Philippa (Friarsgate Inheritance #3)

Chapter 9

L ord Cambridge had managed to catch the queen before the midday meal to tell her of the impending betrothal of Philippa Meredith. “With your highness’s blessing, of course,” he had said, bowing. And the queen had been delighted, and sent him to the king to impart the happy news. He had caught the king at his dinner, and been allowed to stand just to one side of the royal diner while he spoke his peace.

“Will Rosamund agree?” the king wanted to know.

“I have her permission to arrange a match for Philippa, aye, my lord.”

“How did you manage it, Thomas Bolton? An earl, and one who has never wed, and is young enough to get children on the girl. You are obviously more clever than I would have given you credit for, but then Wolsey has always said it.” The king took a bite from a small haunch of venison in his grip.

“I purchased the late Lord Melvyn’s estate. It matches with Witton lands,” Lord Cambridge said simply.

The king laughed. “You are fortunate he wanted it.”

“He has been pasturing his cattle on it, so I thought he might,” Lord Cambridge answered with a small smile.

Henry Tudor chortled. “Wolsey is always right.” He took a gulp from the large footed wine goblet by his right hand. “And the queen approves?”

“Aye, my liege, she does.”

“Then I must approve as well, and I do,” the king replied. “When will the marriage be celebrated?”

“I shall ask Philippa, and return with her answer, majesty,” Lord Cambridge said.

“I shall stand witness to the event even as I did to the betrothal of her mother to our good servant, Sir Owein Meredith,” the king said. “I was but my father’s son then, and I recall he remonstrated with me when I boasted that one day Rosamund could say her betrothal was witnessed by a king and a queen. My sister, Margaret, was already Scotland’s queen, but my father was still king.”

“I know that both Philippa and the earl of Witton will be honored by your gracious presence,” Thomas Bolton said, and then he withdrew to seek out his young cousin and Crispin St. Claire. He found them walking in the gallery near the royal chapel.

“We have agreed on everything, Uncle Thomas,” Philippa greeted him.

“And what is everything?” he replied, kissing both her cheeks.

“Why, our marriage, uncle. We have decided to marry on April thirtieth, the day after my sixteenth birthday. You must have the papers drawn up at once.”

“You do not wish to go to France then?” Lord Cambridge asked.

“Oh, I shall go, for the queen wants me with her, and she is certain to allow my husband to accompany me, for she would not separate a newly wed couple. Her heart is too kind. It shall be the most glorious summer, and when we have returned we shall travel north to Otterly to see Banie married to her Neville,” Philippa concluded.

Lord Cambridge looked to the earl. “And you agree, my lord?”

Crispin St. Claire grinned. “I dare not disagree,” he said. “Philippa’s flawless planning is but an indication of the skills she possesses, and will be put to good use at Brierewode when she becomes its mistress. My house can use a competent chatelaine.”

“You will be pleased to learn the king approves your match, and has offered to stand witness to your formal betrothal.”

“Ohh!” Philippa clapped her hands together. “He and Queen Margaret were witnesses to my parents’ betrothal. Wait until mama hears of it! I must go and write her this very minute.” She curtseyed to the two men and, turning, hurried off down the gallery.

The two men strolled together. “How did this all come about so easily, my dear Crispin?” Thomas Bolton asked his companion.

The earl shrugged. “I am as mystified as you are, Tom. I asked the queen’s permission to walk with Philippa. You had obviously already seen her for she was aware of our impending betrothal and marriage. She was most gracious, and sent us off suggesting we go into the gardens. Philippa, however, being sensible first rather than romantic, said no, for it was too chill. She led me to a small chapel where we spoke. She said she had departed early because she needed to think about our situation. And then she announced to me the date of our wedding, and that we would go north to her sister’s wedding when we returned from France. She said it was best to be married at the end of April because the emperor would be here in May, and then in June we would embark for France. She is a practical girl. There will be no need now to visit Oxford this winter.”

“Practical. A kind word for bossy,” Lord Cambridge said with a smile. “But then that is Philippa. When she makes up her mind to do something she does it. You are content with the arrangement then?”

“I am. Have the papers drawn up so we may act on them,” the earl said.

“Dear Crispin, it will be done before the week is out,” Lord Cambridge promised.

