Philippa (Friarsgate Inheritance #3)

Chapter 18

T hey came home to Brierewode on a warm summer’s day. A bluish haze hung over the hills, and the greenery had that lush, perfect summer fullness about it. When the Field of the Cloth of Gold had ended, the king and the court had retired to Calais where Henry dismissed most of his entourage, sending them home. He and the queen then rode to Gravelines to meet with the Emperor Charles and the Regent Margaret. The four returned to Calais where a treaty was signed between Charles and Henry in which England agreed not to sign any new treaties with France for the next two years. King Francois was not pleased, but there was nothing he could do. Crispin and Philippa had arrived home even before these events had transpired.

They had made the brief voyage from Calais to Dover in the vessel Lord Cambridge had hired for them, along with a dozen minor courtiers who had begged passage in order to return to England quickly. Most were Oxford men that Crispin knew, and he was glad to aid his neighbors. Their trip was even swifter than the last one, for the summer winds blew briskly. Philippa and Lucy sat out upon the deck, for being in the small cabin seemed to encourage seasickness. Crispin and their fellow passengers played at cards and diced to pass the time.

They had departed before dawn, and watched the sun rise over the receding French coast. In Dover their horses were unloaded from the ship, and they began their ride home to Oxfordshire. Something was happening, Philippa realized almost at once. The careful friendly and mannerly relationship she had built up these past two months with her husband seemed to be changing. It had begun in France when he had come upon her after she had heard the assassins. She didn’t understand it. He was more attentive. She caught him gazing at her more times than not now with a tender look in those silvery gray eyes of his that could turn so cold at a moment’s notice. What was happening? Did he love her? Was such a thing even possible between them? And did she love him? She thought she did, but she wasn’t really certain just what being in love with someone entailed. And she could not tell him. If there was one lesson she had learned well at the court, it was that a woman never declared her affections until a gentleman did first.

He made no move to touch her when they went to bed at their roadside inns. When she asked him why, he said it was because he preferred to wait until they were at home. Philippa understood, for their accommodations had not been arranged by Lord Cambridge as he had not known when they would return. Yet she was anxious to see if their bedsport was still as pleasurable as it had previously been. They rode each day until dark, staying at whatever respectable accommodation they found. And then they were at Brierewode once more, and Mistress Marian was surprised, for she had not thought to see them again until the autumn.

Philippa ordered up her bath. She could scarcely wait to bathe, not having been able to do so for many days. And her hair was filthy with the dusty summer roads. Even brushing could not help it. While Lucy was busy preparing the tub out in the dayroom, and the serving men were busy filling it with the hot water, Philippa flung open the casement windows in the bedchamber and leaned out. The air was sweet and fresh with the smells of summer, but the haze on the hills was heavier now. There would be rain by evening. She sighed with the realization that she was glad to be home. She had spent very little time at Brierewode, but aye, it was home. She could feel it in her bones. This was where she would live out her life but for yearly court visits. This would be where her children would be born.

Her children. His children. Their children. But it was not likely there would be any children if she continued to take her mother’s secret draft to prevent conception. Philippa felt a deep stab of guilt. What she was doing was against the church. The queen would be horrified. And yet Philippa had not confessed her sin to a priest. She had continued to claim little sins of this and that, and then open her mouth for the host. It was a wonder it had not choked her, she considered remorsefully. But was she really sorry? She didn’t think she was. Nor did she believe she would ever share her knowledge with the church. She had seen enough women in her time die from too many offspring in too short a time. Nay. Her guilt stemmed not from what she was doing, but from the fact she was not doing her duty by Crispin, who was so good to her and who badly wanted an heir.

There had been a message from Otterly when they had arrived. Lord Cambridge had written that Banon’s wedding was set for September twentieth. He would expect to see them there, and at Friarsgate beforehand. Rosamund was most anxious to meet her new son-in-law. “Your mother has not yet given up the hope that you will have Friarsgate as she has always planned,” Thomas Bolton wrote to the countess of Witton.

If you and Crispin have not changed your minds I am certain that he shall convince Rosamund otherwise, but what she will do then I do not know. Still, she is young enough yet, and there is time for a new heir to be chosen.

It would probably be one of her Hepburn half brothers, Philippa considered. She almost laughed to think what the late Henry Bolton would think of such a thing. Had he not already died, such a plan was more than likely to kill him. She chuckled aloud.

“Bath’s ready,” Lucy said, coming into the bedchamber. “What makes you laugh? It’s a most wicked sound that you made.”

“I was imagining great-uncle Henry’s reaction to one of my Hepburn kinsmen inheriting Friarsgate one day,” Philippa replied.

“So you’re certain, are you, that you really don’t want it,” Lucy said. Her supple fingers unlaced her mistress’s bodice.

Philippa nodded. “Just now gazing out the windows I realized that I had come home at last,” she told her serving woman. “Brierewode is where we belong, Lucy.”

“Aye, and you’ll have no argument from me, my lady This Oxfordshire is a fair land.” She undid the tabs holding the bodice to the skirt, and untied the skirt.

The skirt and its petticoats slid to the carpet, and Philippa stepped out of them even as Lucy drew the bodice off of her mistress. “Wash what can be washed, but those skirts, I think, have seen better days,” Philippa noted with a wry smile.

“I’ll have them cleaned up nonetheless, and you can wear them to travel north rather than waste another garment,” Lucy responded in practical tones.

Philippa sat down, and Lucy drew off the heavy leather shoes her mistress used for riding. “These will need repair, and a good polishing,” she noted as she pulled the stockings from Philippa’s feet. “And these can be burned, for they are worn out from your travels, I can see. There’s a hole in one heel, and another starting in the toe of the other.”

Philippa stood up again and, untying the ribbons of her chemise, shrugged it off. She was quite naked now. She walked from her bedchamber into the dayroom where the tub was set up before the fireplace. Even on a summer’s day a fire burned, taking the damp off of the chamber. Lucy had set towels to warming on a towel rack in front of the hearth. She stooped to gather up her lady’s garments and followed her into the dayroom.

