They stood simultaneously.
“I’ll have Maybel show you to your chamber,” Elizabeth said. “We have room to spare. The meal will be served shortly.” She turned. “Uncle, the ship has made several trips to the Netherlands since we departed for court. The cloth we had woven last winter is all spoken for, but as usual there are complaints about the scarcity of the Friarsgate blue fabric. Perhaps it is time to increase our output come winter. Edmund tells me the wool crop will be most bounteous this year. We’ll be shearing shortly.”
Baen followed Maybel from the hall, fascinated by this conversation. Elizabeth was just back from court, and already her adventures, whatever they might have been, were obviously forgotten in her passion for her home and her industry. He climbed the stairs, Maybel ahead of him, moving slowly.
“My knees,” she complained, “are not what they once were.” They reached the corridor above, and she hurried down the dim hallway. “Ah, here you are, laddie.” She flung open a door and ushered him inside. “Plenty of room, and a bit more private than a bed space in the hall,” she said. “Settle yourself, and then come back down.” She shut the door behind her as she left him.
Baen looked about. It was not a large chamber, but it was clean and comfortable. There was a small fireplace on the wall opposite the bed, which had heavy natural-colored linen curtains hanging from brass rings. At the foot of the bed there was a wooden chest. To the right of the bed was a casement window. There was also a table to his right with a small brass ewer and china pitcher upon it. He placed his saddlebags in the chest and poured water from the pitcher into the basin to wash the dust of the road from his face and hands as his stepmother, Ellen, had taught him. Then he returned to the hall, where he found Elizabeth and her family already seated at the high board. He hesitated, unsure.
“Come and sit next to me, dear boy!” Lord Cambridge called to him, waving him forward. “I will wager that you are hungry after your travels.”
Baen came and sat next to Thomas Bolton. “A good meal is welcome,” he told them. “I travel with oatcakes in my pack, and nothing more.” He took the bowl the older man passed him and ladled a potage of meat and vegetables onto the plate. He was handed a chunk of bread. Knowing the blessing was already spoken, he crossed himself and set about eating. He wolfed down the potage and was offered a platter with slices of country ham. He took several, added a wedge of cheese and more bread, which he spread with butter, using his broad thumb. His goblet was kept filled with good brown ale. He did not speak, but concentrated upon his food. He remembered to take several chunks of meat from the stew and drop them beneath the table, where his dog, Friar, lay at his feet.
“I do so like a man with a good appetite,” Lord Cambridge murmured as Baen finally seemed to be satisfied for the moment.
“So do I,” Elizabeth chimed in. “Nothing is more aggravating to the mistress of the house than to have those at her table picking at their food. It does not please Cook either.” She reached for a peach from the bowl now on the table. It was good to be home. It was good to be wearing clothing that allowed her to breathe naturally. It was good to have her boots on her feet instead of those dreadful but beautiful court shoes. She turned to the Scot. “I understand your father wishes to learn how we weave and market our cloth, Baen.”
“Aye,” Baen replied. Was it possible she was more beautiful?
“Tomorrow you will ride out with me, and we will inspect the flocks, which I always do just before the shearing. Over the next few weeks we will show you how we store and prepare the wool prior to weaving. It keeps us busy throughout the autumn weeks. The threads must be woven and dyed and put on spools before the cloth can be made. Some dye the cloth after it’s woven. I do not. It is a very laborious process. Your cotters need the temperament for such an industry or they will not be able to do it.”
He nodded. As she spoke he considered that perhaps his father’s clansmen and -women might not have the patience for such work. But he would learn everything she could teach him, if for no other reason than to be near Elizabeth Meredith. She challenged him to a game of Hare and Hounds. He accepted, laughing when she beat him, teasing her when he prevailed. The hall was comfortable with its evening fire. The dogs were scattered about the floor, sleeping. He suddenly realized that Lord Cambridge and his secretary were no longer in the hall. Maybel and Edmund were snoring in their chairs. To all intents and purposes he and Elizabeth were alone.
“Did you enjoy the court?” he asked her, knowing the answer before she spoke, but eager for conversation with her.
“A little bit,” she admitted, “but it is a life I could not bear if I had to live there all the time. The clothing is beautiful. The conversation amusing. But they do little other than play games and dance attendance upon King Henry. In general I found it boring, but I did make one friend: the king’s friend, Mistress Anne Boleyn.”
“They say she is a witch,” Baen remarked.
Elizabeth laughed. “Aye, the gossips would. They can well understand the king’s need for a son and his desire to rid himself of Queen Katherine. What flummoxes them is that he is in love with Anne. That he will not consider a French princess as a new wife, but must have this Englishwoman with her common bloodlines for his queen.”
“What is she like then?” Baen was curious.
“Striking in appearance, but certainly no beauty,” Elizabeth began. “She has a good heart, but her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, manipulates her, and Anne is frightened, although you would never guess it, for she covers her fear well. I feel sorry for her, and am happy I am who I am.”
“And who else did you meet at court?” he asked her.
“Another Scot like yourself. He is King James’s half brother,” she explained.
“What was he doing at King Henry’s court?” Baen queried her.
“He is his brother’s personal messenger between the English court and the Scots court. His name is Flynn Stewart, and we became friends, for, like me, he was an outsider.”
Baen felt a surge of jealousy. “Did you kiss him?” he demanded to know.
Elizabeth smiled a slow smile. “I did,” she admitted. “Several times,” she added.
“And who else did you kiss?” he wanted to learn.
Elizabeth laughed. “No one. Just Flynn. I am no wanton.”
“Yet you kissed him,” Baen insisted. “A stranger. A mere acquaintance.”
“I seem to have a weakness for Scots,” she teased him wickedly. Then she arose from the game table. “I’m going to bed. My day begins early. Good night, Baen. I am glad you are back with us.”
He sat there after she had left him. He was glad to be back too. But he had to control his emotions when he was around Elizabeth Meredith. He was certainly old enough to know better, and he could not be the man for her, though he wished he could. His birth wasn’t good enough for her. He had naught to offer. Naught but the love he realized was growing in his heart. Elizabeth deserved a man who would bring something to Friarsgate besides his heart. For several long minutes he stared into the fire, and then he got up and retired to his own chamber.
Maybel opened her eyes. She had not been sleeping at all, but listening and observing through half-closed lids. She had seen the look on Baen MacColl’s face. It was the look of a man in torment. Was she imagining it, or did the laddie have feelings for Elizabeth? And Elizabeth, never touched by love, was oblivious to him. Maybel didn’t know whether she should be upset or not. She would have to watch closer over the next few weeks. Perhaps she would even discuss this matter with Thomas Bolton. Reaching out, she poked her husband. “Wake up, old man. It is time to go to bed,” she said. Edmund grumbled and awoke just enough to stumble to their chamber, where he fell into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.
