“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 privy 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.
