomas Bolton she knew, and not the scurrilous whispers of other people.

The Christmas kept at Greenwich was simple and quiet. The feasts for each of the Twelve Days were subdued in consideration of the queen. But the king, yet angry, danced openly with all the pretty young women, and more with Mistress Blount than any other. Bessie was not a malicious girl, and so she continued to treat the queen, her mistress, with the utmost deference and respect, hurrying quickly back to her side when the music would end. Some thought her a simpleton for it. But Queen Katherine knew in her heart what was happening although she showed no indication of it. She was grateful for Elizabeth Blount’s good manners and good heart. Bessie’s natural sweet nature made it difficult to dislike her or be angry with her. The king had chosen her, and Bessie had been raised to obey and listen to her king.

On the first day of the new year 1520 Lord Cambridge overheard a bit of news that piqued his interest. Lord Melvyn had died, and there were no heirs to his small estate in Oxfordshire. The land would either revert to the crown, for it had a fine wood for hunting, or it would be sold for the benefit of the crown. It was near enough to London so that Philippa might continue her service to the Tudors. And it was a prosperous estate. Lord Melvyn’s apple orchards were famous for the excellent cider that came from them, and his pastureland was rented at an excellent fee to a neighbor who raised cattle. This was the information that Lord Cambridge had been able to obtain from one of the king’s secretaries, William Smythe.

“And if I were interested in obtaining ownership of the late Lord Melvyn’s estate?” he queried Master Smythe, a tall, lean man with a bland and ageless face.

“The king is interested in having it for the deer park,” Master Smythe said.

“The king has many deer parks,” Lord Cambridge replied.

“That is true, my lord,” the secretary said. “Perhaps it could be sold, for the king values a full purse as well as a good deer park, and Woodstock is near.”

The meaning was clear. “I would, of course,” Lord Cambridge murmured, “want to pay a finder’s fee for any consideration on your part. A generous fee,” he finished.

“There is another gentleman interested in the estate,” Master Smythe said. “He is the gentleman who has been renting Lord Melvyn’s pastureland.”

“I will pay more,” Lord Cambridge said bluntly. He reached into his doublet and drew out a small chamois bag which he handed to Master Smythe. “A small token of my esteem, which I will leave with you until I have returned from inspecting Lord Melvyn’s property in Oxfordshire. And I shall tell the king of my interest in the property so there will be no difficulty for you.”

“You know his majesty well enough to speak with him?” Master Smythe’s voice held a new note of respect. Not all courtiers knew the king well enough to speak with him. Most, in fact, did not. He took the small bag of coins from Lord Cambridge.

“I have been speaking with the king for many years, Master Smythe, and my cousin, the lady of Friarsgate, for whose eldest daughter I wish to purchase Lord Melvyn’s estates, is a good friend of the queen. This daughter is in service to her highness.” Thomas Bolton smiled, and flicked an imaginary bit of dust from his ornate doublet.

“There shall be no sale of Lord Melvyn’s property until you have returned from inspecting it, my lord,” the secretary said. “But you understand that I must accept the highest offer for my master, the king. That is my duty.” He was even now tucking the little bag into his own doublet. It was of a pleasing weight.

“Of course,” Lord Cambridge said, and then he withdrew from the small room where this one of many secretaries was ensconced. The bribe had been generous. Generous enough to ensure him more than enough time to see the property in question. January was not a month for travel, but Thomas Bolton could travel rough if necessary, and it was necessary. Explaining to Philippa that he must see to some business and would be gone for several days, he left the court in the company of two Otterly men-at-arms, and rode to Oxfordshire.

Lord Melvyn’s estate, Melville, was located north-west of the town of Oxford. The town was full of good accommodations with excellent food and drink. Lord Cambridge took the best quarters that could be found at the King’s Arms, a large comfortable inn on the edge of Oxford. If they departed early in the morning, he told his men, they could easily reach Melville and be back into the town by dark. And luck was with Thomas Bolton. After a good night’s sleep he awoke to a cold but clear and windless winter’s day. Taking food for the midday meal with them they rode out, and by the time they had returned that evening Thomas Bolton knew he had found Philippa Meredith a new dower portion. Lord Melvyn’s house was in poor repair, but that could be modernized and repaired. The next morning, to the surprise of his men, he was up early and eager to ride for London.

