Thomas Bolton bowed low as Philippa curtseyed, her lovely skirts blossoming about her like the petals of a flower.
“My liege, I cannot tell you what an honor it is to have you here,” Lord Cambridge said as he ushered the king and the queen through the door.
“From the river it is a jewel of a dwelling, Tom, if small. It suits you.” The king’s voice boomed. Then he turned an approving eye to Philippa. “Your mother would be most proud of you, my dear. Raising your family to the ranks of the nobility is quite an accomplishment, especially considering your stepfather, but then neither you nor your sisters have any Scots blood in you. I have heard that your sister is to marry a Neville.”
“Aye, your majesty Banon will marry Robert Neville in the autumn. His grandfather and my grandmother were related by blood.”
“You have the church’s permission?” The king turned to Lord Cambridge.
“Indeed, my liege, we do,” Thomas Bolton said. “The cardinal himself has obtained the permissions from Rome.”
“Excellent!” the king said. “Well, let us get on with this betrothal. Both the queen and I have a long day ahead of us. We leave for Greenwich tomorrow.”
Lord Cambridge and Philippa led the royal couple into the hall where the earl of Witton and his sisters awaited them. Lady Marjorie and Lady Susanna were introduced to the monarch and his wife. Both were overwhelmed, and seeing it the king was kind, gently teasing them, and giving each a hearty kiss upon their rosy cheeks. Queen Katherine was gracious, and the earl’s sisters were much taken with her gentle manner.
The servants quickly brought wine. They had all from the humblest kitchen boy to the majordomo himself gathered in the back of the hall to catch a glimpse of their king and their queen. William Smythe brought the betrothal papers and spread them carefully and neatly upon the high board. He set the inkwell, the sand shaker, and the quill by them. Two great gold candlesticks had been set on the board, each with a thick beeswax candle. The hall fires burned high and warm so that the flowering branches gave off their scent. And outside, the April rain beat against the windows.
“It is time, my lord,” the secretary said.
Lord Cambridge nodded. “Come,” he invited them, “to the high board where we will formalize this betrothal between my cousin, Philippa Meredith, and Crispin St. Claire.”
They gathered around the board, and William Smythe carefully offered the pages first to the earl, handing him the inked pen. The priest stepped forward.
“Crispin St. Claire,” he said. “You agree to this betrothal?”
“I do, holy father,” the earl responded.
“Sign here,” the secretary said, pointing.
The earl of Witton signed, handing the pen back to William Smythe.
The secretary inked the quill and offered it to Philippa as he put the papers before her.
“Philippa Meredith,” the priest spoke again. “Do you agree to this betrothal?”
“I do, holy father,” Philippa replied, and swallowing hard, she signed her name. Then she handed the quill back to the secretary, who sanded both signatures so the ink would not be smeared, rendering the signatures illegible.
The priest then signaled the pair to kneel, and blessed them.
“It is done then,” the king said jovially as the earl helped Philippa to her feet. “Let us have a toast to the bride and her bridegroom!”
The wine was quickly brought, and a long life and many children was toasted.
“Her mother is a good breeder,” the king said with a meaningful glance at his wife. “You’ll probably have an heir within the year.”
The queen bit her lip with her distress, but then she said, “I have asked Frey Felipe to perform the sacrament in my chapel at Richmond on the thirtieth. You will come to Greenwich afterwards to join us.”
“Nonsense!” the king boomed. “We do not leave for France until early June. You can be spared one maid of honor, Kate, for a few short weeks. Philippa and her husband will go to his seat in Oxfordshire and then join us at Dover on the twenty-fourth of May. They have had little time to themselves since this arrangement between their families was made. Did we not have a sweet honeymoon all those years ago, Kate?” And he gave his wife a kiss upon her lips, causing the queen’s sallow skin to grow rosy momentarily.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Of course, Henry. Why did I not think of it myself?”
“But, your highness,” Philippa protested weakly. “Do you not need me?”
“Do you see?” the king boomed again, pleased. “She is devoted to her duty even as her father, Owein Meredith, may God assoil his noble soul, was devoted to his.” He turned to the earl’s sisters. “Did you know that Sir Owein served the Tudors from the time he was six years old? He was a page in my great-uncle Jasper’s household. He was knighted on the battlefield.” He turned back to Philippa. “Nay, sweeting, you must spend some time privily with your new husband. I command it, and there is an end to it.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Philippa said, curtseying. Spend time with the earl? They hardly knew one another. What would they talk about? Her heart sank. It was her own fault. She had deliberately avoided him these last weeks when she could have been getting to know him. Now she would be this stranger’s wife in two days’ time.
“It is time for us to leave,” the king announced. “Since I will not be at the wedding I shall kiss the bride now.” He took Philippa by her shoulders and bussed each of her blushing cheeks in turn. “God bless you, my dear! We will see you at Dover.” Then he turned, shaking the earl’s hand and that of Lord Cambridge, kissing the hands of Lady Marjorie and Lady Susanna as the queen bid first Philippa and then the others a farewell. Then, escorted by Thomas Bolton, the royal couple and the priest departed.