The two men parted, and Thomas Bolton hurried to his barge that he might be rowed home as quickly as possible. It was the time between the tides, and the river was as smooth as glass. The craft skimmed along the Thames, and its passenger thought that he could smell springtime in the air. Arriving at Bolton House he found a message from the north awaiting him. Opening it he read the contents, his eyes widening a moment, a smile creasing his face. Rosamund had delivered twin sons, to be named Thomas Andrew and Edmund Richard, on the last day of February. The lads were both healthy, strong, and suckled well. He was to be godfather to his namesake along with Rosamund’s stepson, John Hepburn. The other twin would have his mother’s uncles for godfathers. The boys had, according to custom, already been baptized, she wrote. If he had been at Otterly where he belonged, she scolded him, he might have been there. When was he coming north? And what of her daughters?

“Is the messenger still here?” Thomas Bolton asked his majordomo.

“Yes, my lord, in the kitchens, eating. He arrived but an hour ago. He is one of the laird’s own men.”

“Send him to me when he is finished. There is no rush, for I must compose a letter to his mistress,” Lord Cambridge said. “Bring me my writing box.”

“At once, my lord!”The servant moved off to do his master’s bidding.

When he had returned, Thomas Bolton sat down to write his cousin. He and Banon would be coming home in early June. The clever child had settled on a Neville, a descendant of her grandmother Philippa Neville’s family. He would be accompanying them, and they would stop at his family’s home to visit the Nevilles, who had expressed their delight in the match. And the church had approved. The lad was a younger son, and this would be an excellent match for him. There should be no difficulty given Banon’s dower portion and the fact she was to inherit Otterly. The marriage would be celebrated in the autumn. Here Thomas Bolton paused. He wished he might explain Philippa’s situation to Rosamund himself, but he could not. Picking up his pen again he continued. He had obtained a splendid match for Philippa with the earl of Witton. Philippa was delighted, but the marriage would be celebrated on the last day of April at court. And the king would bear witness to the betrothal agreement as he had to Rosamund’s all those years ago. The need for the haste was that the queen wanted Philippa to accompany her to France with the summer progress, and in order for the earl to go as well they must be wed. Philippa would be released from her service when they returned from France. The pair would then come north to meet the family. And when he got home, Lord Cambridge promised his cousin, he would explain in exacting detail how Philippa’s match had been obtained. He went on to say that he was both amazed and delighted by the birth of his namesake and his namesake’s twin. But he did hope that, now that the laird of Claven’s Cam had five legitimate sons, he would be content, and Rosamund would take the precautions he knew she was aware of to prevent future children for whom provision would have to be made. Then he went on to say he would be bringing with him a secretary he had poached from the court, one William Smythe, who he believed would be most valuable to them and their commercial enterprise. He was eager, he wrote, to return home. Court no longer held the same luster for him as it once had. He closed by sending her his love.

Laying the quill aside Thomas Bolton considered if he had left anything out of his missive, but deciding he had not, he folded the parchment, sealed it, and pressed his signet ring into the hot wax. It would have to do. He had more important tasks ahead. The betrothal papers must be drawn up, the date for the signing set at the royal convenience. And his darling girl must have two new gowns: one for the betrothal ceremony, and the second for her wedding day. He began to consider fabrics and color. The door to his library opened, and William Smythe entered.

“I have just learned of your return, my lord,” he said, and then spying the folded letter on the desk, he continued. “I would have written your letter for you.”

“ ’Tis for Rosamund, Will, and I prefer to write her myself.”

“The messenger is outside, my lord. These Scotsmen must have arses like leather, for while he ate I could see naught beneath his kilts but a pair of rather large balls,” the secretary told his master.

“I am curious as to how you obtained a peek, dear Will, but I shall not embarrass you with my query. Send the man in, please,” Lord Cambridge said with a small grin.

The Hepburn clansman was known to Thomas Bolton. He bowed and waited.

“You and your horse will rest the remainder of the day, Tam. Eat your fill, and sleep. My cook will give you food for your journey tomorrow. You will carry this message to my cousin the Lady Rosamund at Claven’s Cam. Your master is well?”

“Aye,” the clansman said. “And right pleased wi’ his two new lads. His lady is a good breeder, she is, my lord.” Tam grinned broadly.

Lord Cambridge nodded. “Five sons should be enough for your master,” he noted dryly.