“I believe I have found you an estate in Oxfordshire,” he told Philippa. “But I shall not be satisfied until it is settled. I am at the mercy of one of the king’s secretaries. And there is someone else who seeks Melville as well. He cannot possibly have as much money as I do, however. Still, I shall not crow until the matter is settled.”

“Is that where you were, you old dear?” Philippa asked. “You missed an important event. Banon has met a young man. He is a poor Neville, but educated and with charming manners. You will like him.”

“Do you like him, darling girl?” Lord Cambridge asked. “And what does Banon say about him? Is it possible one of my problems is already solved?”

“Aye, I do like him, and Banon, while reticent to say a great deal, likes him too, I am certain,” Philippa replied. “But tell me about my new estate, uncle.”

“Nay, my pet, not until I am certain it is yours,” he told her. “I do not want you disappointed. Master Smythe, one of the king’s secretaries, says there is another who would have Melville. I have not yet learned if this is so, or if he seeks to get a better price off of me which he will then skim for himself while accepting my generous bribe as well. These lower echelon servants can be both greedy and ruthless. This is a good property, Philippa, my angel, but I prefer not to be cheated and taken for a fool, for if I am it will cause your mother and me no end of difficulties in our business dealings. I will meet with Master Smythe on the morrow to hopefully conclude the negotiation.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Philippa told him. “No one else has ever been so good to me as you. Mama says it too about you.”

“You are my only family,” Lord Cambridge said. “I would be lost without you.”

Immediately after the mass, and before the morning meal, the lord of Otterly Court met with the king’s secretary. There was another man with him, soberly dressed, his face windburned like the visage of someone who worked out of doors. He stared openmouthed for a moment at Lord Cambridge in his scarlet velvet knee-length coat with pleats from its high yoke, and the flared, fur-lined sleeves. Then the man’s eyes went to Lord Cambridge’s slashed and beaded leather slippers that had been dyed to match his coat.

“Good morrow, Master Smythe. I assume you are prepared to do business,” Thomas Bolton said pleasantly, nodding at the other man.

“This is Robert Burton, the earl of Witton’s secretary and agent, my lord. He will be bidding on Lord Melvyn’s property for his master. Would you care to open the bidding, my lord?” The secretary smiled rather toothily, which was a surprise to Lord Cambridge. He did not believe he had ever seen one of the king’s secretaries smile.

“One hundred and fifty guineas,” Thomas Bolton said. It was a more than generous price, and he was not of a mind to dally with the purchase. He saw Robert Burton swallow hard.

“Two hundred guineas,” the agent finally said.

“Three hundred guineas,” Lord Cambridge answered.

“My lord! The property is not worth that price,” the agent cried.

“Ah, Master Burton, but it is to me,” Lord Cambridge replied.

Robert Burton shook his head, and looked at Master Smythe. “I cannot offer more than I have, sir.”

“Then the property is won by Lord Cambridge,” Smythe replied. “May I see the color of your coin, my lord?”

Thomas Bolton drew a large leather bag from his doublet, and handed it to the secretary. “Count it out, Master Smythe, and take another ten guineas for yourself. I was prepared to pay more if I had to, but the earl of Witton obviously was not. I will wait while you tally up my purchase.”

“My lord, may I ask why you want this property?” Master Burton inquired politely.

“It is a gift to a relative,” Lord Cambridge said quietly.

The agent nodded. “My master will be most disappointed,” he said. Then with a small bow he withdrew himself from the little chamber.

“I would speak with you privily, Master Burton,” Thomas Bolton called after him.

The agent raised his hand to signal that he had heard as he closed the door.

“What do you know of this earl of Witton?” Lord Cambridge asked the secretary.

“Precious little, my lord. He has been in his majesty’s service, but other than that he is a stranger to me.” He finished piling up several stacks of coins he had removed from the leather bag. Then slowly and deliberately he counted out the ten additional pounds. Carefully closing the bag he handed it back to Thomas Bolton, along with a bill of sale and the deed to the property known as Melville.

