Philippa (Friarsgate Inheritance #3)

Chapter 15

T heir brief time at Brierewode was a revelation to Philippa. Her mother’s lands were vast in comparison with her husband’s, even with the addition of the Melville properties that she had brought Crispin as part of her dowry. Brierewode was far more civilized as well. Where Friarsgate had huge meadows and fields, Brierewode’s small fields were neatly tilled and planted. The meadows where the earl’s cattle grazed were enclosed by low hedges as a means of keeping the beasts from roaming. This new enclosure of pastures was raising a number of eyebrows, and in some cases causing outright disagreements between landowners, but the earl seemed to have no difficulty with any of his neighbors over it.

And the area was far more civilized than she had anticipated a country estate would be. Philippa was pleased. Any time she had to spend at Brierewode would not be dull. They had near neighbors, Crispin told her. It would be a fine place to raise the children that they would have. And there was the difficulty, for Philippa could find no way to explain to Crispin that her service to Queen Katherine came before all else in her life. The Merediths had a history of service to the Tudors. It was just that simple.

To her surprise Philippa had found a letter from her mother awaiting her at Brierewode. In it her mother included a recipe for preventing conception should she wish it. Enclosed had been a packet of wild carrot seeds, the brew’s main ingredient.

“I don’t know if the priest here would approve what you’re doing,” Lucy fretted. “It’s your duty to give the earl an heir, my lady, and I know I’m bold to say it, but it is!”

“Mama takes the brew,” Philippa said.

“Your mama has done her duty by both your da and the laird,” Lucy shot back.

“It’s only until we get back from France,” Philippa replied.

“Oh, you plan on giving up the Christmas revels, and your position at court?” Lucy inquired innocently.

Philippa’s eyes narrowed. “Are you unhappy in my service, Lucy?” she asked sweetly. “Would you like to return to the wilds of Cumbria perhaps?”

But Lucy had served her mistress long enough to know the threat was an idle one, and so she countered, “You would ask me to endanger my immortal soul, my lady?”

Philippa stamped her foot. “If my mother sent this to me, then she wants me to use it. Would you question the lady of Friarsgate? Annie would never question mama.”

“Well, I ain’t my sister!” Lucy said. Then she sighed. “Alright then, until we get back from France, my lady. You’re fortunate he ain’t got you with child by now. He’s a vigorous husband, I can see.”

Philippa blushed. “How can you see?” she demanded.

“You sleep side by side, and I’m the one that straightens your bed every morning,” Lucy replied with a grin. “Those bedclothes are well rumpled more nights than not.”

“Your eyes are too sharp, and your nose too long,” Philippa answered sharply.

“I’ll make the brew for you,” Lucy promised. “You won’t need it, however, until your monthly courses are run now, my lady. That’s what the letter says.”

“Sometimes I regret ever teaching you to read,” Philippa muttered. Then she added, “And not a word to my husband, or anyone else. Agreed?”

Lucy nodded. “If the earl knew, he’d pack me off to Cumbria himself,” she said. “I like the south even as you do, my lady. If I went home they’d marry me off to some farmer’s son, and I’d live in the north forever. Like I said, I ain’t my sister, and content to look after a man and her bairns. Ever since that first trip we took together to Edinburgh when you was just a little girl I’ve had an itchy foot like you.”

“But when I have children, Lucy, we will be stuck here at Brierewode,” Philippa said wickedly, but Lucy was not in the least disquieted by her mistress’s words.

“Now, my lady, you and I both know that once you have given the earl an heir or two you will cajole him into letting you go right back to court. So go to France, come home and do your duty, and all will be well,” Lucy said sensibly.

Philippa nodded. “Did you know that Uncle Thomas has hired us a ship to go to France? We’ll sail with the royal fleet, and the queen has asked me to take along several of her maids of honor. And we will have our own pavilion and not have to beg for sleeping space.”

“Well, at least we’ll be comfortable in that foreign place,” Lucy said dubiously. “I ain’t never been in a sailing ship, my lady. Will we be out of sight of the land?”

“I don’t know,” Philippa said. “I’ve never been to France myself.”

“Well, I suppose if Annie, my sister, can cross the water in a sailing ship I can too,” Lucy finally decided. “I ain’t going to like it, but I’ll do it.”