“I’ll take these to the laundress now,” she said, “and be back to help you.”

“Nay,” Philippa said, “wash my hair first. I would make certain there are no fleas or bedbugs in it, for the inns we stayed at coming home were only the ones we could find when it grew dark. I far prefer it when Uncle Thomas makes our arrangements. I intend to write him so our trip north will be a pleasant one.” She climbed up the steps and down into her tub. “Ahhh, the water is deliciously hot, Lucy.”

Lucy dropped her bundle of garments on the floor of the dayroom, and climbing up the steps to the tub she said, “Duck under now, my lady, and I’ll give your head a good scrubbing.” She dipped her hand into the soap jar, scooping out a handful, and placing it on Philippa’s head she began to wash the young woman’s hair. Twice she lathered, and twice she rinsed. Finishing, she wrapped Philippa’s head in a warmed towel. “There, my lady, and not a flea, nit, or bedbug did I find.” Then climbing down she gathered up the clothing on the floor and hurried out.

Philippa closed her eyes. Just having her head washed so thoroughly made her feel good. She heard a faint rumble of thunder and, opening her eyes, looked through the open windows of the dayroom. The skies were darkening now, and it would rain soon. She didn’t care. She was home. Her hair was clean, and her bed tonight would be fresh. The door to the dayroom opened again, and Crispin entered.

Seeing her, he grinned. “I’m going to join you,” he told her, and began stripping off his garments.

“What if Lucy comes back, and sees you naked?” Philippa protested.

“Lucy won’t be back until we call her. I ran into her out in the corridor. And when I pull that bellpull by our bed, madame, she will come with supper for us. I am not of a mind to go into the hall tonight. You are to be my appetizer, wife.” The last of his clothing hit the floor, and he walked towards the tub.

“We’ll overflow the water,” she protested weakly.

“Nay, we won’t,” he replied. “I told the men just how much water to fill.” He climbed up the steps, and then stepped into the water. Yanking Philippa to him he kissed her, a deep and passionate kiss. “We have been too long apart, little one.”

“We have not been apart at all,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

He pulled the towel from her head, and his fingers dug into her scalp. “Aye, we have been apart, madame, but we will not be apart any longer.” He released her head, and his hands dove beneath the water to cup the twin halves of her bottom, lifting her up to impale her upon his love rod. “Now, wife, we are no longer apart,” he growled as her eyes widened with surprise, and he pressed her back against the wooden sides of the tub.

“Oh, my lord!” she exclaimed as he slipped into her love channel. She had not forgotten how marvelous his passion was these last few weeks, but she had forgotten how big he was. He plumbed her to the very depths of her soul, his lean hips moving faster and faster until to her surprise they both cried out.

“God’s wounds, I am a beast!” he groaned. “I had not a damned thought for you. Only my own pleasure. Forgive me, Philippa!”

She laughed weakly. “Crispin, I do not know how ladylike it is of me to admit that despite the swiftness of it all I gained pleasure too.”

“You wanted this too?” he asked.

“Very much, my lord,” she answered him with a small smile. “I have missed our couplings, husband. But we must wash each other first so we may get into bed, and continue this delightful interlude. Then I shall want to eat, and possibly make love again, unless, of course, you are too tired from all our travels,” she concluded teasingly. She unlocked her grip about his neck, her feet touching the bottom of the tub once more.

“Madame, you truly amaze me,” he told her, approval in his eyes.

“I shall wash your hair, for though Lucy found no bugs in mine that does not mean you have escaped unscathed, my lord.” Then Philippa set about to slosh water on his ash brown hair and wash it. When she had finished, she took up the bathing brush and scrubbed his back, his shoulders, and his arms. She took up the soft flannel cloth and, soaping it, wiped it across his broad chest and over his dear face. She washed and she rinsed until she declared him clean. “Now get out, and let me conclude my ablutions, my lord. The towels are warm.”

He obeyed, climbing from the tub, taking up a towel with which to dry himself, and then watching with pleasure as the tips of her breasts bobbed above the water while she scrubbed her back. His mouth yearned to close over those tempting little bits of flesh. He toweled off his head, and then wrapped the fabric about his loins, but it did nothing to disguise the burgeoning lust that was beginning to consume him. He had never wanted any woman in the way that he desired Philippa. Philippa, his adorable little wife! Philippa, who not only burned a fire in his body, but in his heart as well. But how could he tell her, when she gave no evidence that her heart was engaged by his. She was sweet, and biddable. She was faithful to the church, and passionate in their bed. But she gave nothing of her emotions even as she gave so generously of her body. “I will wait for you in our bedchamber,” he said, and disappeared through the door into the other room.

“I will not be long,” she called after him. Holy Mary! she thought. He was so very passionate. Were all men like this? Another question among the many for her mother to answer. And suddenly Philippa knew that she had to go to Friarsgate as soon as possible. If he was passionate, then why did he not love her, and if he did, why did he not declare it? Her mother would surely have the solutions to all her queries. She climbed from her tub, and slowly, carefully, dried herself off. Then sitting by the fire, she rubbed her hair with the toweling until it was dry too. Dropping the towel upon the floor, she walked into their bedchamber.

“Stop!” he said as she stepped across the threshold. “I want to look at you, little one. You are so outrageously fair, Philippa.” His gaze warmed her flesh, and then he held out his hand to her, and she came forward to take it. He drew her into their bed, pulling her down to kiss him.

Outside there was a crack of lightning, and Philippa felt as if it were the joining of their lips that had caused it. Their mouths seemed fused together in a hot and wet kiss that deepened in intensity as her naked breasts pressed against his smooth broad chest. She lay atop him, and her hands tangled themselves into his hair even as his ensnared themselves in her thick auburn hair, his fingers kneading her scalp. His body was warm against hers. She could feel his need for her once again, sense his restraint as they sought to savor this heated moment building between them. Finally she drew her head away from his, her lips bruised and actually aching.