Lord Cambridge accepted it all, smiling. “You knew I should be the high bidder, Master Smythe,” he said. “You are a clever fellow.”

“You will find while the bill of sale is in your name, my lord, the property has been put in the name of your young cousin, Mistress Philippa Bolton,” the secretary said.

Now Thomas Bolton was truly impressed. “Are you content in the king’s service, Smythe?” he asked the man.

“It is difficult for a man in my position to gain the advancement he desires. I am not one of the cardinal’s men, my lord. I was recommended to my current position several years ago by Lord Willoughby, who wed with the queen’s friend, Maria de Salinas. But I have no powerful patron to aid me.”

“You have not answered my question, Smythe. Are you content in the king’s service? Or would you prefer employment somewhere where you might have more responsibility and respect?” Lord Cambridge said.

“If such a position should become available, if it were offered to me by the right master, I could leave the king’s service with a clear conscience,” Master Smythe said. “I am not important, but simply one of many.”

“And I am not an important man,” Lord Cambridge replied. “But I am a rich man with a bent for trade and possibly the need for someone like you. We shall talk again, William Smythe, before I return north. Would you mind living in the north?”

“Not at all, my lord,” said Master Smythe and smiled for a second time that day, surprised that Lord Cambridge had remembered his Christian name, and suddenly being absolutely certain that despite his foppish airs, Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge, was a most clever and astute gentleman.

Lord Cambridge nodded, and then without another word he left the secretary, going out into the corridor where he found Robert Burton. “Thank you for waiting, Master Burton. Let us go someplace where we may speak in private.” They found a secluded alcove with a window seat overlooking an inner court, and settled themselves. “Now, Master Burton, tell me about your master, the earl of Witton. He has served the king in some capacity? And why did he wish Lord Melvyn’s lands?”

Robert Burton hesitated. He had waited out of curiosity, but he was anxious to return home to tell his master of the fact they had lost the land to a stranger.

“Come, come, Master Burton,” Lord Cambridge said quietly. “I may be able to assuage your disappointment if you give me the correct answers. Is your master wed?”

“Nay, sir,” came the reply.

“How old is he?” The next question snapped.

“I would not know, sir, but he has only been earl this year past since his da died of the sweat. My master is not an old man, but he is not a youth either.”

“Why is he not wed?”

“My lord! I would not be privy to such information. I am merely a secretary,” Robert Burton replied.

“Come, sir, servants know more than their masters, and that is certain,” Thomas Bolton said with the hint of a smile. “Have you not lived on the earl’s estate since your birth? Can you recall when your master was born?”

“Aye, I was twelve when his lordship was birthed,” Master Burton said.

“And how old are you now, sir?” was the next question.

“I am forty-two this September past, my lord,” came the answer.

“Then your master is thirty, Robert Burton. ’Tis a good age. Now tell me, do you know if your master is betrothed to any woman?”

“Oh, no, sir, but he be looking, or so my sister who serves in the house says,” came the reply.

“Good! Good! Now one other question, Robert Burton. Is your master sound of body and mind, and fair to gaze upon?”

“He is a good and fair master, my lord, and the lasses say he is handsome,” the bailiff said.

“Why does your master want Melville?” Lord Cambridge asked.

“We have been renting the pasturage on Lord Melvyn’s lands for years, my lord. When he died with no heirs my master thought it was a good time to purchase the land. Who else would want it? But alas, you did! The earl will be most disappointed.”

“Perhaps I may assuage his disappointment,” Lord Cambridge said. “Tell your master to come and see me. There may be a way that he can obtain Melville. I am Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge. My home is on the river near Richmond and Westminster. Bolton House. Any wherryman will know.”

Robert Burton stood up. “Thank you, my lord, I will tell my master what you have said to me. I believe he will come, for he very much desires old Lord Melvyn’s lands. A new owner might wish that pasturage for themselves, and would not rent it.” He bowed politely and hurried off, leaving Thomas Bolton considering that he might very well have all their problems solved, providing of course that the earl of Witton was amenable.