“Och, my lord, a man can nae have too many sons,” was the reply. Then the clansman bowed. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, picking up the folded parchment. “I’ll see this delivered safe.” Then he bowed again, and left the room.

“Will, send for the mercer. I will want to choose fabric for my darling girl’s wedding gown.”

“At once, my lord,” the secretary said, and departed the library.

Thomas Bolton closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. The day was but half over, and he was absolutely exhausted. It was obvious that what he had written to Rosamund was truth. He had simply not the stamina for court any longer. Court was for young creatures like Philippa. He wondered what she was doing now.

Philippa was speaking with her sister Banon as they separated colored threads in the queen’s workbasket. “Have you kissed Neville?” she wanted to know.

“Of course,” Banon replied. “How was I to know if I could tolerate him if I did not kiss him? He kisses well in comparison to the others I have kissed,” she concluded.

“You kissed other lads?” Philippa sounded shocked.

“Oh, sister, you can be such a prude.” Banon laughed. “Much of the fun of being a girl is getting to kiss the lads. I know that you kissed none until the FitzHugh boy deserted you. And now that you are to wed with the earl of Witton you cannot kiss any lest you spoil your chances, and shame the earl.”

“I have done my share of kissing,” Philippa said. “Enough to know that the earl kisses very well, Banon.”

“You have already kissed him?” Banon was surprised, given her oldest sister’s reticence.

Philippa nodded. “I would swear that my toes curled, Banie,” she said.

Banon giggled, and then she replied, “Just think, Philippa, this time next year we will both be married women with big bellies. Mayhap you will have even delivered by then. Imagine! We will be mothers, Philippa.”

“Because we are wed does not necessarily mean we will be enceinte at once,” Philippa told her sister.

“Mama says that every time Logan drops his trews she finds herself with another bairn in her belly,” Banon confided. “I will admit that our stepfather is a fine figure of a man. I wonder it took mama so long to wed him.”

“Mama loved another man,” Philippa said. “I do not believe you can so easily get over the kind of love she and Lord Leslie had, Banon.”

The days were much longer now, and the air was warming. The gardens were beginning to green up, and the court was looking forward to its May move to Greenwich. The queen’s nephew, the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, would visit England before the meeting with King Francois of France. He would be returning home to Spain following his coronation as emperor at Aachen in Germany. Katherine wanted her husband and her nephew on good terms. She far preferred a strong alliance with Spain and the empire to one with France, but she was to be disappointed in her hope.

Much to her irritation the king regrew his beard because he had been told that King Francois had a fine beard of which he was very proud. Katherine did not like her husband with a beard.

“I do it to honor France’s king,” Henry Tudor said. “Remember that his son will one day husband our daughter. Mary will be France’s queen as well as England’s. What a coup, Kate! Imagine our little girl queen of two such great nations.”

“Indeed,” the queen said, but her voice definitely lacked enthusiasm. She had not wanted a betrothal with France, and she did not want a meeting with them. She wanted her daughter aligned with Spain, and she knew England could not be ally to both.

The betrothal papers would be signed on Philippa’s birthday, with the wedding to follow on the next day. She had been allowed more latitude in her service to the queen in order to prepare for these two important events in her life. And she was allowed to meet with the earl of Witton more frequently now. Philippa still thought him arrogant, but Lord Cambridge had laughed at this assessment.

“The difficulty, I believe, is that you are both alike,” he told her.

“That is not so!” Philippa declared vehemently.

“Come, darling girl, and choose the fabric for your betrothal day,” he coaxed her.

“The violet silk brocade,” she told him. “That particular shade is flattering to my hair, I believe. And I shall have the ivory silk brocade for my wedding gown with an underskirt of that ivory and gold velvet brocade. And matching French hoods and veils, uncle. Am I being too greedy?”

“Nay, darling girl, not at all, but while the hoods can be made for you, you will not need them either day, for your hair must be left loose as befits your maiden state.”

“Banie must have a new gown too,” Philippa said.

“And so she shall. I think that rich rose velvet most flattering to your sister,” he replied. “Remember she will have new gowns when we return north, for she will soon be a bride too, darling girl.” He stood up. “And now that we have settled these most important details, I shall return you to the palace with the earl. Was he too distressed that we would not allow him with us while we considered this important decision?”