He lifted her up so that she sat upon his torso, her legs on either side of him. She held down his lust with her sweet small bottom, and for now he wanted it that way. Reaching up, he fondled her breasts. They were perfect little spheres of delight. He cupped one breast in the palm of his hand. The fingers from his other hand brushed the tender flesh lightly. He put those fingers in his mouth, and then encircled her nipple with the wetness. She shivered slightly. He took that nipple between his thumb and his forefinger, rubbing it until it had become a very hard little nub. He pinched it, and she made a sound. Looking up at her face he saw that her eyes were closed as she experienced each new pleasure that he offered. He played with the first breast for a time, and then moved on to the second.

She sighed, but was silent. He knew what he would do next. It was time. After a month of celibacy for them both she would be ready for what he wanted from her next. “Lie back now, little one,” he said low. “Lie back for me, and I will give you a wonderful new experience. You must not be fearful, Philippa. I would never harm you.”

Her heart beat faster at his words. The unknown frightened her, but every unknown she had unveiled with him had brought her nothing but pleasure. Obediently she lay back. He pushed her legs up halfway, and she felt him press a pillow beneath her buttocks. What was he doing? Her eyes remained closed. She didn’t know if she was ready yet to view him as he made love to her. Then he raised her legs higher, and over her shoulders. She felt his hands holding her firmly in that position. His head? Was that his head between her thighs? Holy Mary, it was! And then she felt his tongue beginning to push between her nether lips and forage in her most secret place. Philippa gasped, shocked. “Crispin!” she managed to cry out, and her eyes flew open.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Trust me, little one,” was all he said, and then his head fell again, and she felt his tongue on her.

The tongue was the most exquisite torment she had ever known before. It licked, and it lapped her silken flesh. Her juices were flowing faster and more copiously than they ever had. And he was eagerly drinking them down from the sound that his busy tongue was making. Then the tongue touched a place that heretofore only his finger had touched. And that tongue worked back and forth over the sensitive jewel of her womanhood until Philippa was moaning. It was too sweet. She would die of it, but she didn’t. The wave simply rose, and rose, and rose before falling. Twice he pleasured her in this new way, and then he was mounting her. His lover’s lance was pushing into her love sheath. He was moving on her. Her body responded, rising up to meet him again and again until she was whimpering with her need to be satisfied. And then their mutual hunger was met. He exploded his juices into her and, shuddering, fell away from her with a deep groan of satisfaction.

They lay side by side gasping with the wonder of what had just transpired between them. Reaching out, he took her hand in his, but he said nothing. Why could she not say she cared for him? the earl wondered. Surely what had just happened to them could not have happened did she not love him.

Philippa felt several tears slip down her cheeks, but she too remained silent. Why would he not say he loved her? But perhaps he didn’t.

Finally Crispin St. Claire spoke in low tones. “Is it possible that we have made a child this night?” he wondered aloud.

“I do not know, my lord,” Philippa whispered back, knowing that they had not because of the brew she took each day.

“I think we have,” he said with certainty. “Such passion between a man and his wife should not go for naught.”

“I have never considered the passion between us for naught, my lord,” she replied.

“Indeed, madame?” How interesting, he thought. Her responses to their lovemaking was everything a man could want of a woman, but she rarely spoke on it. “Are you hungry?” he asked her. “Shall I call Lucy to bring us our supper?”

“Hmmm.” She nodded. “Wake me when it comes,” and her eyes closed.

He reached out and yanked the bellpull. He had already ordered their supper from the kitchens and so he knew what the tray would contain. Putting his arm around Philippa, he lay quietly listening to her sleep. She was very tired from their travels, and he almost wished they did not have to go north in another few weeks, but he had promised her the visit. Her sister’s wedding was important to her, and he needed to meet his in-laws. He considered Philippa’s birthright, and wondered if he was wise in refusing it, in allowing her to refuse it. Aye, he was. The St. Claires of Wittonsby were no great family, nor were they likely to be a great family. The days in which a man might draw his family higher were gone. Hearing Lucy outside in the dayroom, the earl rose from his bed, wrapping the discarded toweling about him, and went to speak with her.

“Empty the tub out, and then get Peter to help you put it away. Her ladyship will not need you again tonight, Lucy. Was your chamber ready for you?”

“Oh, yes, my lord,” Lucy said. “Everything was just as I left it, and Mistress Marian is most kind. She has asked me to have supper with her and Peter.”

“Do the tub then, and you are both dismissed,” he told the young servant, and returned into the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

Lucy quickly went to the cupboard and pulled out a length of hose. Attaching it to a spout on the side of the tub, she brought the hose over to the window. Drawing back the drapery, she lifted a copper flap on the outside wall and pushed the hose through the opening into a drain that ran down the outside wall of the house. Then hurrying back to the tub she turned a spigot, and the water in the tub began to drain out. The door from the corridor outside opened, and Peter entered.

“Ah,” he said, “you have it going already. I came to help you so we might go and have supper with my sister. She wants to know more about you.”

“You can help me get the tub back into its cupboard,” Lucy said. “Why does your sister want to know more about me? What is there to know? I was raised at Friarsgate. My sister is the Lady Rosamund’s tiring woman. I have been with my lady since she was ten years old. There is no mystery about me. I am what you see.”

“My sister thinks we should marry,” Peter said quietly.

“What?” Lucy looked very surprised. “Why would she think that?”

“She says it is a good thing for the earl’s valet and the countess’s tiring woman to be wed. That way each is not distracted in their duty by others,” Peter replied.

“Your sister is a bossy woman if you were to ask me,” Lucy said sharply. “I’m not of a mind to wed right now. Besides, I think you are probably too old for me.”

“I am forty,” he answered her.

“And I am twenty,” Lucy said. “Still, if one day we were to become fond of one another I might consider marriage. But not now, and I will tell your sister so if she presses the issue. Come on now, and help me tip the tub to get the last of the water out. The supper on the table will be cold if we do not complete our duty, and depart. Our master and mistress will not thank us if it is.”

“I think they are more interested in their bedsport right now than food,” Peter said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Why, bless me,” Lucy chuckled, “you are not all stiff and starch, are you?”

“We shall not tell Mistress Marian that, however, shall we?” he responded.

“Nay, we won’t, Master Slyboots,” Lucy said with a grin.