Robert Burton left London as quickly as he could and rode north and just slightly west for the earl of Witton’s lands, which were called Brierewode. He pushed himself, stopping when it grew dark only to eat and rest his horse for a few hours. At the first light he was up and riding once more. Reaching his master’s estates after several days, he gave his exhausted horse into the keeping of a stable boy and hurried into the house to find the earl in his library.

Crispin St. Claire looked up as his secretary entered the room. “How much did it cost us, Rob?” he asked.

Robert Burton shook his head. “We lost it, my lord.”

“What?” The earl of Witton was astounded. “Did I not tell you you could bid up to two hundred guineas?”

“There were three bids, my lord. The first was for one hundred and fifty gold guineas. It was made by a Lord Cambridge. Two hundred, says I, not wanting to prolong it. Three hundred, says this other gentleman.” He shrugged. “My lord, what was I to do?”

“The property isn’t worth all that gold coin,” the earl exclaimed.

“That’s what I told Lord Cambridge,” the secretary replied. “Well, it is to me, he says. Then while the royal secretary is counting out the price plus an additional ten guineas Lord Cambridge says he should take for himself, he tells me to wait. So I did.”

“And what did he say to you afterwards?” the earl asked, curious.

“He asked a lot of questions about you, my lord. Then he says if you will come and see him there may be a way for you to obtain the property in question. He says any wherryman in the London vicinity will know Bolton House, his home. His name is Thomas Bolton.”

“He probably wants to sell me the property at a profit,” the earl said, irritated. “He may even be in league with the royal secretary in this matter. I will not be diddled by some scheming courtier, damnit!”

“I don’t think he is that, my lord,” the secretary responded. “His garments are grand, and say he is a fop. But his manner is assured and direct. I cannot reconcile the two, but I must tell you that I liked him. I did not think him dishonest.”

“Interesting, Rob, for you are a good judge of character, and always have been,” the earl noted. “Shall I go then, and meet this Lord Cambridge?”

“It is winter, my lord. The land is lying fallow. The cattle are in the barns, and there is little to do right now for any of us. Is winter not the time when the nobility go to court? What harm can it do you to speak with Lord Cambridge? You can be no worse off after you have spoken with him than before, I am thinking.”

“I could be in great debt, Rob,” the earl told his secretary.

“The land is worth no more than I offered, my lord, and you would be foolish to go into debt to obtain it. I deposited your coin with your goldsmith in London, and there it will remain until you have need of it.”

“I will admit to being curious,” the earl said slowly, “and you are here to act on my behalf, Rob. Yet I swore I would not go back until I had found a wife.”

“You are more apt to find one at court, I am thinking,” the secretary said, “than here. None of our near neighbors have daughters of an age to wed.”

“I do not want some spoiled lass who thinks only of gowns, and how to spend my coin. A man must have a wife he can speak with now and again. These girls at court are naught but dancing, preening featherheads in my opinion. They giggle, and flirt, and kiss every gentleman they can find in whatever dark corners they can find. Still, there might be just one who would suit me. A biddable lass who would manage my home, and bear my children without complaint. And not waste my coin on fripperies.”

“You’ll never know, my lord, unless you go back to court,” Robert Burton said. “You know the king would welcome you. You served him well for eight years.”

“I did,” the earl agreed. “Being a diplomat for Henry Tudor is not an easy task, Rob, but I served him with honor both in San Lorenzo after that idiot Howard was called home, and in Cleves as well.”

“And you never found a lass in either place, my lord? ’Tis a pity, I think. We would have been happy to see you bring a bride home. Even a foreign lass.”

“In San Lorenzo the ladies of the south were too free with their favors to suit me,” the earl said. “And in Cleves they were too large, and too straightlaced. Nay, give me a good English wife. If I can find one.”

“Go back to court for the rest of the winter, my lord,” the secretary advised his master. “See what Lord Cambridge desires of you. And see if there is a pretty lass there who would suit your lordship.” Robert Burton was a servant of long and good standing with his master, and so was able to speak so freely to him.

“Well, I must go to London if for no other reason than to see what Lord Cambridge desires from me, and whether I can cajole him into giving me the lands that are rightfully mine. If only I could have convinced Lord Melvyn to sell me his properties, but towards the end there he became dotty, and convinced that everyone around him was stealing from him. I could not reason with the man at all.”