Philippa rode across her husband’s estates, and found herself relaxing with each passing day. It had been a long time since she had been away from the court. Crispin was diligent in his duties to both his lands and his wife. Philippa had to admit that she enjoyed the time spent in his arms. She had never really considered what this side of marriage would be like, but she was learning that she liked it. She liked it very much. She was almost sorry to realize their time at Brierewode was coming to an end, but they had to get to Dover to join the court.

The queen’s nephew, who was both king of Spain and the new Holy Roman Emperor, would be coming just before they departed for France. Those of the court invited on the summer progress to France would be expected to be at Dover in time to greet Charles V. The emperor was just twenty, the son of Queen Katherine’s deceased sister, and he had never met his aunt. He and the French king did not get on at all, for Francois, like Henry, had hoped to be elected Holy Roman Emperor. The honor, however, had gone to Charles of Spain.

They departed Brierewode on a rainy May morning. Philippa was more rested than she had been in years, and she was very excited. “We shall see you in the late autumn,” she told Mistress Marian, her housekeeper, “before we return to court for the Christmas revels. I know Brierewode is safe in your capable hands.”

The housekeeper nodded and smiled. It was difficult to be annoyed with Philippa. She was charming and mannerly. But all this traveling about! When was the lady going to remain home and do what was expected of her? “God speed you, my lady, my lord,” she murmured politely.

They traveled directly down to London, stopping at Bolton House where Lucy, who had gone before them, was waiting with Philippa’s trunks packed and ready.

“Wait until you see the gowns Lord Cambridge had made for you,” she whispered excitedly to her mistress. “And suits for his lordship as well. I’ve packed them in a separate trunk. And I’ve taken your jewels from the secret place. ’Tis going to be such a grand event. Everyone is talking about it. Supper will be simple, for it’s me doing the cooking. Everyone else has gone with his lordship back to Otterly, and the extras were paid and sent on their way.”

“Serve the supper then in our apartments,” Philippa said to her tiring woman. Then she sighed. “I suppose with none to haul water I can have no bath. I’m already filthy with our travel.”

“I can do a little tub in the kitchens, my lady,” Lucy said.

“And Peter and I will carry the water from the kitchen well,” the earl said, coming upon them and hearing his wife’s conversation.

“Oh, thank you, my lord!” Lucy dimpled.

Crispin St. Claire slid an arm about his new wife. “I shall remain to scrub your back, madame,” he told her with a leer.

“And I will scrub yours, for you shall share the water with me, my lord,” she replied. “We have been wed long enough for me to recognize that look in your eye, and I’ll not lie with a man stinking of horses and the road.”

“How fastidious you are, madame,” he teased her. “I have never known such a woman for bathing, but I will admit you smell better than any woman I have ever known.” He kissed the top of her head. “We may not be so fortunate in France.”

“Wherever I am, Crispin, I will have my bath,” she told him. “I know how many of my companions use scent to cover up their stink, but my nose is sharp. When we first were introduced I knew you bathed more than twice a year with water and soap.”

He grinned. “I’ll begin fetching the water,” he told her, letting her go. “Peter!”

Lucy directed them to fill two large cauldrons which she then swung over the fire. “It will be a while before the water is hot enough for you,” she said.

“Then let us eat here,” Philippa decided. “It will save you the trouble of bringing it upstairs to us. We’ll eat now before we bathe. What of the men-at-arms and the coachman? They must be fed too.”

“ ’Tis done. Peter and I took their meal out to the stables just a while ago,” Lucy responded. “We’re all eating the same tonight. Venison stew. I made two pots with what was left in the larder. Arranged it with his lordship’s cook before we went to Oxfordshire at the beginning of the month.” She bustled about, putting pewter plates and mugs upon the big kitchen table. She pulled a large loaf of bread from the warming oven and put it, with a board, a knife, and a crock of sweet butter, on the table. Then looking to the earl’s manservant she snapped, “Peter! Get that jug of cider from the larder, and fill the goblets.” Taking up a small cauldron she ladled stew into the two dishes. It was rich with a winy gravy that embraced the chunks of venison, the leeks, and the carrots in it.

