“Aye, my lord,” came the response.
Suddenly down the field there came a shouting. “The Salamander! The Salamander!” There was the smell of gunpowder and a whine in the sky.
“What is it?” the captain of the yeomen asked.
“It would appear,” the earl said, “that one of the fireworks for the festivities later was exploded prematurely. I will go and check.” And when he did, the earl learned that he was correct in his assumption. The Salamander, which was the French king’s own personal sign, had been accidentally lit by a young boy, those in charge of the fireworks told the earl. A local lad hired to help.
“Clumsy brat!” the fireworks artisan said angrily. “Any other piece I could have tolerated, but the king’s own symbol! There will be no time to make another.”
“Where is the boy?”
“I beat him, and sent him off,” the man said.
“Do you know who he is?” the earl asked patiently.
“My sister’s worthless son,” came the answer.
“I need to speak with the lad,” the earl told the artisan.
“Piers, you miserable little turd, where are you?” the man shouted. “Get back here or when I catch you I’ll flay the very flesh from your skinny bottom!”
They waited a long moment, and then a boy crept from the shadows of the artisan’s wagon. He was dirty, and looked hungry.
“Come here, brat!” the artisan shouted. “This fine gentleman wishes to speak with you, though why I have no idea.”
“Stay,” the earl said quietly. “Come, lad.” He beckoned the boy in kindly tones.
“Yes, milord?” the boy whispered. He looked frightened.
“Now, lad, you must tell me the truth, and if you do I will reward you. But I will know if you are lying to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord.” The answer was subdued.
“Did someone pay you to fire the king’s Salamander when the sun reached its zenith this morning? The truth now, lad.”
The boy looked very frightened. “Did I do something wrong, milord?”
“Perhaps you did, but I will not punish you for it nor will anyone else. But I need the truth from you. Did someone pay you to fire the Salamander?”
“Aye, milord.” The boy nodded his head. “ ’Twas a priest, and he gave me a silver penny to do it. He said the king’s mother wished to play a jest upon him.”
“A silver penny?” the artisan exclaimed. “Where is it, you little turd? The penny should be mine for all the trouble you’ve caused me.” He glowered menacingly at his nephew, and thrust his hand in the boy’s face. “Give it to me!”
“I gave it to my mother,” the boy shouted back at his uncle. “You have paid me nothing since you took me as your apprentice. My mother needs to feed her children.”
The artisan cuffed the boy angrily, but the earl put a hand on the man’s arm.
“Leave the boy alone,” he said. “I may need him to identify this priest, and if he can there is something in it for you.”
“What is this about?” the artisan suddenly asked, now nervous of this tall Englishman.
“There has been a plot against someone in a high place, and your nephew was duped into lighting the Salamander which was to be the signal for the assassins,” the earl answered.
The fireworks artisan crossed himself nervously, murmuring, “Mother of God!”
“The boy is innocent of any wrongdoing,” the earl told the artisan quietly. “He was offered a chance to gain a silver penny, and he took it. No one was harmed, because the conspiracy was discovered in time. But I will want the boy to identify the priest for the proper authorities. You must both come with me.”
“Who are you?” the artisan asked.
“My name would mean naught to you, but you should know I am in the service of Cardinal Wolsey You will be rewarded for your cooperation, I promise you.”
The artisan shook his head. “Very well, we will come with you,” he said. He might be French, but everyone knew of the great cardinal who some said was the real ruler of England and the English. He reached out and grabbed his nephew by the collar of his shirt. “Come along, Piers, and tell the truth, you worthless piece of merde!”
The earl led the way from the field where the fireworks display was set up, through the English encampment to the cardinal’s pavilion. Recognized by the guard at the entrance, he was allowed to pass into the tent with his companions. Inside he saw the trio of miscreants on their knees before Wolsey, now returned from the mass.
“That’s him!” the boy burst out without even being asked. “ ’Tis yon priest who paid me a silver penny to light the Salamander before I should.”
Cardinal Wolsey beckoned them forward. “Explain, Witton,” he said.
“Remember that Philippa said ‘the salamander’ was to be the sign for the assassination. The lad is the fireworks artisan’s apprentice. He was paid a silver penny to light the Salamander when the sun reached its zenith this morning. The fireworks, of course, are not until this evening. The Salamander was to be the signal for the assassination to commence. The boy knew nothing of that, of course. He said a priest paid him, and said that the king’s mother wished to play a jest on her son.”
“And you see that same priest here in my pavilion, lad?” the cardinal said.
“Aye, your grace. He kneels before you there.” The boy pointed directly at the guilty man.
Cardinal Wolsey nodded. “Thank you, lad. Kneel, both of you, and I will give you my blessing.” The cardinal was known to be parsimonious. When he had blessed the pair he surprised the earl by reaching deep into a pocket hidden in his robes and drawing forth two coins. The larger of the two he gave to the artisan, the smaller to the boy.
The earl saw the glint of silver, and almost smiled. This information must have meant a great deal to the cardinal that he would part with silver.
“You,” Wolsey said to the artisan, “will return to your fireworks, for the display tonight must be a fine one. I will send the boy to you before evening. I need him to remain for now. He will have to tell his story to another.” The cardinal turned to one of his servants. “Have my litter prepared and brought forth. I am going to pay a visit upon the dowager queen herself, and see what she has to say about this plot.” Now he focused his gaze upon the earl of Witton. “You have done well, as you have always been wont to do, Crispin. Now go and find your wife, and enjoy the rest of this spectacle. One more interminable banquet filled with over-rich foods, a show of fireworks, and we may all finally go home again to our perfect English summer. Provided, of course, that it does not rain for weeks on end, but then after this unbearable heat and all this dust I think I will welcome the rain. Go! Go!” He waved his beringed hand at the earl.
Crispin St. Claire bowed to the cardinal. “Thank you, your grace,” he said. “I am glad to have once again been of service, but it is really my wife to whom the glory should go. If she had not overheard these three, their wicked plot might have succeeded.”
Comprehension dawned upon the face of the largest prisoner. He looked to the man called Michel and said, “I told you we should have strangled the bitch. She understood every word we said that day”
“Aye, she did,” the earl told them. And then, laughing, he left the cardinal’s pavilion to find Philippa and tell her all that had transpired.
Chapter 18
They 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 arrive
d 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.
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