The flock of sheep had finally crossed over the road, and the shepherd gave them a friendly wave as he pulled his forelock in a gesture of thanks. They moved on north and west towards Cumbria, going through the flat county of Cheshire and into the forested Lancaster. The desolately barren hills they next traversed told Philippa that they were finally in the tiny slice of West-moreland they needed to go through.
“We should be in Carlisle tomorrow,” Philippa said. “And then just another day and a half of travel to reach Friarsgate. We have been extremely fortunate, Sir Bayard, for it has not rained upon us one day.”
“Aye,” he agreed, nodding. “Traveling at this particular time in the summer is usually dry.”
“Will you join the king at Esher when you return?” Philippa asked him.
Sir Bayard shook his head. “I was assigned some years ago to the queen’s service,” he told her. “I am no longer young enough to keep up with the king.”
Reaching Carlisle the next afternoon they stayed in a guesthouse that belonged to the monastery of St. Cuthbert’s. Philippa’s great-uncle, Richard Bolton, was prior, and it was by chance that he was in Carlisle when they arrived. Hurrying from the church to the guesthouse, he greeted her. He was a tall, distinguished man with bright blue eyes.
“Philippa! Your mother did not say you were coming home. Welcome!” He lifted her down from her mount.
“I have been sent home, great-uncle, but whether in disgrace or not I shall not know until my mother reads the queen’s letter. I am, however, invited back to court at Christmas to resume my former duties.” She kissed his cheek.
“Well, if you are invited back,” Richard Bolton said, “the infraction cannot be too serious, I suspect. Would it have to do with Giles FitzHugh, my child?”
Philippa’s hazel eyes grew stormy. “That dastard!” she told her great-uncle.
“Ahh, then it does,” he replied, the tiniest of smiles touching his lips at her expletive. “My dear Philippa, when God calls, as I can certainly tell you, you must listen. There simply is no other solution, and Rome can weave a magnificent spell. I understand he will have a place in the Vatican itself. Obviously the church sees great things for Giles FitzHugh. I am afraid that marriage and a northern estate pale in comparison.”
“Obviously,” Philippa responded dryly. “I have gotten past my disappointment, great-uncle, but the second son of an earl was quite a coup for mama. What she will do now I do not know. There are no young gentlemen of my acquaintance who want a girl with estates like mine. Far from court, and a vast responsibility. And I am now past fourteen. I am, I fear, doomed to spinsterhood.”
“I am certain that Rosamund will find a solution to your problem, my child,” the cleric answered her quietly. “Perhaps this is God’s way of bringing you home to us.”
“I will be returning to court, great-uncle. Of that you may be certain,” Philippa said grimly. “I shall not be shackled to some bumpkin because my mother thinks he will take good care of her beloved Friarsgate. I know it means more to her than I do, than anything else does. But I am not my mother.”
Richard Bolton’s eyes grew troubled. Philippa might not love Friarsgate, but she was every bit as stubborn as his niece, Rosamund, was. It would not, he suspected, be a peaceful summer for the extended Bolton-Meredith-Hepburn family.
Chapter 4
Philippa looked down from the hills surrounding the valley of Friarsgate. The lake sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. The fields looked well tended as always. The sheep, cattle, and horses grazed in their meadows. Her mother had obviously added to her flocks, for there were more sheep than Philippa remembered.
“It looks a prosperous and peaceful place,” Sir Bayard said.
“ ’Tis both,” Philippa noted dryly, and Lucy snickered. Philippa nudged her mount, and they began to descend the hill. The peasants in the field stared openmouthed at the beautiful young woman passing by. Only a few recognized her after two years, for Philippa had grown from a young girl into a young woman.
Sir Bayard Dunham had spent most of his life as a courtier. The landscape around them was indeed lovely. The people looked content. Yet he suddenly realized that he himself could not possibly be happy in so quiet a setting for very long, and he had sympathy for his charge. Philippa Meredith was a creature of the court, and not the country.
Arriving at the house they were immediately greeted by stable boys who came to take their horses, and the door to the house swung open to reveal Maybel Bolton, wife to Edmund, Friarsgate’s bailiff. Edmund and his brother, Prior Richard, had been the eldest born of Philippa’s great-grandfather’s sons, but both were bastards of the same mother. Their births had occurred prior to their father’s marriage, which had also yielded two sons. Philippa’s grandfather, Guy Bolton, was the eldest legitimate son. He had perished along with his wife and son, leaving Philippa’s mother, Rosamund Bolton, an heiress, and Rosamund’s uncle Henry, his younger legitimate brother, his daughter’s guardian.
Maybel gave a shriek of surprise, turned as if to go inside, and then reversed herself. She came from the house, enfolding Philippa in her arms, sobbing. “My baby is home at last!” she wept noisily. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming, you bad lass?”
“Because I didn’t know myself until several days ago,” Philippa said. “You might as well know, Maybel, that I have been sent home to recover from my broken heart, although it is already healed.”
“Oh, my poor baby,” Maybel sniffled. “To be jilted by the likes of that dreadful Giles FitzHugh! Bad luck to him, I say.”
“Maybel, this is Sir Bayard Dunham, my escort. He is the queen’s man, and we have the men-at-arms to feed and house as well for the next few days. Where is my mother? And my sisters?”
“Your mother is up at Claven’s Cam with the Hepburns. Banon is at Otterly being the lady of the manor. Bessie is about somewhere however,” Maybel said. “Come into the hall, child. And you also, Sir Bayard.” Maybel looked out at the dozen men-at-arms. “You lot as well.” She gestured towards them.
They entered the hall, and Maybel was quickly ordering the house servants to set up the tables and benches for the men. “And feed them now. ’Tis late and they will be hungry.” She turned to Sir Bayard. “The weather is warm enough for your men to sleep in the stables, sir. I don’t think it proper they remain in the house with my master and mistress away.”
“I agree,” Sir Bayard said. “When they have eaten I shall take them out myself.”
“You may remain here, sir,” Maybel responded. “I’ll have a servant make up a nice bed space for you. You are not in the flush of youth any longer, and need the warmth the hall will provide.”
“Thank you, madame,” Sir Bayard said. This country woman was most bluntly spoken, but kind. He could not remember the last time someone had shown a care for his personal well-being. The thought of a warm bed space to sleep in was very comforting.
