“We share a great-grandfather,” he said, and then explained further, adding, “It was your father’s success at court that paved the way for me,” he concluded.
“I do not really remember my father,” Elizabeth said. “I was very young when he died. But I am told he was a good and honorable man. I am said to resemble him.”
“He died young then?” Rees Jones said.
“In a fall from an apple tree,” Elizabeth replied.
“Elizabeth!” Philippa looked mortified.
“My sister considers the manner of our father’s death an embarrassment, I fear. Perhaps if he had perished in battle, or in his bed of a wasting sickness, she would find it more acceptable,” Elizabeth murmured.
“What was he doing in an apple tree?” Rees asked her, ignoring Philippa.
“Helping our people harvest the crop. None at Friarsgate had ever thought to go to the top of the tree and shake the fruit down. They picked what they could reach, and left the rest to fall and rot. My father considered that a great waste, I am told. So each autumn he would go into the orchards with the peasants and help them. One year, sadly, he lost his balance and fell to his death,” she explained.
“He was a good Welshman to the end then, Mistress Elizabeth,” Rees Jones told her with a chuckle, “for waste is an anathema to the Welsh race.” Then, turning, he drew Flynn Stewart forward. “Cousins, my lord, may I introduce my friend Flynn Stewart.”
Flynn stepped forward to kiss first the Countess of Witton’s hand, and then Elizabeth’s. He bowed politely to Thomas Bolton.
“Flynn is King James’s personal messenger to King Henry’s court,” Rees explained.
“Ah,” Lord Cambridge said, eyeing the young man. “Then you are the spy.”
The Scotsman burst out laughing. “Nay, nothing so glamorous, I fear, my lord, although I can understand you might assume that. Some do.” His amber eyes twinkled. He stood just over six feet, and had a thick head of red hair.
“You look like your father,” Lord Cambridge remarked. “The resemblance is quite remarkable, dear boy. Did you know him well?”
“I had that privilege, my lord,” Flynn Stewart replied quietly. The Englishman had surprised him, for he had taken the man, given his most fashionable garb, for nothing more than a foppish courtier. Stewart’s parentage was known, but rarely spoken about.
“I spent many a delightful hour at his court in Edinburgh, and in his company. He was a rare and unique gentleman,” Lord Cambridge said.
“Uncle!” Philippa looked truly uncomfortable.
“My dear girl, the fellow is dead, and King Henry triumphs. There can be no harm in my speaking of Jamie Stewart, the fourth of his ilk.” He patted her shoulder.
“Thank you, my lord,” Flynn Stewart answered Thomas Bolton.
Elizabeth had listened, fascinated. She had quickly realized, given the references, that Flynn Stewart was one of James IV’s bastards. The royal Stewarts did have a predilection for spreading their descendants around the countryside.
“Madame,” the Scot said, “may I have your permission to walk with your sister?”
“Of course,” Philippa replied. The Scot was not the sort of party that Elizabeth should be involved with, but she could honestly think of no reason to refuse him. “You will remain within my sight, of course,” she added.
“Of course.” He bowed politely, and then offered Elizabeth his arm.
Well, at least he had good manners, and he was their cousin’s friend, Philippa considered. And Elizabeth had to start somewhere.
Elizabeth took the Scotsman’s arm and they moved off. “You are every bit as much an outsider here as I am,” she remarked softly as they walked.
“You do not look like an outsider in that gown,” he replied. “Pale blue suits you.”
“So my uncle says,” she responded.
“You do not look like your sister,” he continued.
“Nay, I do not. My two older sisters look like our mother. I favor the father I cannot remember.”
“Why are you here?” he wondered.