“Sit down, sit down,” the earl invited the two servants. “There’s no sense in you waiting. The food will get cold, and cold venison stew is not pleasant to eat.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Peter said as Lucy added two more plates and mugs to the far end of the table, and filled the plates with stew.

They ate, and Philippa could hear the water for their baths beginning to boil up in their cauldrons. She mopped the remaining gravy from her plate and waited patiently for the others to finish. When they had, Peter stood up.

“I’ll fill the tub for you, my lady,” he told her.

“And I’ll make certain the temperature is just right,” Lucy said as she gathered up the plates and mugs and took them to the stone sink to be washed. “My lord, if you do not mind, a bucket of cool water from the well would be appreciated. Peter, when you’ve got the water in the tub, go to the stables and get the stew pot back from the men.”

Finally all was ready for the bath. Peter had gone, returned, and gone again to the stables where he would keep company with the men-at-arms. Philippa was in her little tub, pleased she was able to wash. It was unlikely she would be able to do so again until they reached France. The earl had sent Lucy away, and now sat watching his wife as she bathed. Philippa had a beautiful young body, and it gave him pleasure just to look at it.

“Ply your brush, my lord,” she suddenly spoke, breaking into his train of thought. “Did you not say you would scrub my back?”

Kneeling next to the tub, he picked up the brush, soaped it, and began to scour her back. “I am sorry this little oak tub is not big enough for us both,” he murmured in her ear, kissing the little curl of flesh. “I like it when we bathe together, Philippa.”

She giggled. “When you bathe with me, Crispin, we seem to become entangled in each other,” Philippa teased him.

“I am going to make love to you tonight,” he said low.

“We must make an early start,” she protested.

“And when will I have the time again once we get to Dover?” he asked her. “And I know how you feel about passion in a public inn.”

“I shall have Lucy bring us an extra pitcher of water tonight,” she said softly. “Now stop, Crispin, or you will have all the skin off of my back.”

He gently laved water over her, rinsing away the heavy lather he had built up. Philippa stood up, and the droplets from her tub sluiced down her lithe body. Reaching out, she wrapped herself in one of the two large towels Lucy had placed on a drying rack by the fire. She stepped from the tub, and his arms wrapped themselves about her.

“Crispin,” she murmured warningly, seeing the bulge between his thighs.

“I don’t choose to wait, little one,” he told her, pulling his shirt off and loosening his other garments. He backed her with his body to the large table where they had just eaten, his hands imprisoning her heart-shaped face between them, kissing her hungrily.

“Crispin!” she protested again. “Lucy and Peter!”

“Peter dices with the men-at-arms, and will sleep in the stables. Lucy is above stairs, and will not return unless called,” the earl told his wife. His manhood was freed now from its constraints, and it was ready to play. He pushed her down, and her legs came up to fasten themselves about his waist. He drove into her in a single smooth motion as her arms went about him, and she sighed. “Ah, countess,” he told her, “you consume me, I fear. No woman has ever entranced me as do you, Philippa.”

She sighed again. “Then it is fortunate I am your wife, Crispin,” she told him. Sweet Mother of God, how he filled her. His bare skin crushing her breasts was almost hot. Her nipples had tightened into hard points, and she arched herself into him. She loved the possession he took of her. It thrilled and overwhelmed her. Philippa’s head fell back, and his mouth began almost at once to press wet, hot kisses on her vulnerable throat. His tongue lapped from the pulse at the base of her neck up beneath her chin. She unlocked her grip about his neck, her hands smoothing down his long back, scoring him with her nails, lightly at first, and then with more vigor as her own ardor increased.

He felt her nails digging into his flesh. Reaching back, he took her hands and pulled her arms over her head, pinioning them there. “Would you mark me, little one?” he growled in her ear, and then his tongue teased the delicate flesh. His hips did all the work now, thrusting forwards and backwards, driving himself deep into her, enjoying the little mewling cries that had begun to issue forth from her throat. He could feel the very faint trembling beginning from within her, but he wasn’t ready yet. He drew back slowly, and held himself still.

“Oh, Crispin, don’t!” she pleaded. “I need it! I need it!”

“In a moment, little one,” he promised her, and his mouth found her sweet lips, brushing them gently at first, and then kissing her with a fierce and demanding yearning. He began to move within her once more, feeling himself so swollen that he actually ached with the pleasure being inside of her gave him.