The tub emptied, together they wrestled it back into the large cupboard in the wall and departed the apartment, Lucy giving the door a little slam on the way out to alert her master that they were gone.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and the earl came out to inspect the covered dishes on the tray. There was a small dish of oysters that had come up the river today, and he swallowed six down, pouring himself a goblet of red wine and drinking it along with the oysters. Philippa came sleepily from the bedchamber. She was naked. She said nothing, but inspected the tray, and picking up a meat pastry began to eat it hungrily. He poured another goblet of wine and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching for a second pastry, which she devoured as quickly as the first. She peered at the dishes, and seeing a long dish she began picking asparagus in a lemony sauce from it, sucking the meat from the stalks, and licking her lips as she finished each stem of the vegetable.

He felt his member tingling as he watched her and quickly looked away, taking up next a small haunch of venison, tearing the meat from the bone with his strong white teeth. The venison was flavorful and chewy. He drank more wine. He could never recall in all his life eating with a naked woman. Well, why not? They were man and wife in the privacy of their own chambers. And then, unable to restrain himself, he casually pulled off the toweling around his loins.

The sound of the toweling hitting the floor caused Philippa to look up. Her eyes met his, sliding slowly down his long and lean body. Then she shrugged, and reached for a piece of capon. They were both still standing at the sideboard, not having bothered to sit in their hunger. Having satisfied themselves somewhat with the oysters, the meat, and the asparagus, they tore the warm cottage loaf apart. Philippa scooped some butter from the crock, smearing it over the bread with her thumb. Then to her surprise he took it from her, and pulling little pieces from the chunk he began to feed her. She reciprocated, putting bits of the cheddar cheese into his mouth. He sucked on her fingers, and she then sucked on his.

He took the bowl of strawberries, the bowl of clotted cream, and a small jug of honey and set them on the floor before the fire. Then reaching up he drew her down, and kissed her slowly before laying her on her back. Philippa watched him silently as he placed a dab of the clotted cream on each of her nipples, and topped it with a strawberry. He then smeared her torso with the cream and strawberries, and began to eat them one by one from her belly, licking her completely free of the cream. The two little fruits on her nipples he saved for last, sucking on her flesh until she was squirming.

Finally he spoke. “Did you like what I did to you earlier?” His hot breath tickled her ear.

She knew exactly to what he referred. “Aye,” she said low. “But I am certain it is very wicked, Crispin.”

“Aye,” he drawled softly, “it is very wicked.” He nibbled at her lips. “I can show you another way to be wicked, little one. Do you want to be wicked with me?”

She nodded eagerly, and then watched wide-eyed as he took the small jug of honey and dipped his partly swollen manhood into it. Drawing it out, he sat lightly atop her and pressed himself against her lips. They opened, and her pink tongue began to lick the honey from it, but because the thick sweet was beginning to drizzle with the warmth of his body he pushed himself into her mouth. For a moment Philippa looked startled, but then she began to suck on him until she had removed every vestige of the honey, and he had grown hard in the cavern of her mouth. She released him finally, and sliding down and between her legs he began to pump her fiercely.

Philippa’s nails raked down his long back. She whimpered, and her whimpers grew into a moan which grew into a scream of total pleasure as he thrust himself back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until her head was spinning wildly, and she was dizzy and weak with the hot pleasure coursing through her. I love him! I love him! she thought, but she would not say it, for he had not said it.

Their bodies were wet with the passion of their efforts. He ground himself deep into her love channel. He felt her shuddering as she reached the apex of her delight, and yet she did not cry her love for him. Was she incapable of that tender emotion, or had she just a whore’s nature? He didn’t know, and right now he didn’t care. His juices burst forth again, leaving him weak and helpless to his love for her.

They remained before the fire for some time. Outside the dusk faded into evening. The birds ceased their calls, and the rain pattered gently down with only an occasional rumble of thunder or brief flash of lightning now. The earl of Witton finally got to his feet, and reaching down, pulled Philippa up. Together they walked into their bedchamber and fell into bed where they slept until well after dawn the next day.

Philippa awoke first, and heard the sounds of morning outside of their window. She lay quietly pondering the events of the previous evening. I have to go back to Friarsgate, she thought. I cannot bear not understanding all of this. I need my mother. She smiled to herself, thinking that she had never thought to hear herself say such a thing, but this love was totally confusing. She slipped from the bed, and walking across the chamber brought forth from the warm coals of the hearth the pitcher of water that Lucy had left them. Pouring some into the silver ewer, she washed herself free of the residue of their shared passion. Then she disposed of the water, throwing it out the window.

He stirred slowly, watching her as she opened her trunk and pulled on a clean chemise. Watched her as she sat down at the little table that held her female fripperies, and taking up her brush began to brush her long auburn hair, carefully working through the knots and tangles until her hair was a shining silken swath. “Good morrow, countess,” he finally said.

Philippa turned, smiling. “Good morning, my lord. There is water for bathing.” She gestured gracefully towards the other table.

“Did you not bathe me well last night, little one?” he said low.

She actually blushed. “My lord,” she remonstrated with him.

He laughed. “The next time I shall drizzle honey on you, and lick it off.”

“Crispin, you really are wicked,” she said, but she was smiling with the hot memories of honey, and strawberries and cream.

The next few weeks were wonderful. They traveled his estate together on horseback. He made love to her in a pile of hay in a distant meadow, and almost had his bottom bee-stung for his trouble. Philippa had laughed so hard that she had wept. He explained the workings of his estates to her. They walked the three streets of Wittonsby, stopping at each cottage to greet their tenants and speak with them. The nights were filled with pleasure and passion. And then the world intruded upon them.

A messenger arrived at Brierewode. He wore the badge of Cardinal Wolsey. The earl of Witton was ordered to attend upon the cardinal at Hampton Court. The king was now on his summer progress in Wiltshire and Berkshire. The queen had gone to her favorite, Woodstock. The king would come to Oxford in September to fetch the queen.

“It is almost mid-August,” Philippa protested. “We must leave for the north if I am to be there for my sister’s wedding. Why does he want you? Are you not finished with that part of your life?”