“He said he suspected you were far more suited to the task than he was, and besides he said there is something about not seeing the bride’s gown before the wedding,” Philippa answered, and she stood up. “Thank you, Uncle Thomas. I know I shall be the most beautiful bride at court thanks to you.” Then kissing his cheek, she curtseyed and left him to join Crispin St. Claire, who awaited her in the hall of Bolton House.

They left the house, and walked through Lord Cambridge’s garden down to where the barge awaited them. The earl was becoming used to the marble statues of the well-endowed young men set about the garden, and Philippa seemed not to notice them at all. Settling themselves, they sat back as the barge skimmed down the river back to Richmond.

He put his arm about her shoulders, and she leaned her head against him. “You grow most used to me,” he said teasingly.

“Since we are to be wed, I suppose I ought to,” she replied.

He tilted her face up to his, and kissed her a long slow kiss. Her lips were like rose petals, soft and perfumed beneath his own. His hand caressed her breasts for the first time, and Philippa stiffened, drawing away, startled.

“What are you doing?” she said, and there was a nervous edge in her voice.

“What it is my right to do,” he told her quietly.

“You promised you would wait,” she reminded him. “Wait until we got to know one another better.”

“Do you think that one day we will simply awaken, and know one another better, Philippa? We are to be married in just a few weeks’ time. We become familiar with one another not just by innocent kissing, but by touching as well.” His fingers tightened on her chin. “You are very lovely, and I find I am beginning to consider the delights of possessing you completely. We cannot wait forever. Our families will expect you to produce an heir within a reasonable amount of time.”

“Have you made love to other women?” she asked him.

“Of course, Philippa. No healthy man is celibate at thirty,” he told her.

“Were they whores? Or were they noblewomen?” she pressed.

The question surprised him, but he answered her candidly. “Some were whores, but also noblewomen as well. And in my youth, girls on my estate who were willing. I have never forced a woman.”

“Do you have any bastards, my lord?” Her look was curious.

“Two little girls,” he surprised her by saying. “I give their mothers a yearly stipend, Philippa, and will continue to do so when we are wed.”

“Then you are experienced in the amatory arts, my lord,” she said.

“Aye, I am well skilled,” he told her. “Now, madame, enough of your questions.”

“The boatmen,” she said, pointing to the four stout men before them.

“... do not have eyes in the back of their heads nor can they see through the curtains,” he responded with a chuckle. His arm tightened about her, and he looked down into her face. Her eyes had grown very large as his hand began to smooth itself over her gown. Her clothing was a most distinct barrier to his rising passion, but the barge was not the place to unlace her bodice, he thought. Instead he bent his head and kissed the soft swell of her bosom as it rose above the neckline of her gown. Her scent, lily of the valley, was utterly intoxicating, and his senses spun as the fragrance filled his nostrils.

For a moment as his mouth touched the soft flesh Philippa didn’t think she could breathe. The gentle but firm kisses he pressed onto her unresisting form made her heart beat rapidly and her head spin with excitement. She felt the tips of her breasts harden. She didn’t want him to stop. But she was not certain he should be doing this. Should he? She had seen her stepfather fondle her mother in such a fashion when they were not aware they were being observed, but they had been wed. She had no one to ask about such things. Her mother was far away, and her only friends were not at court any longer.

“Philippa, what is the matter?” the earl asked her. He was cupping one side of her face with his big hand.

“I have been told that a man wishing his own way with a maid will swear that what he is doing is acceptable,” she said. “I have also been told that a man who obtains cream from the cow for naught is less apt to purchase the creature. I have kept my reputation by being chaste, my lord, not by allowing myself to be fondled in a barge.”

“I am relieved to learn it,” he answered her seriously. “It would make me most uncomfortable to learn that you had an unsavory reputation, Philippa. I may assume then that there is nothing in your girlish past that would disturb me should I learn of it.”

“You are making fun of me,” she pouted.

“Nay, I am merely inquiring of you as you have just inquired of me,” he told her, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Nothing at all?”

“My character cannot be faulted,” she said haughtily. Why did he look as if he wanted to burst out laughing?

“Yet I have heard the tale of the Canted Tower from your own lips,” the earl said mischievously. “Now let me see if I can recall it. Some young ladies and some young gentlemen were caught playing a rather naughty game by the king himself.”

“I had had too much wine to drink!” Philippa protested. “It is not in my nature to overimbibe or be risque, my lord. And most of the court was gone so there was no scandal.”

