“Thank you, your ladyship. Farewell.” And he departed the hall.
Philippa stood alone for a long moment. It had been a most interesting month, and with her sister’s leaving she realized that perhaps she was ready to return to Brierewode in a few days’ time. She missed Crispin. She missed little Hugh and her baby daughter. But tonight, she decided, she would return to join in the festivities that were sure to be swirling about the king and his little paramour, Mistress Boleyn.
And before she departed, she must speak with Henry and Owein on the matter of discretion. Her two older sons had displayed rough manners of late, and it must be curbed. Anne Boleyn would eventually go the way of all the king’s whores. But for now she held the power, and it would not do for either of the Earl of Witton’s sons to be accused of ill-advised and imprudent behavior based on others’ opinions. Why had no one ever explained to her the difficulties of being a mother? With a deep sigh of resignation she hurried from the house and back to the palace.
When she awoke in her bed late the following morning she learned that her uncle and sister had indeed departed at first light.
They were fortunate in the weather, for the day had dawned fair, warm, and windless. They had caught the early tide upriver just before dawn, reaching Lord Cambridge’s house on the city’s outskirts early. They had decided that rather than remain overnight they would continue on that same day, but they stopped long enough to break their fast and gather their men-at-arms for their travels. Will did not remain with them, but rode ahead to book their accommodations at a suitable inn along their route.
In the lush Warwickshire countryside Elizabeth hardly heeded its great castle, although she did comment on the green meadows. Staffordshire’s terrible roads remained dry, and she did not notice them at all. She exhausted everyone with her fast and furious pace as she galloped across the flat countryside of Cheshire. She was somewhat slowed as they moved through Lancaster, where the roads traversed great forests of towering trees. The wildness of Westmoreland’s hills set her heart to racing faster despite the rains that fell, for they crossed it in a day, and were finally into Cumbria.
At Carlisle they stayed overnight at the guesthouse belonging to St. Cuthbert’s, where Elizabeth’s great-uncle, Richard Bolton, was its prior. Despite nearing his seventieth year he was still a handsome man, with his startlingly blue eyes and snow-white hair.
“Cousin Thomas,” he greeted Lord Cambridge. “Have you returned with our lovely Elizabeth bringing good news? Elizabeth, my child, you look radiant. Is it some fine young man that brings such a sparkle to your eye?” He smiled warmly.
“Nay, sir,” Elizabeth replied pertly. “I fear I will be a great disappointment to Mama, for I have found no husband. If I look happy it is because I am so near home again, and happy to be so.”
Prior Richard shook his head. “Perhaps then your fate is and has always been here in the north, my child,” he told her. “Cousin Thomas, you look worn. It would appear such long journeys are no longer for you.”
“Alas, cousin,” Lord Cambridge answered him, “I agree.”
They ate a simple meal with their relation, and then Elizabeth retired to the female quarters of the guesthouse while her male relations sat talking over a decanter of wine.
“I remember Philippa returning from court that first time, and declaring she would go back. She would not, she told me, be shackled to some country bumpkin,” the prior said with a smile. “And now you have the opposite difficulty with Elizabeth. It always had amazed me the differences in Rosamund’s daughters. You had no luck at all then?”
Lord Cambridge shook his head. “Nay, but then I did not really think I would. It is possible that I may have a solution to this problem, but I am not yet ready to discuss it. I hope, however, when I am that you will support me. You know I only want what is best for Rosamund and her daughters. I have not ever failed them.”
Nay, you have not,” Prior Richard agreed. “I don’t suppose you will give me even the merest hint,” he half teased.
“A Scot, and that is all I will say,” Thomas Bolton replied.
Richard Bolton’s elegant eyebrow raised itself in amusement. “Indeed,” he said. “More wine, cousin?”
Lord Cambridge’s beringed hand held out his goblet. “I don’t get drunk,” he told his older cousin, and the prior burst out laughing as he poured the dark red wine into the silver cup. “And I have said all I will for now,” Tom Bolton declared, downing the wine and then rising. “Good night, Richard.”