“I am,” Crispin said, “but I cannot refuse the cardinal. He speaks with the king’s voice, little one. I must go. We shall travel north as soon as I return.”

“When will that be?” she demanded to know.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Why do you not prepare for our travels while I am away? Peter will pack for me.”

“He is not coming with you?” she asked.

“The cardinal has some scheme or business he wishes to discuss with me, Philippa. I do not need a valet with me. I will ride quickly with my men, and return as quickly. The cardinal knows I cannot serve him any longer. If the truth be known I am not certain how long he will remain in favor. He has been the king’s own man for many years now, little one,” the earl told his wife. “No one retains a king’s favor forever.”

“If you are not back in seven days I shall travel north without you,” Philippa said.

“You will remain here at Brierewode until I return, little one,” he replied. “I have told you that you will go to your sister’s wedding, and I always keep my promises. But if you disobey me, so much the worse for you, Philippa. I will be the master in my own house, madame. Do you understand me?”

The earl departed the following morning with the cardinal’s messenger and a small troop of his own men-at-arms for protection. Reaching Hampton Court, he was kept waiting for two days until the cardinal could see him. Wolsey was very busy in his master’s service even as the king was on progress. Ushered into the cardinal’s presence at last, the earl of Witton bowed and was waved to a chair. He sat, and waited.

“I need your eyes and ears again, my lord,” the cardinal began.

“I can be of no help to your grace in the country,” the earl replied, “and my estates are where I intend remaining. At least until my wife and I have heirs. I apologize, your grace, but I am past thirty, and I cannot get an heir on Philippa if I am not at Brierewode. The king would understand, I know.”

“It is the king’s business I am about, Witton,” the cardinal said sharply. “What I say to you this day must not be repeated. Buckingham and Suffolk and several others are under suspicion. Some of those involved with them, men of lesser rank, are your neighbors. Henry Tudor has no male heir. There are some who would attempt to overthrow the Tudor throne and put another in its place. Buckingham descends from Edward III. He and his ilk have always been ambitious. And it is said by some that his claim is stronger than the king’s.”

“It would be foolish to voice such a thought aloud, your grace,” the earl replied.

“Aye, but then the court is peopled by foolish men. You must be my eyes and ears in Oxford, my lord. I need a man I can be certain of, Crispin.”

“Suffolk? But he is the king’s friend. His brother-in-law,” the earl mused.

The cardinal laughed a harsh laugh. “He married Mary Tudor without the king’s permission, didn’t he? And remained in France until his wife had gained her brother’s forgiveness, didn’t he? Suffolk has no loyalties except to himself.”

“So all you seek of me is to report anything I hear which might cause the king difficulty, your grace?”

“That is all,” the cardinal replied. “I did not dare trust my wishes to parchment lest it be read by the wrong people. Even I have spies in my household, although I do try to have them weeded out regularly. You are not the only one recalled to my secret service, my lord.” Then he engaged the earl’s gaze and said, “And how is your fair wife? Is she proving satisfactory? Was Melville worth the wench?”

The earl of Witton smiled, and nodded. “Aye, it was, and she is proving most satisfactory as a mate. Her mother and the queen taught her well.”

The cardinal nodded. “Then go home, Witton, and my thanks for coming,” he finished. “I know I can trust in you.”

Crispin St. Claire stood up, bowed, and left the cardinal’s privy chamber immediately. It was not yet the noon hour. There was no need to remain. He gathered his men up, and they took the road to Oxford. Arriving home several days later, however, the earl of Witton learned that his wife had departed two days previously for her mother’s home at Friarsgate. He swore angrily, and Mistress Marian looked askance.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, having never heard him utter such foul words before. She waved to one of the servants in the hall to bring their master a goblet of wine.

The earl snatched it from the servant and drank it down. “How did she go?” he asked his housekeeper. “Who was with her?”

“Lucy and my brother among others, my lord, but they did ride with six men-at-arms. It was all she would take, and Peter had to insist at that. I do not know what possessed her ladyship, but from the moment you departed she grew more and more agitated. She told me that she had to see her mother. That she needed her mother, my lord. I think she would have gone the day after you left but that Lucy dissuaded her.”

“What did she take with her?” the earl asked Mistress Marian, growing a little calmer now.

“She took nothing but a small saddlebag, my lord. She said that Friarsgate was not a place for fancy gowns, and she needed to get there quickly. She could not be kept by a baggage cart trailing behind her. What will she wear to her sister’s wedding, my lord? I cannot believe the wedding will not be a grand one,” Mistress Marian fretted.

“Lord Cambridge will supply her with a gown, I have not a doubt. His family, especially my wife, seem to rely upon him for such things.”

“You have ridden long, my lord. Come to the board, and I will see that you are fed,” the housekeeper coaxed her master.

“I must ride north,” he said grimly.

“Aye, my lord, you must, but it will soon be dark. The days are shorter now than a few weeks ago,” Mistress Marian said. “A good supper, and a good night’s sleep in your own bed, my lord, and you will be ready to go in the morning.” She gently drew him to the high board, signaling the servants to hurry to the kitchens for food.

“Ah, Marian, though she drives me to distraction I love her,” the earl said softly.

“I know, my lord, and she loves you too,” the housekeeper replied, seating him.

“She has never said it,” the earl said mournfully.

“Have you told her that you love her, my lord?” Mistress Marian asked. “A woman will never say those words to a man unless he has said them to her first.”

The earl put his head in his hands. “I am a fool,” he groaned.

“Most men are, my lord,” the housekeeper replied low, with the familiarity of a trusted and well-loved servant. “But she has not left you, my lord. And there is time to correct your omission.”

“But why would she not wait?” the earl asked.

“I do not know,” Mistress Marian responded, “but it was suddenly very necessary for her ladyship to leave Brierewode and go back to her mother. Now here is a nice hot rabbit pie for you. It’s just come from the ovens. I want to see every bit of it eaten, my lord. And there is bread, and butter and cheese. And I think there might be an apple tart to finish the meal.”

