“What if we are not formally betrothed until we return from France?” she asked him slyly.
“If we are not betrothed before you go to France, Philippa, then I expect we will not be betrothed at all. You say you are to be sixteen in April. Well, I shall be thirty-one in early August. Neither of us can wait. I will want an heir as soon as possible. I am willing to allow you the latitude of going to France with the court, but if you are to be my wife I must be by your side. And we will wed as soon as we return. If you cannot agree to that here and now, then I see no reason for our acquaintance to continue further.”
Chapter 8
You would not believe what he said to me!” Philippa told Lord Cambridge, and then she repeated the conversation she had just had with the earl of Witton. His declaration had surprised her so, she had run from the hall.
“I agree with him, darling girl,” Thomas Bolton said.
“He behaves as if he didn’t trust me, uncle! I cannot wed with a man who does not trust me,” Philippa said angrily.
“Even if Crispin knew you well enough to trust you, Philippa, he would still not allow you to go to France unescorted. It is unseemly. Now let us go back into the hall, and straighten this matter out.”
“Uncle!” she protested, pouting.
“Philippa, this is an amazing match for you. If indeed you have not put the earl off with your childish behavior. We shall return to the hall immediately!” His voice was stem, and she looked surprised. In all her life she had never heard Thomas Bolton speak in such a sharp, commanding tone.
“Did you ever speak to my mother like that?” she demanded of him.
“I never had to speak to your mother like that,” he told her. “Now, girl, to the hall!” And he gently pushed her from his library, through the corridor, and into the hall again where the earl of Witton stood staring out at the river morosely.
The earl turned as they entered.
“Philippa has come to apologize for her behavior,” Lord Cambridge said, “and she will gladly agree to your escorting her to France this summer. Philippa?”
“Oh, very well,” Philippa grudgingly muttered. “I apologize, my lord.”
“There,” Lord Cambridge said, almost purring. “Now you two will be friends again. Being of an independent turn of mind you must both learn to compromise, eh?”
“I agree,” responded the earl, looking towards Philippa.
“I am sorry I left you so precipitously,” Philippa allowed stiffly. “I was upset that you did not trust me, my lord. No one has ever questioned my veracity.”
“And I did not mean to, if indeed that is what I did,” he replied. “I am simply concerned for your good name, Philippa. I am happy we are to be friends again now, and that you will accept my company in France without complaint.”
She nodded. “We are, and I will,” she told him.
“Excellent, excellent!” Lord Cambridge said, smiling broadly. “Now, my dears, I am absolutely ravenous, and you have both been so busy arguing that you never noticed that the board is set and ready for us. Philippa, you will remain the night. There is an icy rain falling outside now, and I do not wish to compromise your health by sending you back to the palace this evening. The morning is time enough.”
They sat down to an excellent meal. Lord Cambridge’s cook was a true artist. They began with salmon, sliced wafer thin, and lightly broiled with dill. There were fresh oysters, and large prawns steamed in wine and served with lemon. Next came a fat duck dripping its juices, and swimming in a gravy of rich red wine; a rabbit pie; a platter of chops, and another with half of a country-cured ham. Philippa’s eyes widened as a silver platter filled with lovely plump artichokes was offered.
“Uncle! Where did you get these?” she asked him. “I thought the king kept them all for himself. You know how he adores artichokes.”
Lord Cambridge smiled craftily. “Why, darling girl, I have my little ways as you well know. I, too, adore artichokes.”
“It is not the season for them,” the earl said, helping himself from the platter.
“Nonetheless I manage to obtain them,” Thomas Bolton said, tearing off a piece from the warm cottage loaf, and buttering it lavishly before taking a large bite.
“Miracles are born in Uncle Thomas’s kitchens wherever he may be living at the time,” Philippa said.
“You have more than one house then?” the earl asked.
“Here, and at Greenwich, and of course Otterly in Cumbria,” Philippa responded before her cousin might. “And each house is identical both inside and out, for Uncle Thomas does not like a great deal of change.” She laughed. “Is that not correct, uncle?”
“It is,” he agreed. “My life is far less complicated that way. It matters not where I may be living, everything is in exactly the same place.”
“But the upholstery is different,” Philippa put in, smiling.
“One must have some small variety,” Lord Cambridge said drolly.
Their meal ended with a tartlet of winter pears and a bowl of clotted Devon cream. The goblets had been kept filled, and all at the board were feeling mellow as outside the rain poured down, a certain indication of the spring to come.
“Philippa plays a fairly good game of chess, Crispin, dear boy,” Lord Cambridge said. “I taught her myself. As for me, I am exhausted, and must seek my bed.” Arising from the high board he bowed to them, and departed the hall.
“He is not very subtle,” Philippa said when he had gone.
“But most hopeful, I think, that you and I will not quarrel again,” the earl replied.
She smiled. “As a child my mother ruled me. These past few years at court I have felt as if I were the mistress of my own destiny, although I know it to be not fully true. Now I face the prospect of a husband who will be master over me. And while I know that is how it should be, it is something with which I must come to terms. Does that make any sense to you, my lord?”
