“Will Rosamund agree?” the king wanted to know.
“I have her permission to arrange a match for Philippa, aye, my lord.”
“How did you manage it, Thomas Bolton? An earl, and one who has never wed, and is young enough to get children on the girl. You are obviously more clever than I would have given you credit for, but then Wolsey has always said it.” The king took a bite from a small haunch of venison in his grip.
“I purchased the late Lord Melvyn’s estate. It matches with Witton lands,” Lord Cambridge said simply.
The king laughed. “You are fortunate he wanted it.”
“He has been pasturing his cattle on it, so I thought he might,” Lord Cambridge answered with a small smile.
Henry Tudor chortled. “Wolsey is always right.” He took a gulp from the large footed wine goblet by his right hand. “And the queen approves?”
“Aye, my liege, she does.”
“Then I must approve as well, and I do,” the king replied. “When will the marriage be celebrated?”
“I shall ask Philippa, and return with her answer, majesty,” Lord Cambridge said.
“I shall stand witness to the event even as I did to the betrothal of her mother to our good servant, Sir Owein Meredith,” the king said. “I was but my father’s son then, and I recall he remonstrated with me when I boasted that one day Rosamund could say her betrothal was witnessed by a king and a queen. My sister, Margaret, was already Scotland’s queen, but my father was still king.”
“I know that both Philippa and the earl of Witton will be honored by your gracious presence,” Thomas Bolton said, and then he withdrew to seek out his young cousin and Crispin St. Claire. He found them walking in the gallery near the royal chapel.
“We have agreed on everything, Uncle Thomas,” Philippa greeted him.
“And what is everything?” he replied, kissing both her cheeks.
“Why, our marriage, uncle. We have decided to marry on April thirtieth, the day after my sixteenth birthday. You must have the papers drawn up at once.”
“You do not wish to go to France then?” Lord Cambridge asked.
“Oh, I shall go, for the queen wants me with her, and she is certain to allow my husband to accompany me, for she would not separate a newly wed couple. Her heart is too kind. It shall be the most glorious summer, and when we have returned we shall travel north to Otterly to see Banie married to her Neville,” Philippa concluded.
Lord Cambridge looked to the earl. “And you agree, my lord?”
Crispin St. Claire grinned. “I dare not disagree,” he said. “Philippa’s flawless planning is but an indication of the skills she possesses, and will be put to good use at Brierewode when she becomes its mistress. My house can use a competent chatelaine.”
“You will be pleased to learn the king approves your match, and has offered to stand witness to your formal betrothal.”
“Ohh!” Philippa clapped her hands together. “He and Queen Margaret were witnesses to my parents’ betrothal. Wait until mama hears of it! I must go and write her this very minute.” She curtseyed to the two men and, turning, hurried off down the gallery.
The two men strolled together. “How did this all come about so easily, my dear Crispin?” Thomas Bolton asked his companion.
The earl shrugged. “I am as mystified as you are, Tom. I asked the queen’s permission to walk with Philippa. You had obviously already seen her for she was aware of our impending betrothal and marriage. She was most gracious, and sent us off suggesting we go into the gardens. Philippa, however, being sensible first rather than romantic, said no, for it was too chill. She led me to a small chapel where we spoke. She said she had departed early because she needed to think about our situation. And then she announced to me the date of our wedding, and that we would go north to her sister’s wedding when we returned from France. She said it was best to be married at the end of April because the emperor would be here in May, and then in June we would embark for France. She is a practical girl. There will be no need now to visit Oxford this winter.”
“Practical. A kind word for bossy,” Lord Cambridge said with a smile. “But then that is Philippa. When she makes up her mind to do something she does it. You are content with the arrangement then?”
“I am. Have the papers drawn up so we may act on them,” the earl said.
“Dear Crispin, it will be done before the week is out,” Lord Cambridge promised.
The two men parted, and Thomas Bolton hurried to his barge that he might be rowed home as quickly as possible. It was the time between the tides, and the river was as smooth as glass. The craft skimmed along the Thames, and its passenger thought that he could smell springtime in the air. Arriving at Bolton House he found a message from the north awaiting him. Opening it he read the contents, his eyes widening a moment, a smile creasing his face. Rosamund had delivered twin sons, to be named Thomas Andrew and Edmund Richard, on the last day of February. The lads were both healthy, strong, and suckled well. He was to be godfather to his namesake along with Rosamund’s stepson, John Hepburn. The other twin would have his mother’s uncles for godfathers. The boys had, according to custom, already been baptized, she wrote. If he had been at Otterly where he belonged, she scolded him, he might have been there. When was he coming north? And what of her daughters?
“Is the messenger still here?” Thomas Bolton asked his majordomo.
“Yes, my lord, in the kitchens, eating. He arrived but an hour ago. He is one of the laird’s own men.”
“Send him to me when he is finished. There is no rush, for I must compose a letter to his mistress,” Lord Cambridge said. “Bring me my writing box.”