He looked up gratefully at her. “Tell the men we ride tomorrow for Cumbria.”

“Yes, my lord,” the housekeeper said with a small smile, and she bustled off.

She was right, of course. He felt better after a good meal. And even better in the morning after a sound sleep in his own bed. With Peter gone he had one of the other men pack for him, and he took one pack animal with them. Perhaps they might even catch up with his headstrong wife before she reached Friarsgate.

Philippa, however, was determined to reach her mother as quickly as possible. She rode hard, surprising the men with her, who had not thought such a dainty lady could manage such a trip without all the fripperies necessary to a woman’s existence. One day the night caught up with them before they could reach the shelter of an inn or a religious house. They bedded down in a hayfield, sleeping in the haystacks, and there was no complaint from their mistress. At last they crossed into Cumbria, heading even further north. And then late one morning they topped a rise, and the lake lay below them while in the meadows below the vast flocks of Friarsgate browsed contentedly.

“Thank Gawd I can die in my own bed,” Lucy sighed.

“You’ll have to get down the hill first,” Philippa laughed. It was just like she remembered it. Beautiful and peaceful. She pushed her horse forward.

“Your mother may be up at Claven’s Carn,” Lucy said.

“They can fetch her easily if she is,” Philippa said in a determined voice.

But Rosamund was not in Scotland. She was at her own holding, and very surprised to see her eldest child so soon. “It’s almost a month until Banon’s wedding,” she remarked, and then she said, “Welcome home, my darling! Where is this husband of yours of whom Tom speaks so highly? Indeed he gushes so about him that Logan is determined to dislike him.” She hugged her daughter.

Nothing had changed, Philippa thought. Except for the two cradles by the hearth. She walked over to them and looked in. “My new brothers?”

“Aye. Are they not beautiful? Praise God, though they came from my womb at the same time they do not look much alike. There is a woman in our village with sons born as Tommy and Edmund were, but they are as alike as two peas in a pod.” Her eye went past her daughter. “Lucy, you look exhausted. Welcome home. And who is this fine fellow with you?”

Peter stepped forward. “I am Peter, my lady, the earl’s valet.”

Rosamund nodded. “And just why are you here, Peter, but not your master?” she asked.

“I believe that is a question that her ladyship should answer, madame,” the valet said politely, stepping back.

“Philippa?” Rosamund’s face was serious with her concern.

“I warned him if he was not back in seven days that I should start north without him, mama. There is nothing more to it than that,” Philippa answered her mother.

“And just where had your husband gone?” Rosamund persisted.

“To Hampton Court. The cardinal wished to see him,” Philippa said. “Mama, I am tired, and I am filthy. I want my bath, and my bed.”

“You have still not explained to me why you departed Brierewode without your husband. Why did you not wait for him?”

“And miss my sister’s wedding?” Philippa cried. “Please do not treat me like a child, mama. I am a married woman, and the countess of Witton.”

“Banon and Robbie will not be wed for several weeks, Philippa. You might have waited for the earl,” Rosamund murmured calmly. “There was no need to come rushing. When did you get home from France?”

“Over a month ago,” Philippa said.

Her mother nodded. “Go along then, my daughter, and the servants will bring your bath. Lucy, introduce Peter to the other servants, and show him where he may lay his head. Ah, here is Annie. Annie, run and find Maybel. Tell her Philippa is home.” Rosamund looked and saw her daughter was already gone from the hall. “Lucy, attend me. Annie, find Maybel, and take Peter with you. He is the earl’s servant.”

When Annie had gone from the hall with Peter, Rosamund motioned to Lucy to sit down. “Now tell me,” she said, “just what is this all about?”

“I am not certain, my lady. The marriage is a good one. The earl is the kindest of masters, and a good husband to my lady. But no sooner had he departed for Hampton Court than my lady began to fret. She said she was afraid if the cardinal kept the earl too long she would not be with her sister on her wedding day. She fussed, and she fumed, and then nothing would do but that we leave and ride posthaste for Friarsgate. We have no clothing but what we wore, my lady Rosamund. But I do not believe my mistress tells the truth. She thinks she does, but she does not.”

Rosamund nodded. “She has been taking the draft each morning but for the days of her monthly flow?”

Lucy flushed. “Nay, my lady.”

“Then she wants a child sooner than later? Well, I cannot disagree, for it is her duty to provide her husband with an heir. I know I was eager to when I married her father, may God assoil his good soul.” Rosamund crossed herself.

“Nay, my lady, she wanted to wait so she could go back to court,” Lucy said. “There was no opportunity for my mistress and her husband to cohabit in France. Our quarters were very close, and there was no privacy at all. She had to bathe in a chemise just like the queen. I didn’t think it was necessary to give her your potion while we were there, but I gave her a drink of water mixed with celery seeds each morning so she would believe she had had the draft. And then when we returned from France my mistress began talking about perhaps having a child, and not going back to court since the queen had dismissed her from her service. I thought that there would be no need for the preventative then.”

“But you continued to feed her the celery seed and water,” Rosamund said softly.

“Yes, my lady Rosamund,” Lucy responded. “When my mistress makes up her mind to something there is no reasoning with her. She is very stubborn. I thought, let God decide the matter, and I will not have to argue with her, or be a disobedient servant.”

Rosamund laughed softly. “When did my daughter have her last bloody flux, Lucy? I will wager she has not had one since her return from France.”

Lucy thought a moment, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my lady, you are correct! She had her flow in Calais, but none since. Oh, my lady, what have I done?”

Rosamund nodded. “I will wager that Philippa is with child, Lucy, and the charming little fool is so wrapped up in herself and her husband that it has not occurred to her yet.” She shook her head. “Tell me how angry the earl will be when he gets here?”

“You would have to ask Peter that,” Lucy said. “All I’ve ever seen of him is goodness to my mistress, although she has sorely tried him at times.”

Rosamund laughed again. “Do not tell her what I suspect, Lucy, nor anyone else either.” She arose from her seat. “Watch my two bairns. I must go upstairs and deal with my oldest.”

“Mama!” A young girl had come into the hall. She was tall and willowy, with long dark blond hair. “I am told Philippa is back.”