“Lord Cambridge found it very amusing, as did I.”

“There was nothing funny about it, my lord! My behavior was shameful, and only the timely arrival of the king prevented me from a worse fault,” Philippa cried. “Why do you fling this indiscretion in my face now?”

“Philippa, Philippa! You are an innocent young girl whose heart was broken. You were made the butt of many jests in your plight. Finally you reacted with what for you was inappropriate behavior, but I know that is not your nature. And it was not so dreadful a sin you committed. I tease you because I am shortly to be your husband, and I want to make gentle love to you, but you resist me.” He caressed her face. “Do not resist me, Philippa. I mean you no harm.”

She put her head against his shoulder, and began to weep. “I want to be loved by the man who caresses and kisses me,” she said piteously. “You do not love me. You want Melville.”

“Aye, I do, and you are correct when you say I don’t love you. How can I? I barely know you, Philippa. And you hold me off in your shyness. We are to be married soon, and it would not be honorable to steal the cow’s cream if I didn’t mean to buy the beast.” He held her against him, his hand now stroking her back.

She sniffled softly. The big hand caressing her was very comforting. Even if he didn’t love her he was kind, she thought. “Kissing,” she said. “It is all I know.”

“And you do it very well,” he told her.

“I have heard of touching, but I have not listened closely. And I have never allowed any man to touch me. The incident at the Canted Tower was foolish, but fate prevented anything untoward from happening, my lord.”

“We all have some incident in our youth that we would rather not discuss or recall, Philippa,” he told her. “Now dry your eyes, and we will kiss and make up.”

She pulled a small lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, and mopped her face with it before restoring it to its place. “I don’t think I want to kiss you now,” she told him. “You have mocked and teased me, my lord. You must be kinder to me.”

In a single swift move Crispin St. Claire swept Philippa into his arms in a low embrace that left her helpless to his will. “I do not believe for one moment, my dear Philippa, that your feelings are damaged by our conversation. But you are behaving like a silly little court ninny. That is not what I want in a wife. I want the girl you really are. The one with wit and intellect. Now I have given you my word that I should not rush you along passion’s path, but we will be wed in a few weeks’ time, and I will delay no longer than that, Philippa. So if you do not wish to be shocked upon our wedding night, I should suggest you learn to accept my embraces now.” He kissed her, a hard kiss. “You have no idea how delicious, how delightful, passion and lust can be when it is unbridled. I will not allow you to indulge in the queen’s Spanish moral reticence.” He kissed her again. “I will have you warm and naked in our bed, Philippa. I will fondle you at my leisure, and you will not close your eyes and say your rosary when I do, but you will sigh with the pleasure I offer you.” He kissed her again, now a slow, deep kiss that left her breathless. “We will join our bodies as the God who created us intended us to do. You will cry out with the joy our mutual desire gives you, and you will beg for more.” His hand now smoothed over her bodice, fondling her young breasts. “Now say ‘Yes, Crispin,’ ” he commanded her in a low and fierce voice.

“No! I will fight you!” she declared.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because ... because ...”

“You have no reason, Philippa. You will belong to me, but I will belong to you.”

“I could hate you!” she whispered.

“But you won’t,” he told her, and he kissed her a final time before sitting her up again. “You’re very pretty when you are confused,” he told her.

“You are so arrogant!” she told him half angrily.

“And you are utterly adorable in your confusion,” he assured her, grinning.

The barge bumped the palace quay, and Philippa was aided in disembarking.

“I must rejoin the queen now,” she said, and hurried away from him.

He watched her go, amused by their encounter, but he had meant what he said. She was like a finely bred and unbroken young mare. But he would break her to his bit. He was not in the least sorry that they were to marry. She was going to make a fine countess of Witton. He entered the palace seeking out some gentlemen with whom to play cards, and to his surprise he encountered his eldest sister as he walked through a gallery. “Marjorie!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I am told you are finally to marry, and I must learn it from a friend down from court. I came up to London as soon as I could. Who is she, and why have you kept it a secret from me? Does Susanna know?”

He took his sister’s hands in his and kissed them both. “I have hardly had a moment to myself, Marjorie, since I decided. The betrothal papers will be signed on the twenty-eighth, and we will wed on the thirtieth.”

“Who is she?” his sibling demanded. “I am told she is a maid of honor.”