Philippa had thought she would die of the unfulfilled longing that had swept over her when he had briefly stopped. Then he had kissed her, and she was quickly lost in her own desire for him. The storm began to once more brew. It burgeoned and swelled until it finally burst over them both, and he collapsed breathless atop her. Suddenly she could feel the hard wood of the table beneath her shoulders, her back, and her buttocks. Philippa began to laugh. “Get off me, you great beastie!” she told him. “Your wicked games have made it necessary for me to get back in the tub again.” She pushed at him.

Crispin groaned. He was drained. His limbs felt like jellies. She pushed at him again, and he managed to pull himself up. “God’s boots, woman,” he complained at her, “you weaken me to the point of exhaustion with your constant demands.”

“My demands?” Philippa sat up, and then she slid from the table. “My lord, you are mistaken, I fear. ’Tis your demands that are so insatiable!”

“Nay,” he insisted. “Now, countess, just look at those adorable little breasts of yours. They plead with me to be caressed.” He bent his ash brown head and kissed one of her nipples. “Do you not see? It is pointing at me, for I see no other here it points to, do you, madame?” He was grinning at her.

“You are a wicked man, my lord earl,” she scolded him, but she was smiling. Then she pushed past him, and climbing back into the small tub she sat down and washed herself free of any residue of their shared passions. Then standing up again she instructed him, “Bring that smaller cauldron of water, for the bath is too cool to be comfortable for you.” She stepped from the tub and began to dry herself off again.

He reheated the little tub and then, pulling the remainder of his clothing off, he climbed in and began to wash himself. When he had finished she helped him dry himself. He donned his shirt, and she was already in her chemise. Gathering up their clothing they walked upstairs past the lovely hall, and climbed a second flight of steps up to their bedchamber.

“Call Lucy, and tell her to go to bed,” he whispered to her.

She nodded. “But remember we must leave at the very hour of dawn,” Philippa said. She drew back the coverlet for him, taking the shirt before he entered their bed. Then she called Lucy, and bid her go to bed. “We depart early,” she reminded her tiring woman. “But put the tub away before you sleep,” she concluded.

Lucy nodded. “I’ll see to it, and then lock the kitchen door. Peter is in the stables with the others for the night, my lady. Good night. Good night, my lord.” Then she was gone, and Philippa could hear her footsteps hurrying off down the corridor.

“Come to bed,” Crispin called sleepily.

Philippa drew off her chemise and laid it aside before climbing in with her husband. She smiled when he wrapped his arms about her. He was already sleepy, she knew, and sure enough the earl was shortly snoring. But in the dark hours of the night he awoke, and made passionate love to her before falling asleep again.

“Won’t be able to do that again until we reach France,” he murmured in her ear.

“The king and the queen would be shocked by your lust, my lord,” she teased him, but Philippa had thought it too. In the past few weeks she had become less prudish about their coupling. It had been from the very beginning a pleasurable experience lying with her husband. Obviously the queen did not find it so, although she had certainly never said it. How sad, Philippa considered. She wondered if every woman had such delight in bedsport with her husband.

The next day dawned fair, and they saw the sunrise on the road to Canterbury. It was the twenty-fourth day of May. The closer they came to the town, the more crowded the roads they traveled became. Finally reaching Canterbury where they would meet up with the court, they found their way to a small inn, the Swan, where Lord Cambridge had thoughtfully arranged for them to stay. But the inn was so crowded that Peter was housed in the stable loft with several other men, and Lucy slept on a trundle bed in her lord and lady’s room.

The emperor had not yet arrived but was expected any day. Philippa reported to the queen, who was pleased to see her.

“You are happy, my child?” she inquired solicitously.

“Very,” Philippa admitted, “but I am ready to serve you, madame.”

“When we return,” the queen said, “I am releasing you from my service. I have women aplenty around me, and you have been as your sire before you, most faithful to the house of Tudor. Now, however, your first duty must be to supply your husband with an heir. No one knows this requirement of a successful marriage better than I do, child.”

“But, madame,” Philippa protested, “I am willing to serve you forever!”