“Good night, Thomas. I shall pray for you. You are obviously going to need my prayers,” the cleric said with a chuckle. “You are attempting to create a miracle.”
The following morning after the early Mass and a meal of oat stirabout, bread, cheese, and ale, they departed Carlisle for Friarsgate. Again the day was fair, as most of the days had been since their departure from Greenwich. Elizabeth attempted to set a quick pace, but Lord Cambridge refused.
“Do not bother to race ahead, dear girl,” he told her. “We cannot possibly reach Friarsgate until tomorrow sometime. We will overnight at St. Mary’s Convent, as we did when we departed to go south. They are expecting us. I do not intend hurrying all day long, only to be caught between there and Friarsgate come dark, a perfect target for some marauding borderer.” He shuddered. “God alone knows what they would do to us.”
“Swear we will leave the convent before the Mass,” she demanded of him.
“I swear,” he said with a smile, and he kept the promise, leaving a substantial donation behind them as they departed St. Mary’s the following morning even before the sunrise. The sleepy portress was surprised by both the early departure and the gift.
Elizabeth could scarcely contain her exuberance. She galloped ahead of them most of the day, two men-at-arms in her wake. She knew instantly when she crossed the borders of her own land, stopping for a moment to rest her mount. And when she topped the crest of the hills surrounding her home and saw the lake glittering in the sunlight, she wept, silent tears of joy slipping down her face. Friarsgate! Her beloved Friarsgate! She would never leave it again.
Then she began to scan the scenery. The fields were fertile with growth. Her flocks and herds looked healthy. Everyone was working diligently. Her one and a half months’ absence had not been detrimental to her estates, as she had feared before she left. She moved her horse down the hill road, waving to her people as she came. Was not this a hundred times better than King Henry’s court? Oh, yes! It was a thousand times better. She reached the house, and Maybel came to greet her, for Will had ridden ahead to warn the manor of her coming.
“Child, bless me, it is good to have you home again,” Maybel said, hugging her.
“I will never leave Friarsgate again,” Elizabeth declared as they went into the hall arm in arm. “The court holds no charms for me, dearest Maybel.”
“But did you find a good man?” Maybel wanted to know.
“Nay, I did not,” Elizabeth admitted. “There was one, but he was not suitable.”
“And why not, I should like to know?” Maybel demanded as they sat themselves before the little fire in the hall.
“His first loyalty would never be to me or to Friarsgate,” Elizabeth said sadly.
“What? No welcome for me, old woman?” Lord Cambridge joined them, kissing Maybel heartily on her weathered cheek.
Maybel chuckled. Then she grew serious. “You was our last hope, Tom Bolton, and the lass says the only lad she found was unsuitable. Was Lady Philippa right then?”
“She was,” Lord Cambridge said, “but all is not lost, dear Maybel. I am never without ideas or resources. We shall see if what I have in mind can be accomplished.”
“You’re a wicked fellow, Tom Bolton,” Maybel declared, “but you has always had the best interests of this family at heart. I will wait to see what you can do.”
“He hasn’t even told me,” Elizabeth said. “Where is Edmund? I want all the news of Friarsgate. Is he in my p
rivy chamber?”
“You are just home, child,” Maybel said, “and my Edmund has had a long day. Let him have his evening meal, and you will speak with him tomorrow. All has been well, I swear it.”
At that moment Edmund Bolton, Friarsgate’s steward, came into the hall. He went directly to Elizabeth and kissed her upon the forehead. “Welcome home, my child,” he greeted her quietly.
“Maybel says all has been well,” Elizabeth said. “We will speak in the morning. For now I shall tell you all my adventures, including the fete that Mistress Boleyn gave me on my birthday. We wore costumes, and as always Uncle Thomas outdid himself, and we were a great success.”
The servants began bringing the meal into the hall. Elizabeth, her family, and Will gathered about the high board. It was a simple country meal: a roasted capon with a stuffing of bread and dried fruits, two whole broiled trout displayed upon a platter of cress, a platter of lamb chops, fresh peas, tiny new carrots in a creamed dill sauce, fresh cottage loaves, newly churned butter, and a half-wheel of sharp cheddar. There was good brown ale, and when they had eaten their fill there came a bowl of newly picked peaches.