“He was very old, my lord,” Robert Burton reminded the earl. “They get that way sometimes when they are so old. Not all, but some.”

The earl of Witton departed for court a few days later. By the time he reached London the court was up from Greenwich and settled at Richmond again. Presenting himself first to Cardinal Wolsey’s majordomo, he begged a place to stay from him. It had been the cardinal who had assigned him to his various missions and postings for the king. The earl of Witton doubted if King Henry would even know who he was, but the cardinal did. He was given a small cubicle where he might leave his few belongings and lay his head at night. His food would be his own concern. He might eat in the cardinal’s hall if he could find a place. The earl of Witton thanked Cardinal Wolsey’s head of household, insisting he take a little bag of coppers for his trouble.

The morning after his arrival he dressed carefully, but soberly, and hailing a wherryman asked to be taken to Bolton House. The boatman nodded, and began to row upstream with the incoming tide. They were well past Richmond when the wherryman began guiding his boat towards the shore where a fine slate-roofed house of several stories, set in a garden, was situated. They drew up to a little dock, and the earl got out, tossing the wherryman a large coin.

“Shall I wait, me lord?” the wherryman asked.

Seeing the two barges tied to the other side of the dock, the earl shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I suspect my host will get me back when I need to go.” He watched as the boat moved back off, now fighting the tide as it came upriver. He walked up the carefully raked gravel path towards the house, and he was halfway there when a servant hurried forth. “I am the earl of Witton to see Lord Cambridge,” he said.

“Yes, indeed, my lord, my master is expecting you. Please come with me,” the servant said, and moved quickly up the path and into the house.

The earl followed, and was surprised to be brought into a wonderful room that appeared to run the entire length of the house. There were windows along one wall overlooking the river. The room was paneled with a coffered ceiling, and the wood floors were covered in the finest eastern carpets the earl had ever seen. At one end of the room great iron mastiffs flanked the huge fireplace where a fire roared. The fine oak furniture was polished, and there were bowls of potpourri. On a large sideboard was a silver tray with matching goblets and crystal decanters.

Suddenly a door in the paneled wall opened, and a gentleman stepped into the room. He was wearing a burgundy velvet midcalf-length coat that was obviously lined in fur. It had full puffed sleeves and black silk undersleeves edged in lace. There was a fine fur collar enclosing the neckline of the coat. “My dear lord St. Claire,” the gentleman said, extending an elegant hand with more rings than the earl had ever seen in all his life. “Welcome! Welcome! I am Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge. Please, let us sit by the fire. Are you thirsty? I have some excellent Spanish wine, but no, perhaps afterwards to toast our agreement.”

The earl took the extended hand, and was surprised by the firm handshake. Then he sat down, frankly overwhelmed by Lord Cambridge. “What agreement are we going to toast, my lord?” he managed to ask.

Thomas Bolton chuckled. “The one we make so you may have Lord Melvyn’s lands, which is what you want. In exchange you will give me what I want. It is really quite simple, my lord.”

“I do not know if I can raise more than you paid for Melville,” the earl said.

“Dear boy, the land wasn’t worth what I paid for it,” Thomas Bolton laughed.

“Then why did you offer such a ridiculous amount?” the earl asked.

“Because you wanted it, of course,” Lord Cambridge said to the surprised earl. “I am delighted that your agent was able to convince you to come. He is a good man, and serves you well, I expect. And since he returned to Brierewode, for that is the name of your estate, isn’t it, I have made some inquiries about you.”

“Have you?” the earl said weakly. This was the oddest conversation he had ever had with anyone, he thought.

“You are the fourth earl of Witton. Your family is old, and loyal to whoever is on the throne. A wise course to follow, I might add,” Lord Cambridge said, and then he continued. “You have served Henry Tudor in the capacity of ambassador and negotiator on the continent for several years. Your mother died when you were two. Your father died a year ago, which is why you came home. You have two older sisters, Marjorie and Susanna. Both are wed to respectable men, but not great names, of course, for their dower portions were modest. You are known to be an honest man, intelligent, and scrupulous in your dealings. You have never been married, or even betrothed.”