He nodded, thinking that taking a wife was much like taming a wild creature, at least where Philippa was concerned. “I shall try not to prick you too hard, Philippa,” he promised her with a small smile. Then he arose from the board. “Come, and play chess with me, madame. ’Tis a game I very much enjoy.”
She fetched the board and the pieces from their place within the sideboard. Then she set them up neatly on a small game table she had instructed him to bring to the fireside. “White or black, my lord?” Philippa asked him as they seated themselves.
“Black,” he said. “I have always enjoyed being the black knight.”
“And I the white queen,” she quickly parried, and moved her first pawn.
He laughed, then studying the board carefully for a moment, he too moved a pawn.
They were, he quickly found, quite equally matched. She did not play like other women, filled with emotion, and weepy when she lost a piece. Philippa played coolly and with a sharp intellect. She was careful with each move she made, and he was quite astounded when she checked his queen. They spoke virtually not a word, and not easily did he finally defeat her, checkmating her king.
And she laughed when he did. “Ah, at last I have found a worthy opponent,” she told him. “I shall not allow you such leeway the next time we play.”
“Ahh,” he replied with a small smile, “then you think you can beat me, eh?”
“Perhaps,” Philippa hedged. Men, as she recalled, did not like being bested by a woman. She had foolishly allowed her tongue to run away with her.
“Only perhaps?” he taunted gently, wondering why she had suddenly drawn back.
“Nothing is ever certain, my lord,” Philippa said quickly in reply.
He laughed again. “You think you can beat me, but you have decided to spare my masculine feelings, Philippa. Is that it? Well, do not bother. If you think you can beat me, then let me see you do it.” He did not believe she actually could, but he was very much enjoying teasing her, seeing the range of emotions play across her lovely face.
Without a
word Philippa set the chess pieces in their proper place again, and then playing with intense concentration she proceeded to beat him in a far quicker period of time than he would have imagined. When she checked his king, and set it next to his queen, his knights, and his bishops, she looked across the table at him. There was not even the hint of a smile upon her face when she spoke.
“You were correct, my lord. I sought to spare you. You cannot live at court as I do, and serve the monarchs as I do, and be a total ninny. Neither the king, the queen, or those who surround them in their more private moments during the day would tolerate a bad chess player. And while I have carefully held back with his majesty so that he always wins our matches, I play hard enough with him that he believes he has actually bested me. It delights him, for I have bested his brother-in-law, the duke of Suffolk, and others of his favorites on many occasions. I have even played and beaten the cardinal twice.”
The earl of Witton nodded slowly. “Lord Cambridge said it. You are a consummate courtier, Philippa. I am most impressed by your acumen.”
“But am I the sort of girl you would want for a wife, my lord? Unlike others of my sex I am a poor dissembler,” she responded. “What you have seen this day is what I am. I have a temper. I have a passion for beautiful things. But I am not a giggling or silly turnip head.”
“Will you always obey me if I am your husband?” he asked her candidly.
“Probably not,” she told him so quickly that he smiled.
“You are honest, Philippa. I count honesty among the greatest of virtues along with loyalty and honor,” Crispin St. Claire said. “Well, I can always beat you if you are truly disobedient. And there are other more pleasurable means of bringing a fractious wife to her husband’s will.”
“Are you flirting with me, my lord?” she asked. Her cheeks felt warm.
“Aye, I am,” he replied. “I like to make you blush, Philippa. To find that I can discommode you reassures me that I will have some small advantage.”
“You speak as if the matter between us is settled, my lord,” she responded, feeling a small prick of irritation. There was an arrogance about him that troubled her.
“Can you find a better match than an earl of Witton?” he asked seriously. “I could probably find a girl with better bloodlines, but as Lord Cambridge has reminded me, an over-bred girl would be a poor breeder. If you are like your mother you will prove more than worthy, Philippa. Aye, it is settled between us, and you will be my wife.”
“I have not said it!” she cried, jumping up from her chair so suddenly that the game table between them shook, and several chess pieces fell to the floor.
“But you will, Philippa,” he taunted her. “You will agree to be my wife.”
“It is the land you want,” she flung back at him.
“In the beginning, aye. But not now,” he told her. “I beheld you for the first time at court the other night, and decided the matter then and there.”
“Do not dare to say you love me!” she cried.
“Nay, I do not, for I barely know you,” he responded. “Perhaps we shall learn to love each other one day, Philippa. But few go into a loving marriage. You are not a fool, as you have so carefully pointed out to me. You know that marriages among people like us are arranged for a variety of reasons. Land. Wealth. Status. Heirs. We will respect one another, Philippa. We will make children together. And if we are very fortunate the love may come. But you will make me a good wife, and I will make you the countess of Witton, and a good husband. Do you find me unattractive, or unpleasant to be with, Philippa?”
“Nay,” she admitted. “You are not a beautiful man, but neither are you an ugly one. And you have wit, and intellect, both of which I value far more in a man than a handsome face. But I think you arrogant also, my lord.”
“Aye, I can indeed be arrogant, but nonetheless I believe we have made a good beginning, Philippa.” Then reaching out he drew her from behind the table, and wrapped his arms about her. “I want the betrothal papers drawn up soon,” he said, looking down at her, his fingers tipping her face up to his. “I find I do not choose to wait long for you.”