“Aye, Bessie, she is. Come, and Lucy will tell you all. I must go upstairs and see your sister.” She hurried from the hall.

“Well, she’s home early for Banie’s wedding,” Elizabeth Meredith said. “What’s her husband like, Lucy? Is he handsome and gallant? Is he rich?”

“How old are you now?” Lucy asked.

“I’ll be thirteen my next birthday,” Bessie said. “Now tell me everything, Lucy!”

“I thought you wasn’t interested in all the goings-on of the fine ladies and gentlemen,” Lucy teased.

“Well, I don’t want to be one of them,” Bessie said, “but it cannot harm me to learn about them. I’m not like my older sisters. I have no need to go to court and kneel to the high and the mighty. But hearing about them is like listening to a fairy tale.”

“Going to court ain’t no easy life, I can tell you,” Lucy began.

Upstairs, Rosamund had gone to Philippa’s bedchamber. Her daughter had finished her bath and was drying herself off as Rosamund entered the room. “I always felt better getting the dirt of the road off of me,” she said. “Where is your hairbrush? I’ll brush you dry, darling child.”

“Here it is.” Philippa handed the requested item to her mother. “Just let me get into a clean chemise. I left some from my last visit.” She pulled out a silky garment from the chest at the foot of her bed, and drew it on. Then sitting next to her mother she let Rosamund brush and towel her long hair dry.

“Now tell me, Philippa,” her mother said quietly as she brushed. “What is troubling you? And do not say naught. You did not dash pell-mell to Friarsgate because of Banon’s wedding.”

“What is love?” Philippa burst out. “And how do you know you are in love? And why will he not say it to me after all these months?” She began to cry. “Oh, mama, I cannot explain it in a way which I understand, but I love him! Yet he does not love me! He is passionate, and tender, but he says nothing to me that would indicate that he loves me. Yet how can he make love to me the way he does, and not love me?”

“I. don’t believe he can,” Rosamund responded calmly. “What is love, Philippa? It is the most elusive emotion in the world. It defies a rational explanation, but the very fact that you don’t understand it, yet know in your heart that you love him, is your answer. As for your husband, I suspect if he is gentle and tender with you that he does indeed love you. But men are most reticent to say it aloud. More often than not it is up to the woman, but she must be very certain before she voices her emotions that they will be reciprocated. Consequently a woman is loath to cry love, and a man is no better. It is an age-old conundrum, Philippa.”

“When we were in France I overheard a plot against the king, and I told Crispin. At first he was angry, and then I realized that his anger wasn’t directed at me, but at himself. He was afraid for me, and that he had not been with me when I escaped the assassins,” Philippa said.

Rosamund smiled, and put her daughter’s hairbrush aside. “Aye, he loves you,” she said.

“He must say it without my prompting or I shall never be certain,” Philippa cried, and then she flung herself in Rosamund’s arms and sobbed.

Rosamund held her daughter and caressed her tenderly. She was going to be a grandmother. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that Philippa was with child. The wild emotional outbursts made her certain. Her elegant and sophisticated Philippa had fallen in love, and was going to have a baby. “Are you hungry?” she asked her daughter. “We’re having rabbit stew for supper tonight.”

“Nay, mama, I am just so tired. I needed to get here, find you, and now I feel better, but I am exhausted. I want to go to bed.”

“Then you shall,” her mother answered her soothingly. Standing, she helped Philippa into the bed and drew the coverlet over her. “Sleep well, my darling. You are safe home now. And your earl will be here soon, I am quite certain.”

Two days later the earl of Witton arrived at Friarsgate. Lord Cambridge had been summoned from Otterly the day of Philippa’s arrival, and Logan Hepburn had come over the border from Claven’s Carn. Rosamund had decided that she would need every bit of help her family could give her to bring Philippa and Crispin to an understanding. At her first sight of her son-in-law Rosamund knew she was going to like him. And she could also see he was perfect for Philippa.

“How did you know, you old dear?” she whispered to Thomas Bolton.

“It’s an instinct,” he murmured softly, and then he moved forward, his hands outstretched to greet the earl of Witton. “My dear boy, how delightful to see you once again. May I present your mother-in-law, the lady of Friarsgate. Cousin, this is Philippa’s husband.”

The earl took Rosamund’s hand, and bowing, kissed it. “Madame,” he said.

“You are most welcome to Friarsgate, my lord,” Rosamund told him.

“And Rosamund’s husband, Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn,” Lord Cambridge continued smoothly.

The two men eyed each other warily, and shook hands.

“Come into the hall,” Rosamund invited Crispin St. Claire, and she took his arm to lead him into the house.

“Where is my wife?” he asked her.

“In her chamber,” Rosamund said with a hint of laughter in her voice. “Please don’t be too angry with her, my lord. She had a sudden urge to see her mother. Young wives can be like that. I sent her sister up to fetch her when we saw you coming.”

“I returned to Brierewode just two days after she had gone,” he said. “I forbade her to travel without me. Yet she deliberately disobeyed me.”

Rosamund shook her head. “You have not a great deal of experience with women, my lord, do you? You must never forbid a woman, for if you do, she is certain to do exactly what you told her not to do.” She laughed softly. “You love her very much, don’t you? Sit down. Sit down.”

“How is it that you can see that but your daughter cannot, madame?” he asked her despairingly. “And I question if she is even capable of love herself.”

“She loves you very much,” Rosamund told him quietly, and handed him a goblet of sweet red wine. “We have spoken more these past two days, Philippa and I, than we have in many years.”

“Then why will she not say it?” he asked her.

“Why will you not say it?” Rosamund countered, smiling.

“Why, madame, I am a man,” he replied with all seriousness.

“And she a courtier who has been taught never to admit to her emotions unless the gentleman in question does first,” Rosamund explained to him.

“God’s bloody wounds!” the earl swore.

“I could not say it better myself, my lord,” Rosamund told him.

“Mama.” Elizabeth Meredith was by her mother’s side. “Philippa says she will not come down. As usual she is being a mutton-headed little fool. My stepfather has gone to fetch her for you,” the young girl finished with a grin.

