“If you do wed,” Philippa said, “you must know certain things about men and women. I dare not leave it to Mother to explain. Listen to me, Elizabeth, and then keep what I have told you to yourself.”
“Do not speak!” Elizabeth said. “I know what I need to know.”
“Sheep are not people,” Philippa shot back.
“I know,” Elizabeth replied, giggling.
“Banon! Banon has spoken to you,” Philippa said. “Well, I am glad she saw your need, Elizabeth. Ignorance is not bliss, but I assume you are wise enough to pretend ignorance when you at last have a wedding night.” She did not wait for her youngest sister to confirm her conclusion.
Elizabeth did not enlighten her otherwise. She might be ignorant, but she did not want to discuss such matters with her oldest sister. She rose from her seat. “I think I will retire,” she said. “We depart early.” She kissed both of Philippa’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she said to her. “I will bid you farewell now, for I doubt you will arise as early as we will. I think I have actually enjoyed being with you, sister. We have both grown older and hopefully wiser with the passage of time.”
“Aye,” Philippa agreed. “Give Mama my dearest love. Tell her I wish she might see her grandchildren.”
“If you would bring them north she could,” Elizabeth reminded her sibling. “She will not travel south, but you might come to us, if only once. She misses you, Philippa, and she has never gotten over what you did, despite the fact that I am a far better chatelaine than you would have ever been. When your daughter is older, come to see us, sister, I beg of you.”
Philippa had the good grace to look discomfited by her sister’s gentle chiding. “Perhaps next summer,” she said, “when Mary Rose is closer to her second birthday.”
“I know Mama would like it, and you can stay at Friarsgate, so you will not have to go into Scotland. Mama has made Claven’s Carn more habitable, but it is still rough in comparison with my manor house. Do not allow your love for court to change your mind, Philippa,” Elizabeth warned. “The court will always be there for you. Mama will not. Farewell, sister.” And without waiting to allow Philippa the last word, Elizabeth turned and went upstairs.
Seeing her go, Lord Cambridge and Will Smythe rose from the game table by the window.
“It isn’t even dark yet,” Thomas Bolton complained. “These long twilights and longer days can be so deceiving. But if Elizabeth has retired then I must do so too, dear Philippa. Your sister will be ready to depart at sunrise, and she will brook no tardiness from me. Return for the evening’s entertainments if you will.”
“Perhaps I shall,” Philippa said. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but if you are all going to bed I might as well go back to the palace. I shall take a dark lamp, Uncle, to facilitate my return.” She hugged him. “Good-bye! I will miss you, but then I always do.”
He kissed her on both of her cheeks. “And I you, dear girl! My felicitations to Crispin, of course.” He paused as if considering something, and then he said, “You must come north next summer, Philippa. You are your mother’s firstborn, and she cannot help but favor you. She has not seen you since you forsook Friarsgate. By next summer your heir will be half-grown. She has never seen him or your other children. Without her you should not have all you have today. Remember that when you consider delaying your visit to Friarsgate. The king and the duke will release your sons from their service under the circumstances if you ask. Do not fail me. Do not fail your mother.” He kissed her forehead. “Farewell, dear girl.” And he left her standing in his hall to disappear upstairs.
“God bless your ladyship,” William Smythe said, kissing her hand and bowing low.
“Thank you, Will,” Philippa said. “I have been properly lectured, haven’t I?”
“Indeed, my lady, you have. But it was done with the love his lordship has for all of his family. I believe you know that,” Will answered quietly.
“Godspeed on your journey home, Will,” Philippa said.
“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.
