Edward, the first of the princes, nine. Richard, his brother, six. Anne, named after the duke’s wife, was four; Catherine, in her nurse’s arms, not quite a year; and the queen was enceinte with another child. Two children, George and Margaret, had died in their infancy.
The duke greeted each child by name, and drew forth from the pockets of his robe sweetmeats and small toys, which he distributed among his smaller nieces and nephews. To Mary he gave a rosary of small amber beads with a delicate silver crucifix. She smiled, pleased with the gift. And for Elizabeth and Adair he had pretty gold chains.
They all thanked him prettily, and he smiled. “I am a man of the world, and I know that ladies appreciate fine jewelry,” he told the girls. Then, looking to young Edward, he said, “I’ve brought you and your brother border ponies. They are very well trained, and my own son loves his. I hope they will please you. They await you in the courtyard.”
“Oh, go along,” Lady Margaret said. Then she turned to the duke. “You spoil them, my lord. But then, no one else does. It is not easy to be a king’s son.”
“I would not know,” the duke said, “for I was not a king’s son, but I know how lonely it is for a growing boy when he rarely sees his sire. The beasts I brought are gentle, Mags. The lads will be safe on them.”
She had flushed at his use of the sobriquet the queen had given her. “You are good to the children, my lord, and they love you for it. How is your son?”
“Frail, and Anne is not strong enough to bear another child, I fear,” the duke said.
“Come and have wine and biscuits,” the royal governess invited the duke.
The children had disappeared but for Elizabeth and Adair. A subtle nod from Lady Margaret told them that they were invited to join the duke for refreshments. The quartet sat talking for some time. Then Adair, curious as always, spoke up.
“In your travels along the border, Uncle, have you been in the vicinity of Stanton?”
“I have. Your parents have been buried, with stones to mark their graves on the hillside. Those not slain in the raid have rebuilt the village and cleared the hall of debris. When I saw what they were doing I sent a small purse and a few of my own people to help them. You told me it rained shortly after the hall was fired. Those rains saved your home, Adair. That and the fact that the house was stone. The roof was gone, but I have had it replaced with slate. It will not burn again. A good deal has been pillaged from among the furnishings, but your home is still there. I told the Stanton folk that you had escaped with Elsbeth and were in the king’s care. They are glad to know it.”
“I want to go back to Stanton so very much,” Adair said earnestly.
“You will go back when you have a husband,” Lady Margaret said. “You would be wed by now but that Elizabeth desires your company until she is married.”
“Why can I not go back now?” Adair asked. “The king could appoint a bailiff for me from among his own trusted servants. Stanton should have its mistress overseeing it again, and I am old enough now to go. And have you not taught me everything a good chatelaine needs to know to manage her own estates, dear Lady Margaret?”
“You are a maid of good birth and gentle breeding,”
Lady Margaret said. “It would not do for you to be alone at Stanton, Adair. The king would never permit it.”
“I want to go home!” Adair cried. Suddenly, knowing that Stanton still stood had awakened in her a deep desire for Northumbria, her own home, her own lands. She turned to Elizabeth of York. “Bessie, you do not really need me here with you. Tell your father that you would let me go.”
“Are you really so unhappy here with us?” Elizabeth of York wanted to know.
Adair thought, and then she answered her half sister,
“Aye and nay, if that makes any sense to you, Bessie. I love you all, and I am grateful for all you have done for me these ten years past. But now that I know Stanton awaits me I feel the need to return.”
Elizabeth of York sighed. “I love you too,” she said.
“If it means that much to you, dearest Adair, then I will tell our father that you wish to go.”
“I will speak with my brother,” the duke said, “and you, my sweet Bessie, will agree with me that it is time for Adair to return north.”
“I do not think this is wise,” Lady Margaret said.
“When it is known that a young girl, the Countess of Stanton herself, is back in the hall, who knows what may happen? We both know, my lord duke, the danger of ambitious men. I fear for Adair alone at Stanton.”
“But I will not be alone,” Adair said. “I will have my Stanton folk with me, and if danger threatens I will slip out through the tunnel I used as a child, and ride for Uncle Dickon at Middlesham.”
“The decision must be the king’s,” Lady Margaret said, “however, I must let it be known that I do not approve at all. It is a rash and foolish plan you have devised, Adair.”
“The king will listen to Uncle Dickon,” Adair said, her violet eyes dancing with happiness. “And Beiste is growing old, and should go home before his end.”
“The dog still lives?” The duke was surprised.
Lady Margaret nodded. “Do you recall how scrawny he was when they arrived? Well, now he is a mountainof a dog, but I will admit the children all adore him, and he them. I never thought to have a dog in my nursery, but he has been more help than difficulty to me these years past. But Adair is right. He is growing old, and moves slower now than in times past.”