“Her name is Philippa Meredith,” he began.

“Meredith? Meredith? I do not recognize the name. Who are her people?” his sister wanted to know.

“Come and sit with me,” he invited her, and ushered her into an alcove where two chairs were set. “Her father was Sir Owein Meredith. He served the Tudors from the time he was a small child until the Venerable Margaret herself arranged his marriage with the heiress to Friarsgate, Rosamund Bolton.”

“Bolton? ’Tis a northern name, Crispin. They are absolutely uncivilized, those northerners. Surely you could do better than that?” Lady Marjorie Brent looked askance at her brother. She was an extremely beautiful woman, with light blue eyes and deep brown hair. “Her dower will have to be excellent to overcome her deficiencies.”

He laughed. “You are going to be very surprised when you meet Philippa. Her mother lived at court as a girl. She gained the friendship of both Queen Katherine and Queen Margaret. That is why Philippa was given a position in the queen’s household. Her highness is most fond of Philippa Meredith. And as for her dower, it is rich enough to be almost obscene, and it includes Melville, dear sister.”

“Ahh,” Lady Marjorie Brent said, “so that is the attraction the girl has for you, Crispin. Well, I cannot fault you for wanting Melville, but could you have not purchased it, and married better?”

“I am not a wealthy man, Marjorie,” he reminded her. “And her cousin, who is her guardian here in London, would not sell the property for any price.”

“Oh,” his sister laughed, “you paid his price alright, little brother.”

“It was time for me to wed, and Philippa is lovely. You will like her. She is mannerly, and a consummate courtier, Marjorie,” he told his sister.

“I shall reserve my judgment, Crispin,” she told him. “I have sent for Susanna to come from Wiltshire. You cannot wed until we have both met this girl.”

“I have told you the wedding is set for the thirtieth of the month,” he said.

“Why such unseemly haste? Have you already lain with the wench, and put a child in her belly? Did she entrap you in this way, brother?”

He laughed aloud. “Philippa is almost overly chaste, Marjorie. The marriage is being celebrated quickly because Philippa will go with the queen to France this summer. The only way I could remain with her, for you know that only the highest will be chosen to accompany the summer progress, was to marry her. The queen promised I should go with them then, for her heart is soft and she would not separate a newly married couple.”

“Hmmm,” his sister said.

“With luck she will return enceinte, and I will have an heir by this time next year,” the earl said. “Isn’t that what you and Susanna want to see?”

“Well, I certainly do,” Lady Marjorie said. “As for Susanna, I think she always anticipated you choosing her second son for your heir should you not wed. I believe she has almost counted upon it.”

“And you did not consider my title for your son?” he teased her.

“My lad has his own title. He did not need another,” Lady Marjorie said dryly.

“Can you be certain this girl is fertile and capable of bearing children?”

“Her mother has birthed five sons and three daughters by two of her husbands,” he told his sister. “Only one of the lads died.”

“ ’Tis most promising, Crispin,” his sister said thoughtfully. “I am beginning to feel more reassured by what you have told me.”

“The king will witness the betrothal signing,” he said, knowing this would impress her even more.

“No!” Lady Marjorie exclaimed. “You are telling me the girl is that important?”

“She is not important, but both the king and the queen have known her mother since their shared childhoods, and the friendship has never been broken. Philippa’s uncle asked both the monarch and his wife for their blessing on this union between me and Philippa. It was freely given, sister.”

“Well, perhaps I need not have come up from Devon after all,” Lady Marjorie Brent said, “but since I am here I may as well remain until your union is celebrated.”

“Where are you sheltering?” her brother asked.

“I thought to find a place here in the palace, Crispin.”

“Nay, there is too much going on with preparations for the summer progress to France, and the queen’s nephew, the emperor, arriving at the end of May. You will stay at Bolton House with me. It is owned by Philippa’s cousin, Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge. You will find him a most hospitable gentleman, Marjorie, and Susanna will stay as well.”

“There will be room enough?”

“Aye, and knowing how you love your food, sister, I am happy to tell you that Tom Bolton’s cook is a marvel. He travels with his master from Cumbria to London to the Greenwich house,” the earl said.

“The more I learn of this girl’s background the more I am pleased, Crispin. Will her parents be here for the marriage celebration? I am most anxious to meet them.”

