Philippa

by Bertrice Small

  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!”

  Epilogue

  The wedding of Banon Meredith to Robert Neville took place on a warm late September day. As Banon was Thomas Bolton’s heiress to Otterly the celebration took place there. Helping her sister to dress, Philippa had difficulty drawing the laces on Banon’s pale blue satin bodice closed.

  “Are you gaining weight already?” she teased her sibling.

  Banon turned her head and grinned at her senior. “I am with child,” she said proudly.

  “But you aren’t wed!” Philippa gasped, shocked.

  “I will be in another hour,” Banon laughed. “It was a lovely summer here, sister. Rob and I enjoyed ourselves immensely. And Uncle Thomas was kind enough to turn a blind eye, bless him.”

  “What if your Neville had cried off?” Philippa said primly. “Remember the cow and the cream?”

  Banon laughed again. “Rob loves me, and his family loves the fact that I am wealthy, and likely to grow wealthier as the years go by. No one will be surprised by an early spring bairn, Philippa. Just pray I deliver a son, for I want a son for Otterly, and I know Uncle Thomas would be as pleased as anyone should that bairn be a lad.”

  Philippa shook her head. “You are too wild a girl, sister. I hope you will temper your ways now that you are to be first a wife, and then a mother. You want no gossip.”

  “Always the perfect courtier,” Banon replied, and then to Philippa’s surprise she kissed her sister’s cheek. “Who know, sister, I may have a child who falls in love with the court even as you did. And if I do I shall send that child to my sister, the countess of Witton, who will introduce her nephew or niece into the exalted ranks of the aristocracy”

  Philippa smiled, and then she grew wistful. “I cannot believe that we are both wed, and you to be a mother. Our girlhood is indeed over.”

  “Ah, but we still have Bessie, don’t we?” Banon said. “Or I should say our younger sister, Elizabeth, the heiress of Friarsgate.”

  “Who would have thought it would all end up like this,” Philippa noted. “Me a countess, you the heiress to Otterly, and Bessie the next heiress of Friarsgate. She is a wild child, I fear, but as you are nearer to her than I, Banon, you must see she learns some manners and graces, or God only knows who will have her as a wife. Certainly no gentleman, and mama would not like to see Friarsgate in the hands of the wrong man one day.”

  “Shows how little you know or understand about B—Elizabeth,” Banon replied. “She’ll never allow any husband to tell her how to manage Friarsgate. She’d sooner go to her grave a maiden. And her manners and graces are everything you would expect of a lady, sister. She just doesn’t choose to display them regularly. And she particularly enjoys annoying you, for she thinks you are too high and mighty for a lass reared in Cumbria. Watch her today. You’ll see. Now get those laces as best you can. I’ll not keep my Neville waiting at the altar. When is your bairn due?”

  “The middle of March, mama says. Crispin says once we get home we must remain home,” Philippa told her sister.

  “And my bairn will come at the end of March or the beginning of April,” she said. “Does that mean you won’t go to court for the Christmas revels?” Her hand touched her auburn hair, which was unbound. Then she set a circlet of Michaelmas daisies upon her head.

  “Nay,” Philippa replied. “We will remain home at Brierewode, but I am not unhappy. The thought of spending the autumn and the winter with Crispin makes me happier than I ever thought to be. I will return to court one day. But not right away.”

  “You do love him,” Banon said softly.

  “Aye, I do,” Philippa admitted with a small smile. Then she said, “Shall I call Uncle Thomas now? Are you ready?”

  Banon nodded. “I’m ready,” she responded.

  And Lord Cambridge came, and proudly led his heiress from his house to the little church at Otterburn, his village. The villagers lined the road waving and cheering as the bride made her way to the church where she was united in holy matrimony to her Neville. And afterwards at the wedding feast Banon’s stepfather, the laird of Claven’s Cam, danced a sensuous Scottish dance with his wife, and seeing the intensity between them Philippa wondered if, despite her mother’s good intentions, there would be another Hepburn son born sooner than later.

