“Tell us of the court,” Edmund said.
Elizabeth began a detailed recitation of her travels. Now and again Thomas Bolton would add his own colorful commentary. They chuckled at her wicked descriptions of the courtiers she had encountered, and laughed until the tears rolled down their faces when she explained how she and Lord Cambridge had attended her birthday fete costumed as sheep.
“What did the king say?” Maybel wheezed.
“He is a clever gentleman, and he caught the jest,” Elizabeth said.
“What did your hoity-toity sister have to say?” Maybel asked.
“At first she was a bit taken aback, and said she would not attend,” Elizabeth said, “but Uncle Thomas knew she would never miss such a fete, and besides, the gossip that would ensue if she did not come could ruin her.”
“Aye, her ladyship has always had an eye out for herself,” Maybel responded.
“Nay, she thinks not of herself now, but of her sons, who are already in service at the court. Henry is a page to the king, and Owein to the Duke of Norfolk.”
“I thought she had one with the cardinal,” Edmund remarked.
“He has fallen from grace,” Thomas Bolton said.
“A poor man’s son who climbed too high,” Edmund said. “It was bound to happen eventually. He did not stay where he belonged, and got above his station.”
“He was a brilliant man, Edmund,” Lord Cambridge said, “and a loyal servant to the king. His crime was that he could not give the king what he wanted.”
“Tell us about Lady Philippa’s gown,” Maybel said.
“She was garbed as a peacock,” Elizabeth said, and went on to explain.
The evening grew late for the country, and Elizabeth went gratefully to her bed.
When she had departed the hall Lord Cambridge explained the visit from his point of view. “I will find her a husband, although I know she is glad we did not. She may be twenty-two years of age, but she is yet young and knows nothing of passion. It is time she learned.”
“Will you send to Rosamund?” Edmund wanted to know.
“Not yet,” Lord Cambridge said. “Let Elizabeth enjoy being home without having her mother and Logan fussing over her supposed failures. There is time yet for a husband and children.”
“The young Scot who was here through the winter,” Edmund began. “His father has written to say the sheep he bought for Grayhaven seem to have taken to their new home well. With Elizabeth’s permission he wants to send his son back to Friarsgate to learn more about our weavers and their looms.”
“Indeed,” Thomas Bolton said. This was surely a sign that what he had in mind could be accomplished. “What did you reply?” he asked as casually as he dared.
“I didn’t see no harm in it,” Edmund replied. “I wrote to the master of Grayhaven that he should send his son back here, but that to learn about our weavers he might have to remain through the autumn, possibly the winter too.”
“’Twas wise, I believe,” Lord Cambridge said. “He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, and intelligent to boot.”
“When will you be returning to Otterly?” Maybel wanted to know.
“In a few days I shall send dear Will to see how the builders are coming along,” Lord Cambridge answered. “I shall not return until I can move into my new wing. And Will must be certain we are private this time. As much as I adore my darling Banon, her brood is much too noisy and active for a man of my years.”
“If Elizabeth weds and has bairns”—Maybel chortled—“you’ll not be able to hide yourself away at Friarsgate any longer. Are you certain you would have her wed?”
“For her sake, for my darling Rosamund’s sake, and especially for Friarsgate, aye! Elizabeth must be wed, Maybel. As for me, I shall be a snug as a bug in a rug with my new and absolutely private apartments. But I shall come now and again to Friarsgate.” He yawned, stretched, and stood up. “I am weary with all the traveling and excitement I have endured over these past two and a half months.” He yawned again. “I shall find my bed. Good night, Edmund. Good night, Maybel.”
He walked from the hall, his facile mind turning. A plain Scot. Baen MacColl certainly fit that description. He had not thought it before they left for court, but now Thomas Bolton was reconsidering his position. Elizabeth needed a husband. She needed a man who would be as much involved in Friarsgate as she was. A man who would defer just enough to her to make her believe she continued to have complete autonomy over Friargate. A good man like Sir Owein Meredith, her father, had been.
There had been an attraction between them, Lord Cambridge knew. Could he see that it was rekindled? Encouraged to grow into a love between them? And would the Scot love Elizabeth enough that he could overlook the differences that separated their two countries? Baen MacColl was no Flynn Stewart. His loyalties would be to the father who had taken him in as a lad. He might be the master of Grayhaven’s eldest child, but as a bastard he could not inherit. Would the father consider giving him his freedom in exchange for wealth and respectability? Prior Richard was right: He was going to need a miracle. Strangely, the thought did not deter him. He had lived a good life and been generous to all. Surely God would now give him this miracle. Thomas Bolton intended praying harder than he had ever prayed, because this was right. He just knew it!
Chapter 9
Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven, looked at his eldest son and said, “I’m sending you back to England, Baen.” He was a big man, standing three inches over six feet, with black hair and leaf-green eyes. Despite his fifty-two years he was a handsome man who gave the appearance of one twenty years younger. He looked more Baen’s brother than his father. “I’ve written to Friarsgate and had back a reply. You’ll go for the summer and autumn, and if you need to remain longer, you will.”