“Sir Owein is long dead, I fear, and Philippa’s mother has just recently been delivered of twin sons, Marjorie. But one of her sisters is here at court in service to the queen as well. She will shortly wed a Neville. She is Lord Cambridge’s heiress.”

“Perhaps this is not a bad match after all, Crispin,” his sister opined. “The St. Claire family is an old one, but we have never been particularly distinguished in the history of our country. We are in fact rather dull. We have always obeyed the law of the land, and I believe the only time we took a stand against a ruling monarch was with the other barons against King John. We remained clear of the Lancaster/York squabbles, and supported the Tudors when they took the throne.”

“All of which has allowed us to survive as a family,” he said quietly. “And while we are not rich, neither are we poor.”

“I should have trusted to your judgment, Crispin,” Lady Marjorie Brent said, “but since I am now here I shall make the best of it.”

“The queen has been generous to Philippa, allowing her more time away from her duties recently. You will pay your respects this evening, and meet Philippa then,” he told his sister. “And then I shall bring you back to Bolton House. Lord Cambridge may come to court today, or not.”

Thomas Bolton did come to court that day. He had departed his house and taken the smaller of his barges, the one he had had built for Rosamund long ago, into London, where he had seen his goldsmith first, and then visited his tailor and the tailor’s wife, who was a seamstress of extraordinary talent. It was the tailor’s wife who would be sewing the gowns for Philippa’s betrothal and wedding day, as well as Banon’s new gown. He was then rowed to the palace, and for some reason he did not dismiss the smaller barge and send it home.

In the queen’s antechamber he found the earl of Witton with an older woman, and was introduced. “Madame,” he told Lady Marjorie, “I knew your husband once. I was devastated when he wed, but seeing you I can understand his eagerness to leave the court behind.” He kissed Lady Marjorie’s hand while smiling his most endearing smile.

She was instantly charmed with him. “You are too kind, my lord,” she gushed.

He smiled at her again. “Have you met my cousin Philippa Meredith yet, madame?” he asked her, still holding her hand.

“I am to shortly,” she told him, smiling back, and more than well aware that he had not yet released her hand. What a delightful man he was, she thought.

“She is a dear girl, madame, and if I may be permitted to say it, she will make your brother a fine countess,” he murmured.

“Everything Crispin has told me reassures me,” Lady Marjorie said.

The door to the queen’s privy chamber opened. Philippa hurried out and over to them. “Is everything alright?” she asked. “One of the pages said you needed to see me, my lord,” she addressed the earl.

“This is my sister, Lady Marjorie Brent,” the earl of Witton said. “She has surprised me by coming up from Devon, where she lives. She had heard of our betrothal through a friend just returned from court.”

“Had you not written to your sisters, my lord? That is most bad of you, and our wedding to be celebrated so soon,” Philippa gently scolded him, curtseying.

“Oh, dear Philippa, that is so typical of my brother, but I can see that you have manners,” Lady Marjorie said. She embraced the girl warmly. “May I welcome you to our family.”

“I thank you, madame,” Philippa replied. “I regret that I have so little time to give you, but alas, my duties must come first.”

“My dear Philippa, I completely understand,” Lady Marjorie said.

“Then you must excuse me,” Philippa replied, curtseying once again, and turning away to hurry back to the queen.

“Wait,” Tom Bolton said to the girl, who turned questioningly. “You must come home tomorrow afternoon, for the seamstress will be there to begin your two gowns. Bring Banon with you, darling girl.”

Philippa nodded, and then was gone.

“You will stay with me, of course,” Lord Cambridge said to Lady Marjorie.

“How kind you are,” she replied, not mentioning that her brother had already asked her, but then it was not his house, was it?

“I cannot imagine being anything but kind to you,” Lord Cambridge murmured, and Lady Marjorie tittered, well pleased. “If your business here is finished, dear lady, then perhaps you will accompany me back to Bolton House in my barge. Crispin, dearest boy, the small barge will be here for you.” He took Lady Marjorie’s arm and led her off.

Crispin St. Claire, watching them go, was hard-pressed not to laugh. He was not certain exactly what kind of man Thomas Bolton was, although he had his suspicions, but Lord Cambridge had obviously sized up his sister, and knew just how to handle her. The earl wondered if his host really knew his brother-in-law. He decided he would not ask. The answer might prove too disconcerting.