  Crispin, seated next to her, took her hand in his. “A few more days, little one, and then we go home,” he told her.

  “Aye,” Philippa agreed. “I look forward to the months to come.”

  “I look forward to the years to come,” he said with a slow smile. Reaching out he put his hand on her belly. “Is it a lad, little one?”

  “Only God knows the answer to that, but if it is not, we shall make another, and another, until we get it right, my lord,” Philippa told him with a mischievous smile. “And if it is, he will need brothers and sisters. Our duty is clear, my lord.”

  “I can see you have our life together well planned,” the earl told his countess. “But what of the court, Philippa? Will you go back?”

  “One day,” Philippa said, “but the queen was right when she told me that my duty was to make a family. Family is the greatest gift God gives us, Crispin.”

  And in the spring of 1521 the countess of Witton presented her husband with their first son who was called Henry Thomas St. Claire. And three weeks afterwards Banon Meredith Neville bore a daughter who was christened Katherine Rose. And at Friarsgate Elizabeth Meredith celebrated her thirteenth birthday on the twenty-third of May knowing that when she turned fourteen her mother would formally turn Friarsgate over to her. She wanted no husband, no man to tell her what to do. She had already made Friarsgate her own domain, and it was all she ever wanted. But Elizabeth Meredith was yet young, and though she knew it not, fate had already planned her future.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bertrice Small is a New York Times bestselling author and the recipient of numerous writing awards. In keeping with her profession, she lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, founded in 1640, and works in a light-filled studio surrounded by the paintings of her favorite cover artist, Elaine Duillo. Because she believes in happy endings, Bertrice Small has been married to the same man, her hero, George, for forty-one years. They have a son, a daughter-in-law, and three adorable grandchildren. Longtime readers will be happy to know that Nicki the Cockatiel flourishes along with his fellow housemates, Pookie, the long-haired greige and white feline, Honeybun, the petite orange lady cat with the cream-colored paws, and Finnegan, the naughty black kitty.

  New York Times bestselling author Bertrice

  Small begins her new series, The Border

  Chronicles, with A DANGEROUS LOVE, the

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  Orphaned by England’s War of the Roses,

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  Adair Radcliffe is taken captive during a border

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&nbs
p; instead he finds that beneath the girl’s dirty,

  disheveled appearance is a proud, spirited, violet-

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  who will teach the stubborn Scot that love

  recognizes neither borders nor rank....

  “Small’s fans ... know what to expect ... a good

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  Read on for a sneak peek at A DANGEROUS

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  Adair! Adair! Now, where has that child gotten to this time?” Nursie asked herself aloud. Pray God she hadn’t slipped out of the hall, as she so often did. Not now. Not when the Lancastrians were prowling the countryside, causing havoc. Especially when she had been specifically told not to wander about in these dangerous times. Not that Adair Radcliffe ever listened to anyone except herself, Nursie considered. “Adair!” she called again impatiently. ”Oh, bless my stars!“ the servant cried, jumping back as her charge leaped out from behind a high-backed chair.

  “Boo!” Adair Radcliffe said, grinning wickedly at her keeper.

  “You bad thing,” Nursie cried. “You have given me quite a fright, child, but come. Your mother and father want to see you in the hall. Hurry along now, my precious. You don’t want to disobey your parents.”

  “They’ve burned the village,” the six-year-old girl said. “I was up in the west tower, and I could see it. And the fields as well.”

  “These are terrible times,” Nursie muttered, catching the child’s hand and leading her from the corridor into the great hall of Stanton. She saw her master and mistress at the far end of the room. They stood by the large open fireplace in earnest conversation. “Here she is, my lord, my lady,” Nursie said as they reached the Earl and Countess of Stanton. She curtseyed, and then moved away, but Jane Radcliffe bade her remain.