“Oh, Bessie, you bad thing!” Maybel, who had joined them, said laughing.

“What is it?” asked Lord Cambridge.

“Bessie sent Logan up to fetch Philippa down, for she will not come,” Rosamund told him.

“Oh lord!” Thomas Bolton said, but he was grinning.

A shriek pierced the hall, and then another, and another.

“It sounds like a murder is being committed,” the earl said.

“Nay, ’tis just Philippa’s stepfather bringing her down into the hall,” Rosamund said, still laughing.

The laird of Claven’s Carn entered the room, Philippa slung over his shoulder. Walking up to the earl, he dumped the girl down into Crispin’s lap. With a yelp like that of a scalded cat Philippa was on her feet. She swung on the laird, her fist making contact with his shoulder. Logan Hepburn burst out laughing, and Philippa turned, raging at her husband.

“Are you going to permit this damned Scots savage to treat me so, my lord?” she demanded furiously. Her usually neat hair was loose and swirling about with her movements.

“Good morrow, madame. As I recall, the last time we spoke I told you to wait until I returned from Hampton Court to make this journey,” he said.

“Was I to miss my sister’s wedding because of the cardinal’s politicking?” Philippa said.

“The wedding is not for another few weeks, madame,” he remarked.

“Very well then, my lord, I needed to see my mother,” Philippa said.

“Why?” he asked her. “What was so important that you could not wait for me?”

“I needed to ask her about love,” Philippa said, “and why you do not love me.” Her hazel eyes were wet with unshed tears.

“What in the name of all that is holy makes you think that I don’t love you?” the earl said, outraged.

“You have never said it!” Philippa wailed, the tears now flowing.

“God’s bloody wounds, wench, do you think I came galloping up to Cumbria from Oxfordshire because I don’t love you? Of course I love you! I adore you! You are so lovely that to look at you hurts my heart. You are braver than any woman I have ever known. The thought of losing you is the darkest thought I could think, Philippa. I love you! Never doubt it, little one.”

“Oh, Crispin, and I love you!” Philippa sobbed, and flung herself into his arms.

“Jesu, Mary!” Elizabeth Meredith groaned, rolling her eyes.

The earl and his wife were kissing, and the others smiled, pleased that the matter was now settled.

“Do not swear, Bessie,” Rosamund said. “It is not ladylike. Now let us all gather around the hearth, for I have something to say.” She looked directly at her eldest child. “I am, it seems, going to become a grandmother in the spring. You are with child, Philippa. Did you not realize it?”

Philippa’s mouth fell open. She made to speak, and then seeing a warning in her mother’s eye she closed her mouth.

“Of course it is your first child, and you would be less apt to pay attention to the little signs than a woman of experience, Philippa,” Rosamund continued. “I shall explain all to you in the privacy of my chambers later. Well, son-in-law, what say you? Your bride is doing her duty, and you are to have an heir.”

“Madame,” he replied, “I am delighted, and astounded in turn,” and he kissed his wife a long slow kiss. “I told you we made a child that night,” he murmured against her mouth, and Philippa blushed.

“Now we must speak on the matter of the Friarsgate inheritance. Philippa, it is yours and your husband’s by right. Now you are to have a child. Will you not accept your rightful place here, my daughter?”

“Madame, I speak for both my wife and myself when I tell you that we are grateful for your generosity, but we do not want Friarsgate,” the earl said.

“You must accept this, mama,” Philippa said. “I’m sorry, for I know how much you love your home, but I do not. Brierewode is where I belong.”

“But a second son could have these lands,” Rosamund persisted.

“Nay,” Philippa responded. “My second son when he is born will be for the court one day. He shall begin his career as a page, and who knows to what heights he may aspire.”

“And you agree with her, my lord?” Rosamund asked the earl.

He nodded. “I do, madame. Both Philippa and I have served the royal household in our own capacities. We are creatures of the court as our children will undoubtedly be one day. Cumbria and this vast estate of yours is not for us. We could not give it the time needed to husband it, and it is much too far from London.”

Rosamund sighed deeply. “Then what has it all been for?” she said as if she were speaking to herself. “I have watched over Friarsgate my whole lifetime. When I lost Owein Meredith’s son and then he died, I pinned all my hopes on you, Philippa. Banon has Otterly, and does not want Friarsgate either. What am I going to do? I am more at Claven’s Cam these days, for that is where my Hepburn sons must be raised. What am I to do, and who will care for Friarsgate now?”

“I will,” Elizabeth Meredith said in a strong voice, and they all turned to look at her, surprised. She was the youngest of Owein Meredith’s daughters. The baby. The little girl who tagged along, and ran bare-footed through the meadows chasing the sheep. But looking at her they all realized that she was no longer a child. She was a young girl on the brink of womanhood. “I will look after Friarsgate, mama, for I love it every bit as much as you do. I have never wanted to go to court, or be anywhere else except here. This is my home. These are my lands. Friarsgate should be mine. You cannot give it to the Hepburns. Friarsgate must remain English.”

Rosamund was astounded. For the first time in a long while she actually looked at her youngest daughter, and when she did she saw Owein Meredith. Owein who had been so dutiful in his service to the Tudors. Owein who had loved Friarsgate from the moment he had laid eyes upon it.

“Aye, Friarsgate must be English,” Logan Hepburn agreed. “My boys would not know what to do with the sheep anyway. The lass is right, Rosamund.”

“Aye, she is right,” Lord Cambridge said. “If Philippa and Banon do not want Friarsgate it should be Bessie’s, and no one else’s.” He put his arm about the girl. “What say you, Bessie? Will you be the heiress of Friarsgate as your mother was before you?”

The girl nodded, and then she added, “And do not call me Bessie. It is a child’s name, and I am not a child. I am Elizabeth Meredith, the future lady of Friarsgate, and I will not answer to Bessie ever again.”

“Then let us have three cheers for the heiress of Friarsgate,” Philippa said, smiling, and the hall echoed thrice. “Hip Hip Hoorah! Hip Hip Hoorah! Hip Hip Hoorah!”