“There has been no time for it,” the earl said as if defending himself, and then he wondered why he would defend the fact he was in service to his king.

“Have I forgotten anything?” Lord Cambridge asked aloud. And then he answered himself, “No, I think not.”

The earl laughed in spite of himself. “What is it you want of me, my lord?”

“I want to give you Lord Melvyn’s lands, dear boy. Isn’t that what you want?” Thomas Bolton said, smiling at the earl of Witton.

“And what do you want in exchange, my lord?” Crispin St. Claire asked, piercing Lord Cambridge with a direct look. “What is it you want so much of me that you would pay such an exorbitant sum for Melville?”

“You need a wife, my lord earl. Are you willing to take one in exchange for Lord Melvyn’s lands? Which by coincidence now belong to my young cousin, Philippa Meredith.”

The earl of Witton was more than surprised by Lord Cambridge’s words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it was certainly not this. Warily he asked, “What is wrong with the lass?”

“Nothing at all. She is fifteen. Fair. Intelligent. Chaste. And her dower, in addition to Melville, has both gold and silver coin, jewelry, clothing, linens, all that a young woman who is marrying is expected to have.”

“I repeat, what is wrong with her? Has she been seduced, and her reputation compromised? I will have no slut for a wife.” My God! Surely he wasn’t even considering such an outrageous proposal, but his gray eyes were thoughtful.

“Philippa Meredith is the heiress to a great estate in Cumbria. She was to wed the second son of the earl of Renfrew,” Tom began. “Unfortunately the lad decided after his time in Paris and Rome that he was more suited to the priesthood. He came home to announce this right after Philippa’s natal day. Philippa serves the queen as one of her maids of honor, and has for several years. She is pure, I guarantee you. But she is also, if I am to be honest, stubborn. She decided that Giles FitzHugh had so desperately sought to escape living at Friarsgate that he became a priest rather than wed her.”

The earl laughed again. “Poor lass,” he said. “But if she has this great estate in the north, why do you want Melville?”

“She has renounced her inheritance in Friarsgate, although her mother refuses to accept it yet. So because I adore my cousin, Rosamund, and her daughters, I looked for an estate nearer to the court for Philippa. I chose Lord Melvyn’s estate. But Philippa needs a husband. And you desire those same lands, but you cannot afford them. I see a marriage between you as a perfect solution,” Lord Cambridge said. “You have an old and respected name. Philippa has wealth. It would appear to be a perfect match. I know Rosamund and her husband, the laird of Claven’s Cam, would agree. They trust me in matters such as this.”

“The girl is half Scots? Oh, no, my friend. No!”

“Nay, the laird is Philippa’s stepfather. Her late father was Sir Owein Meredith, a knight in service to the house of Tudor since his childhood. Her mother, Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate. King Henry VII was Rosamund’s guardian for a time. It was his mother who arranged the marriage between my cousin and Owein. My cousin is held a friend by both Queen Katherine and the Scots queen with whom she was raised. That is why Philippa has a place in the queen’s household.”

“But the girl’s family is hardly the equal of mine,” the earl said.

“No, it is not,” Lord Cambridge agreed. “Yet you have no family but two sisters, my lord. Philippa Meredith’s mother has produced seven children, of whom six live, and she is with child again even now. Think! I offer you a nubile young girl of good family, in favor with the king and queen, whose dower is rich in everything you desire.”

“It is tempting, my lord,” the earl said, “but you will understand that I am not of a mind, even in order to gain Melville, to agree easily to your proposition. I would meet your young cousin. Get to know her. We must suit, for whatever she possesses I will not have discord in my house. I want a biddable wife who will obey me.”

“I can promise you that Philippa would be a good wife, but she is intelligent, my lord, and educated as many of these young courtiers are. She will not always be agreeable to you, but then I have never known a wife who was, have you?”

“You argue your point well. I will not say nay, but neither will I say yea. Let us be introduced, and we shall see what comes of it, Lord Cambridge. Is the girl in the house now?”

“No, she is at court with her mistress,” Thomas Bolton said. “She is devoted to Queen Katherine in her service, as her father was devoted to the Tudors.”

