Seeing the two barges tied to the other side of the dock, the earl shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I suspect my host will get me back when I need to go.” He watched as the boat moved back off, now fighting the tide as it came upriver. He walked up the carefully raked gravel path towards the house, and he was halfway there when a servant hurried forth. “I am the earl of Witton to see Lord Cambridge,” he said.
“Yes, indeed, my lord, my master is expecting you. Please come with me,” the servant said, and moved quickly up the path and into the house.
The earl followed, and was surprised to be brought into a wonderful room that appeared to run the entire length of the house. There were windows along one wall overlooking the river. The room was paneled with a coffered ceiling, and the wood floors were covered in the finest eastern carpets the earl had ever seen. At one end of the room great iron mastiffs flanked the huge fireplace where a fire roared. The fine oak furniture was polished, and there were bowls of potpourri. On a large sideboard was a silver tray with matching goblets and crystal decanters.
Suddenly a door in the paneled wall opened, and a gentleman stepped into the room. He was wearing a burgundy velvet midcalf-length coat that was obviously lined in fur. It had full puffed sleeves and black silk undersleeves edged in lace. There was a fine fur collar enclosing the neckline of the coat. “My dear lord St. Claire,” the gentleman said, extending an elegant hand with more rings than the earl had ever seen in all his life. “Welcome! Welcome! I am Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge. Please, let us sit by the fire. Are you thirsty? I have some excellent Spanish wine, but no, perhaps afterwards to toast our agreement.”
The earl took the extended hand, and was surprised by the firm handshake. Then he sat down, frankly overwhelmed by Lord Cambridge. “What agreement are we going to toast, my lord?” he managed to ask.
Thomas Bolton chuckled. “The one we make so you may have Lord Melvyn’s lands, which is what you want. In exchange you will give me what I want. It is really quite simple, my lord.”
“I do not know if I can raise more than you paid for Melville,” the earl said.
“Dear boy, the land wasn’t worth what I paid for it,” Thomas Bolton laughed.
“Then why did you offer such a ridiculous amount?” the earl asked.
“Because you wanted it, of course,” Lord Cambridge said to the surprised earl. “I am delighted that your agent was able to convince you to come. He is a good man, and serves you well, I expect. And since he returned to Brierewode, for that is the name of your estate, isn’t it, I have made some inquiries about you.”
“Have you?” the earl said weakly. This was the oddest conversation he had ever had with anyone, he thought.
“You are the fourth earl of Witton. Your family is old, and loyal to whoever is on the throne. A wise course to follow, I might add,” Lord Cambridge said, and then he continued. “You have served Henry Tudor in the capacity of ambassador and negotiator on the continent for several years. Your mother died when you were two. Your father died a year ago, which is why you came home. You have two older sisters, Marjorie and Susanna. Both are wed to respectable men, but not great names, of course, for their dower portions were modest. You are known to be an honest man, intelligent, and scrupulous in your dealings. You have never been married, or even betrothed.”
“There has been no time for it,” the earl said as if defending himself, and then he wondered why he would defend the fact he was in service to his king.
“Have I forgotten anything?” Lord Cambridge asked aloud. And then he answered himself, “No, I think not.”
The earl laughed in spite of himself. “What is it you want of me, my lord?”
“I want to give you Lord Melvyn’s lands, dear boy. Isn’t that what you want?” Thomas Bolton said, smiling at the earl of Witton.
“And what do you want in exchange, my lord?” Crispin St. Claire asked, piercing Lord Cambridge with a direct look. “What is it you want so much of me that you would pay such an exorbitant sum for Melville?”
“You need a wife, my lord earl. Are you willing to take one in exchange for Lord Melvyn’s lands? Which by coincidence now belong to my young cousin, Philippa Meredith.”
The earl of Witton was more than surprised by Lord Cambridge’s words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it was certainly not this. Warily he asked, “What is wrong with the lass?”
“Nothing at all. She is fifteen. Fair. Intelligent. Chaste. And her dower, in addition to Melville, has both gold and silver coin, jewelry, clothing, linens, all that a young woman who is marrying is expected to have.”
“I repeat, what is wrong with her? Has she been seduced, and her reputation compromised? I will have no slut for a wife.” My God! Surely he wasn’t even considering such an outrageous proposal, but his gray eyes were thoughtful.
“Philippa Meredith is the heiress to a great estate in Cumbria. She was to wed the second son of the earl of Renfrew,” Tom began. “Unfortunately the lad decided after his time in Paris and Rome that he was more suited to the priesthood. He came home to announce this right after Philippa’s natal day. Philippa serves the queen as one of her maids of honor, and has for several years. She is pure, I guarantee you. But she is also, if I am to be honest, stubborn. She decided that Giles FitzHugh had so desperately sought to escape living at Friarsgate that he became a priest rather than wed her.”
The earl laughed again. “Poor lass,” he said. “But if she has this great estate in the north, why do you want Melville?”
“She has renounced her inheritance in Friarsgate, although her mother refuses to accept it yet. So because I adore my cousin, Rosamund, and her daughters, I looked for an estate nearer to the court for Philippa. I chose Lord Melvyn’s estate. But Philippa needs a husband. And you desire those same lands, but you cannot afford them. I see a marriage between you as a perfect solution,” Lord Cambridge said. “You have an old and respected name. Philippa has wealth. It would appear to be a perfect match. I know Rosamund and her husband, the laird of Claven’s Cam, would agree. They trust me in matters such as this.”
“The girl is half Scots? Oh, no, my friend. No!”
“Nay, the laird is Philippa’s stepfather. Her late father was Sir Owein Meredith, a knight in service to the house of Tudor since his childhood. Her mother, Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate. King Henry VII was Rosamund’s guardian for a time. It was his mother who arranged the marriage between my cousin and Owein. My cousin is held a friend by both Queen Katherine and the Scots queen with whom she was raised. That is why Philippa has a place in the queen’s household.”
“But the girl’s family is hardly the equal of mine,” the earl said.
“No, it is not,” Lord Cambridge agreed. “Yet you have no family but two sisters, my lord. Philippa Meredith’s mother has produced seven children, of whom six live, and she is with child again even now. Think! I offer you a nubile young girl of good family, in favor with the king and queen, whose dower is rich in everything you desire.”
“It is tempting, my lord,” the earl said, “but you will understand that I am not of a mind, even in order to gain Melville, to agree easily to your proposition. I would meet your young cousin. Get to know her. We must suit, for whatever she possesses I will not have discord in my house. I want a biddable wife who will obey me.”
“I can promise you that Philippa would be a good wife, but she is intelligent, my lord, and educated as many of these young courtiers are. She will not always be agreeable to you, but then I have never known a wife who was, have you?”
