“You argue your point well. I will not say nay, but neither will I say yea. Let us be introduced, and we shall see what comes of it, Lord Cambridge. Is the girl in the house now?”
“No, she is at court with her mistress,” Thomas Bolton said. “She is devoted to Queen Katherine in her service, as her father was devoted to the Tudors.”
The earl nodded. “It speaks well of your young cousin,” he said. “When then shall I meet her?”
“I have a barge at my disposal,” Lord Cambridge said. “If you do not mind waiting while I change my garments, we shall go to Richmond together, my lord. My servants will bring you something to eat. Where do you reside in London?”
“I was given a cubicle at the cardinal’s home,” he said. “But food is another matter entirely. I would welcome something to eat, but why would you change clothing? Your gown is most handsome.”
“Dear boy, I should not appear at court in my house garb!” Lord Cambridge cried. “I have a reputation to keep up, as you will soon learn. The servants will bring you food and wine while I am preparing myself. We shall talk on the way to court.” And arising from his chair Thomas Bolton retreated through the door by which he had entered the chamber, leaving his guest both slightly amused, and bemused.
The servants now entered, bringing with them a tray upon which the earl found a dish of poached eggs in a cream sauce flavored with marsala wine, a thick slice of a country-cured ham, a small cottage loaf which had obviously just come from the ovens, a crock of sweet butter, and a little dish of cherry jam. A little table was brought to him and draped with a white linen cloth. The tray was set before him. A goblet was placed at his right hand.
“Wine or ale, my lord?” a male servant asked him politely.
“Ale,” he replied, and set about to eat the little meal that had been brought to him. He was, he found, very hungry, having come straight to Bolton House this morning. Lord Cambridge’s care for his person showed a delicacy of manners that impressed Crispin St. Claire. If his young cousin were as careful of her guests it could be that she would make a good hostess, a good wife, a good countess of Witton. It surprised him that he was actually considering an alliance with the daughter of a northern landowner, and an ordinary knight. His own family had arrived in England several centuries earlier with King William the Norman. He had Plantagenet blood, for one of his ancestors had wed one of King Henry I’s bastard daughters.
Still the girl in question—what was her name?—Philippa, yes! Philippa Meredith had the property he coveted, and if Lord Cambridge were to be believed, she also had wealth. He saw no reason not to believe Thomas Bolton. Was there anyone else that he would have preferred to wed? The truth was there was not. There was no one. He knew he had to take a wife. His sisters told him often enough. He was the last male St. Claire in his line. But since his return home after his father had died he had made no effort whatsoever to seek a match with any female. This girl, it seemed, was providence. Her family was respectable. Her connections were good. She had the land he sought after, and she had wealth. What more was there that a man could ask of a wife? And if she were pretty it would be but a bonus, but she need not be. He did not have to say anything further to Lord Cambridge. The man was astute, and he knew that after enough time to salve Crispin St. Claire’s dignity, the earl of Witton was going to accept his proposal. He was going to marry Philippa Meredith, and make her his countess. Looking the wench over was nothing more than a formality. The earl mopped his plate with the last piece of bread, and drank down the remainder of his goblet. He pushed back his chair, and sighed contentedly. It was going to be a good day. It was going to be a very good day. The main door to the beautiful hall opened, and Lord Cambridge stepped through into the chamber. “You have eaten well, dear boy?” he asked solicitously.
“I have!” the earl of Witton said, and then he stared with amazement.
Thomas Bolton chuckled at the look on the younger man’s face. “Yes,” he said, “I am quite magnificent, am I not, my lord?” His short, full, pleated coat was of midnight blue velvet brocade lined and trimmed with pale gray rabbit fur. His shirt collar had a delicate pleated edge. His sky blue doublet showed cloth of gold through artfully done slashings. His hose was finely woven wool in alternating stripes of the contrasting blues, and he wore a gold cord garter on his left leg. His codpiece was ablaze with gemstones. His square-toed shoes were the same velvet brocade as his coat. About his neck was a large chain made from squares of Irish red gold.