“I did not eat a meal at court that could compare to this,” Elizabeth told Maybel, her eyes sparkling as she took another ripe peach.
“I see travel and weariness have not claimed your appetite.” Maybel chuckled.
“Tell us of the court,” Edmund said.
Elizabeth began a detailed recitation of her travels. Now and again Thomas Bolton would add his own colorful commentary. They chuckled at her wicked descriptions of the courtiers she had encountered, and laughed until the tears rolled down their faces when she explained how she and Lord Cambridge had attended her birthday fete costumed as sheep.
“What did the king say?” Maybel wheezed.
“He is a clever gentleman, and he caught the jest,” Elizabeth said.
“What did your hoity-toity sister have to say?” Maybel asked.
“At first she was a bit taken aback, and said she would not attend,” Elizabeth said, “but Uncle Thomas knew she would never miss such a fete, and besides, the gossip that would ensue if she did not come could ruin her.”
“Aye, her ladyship has always had an eye out for herself,” Maybel responded.
“Nay, she thinks not of herself now, but of her sons, who are already in service at the court. Henry is a page to the king, and Owein to the Duke of Norfolk.”
“I thought she had one with the cardinal,” Edmund remarked.
“He has fallen from grace,” Thomas Bolton said.
“A poor man’s son who climbed too high,” Edmund said. “It was bound to happen eventually. He did not stay where he belonged, and got above his station.”
“He was a brilliant man, Edmund,” Lord Cambridge said, “and a loyal servant to the king. His crime was that he could not give the king what he wanted.”
“Tell us about Lady Philippa’s gown,” Maybel said.
“She was garbed as a peacock,” Elizabeth said, and went on to explain.
The evening grew late for the country, and Elizabeth went gratefully to her bed.
When she had departed the hall Lord Cambridge explained the visit from his point of view. “I will find her a husband, although I know she is glad we did not. She may be twenty-two years of age, but she is yet young and knows nothing of passion. It is time she learned.”
“Will you send to Rosamund?” Edmund wanted to know.
“Not yet,” Lord Cambridge said. “Let Elizabeth enjoy being home without having her mother and Logan fussing over her supposed failures. There is time yet for a husband and children.”
“The young Scot who was here through the winter,” Edmund began. “His father has written to say the sheep he bought for Grayhaven seem to have taken to their new home well. With Elizabeth’s permission he wants to send his son back to Friarsgate to learn more about our weavers and their looms.”
“Indeed,” Thomas Bolton said. This was surely a sign that what he had in mind could be accomplished. “What did you reply?” he asked as casually as he dared.
“I didn’t see no harm in it,” Edmund replied. “I wrote to the master of Grayhaven that he should send his son back here, but that to learn about our weavers he might have to remain through the autumn, possibly the winter too.”
“ ’Twas wise, I believe,” Lord Cambridge said. “He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, and intelligent to boot.”
“When will you be returning to Otterly?” Maybel wanted to know.
“In a few days I shall send dear Will to see how the builders are coming along,” Lord Cambridge answered. “I shall not return until I can move into my new wing. And Will must be certain we are private this time. As much as I adore my darling Banon, her brood is much too noisy and active for a man of my years.”
“If Elizabeth weds and has bairns”—Maybel chortled—“you’ll not be able to hide yourself away at Friarsgate any longer. Are you certain you would have her wed?”
“For her sake, for my darling Rosamund’s sake, and especially for Friarsgate, aye! Elizabeth must be wed, Maybel. As for me, I shall be a snug as a bug in a rug with my new and absolutely private apartments. But I shall come now and again to Friarsgate.” He yawned, stretched, and stood up. “I am weary with all the traveling and excitement I have endured over these past two and a half months.” He yawned again. “I shall find my bed. Good night, Edmund. Good night, Maybel.”