He had taken her by surprise when he enfolded her into his embrace. She felt herself blushing once again. Worse, her heart raced at the proximity of their two bodies, though her skirts protected her from too great an intimacy. He was going to kiss her, she realized. His head was descending. Her eyes closed slowly of themselves. Her moist lips parted slightly. She sighed as his mouth touched hers, and her head spun with the pleasure the kiss offered. It had certainly not been anything like this with Roger Mildmay. Philippa was astounded. And then his lips were gone, and she felt a sense of deep loss. She almost cried out a protest as her eyes flew open.
“There,” he said. “The bargain between us is sealed now, Philippa.”
“But,” she protested once again, “I have not said it!”
“You will,” he promised her in his deep voice, and he released his hold on her.
Philippa almost stumbled when he did, but she recovered herself quickly. “I must go to bed,” she told him. “I will have to arise early to be back at the palace in time for the early mass. The queen always expects her maids to attend the first mass of the day with her. Good night, my lord.” She curtseyed to him, and almost ran from the hall.
He watched her go, and then walking to the sideboard he poured himself a silver goblet of rich red wine from the decanter there. Seating himself by the fire he considered the evening that they had just spent together. Was he mad to wed such a young girl? Perhaps a girl of twenty would suit him better, but nay. He wanted Philippa Meredith. And he was not of a mind to wait the next several months or a year to wed her. She had admitted to kissing another, and yet the touch of her lips on his had sent his senses reeling. Her mouth had not the experience of a courtesan. Indeed there was a charming innocence about it. He would let her go to France, but while she could not know it yet, she would go as his wife. Tomorrow he would seek an audience with the cardinal, and offer Wolsey his services for this great meeting that was to take place in the coming summer between King Henry and King Francois. Crispin St. Claire knew there would be a need for skilled diplomats at this endeavor. The cardinal knew what was needed, but he had not the patience to work out all the tiny details that would need to be settled. A minuter of details that would decide where each king’s pavilion would be set; how many horses each man would have; how much, and what kinds of foods and wines; how many courtiers each king would bring with him. And then there would be the similar preparations for Queen Katherine and Queen Claude. Nothing would be left to chance. Each of these kings was filled with his own self-importance. Each considered himself the first among rulers. Each would have to be catered and cosseted equally. It would require much patience, and a great deal of planning. And not just before the event transpired, but during the event and afterwards, as both Henry Tudor and Francois Premiere sought to claim that they were the greater of the duo and had gained the upper hand at this event.
Philippa departed early the following morning before either Lord Cambridge or the earl was up. She did not want to see or speak with either of them until she had had time to consider all that had happened in the few short hours she had been with the earl. She had slept badly. Her time with Crispin St. Claire had left her somewhat confused. He was a strong-willed man, she quickly divined. He was used to having his own way. So was she.
Her father had died when she was so young, Philippa thought. She had been raised in a house of women. Edmund Bolton was a quiet man, and while the management of Friarsgate was left to him, in the hall he was relatively silent while her mother and Maybel had ruled the roost. And Uncle Thomas never interfered with her mother. Indeed, if anything they had been close companions and confidants. And while she had been at home when her mother had wed Logan Hepburn, her stepfather never interfered with her mother’s rule at Friarsgate, and Philippa had rarely gone to Claven’s Cam with them, as she was considered the heiress to Fr
iarsgate.
She was simply not used to having a man tell her what to do, and how to do it. But he really hadn’t, she reconsidered. He would simply exercise his rights as the man of the house. His house. Why was she chafing like an unbroken mare at her first bridle? This was an incredible match for a girl like her. And when he had kissed her ... Philippa felt herself grow warm with the memory of it, and she smiled to herself. She had enjoyed kissing him. She had almost wished he would kiss her again, and perhaps not stop for a brief time. She wondered what Crispin St. Claire would have thought of that.
The earl of Witton entered the hall at Bolton House that morning to find it empty but for the servants. Lord Cambridge would not make an appearance until afternoon, the earl knew. But where was Philippa? Certainly she hadn’t returned to the palace this early? He stopped a servant.
“Where is the young mistress?” he inquired of him.
“Gone back to Richmond, my lord,” the man replied. “It were barely first light when she called for her barge. May I bring you breakfast, my lord?”
The earl nodded. He had hoped to speak with her before she left. Had she fled him? Or was it that she really did want to be back in time for the first mass of the day? Would the queen really have minded if she had not been there this one time? He ate the meal placed before him, and then spent a restless morning until Lord Cambridge finally made his appearance dressed to the nines, and obviously preparing to return to court himself. The earl had noted that the Bolton barge had returned, and was bobbing in the river waters by its quay.
“Dear boy, how long have you been up?” Thomas Bolton asked his guest, taking a goblet of watered wine from the tray a servant was holding.
“Several hours, Tom,” he answered.
“Did you see my darling girl before she departed back to her duties?”
“She was long gone when I came down into the hall. A servant told me it was barely first light when she left,” the earl answered his host.
“So faithful in her duties, my young cousin,” Lord Cambridge murmured.
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