“By the rood, my lord,” the earl said, “if your cousin is half as beautiful as you are I shall marry her at once! The garb you wear now does make plain your burgundy house coat.” And he laughed. “I did not think it possible that any man could dress so well. Even the king, though you did not hear me say it.”
“And you, my lord, did not hear me tell you that the king frequently consults with me as to his wardrobe. Now, if you are ready, my dear Crispin, we shall leave for court so you may inspect Philippa Meredith, but I have no doubt you will have her to wife.”
Chapter 7
“There she is,” Lord Cambridge said quietly. ”There is my darling girl, and her younger sister, who is my heiress. She sits by the queen’s knee. Her highness is most fond of Philippa Meredith. She looks much like her mother, and I believe she reminds the queen of her youth. Of course that youth was not always a happy one, but Philippa’s mother, Rosamund Bolton, always remained steadfast in her loyalty to the queen.”
“The girl in green?” the earl asked, to be certain.
Lord Cambridge nodded. “Aye. Tudor green,” he said and he chuckled. “Not yet even sixteen, and Philippa is a consummate courtier. What do you think? I offer you wealth, the land you desire, and a very pretty girl for your wife, dear boy.”
Crispin St. Claire looked while attempting not to stare. She was lovely. Her features were delicate, and while not of noble blood she could not be considered coarse by any stretch of the imagination. “She is fair enough,” he acknowledged, “but I will want more in a wife than just beauty.”
“She has both manners and education,” Thomas Bolton said.
“But has she wit, my lord?” the earl asked.
Thomas Bolton felt a slight stab of irritation prick at him. “Come, sir,” he said rather more sharply than he had intended to. “If she were of a more baronial family would you be quite so fussy? Those lasses have a tendency to die young, and be poor breeders. For a family such as yours to survive it is necessary for you to wed outside of your usual realm every few generations. However, if you care not to have my young cousin to wife you have but to say so now, and we will part friends.”
“I need a wife with whom I may carry on an intelligent conversation now and again, my lord,” the earl said in defense of himself. “I would sooner not marry at all, and allow my earldom to disappear, than marry a woman who can speak of nothing but children, and her household. Do not tell me a woman like that would interest you.”
Lord Cambridge could not help but laugh. “Nay, sir, a woman like that would not interest me. But you need have no fear. Philippa is a girl of many and varied opinions. While she may drive you to distraction, she will never bore you. She may anger you; she may make you laugh; but you will never, ever be bored by her, or with her, I guarantee it, my lord. Now, are you interested in meeting Philippa Meredith, or shall we go our separate ways, my lord?”
“You tempt me with your words, sir,” the earl admitted. “You make this girl seem most intriguing. Aye, I should like to meet her.”
“Excellent! I shall speak with her, and we will arrange it. I think a less public venue than the babbling court, eh?” Thomas Bolton said.
“Not now?” The earl of Witton was surprised, and perhaps a little disappointed.
“In matters of so delicate a nature,” Lord Cambridge said, “it is best to go carefully, and prepare the way. Philippa was quite angered by Giles FitzHugh’s decision. It placed her in a most embarrassing position, and her feelings were hurt. She even considered taking the veil, but her great-uncle, the prior of a small monastery, thought it not wise, and spoke with her on the matter. However, she has come to distrust men, I fear.”
“Did she love him that much then?” the earl asked.
“She did not love him at all, although she was certain that she did. She hardly knew him,” Lord Cambridge said, and then he explained. “She met him as a child, and fancied herself in love with him from that moment onward. He was the older brother of her best friend, and young Cecily innocently helped to feed Philippa’s dreams as best friends are wont to do. Then Giles came home, announcing he was being ordained into the priesthood when he returned to Rome, and all of Philippa’s girlish dreams came crashing loudly down around her. Everything she had planned her life would be was gone. I think it would have been better had the lad died rather than desert her for the church.”