He walked from the hall, his facile mind turning. A plain Scot. Baen MacColl certainly fit that description. He had not thought it before they left for court, but now Thomas Bolton was reconsidering his position. Elizabeth needed a husband. She needed a man who would be as much involved in Friarsgate as she was. A man who would defer just enough to her to make her believe she continued to have complete autonomy over Friargate. A good man like Sir Owein Meredith, her father, had been.
There had been an attraction between them, Lord Cambridge knew. Could he see that it was rekindled? Encouraged to grow into a love between them? And would the Scot love Elizabeth enough that he could overlook the differences that separated their two countries? Baen MacColl was no Flynn Stewart. His loyalties would be to the father who had taken him in as a lad. He might be the master of Grayhaven’s eldest child, but as a bastard he could not inherit. Would the father consider giving him his freedom in exchange for wealth and respectability? Prior Richard was right: He was going to need a miracle. Strangely, the thought did not deter him. He had lived a good life and been generous to all. Surely God would now give him this miracle. Thomas Bolton intended praying harder than he had ever prayed, because this was right. He just knew it!
Chapter 9
Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven, looked at his eldest son and said, “I’m sending you back to England, Baen.” He was a big man, standing three inches over six feet, with black hair and leaf-green eyes. Despite his fifty-two years he was a handsome man who gave the appearance of one twenty years younger. He looked more Baen’s brother than his father. “I’ve written to Friarsgate and had back a reply. You’ll go for the summer and autumn, and if you need to remain longer, you will.”
“Why?” Baen asked. “I’m barely home again, Da.” He stood an inch taller than his parent, but had the same wide, high forehead, long, straight nose, and generous mouth. From a distance they were often mistaken for each other.
“I want to learn more about this weaving you told me about when you returned a few weeks ago,” Colin Hay said. “These Friarsgate folk are kept busy the winter long at their looms, and the cloth they weave brings in an income. You will learn everything there is to know about this industrious endeavor, Baen. Then we will attempt to set up a similar undertaking here at Grayhaven. It will be your responsibility, for your brothers, good lads both, have not the instincts for trade or industry.”
“When am I to go?” Baen asked his father. He wondered if the lovely Elizabeth Meredith would have returned from court. And if she had, was she a marr
ied woman now? Of course, he had no right to think about her, but he had not been able to get her out of his mind. Her sweet mouth. Her golden hair and luminous hazel-green eyes. He almost sighed aloud with the memory. He wondered if she had thought of him.
“You can depart tomorrow,” the master of Grayhaven said. “Return when you know what you need to know, lad.”
So Baen had ridden out from Grayhaven the following morning with his dog, Friar, and for the next few days he rode from dawn until darkness. He carried wine in his flask and oatcakes in his pouch to sustain him. His horse grazed the night hours away wherever they stopped. Friar hunted rabbits. His woolen cape and his dog kept him warm in the fields where he bedded down. And with Friar by his side he was safe from marauders and wild beasts. Down from his Highland home he came, bypassing Edinburgh and riding across the Lowlands to finally cross into England. When he at last topped the hill and looked down into Friarsgate’s valley, he felt an odd sensation in his chest that he couldn’t comprehend. It was if he were coming home. Friar, seeming to recognize where he was too, barked noisily and dashed excitedly about.
The first to welcome him back was the priest, Father Mata. He was coming from his church. “ ’Tis good to see you again, laddie,” he said. “Edmund will be in the house now with Elizabeth. Today is their day for checking the figures on the flocks.”
“Mistress Elizabeth has returned from court?” Baen asked, dismounting. “And has she brought a fine bridegroom with her, Father Mata?”
“Nay, alas, there is no husband,” the priest said, shaking his head.
“Perhaps she will find one among her neighbors,” Baen said without conviction.
“We have few neighbors, and none near,” the priest replied mournfully. “I do not know what the lady Rosamund will do now. She made Elizabeth the heiress of Friarsgate, but we always anticipated the lass would one day wed and breed up a new heir or heiress for Friarsgate. It would appear that will not happen now, and what will become of Friarsgate? The lady will quarrel with her daughter when she learns this truth, but they have kept it from her so far, for anger will not solve the problem.”
The Last Heiress Page 20