The queen reached out and touched the young woman’s face gently. “I know that, my dear,” she said. “If I have been fortunate in anything, it is the love that both you and your good mother have borne me. But like Rosamund you must now live your own life, not live that life through me. I have allowed you and your husband to come to France with us on this glorious progress as a reward for your faithfulness. But when we return, Philippa, I shall bid you adieu. You will always be welcome at court, but I know that you know your first duty is to provide children for your husband’s family.”

“Ohh, madame, my heart is broken,” Philippa said, and her eyes filled with tears. “I should have never wed if I knew I could no longer serve you.”

“Nonsense! ”The queen laughed softly. “You are not the proper material for the church, despite your passionate declarations last year. Like your mother before you, you are meant to be a wife and a mother yourself. There is nothing else for a woman, Philippa. Now dry your eyes. You are among my prettiest ladies, and I want you to be with us when we greet my nephew’s arrival.”

“Very well, madame,” Philippa replied. When she managed to see her husband later that evening she told him, half angrily, of the queen’s decision.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but the queen does what she thinks is best for you. We are very fortunate to have her friendship, Philippa. If we have a daughter she may one day serve the queen, or Princess Mary.”

“We are still welcome at court,” Philippa answered him. “We will come for the Christmas revels, won’t we?”

“Let us see when we return from France, and from visiting your family in the north, how we feel about it. You could be with child, Philippa, and all that traveling might not be good for you. I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Why?” she said cruelly. “You have the lands you sought.”

“Because I find you are of equal value to me as the lands,” he told her quietly.

She was surprised by his words. “Are you falling in love with me?” she asked him frankly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Our acquaintance is still new. Do you think you could ever love me, Philippa?”

She thought a long moment, and then replied, “I am not certain yet. I have seen what love looks like, how it can raise you to the heights, yet pain you deeply. I thought that I loved Giles FitzHugh but obviously I did not, for his loss is long gone from my memory and my heart. I think if I had really loved him it would not be.”

“But can you love me one day, Philippa?” he repeated.

“I don’t know,” she teased him. “Our acquaintance is still new, Crispin.”

He laughed. “You are not an easy woman,” he told her.

Philippa had wondered if the princess Mary would travel to France with her parents to meet the Dauphin, her betrothed, but learned she would not. The little princess would remain in England keeping royal state at Richmond Palace under the eye of the duke of Norfolk and Bishop Foxe, who would share responsibility for the government as well. She had bid her parents good-bye at Greenwich, going from there to Richmond while her parents had moved towards the coast, staying at Leeds Castle on the twenty-second of May. The king and queen reached Canterbury late in the afternoon of the twenty-fourth of May. Two days later Emperor Charles V arrived with his fleet to a welcoming cannonade from the English fleet awaiting his arrival in the straits of Dover.

Crispin and Philippa had ridden to Dover upon learning that Cardinal Wolsey had been informed of the emperor’s impending arrival. They stood in the crowds on the waterfront watching as Charles V came ashore beneath a cloth of gold canopy that had his badge, a black eagle, upon it. The plump and haughty cardinal in his scarlet robes came forward to meet the emperor, bowing obsequiously, a smile on his lips. They could not hear his words for the noise of the crowds. They knew that Cardinal Wolsey would escort the emperor to Dover Castle where he was to spend the night.

The next day was Whitsunday. The king, having not been informed of his nephew’s arrival as quickly as the cardinal, made a hasty and very early departure for Dover. He was there to greet Charles V as the young emperor descended the staircase that morning. Henry then escorted him back to Canterbury. All along their route the English gathered to cheer both the emperor and their king. They did not like the French.

Upon their arrival in Canterbury the two men entered the cathedral for a high mass of thanksgiving celebrating not simply the church holiday itself, but the emperor’s safe arrival as well. Afterwards Henry showed Charles the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket. The holy relics were displayed: the hair shirt; the saintly archbishop’s cracked skull; the weapon that had done the damage. These, along with several other relics, the king and the emperor kissed devoutly. Then they moved on to Archbishop Warham’s palace where the royal party was staying so that Charles V might at last meet his aunt.