The earl nodded. “It speaks well of your young cousin,” he said. “When then shall I meet her?”

“I have a barge at my disposal,” Lord Cambridge said. “If you do not mind waiting while I change my garments, we shall go to Richmond together, my lord. My servants will bring you something to eat. Where do you reside in London?”

“I was given a cubicle at the cardinal’s home,” he said. “But food is another matter entirely. I would welcome something to eat, but why would you change clothing? Your gown is most handsome.”

“Dear boy, I should not appear at court in my house garb!” Lord Cambridge cried. “I have a reputation to keep up, as you will soon learn. The servants will bring you food and wine while I am preparing myself. We shall talk on the way to court.” And arising from his chair Thomas Bolton retreated through the door by which he had entered the chamber, leaving his guest both slightly amused, and bemused.

The servants now entered, bringing with them a tray upon which the earl found a dish of poached eggs in a cream sauce flavored with marsala wine, a thick slice of a country-cured ham, a small cottage loaf which had obviously just come from the ovens, a crock of sweet butter, and a little dish of cherry jam. A little table was brought to him and draped with a white linen cloth. The tray was set before him. A goblet was placed at his right hand.

“Wine or ale, my lord?” a male servant asked him politely.

“Ale,” he replied, and set about to eat the little meal that had been brought to him. He was, he found, very hungry, having come straight to Bolton House this morning. Lord Cambridge’s care for his person showed a delicacy of manners that impressed Crispin St. Claire. If his young cousin were as careful of her guests it could be that she would make a good hostess, a good wife, a good countess of Witton. It surprised him that he was actually considering an alliance with the daughter of a northern landowner, and an ordinary knight. His own family had arrived in England several centuries earlier with King William the Norman. He had Plantagenet blood, for one of his ancestors had wed one of King Henry I’s bastard daughters.

Still the girl in question—what was her name?—Philippa, yes! Philippa Meredith had the property he coveted, and if Lord Cambridge were to be believed, she also had wealth. He saw no reason not to believe Thomas Bolton. Was there anyone else that he would have preferred to wed? The truth was there was not. There was no one. He knew he had to take a wife. His sisters told him often enough. He was the last male St. Claire in his line. But since his return home after his father had died he had made no effort whatsoever to seek a match with any female. This girl, it seemed, was providence. Her family was respectable. Her connections were good. She had the land he sought after, and she had wealth. What more was there that a man could ask of a wife? And if she were pretty it would be but a bonus, but she need not be. He did not have to say anything further to Lord Cambridge. The man was astute, and he knew that after enough time to salve Crispin St. Claire’s dignity, the earl of Witton was going to accept his proposal. He was going to marry Philippa Meredith, and make her his countess. Looking the wench over was nothing more than a formality. The earl mopped his plate with the last piece of bread, and drank down the remainder of his goblet. He pushed back his chair, and sighed contentedly. It was going to be a good day. It was going to be a very good day. The main door to the beautiful hall opened, and Lord Cambridge stepped through into the chamber. “You have eaten well, dear boy?” he asked solicitously.

“I have!” the earl of Witton said, and then he stared with amazement.

Thomas Bolton chuckled at the look on the younger man’s face. “Yes,” he said, “I am quite magnificent, am I not, my lord?” His short, full, pleated coat was of midnight blue velvet brocade lined and trimmed with pale gray rabbit fur. His shirt collar had a delicate pleated edge. His sky blue doublet showed cloth of gold through artfully done slashings. His hose was finely woven wool in alternating stripes of the contrasting blues, and he wore a gold cord garter on his left leg. His codpiece was ablaze with gemstones. His square-toed shoes were the same velvet brocade as his coat. About his neck was a large chain made from squares of Irish red gold.

“By the rood, my lord,” the earl said, “if your cousin is half as beautiful as you are I shall marry her at once! The garb you wear now does make plain your burgundy house coat.” And he laughed. “I did not think it possible that any man could dress so well. Even the king, though you did not hear me say it.”

“And you, my lord, did not hear me tell you that the king frequently consults with me as to his wardrobe. Now, if you are ready, my dear Crispin, we shall leave for court so you may inspect Philippa Meredith, but I have no doubt you will have her to wife.”

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