Urging his horse forward, he rode down the hill along the road that passed through those beautiful fields and a small cluster of cottages. Reaching the manor house, he pulled the beast to a halt and dismounted as a stable lad ran to take his animal. Stepping up to the door, he knocked loudly upon it, and when a servant opened the door, Flynn Stewart said, “I need to speak with your mistress.”
“This way, sir,” Albert said, leading him to the great hall. “Mistress, a gentleman asking for you,” the hall steward said.
Elizabeth looked up. Then she stood, holding out her hands. “Flynn!” Her eyes were bright with their welcome. “What brings you to Friarsgate? I hope the queen has not sent you to bring me back to court again, for I shall not come. My responsibilities have increased greatly since my return.” She smiled at him as Albert brought a goblet of wine for her guest.
He took the goblet, gulping half of it down. He had not realized he was so thirsty. “I am on my way to Edinburgh,” he told her. “I thought I should stop and see how you and Friarsgate are doing,” he told her.
“Edinburgh is farther north, and just above the other side of England,” Elizabeth said, an amused look upon her face. “You obviously have little sense of direction, Flynn.” And she chuckled.
“Then I shall admit to being curious as to this Friarsgate of yours, and thought to see it. I have important news for James, and I am finally to be relieved of my duties. My brother tells me he has a rich wife for me. I am at last following your advice, Elizabeth.”
“Baen should be in from the fields soon,” she told him. “It is almost time for the haying to begin. Young Thomas is with him. And we have two other children: Edmund, who was, coincidentally, born nine months after Baen and I came home. And our daughter, Anne, born the fifth day of December last year. When I saw our daughter’s black hair I knew I had to name her after the queen.” And Elizabeth laughed. “How is she? We get little news here in our remote northern lands.”
Baen Hay came into the hall and, seeing Flynn Stewart, held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. A little boy, tall, but quite young, walked with him. The child ran to Elizabeth and hugged her. “Welcome to Friarsgate,” Baen greeted their visitor. He kissed his wife upon her lips, and then, his arm about her, turned back to face Flynn Stewart. “What brings you here, sir?”
“I have told him that if the queen wants me back I cannot go,” Elizabeth teased her handsome husband.
Baen laughed. “Nay, sweetheart, I’ll not let you go again.” He looked to Flynn. “Will you stay the night, Flynn Stewart?”
“Aye, and I thank you for the shelter,” Flynn replied.
“And you will tell us the news of court over dinner?” Elizabeth said.
“I will,” Flynn answered her with a heavy heart. How was he to tell her the terrible news that he carried? How much did she know of what had happened in those many months since she had last been with the court? Did her sister, a countess, he recalled, write to her?
They chatted idly as the meal was served. It was a plain country meal such as he remembered from his own childhood. There was broiled trout, a potage of vegetables, venison, a roast capon, bread, butter, and cheese. The food was fresh and well cooked. Flynn watched in amusement as Elizabeth’s two sons helped themselves to cherries from a bowl on the high board, and then vied with each other to see how far they could spit the pits. He had been shown the infant Anne Hay with her black curls, who so resembled her father, and was already showing her mother’s lively personality.
Now the children were all sent off to bed. He sat with Elizabeth and Baen outdoors on the early summer’s night. He could delay no longer. “Does your sister, the countess, write to you often?” he asked Elizabeth casually. “I should dislike repeating that which you already know.”
“Nay,” Elizabeth said. “Philippa goes little to court now. She is almost as much a country wife as I am. I did receive a letter from her just before Anne was born. She and Crispin had joined the king and queen on progress into Wales last summer. She wanted to visit the place where our father was born. She said it was beautiful, but not as beautiful as Friarsgate, and bleak. And our cousins there more backward than she would have expected. And her best friend resides in Wales. She said little about anything else.”
“Then I shall tell you all I know,” Flynn Stewart said. “Things went from bad to worse after you departed court. The women surrounding the queen were harpies. Her mother, her sister, Jane Rochford, Mary Howard, who was married to Fitzroy, the king’s son, among others. None loved her, but for one: Margaret Lee. After you left she was most sympathetic of the queen’s loneliness, and they became friends.”
“Oh, I am glad!” Elizabeth said. “I thought of her highness so often, but I had to come home. Say on, Flynn.”
“Margaret Lee was her only comfort. The king’s passion for Queen Anne had waned and burned out,” he said. “They quarreled bitterly, and often publicly. The king was openly courting other women—the queen’s cousin Margaret Shelton, among others. The more he dallied with others, the more shrewish the queen became.”
“She was afraid,” Elizabeth said wisely. “Poor Anne. She was always afraid.”
“Aye,” Flynn agreed. “There were two confinements the year after you left, but neither came to fruition. Then the king’s proposed alliances first with France, and then with Emperor Charles, began to unravel. The pope had excommunicated him for refusing to take the princess of Aragon back and restore the lady Mary. Last summer the king was despondent that all he had so long labored for was lost. The queen’s star glowed briefly once more, and they went on progress together. To all who saw them they seemed happy again but for the presence of Mistress Seymour. In late autumn it was announced that the queen was once again with child. The bairn would be born in July.
“Then the princess of Aragon died on the day after Twelfth Night. The king refused to wear mourning, and threatened any who did. Instead he gave banquets and held tournaments in celebration. In late January he was unhorsed for the first time in anyone’s memory.”
“He is too old to play at such games any longer,” Elizabeth said.
Baen nodded in agreement.
“How badly was he injured?” she wanted to know.
“It wasn’t the fall that did the injury; it was his horse falling on him,” Flynn explained.
“God’s wounds!” Baen exclaimed. “He was not killed?”
“Nay, but he lay unconscious for two hours, and that wicked busybody Norfolk went running to the queen to say the king was probably dead,” Flynn Stewart replied.
“She lost the child,” Elizabeth said fatalistically.
“Aye, and that was the beginning of her end,” the Scotsman said. “After that the king visited her no more. He openly courted Mistress Seymour before all. The queen was sorrowing for her child—a son, by the way—and deserted by all but a few. The court rushed to align itself with what was to be the new regime, while the king looked for a way to divest himself of the queen, and not look the worse for doing it.”