The earl of Witton moved discreetly among the cardinal’s party. His wife was among the queen’s ladies. They made a pretty show hurrying from the hallway to greet the king and the emperor at the palace door. It had, of course, all been planned that way. The ladies then escorted the gentlemen inside and back down the corridor, which was lined with twenty of the queen’s pages garbed in gold brocade and crimson satin. Finally reaching a wide marble staircase, the emperor looked up. There the queen sat, halfway up the marble steps upon a landing, waiting to greet him. She was gowned in ermine-lined cloth of gold robes, and about her neck were several strands of fat pearls. Katherine smiled in welcome. She had not his mother, Joanna’s, beauty. Indeed at this point in her life Katherine of Aragon was plump, matronly. But she was his nearest blood relation next to his mother and his sisters. Reaching her, he took the outstretched hands in his and kissed them lovingly. Katherine wept openly with her joy even as she took him to her heart, and he reciprocated.

The young emperor was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination. Philippa overheard several of the woman remarking on it, and hoped the queen did not. Charles V was twenty. He had a large misshapen jaw that was the most prominent feature of his face. His eyes were a watery blue, and his skin the white of a fish’s belly. His teeth were irregular in a large mouth, and it affected his speech somewhat. But he had grown a handsome beard to help disguise some of his deficiencies. He was nonetheless an intelligent and amusing man. As the lord of the Low Countries he was important to English trade, and while England had always been his firm and fast ally, this sudden attempt at harmony with France concerned the emperor enough that he felt a visit to England, however brief, was necessary. He did not think for one moment that he could change Henry Tudor’s plans, but he knew the French would be very annoyed by his meeting with the English king, even as he knew that Henry was extremely pleased by his visit. The royals and their immediate family adjourned for a private dinner, leaving the members of the court to wander about and find their own meal and entertainment.

Later that day the beautiful dowager queen of Aragon, Germaine de Foix, widow of Katherine’s father, Ferdinand, arrived with sixty of her ladies. That evening there was a large banquet for the court. The king, the emperor, and the three queens, Katherine, Germaine, and Mary Tudor, who had been France’s queen and was now the wife of Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk, sat at the high board. The food was lavish, the wine never stopped flowing, and a merry time was had by all in attendance.

One Spanish count became enamored of one of the queen’s ladies, and wooed her so vigorously with poetry and song that he at last fainted away and was carried from the room. The old duke of Alba, a charming gentleman, demonstrated with others in his party some Spanish dancing. The king, who loved to dance, now led his sister, Mary, onto the floor, and of course the others followed. Philippa defied convention by dancing with her husband first, but the king saw her, and having enjoyed dancing with her previously, took her for his partner for one of the dances.

“My dear countess,” he said with a grin. “Are you used to being called that yet, Philippa?” He lifted her high, and she laughed down into his handsome face.

“Nay, sire, I am not, but I expect in time it will become familiar,” she told him as he placed her back on the floor, and lifting her skirts she pranced by his side.

“How is your mother?” He twirled her about.

“I have heard naught since I learned she birthed twin sons, your majesty,” Philippa answered, dipping and then pirouetting.

“How many lads is that now?” He lifted her up again and swung her about.

“Four, sire,” Philippa replied, dancing gracefully by his side.

“May God grant your husband that you prove as good a breeder,” the king said, and she saw his eyes were troubled.

When the dance was over the king led Philippa to where the queen sat with her nephew. “Kate, my dear, perhaps you will introduce the countess to the emperor.” He kissed Philippa’s hand and moved off to dance again with his sister.

Philippa curtseyed low, her deep blue and silver skirts belling out as she did so.

“I have written to you of the kindness of Rosamund Bolton, Carlos,” the queen began. “This is her eldest daughter, Philippa, countess of Witton. She has served me loyally for the past four years but will retire after the summer progress, for she is newly married, and her duty now is to give her husband’s family heirs. Philippa, my child, may I present the emperor to you.”

Philippa curtseyed once again. “Your majesty,” she said softly.

“Your madre is well, countess?” the emperor asked politely.

“She is, your majesty, and will be honored that you asked,” Philippa responded.

“She is from the north of this country?” the emperor queried.

“Aye, your majesty. She is a landowner and along with Lord Cambridge, a relation, involved in the merchant trade with the Low Countries. Perhaps you have heard of our Friarsgate Blue wool. It is the finest cloth,” Philippa found herself saying.

“It is a very difficult commodity to obtain,” the emperor surprised her by saying. “I have had complaints about that, for it is much in demand, countess.”

“Aye, they control its distribution in order to keep the price high,” Philippa returned. He knew of her mother’s wool. Wait until she told them that at Friarsgate come the autumn!

“Your mother, it would appear, is a clever woman,” the emperor said.

“She is indeed, Carlos,” the queen agreed. Then she said to Philippa in a gentle gesture of dismissal, “I think I see the earl, your husband, seeking for you, my child.”

Philippa curtseyed once more. “Thank you, your highness. Your majesty.” And then she backed away, finally turning about to look for Crispin. She was suddenly aware of her new status. She was no longer plain Mistress Meredith, the queen’s maid of honor. She was the countess of Witton, worthy of being introduced to an emperor. It was quite a revelation.

And then Crispin was at her elbow. “You met the emperor,” he said, and she heard the pride in his voice.

“Aye,” she said, looking up at him. “He knew about my mother’s famous wool. He said he had had complaints from the merchants in the Low Countries of its scarcity. Imagine, Crispin! The Holy Roman Emperor and king of Spain knew about Friarsgate Blue wool. I am astounded.”

“He is young,” the earl answered her, “but I suspect he will be a great man one day, little one. Nothing, it would seem, escapes his notice. Not even Friarsgate Blue.” He chuckled. “It has been quite an evening for you. You danced with the king, and you were introduced to and held a conversation with an emperor.”

“I have danced with the king before,” she said. “He is very demanding, and will only dance with the best dancers.”

“If he dances with you in France you will certainly catch the eye of King Francois,” her husband told her. “Then I shall have to be jealous.”

“Would you? Would you really be jealous?” Philippa demanded, eyes sparkling.

“Aye!” he replied without hesitation. “I should be insanely jealous.”

“Then I shall have to arrange it,” she teased him.

“Be careful, little one,” he warned her. “No lady, it is said, remains chaste at the French court. Tom Boleyn’s daughter, Mary, has been there for several years, and is said to have become a most accomplished whore. King Francois calls her his English Mare, and claims to have ridden her innumerable times to his pleasure.”

“What a terrible thing to claim of the earl of Wiltshire’s daughter!” Philippa cried.

“It would not be said of her were it not so, little one. So be cautious in your dealings with the noblemen of France,” he cautioned her. “I should not like to have to fight a duel over your honor. Not, at least, until you have given me a son or two.”

“Do you think you would not win?” she asked innocently, but her mouth was twitching with amusement.

“Vixen! Would you put some poor Frenchman in danger simply to amuse yourself? I see I may have to correct your behavior one of these days soon.”

“Correct my behavior?” She looked surprised. “How?”

“Have you never been spanked, madame?” he murmured.

“Crispin, you would not dare!” she exclaimed.

“You do not want to try my patience, madame,” he warned her.

“Not today at least,” she teased him.

“Unless you have a good reason for remaining here,” he told her, “we should return to the inn. Did you get enough to eat? It seemed to me that those of us not at the high board or the tables directly below it tonight were stinted.”

Philippa nodded. “The presentation of the dishes was splendid, but I scarce saw a thing upon my plate,” she admitted. “Do you think the innkeeper will have a crust of bread and a rind of cheese he might spare us?” She was smiling.

“Now I can see how you survived at court as a maid of honor,” he said, smiling back. “I think we can do better than a crust and a rind. I was considering a fat capon, strawberries, fresh bread, butter, and a lovely runny Brie cheese, madame.” He escorted her from the hall, and from the bishop’s palace.

She sighed. “It sounds wonderful!” she agreed as they came out onto the streets of the town.

They had walked from the inn earlier, and now they returned the same way. Because of the king’s visit the streets were well lit and patrolled tonight. And they had not far to go. He held her hand, and walking along in the spring night Philippa considered that never before had she strolled hand in hand with a gentleman. Her marriage to Crispin St. Claire was bringing her many new adventures, and she had earlier decided that she liked it. And after tonight she knew that she liked being the countess of Witton. It was much more fun being a countess than just an ordinary girl. Her sisters would simply be pea green with envy when she saw them again and told them. And Banon was only marrying a second son, even if she did love him. And as for Bessie, what could poor Bessie expect with nothing to recommend her but a small dowry? No, it was definitely better to be the countess of Witton.