“Crispin,” she began, “in fairness you must decide before we travel north in the autumn whether you would really give up the Friarsgate inheritance. It is a very rich birthright and while I do not want it, or the responsibility that goes with it, you may.”
“Nay, I have told you that Brierewode with the lands from Melville are more than enough of an obligation. We will go to court, Philippa, for as long as it amuses you, for I have promised you that. But we will not live at court as so many do. I cannot be away from my lands for too long, little one. My cotters and my tenants need to know I am there for them, caring for them. When a man does not oversee his own estates he stands in danger of losing them through mismanagement or neglect or outright theft. I do not approve of these men who just take from their land, but give nothing back to it. I care for Brierewode every bit as much as your mother cares for Friarsgate. Nay, I do not want it. Besides, your mother, according to Lord Cambridge, is my age. She will live for many years, and believe me she will watch over Friarsgate until she dies. And by then she will have found the right person whom she can trust to husband her lands into the future.”
“Thank you,” she told him. “How odd, but you are just the sort of man my mother wanted me to wed. I see it now.”
A light wind had sprung up off the river. The day was waning into the spring twilight. The Thames below the garden was empty of even the simplest of traffic now.
“I think we had best go in now,” he told her, drawing her up from the marble bench where they had been sitting. “How perceptive it was of Lord Cambridge to take my sisters down to Greenwich for a few days. It will be a memory that they will cherish forever. They are country wives, and live unaffected lives. Marjorie has six children, and Susanna four. Their husbands are dull, but good fellows.”
They walked hand in hand through the gardens back into the house again. The hall had been cleared of the earlier feast, and the fires were burning. Most of Lord Cambridge’s servants had gone down to Greenwich, for they always traveled with their master. There were some at Otterly to keep it ready for his return, and the others had been left behind to serve the earl and his bride. A male servant whom Philippa recognized as the majordomo’s first assistant came forward and bowed to them.
“A light collation has been left upon the high board, my lord. There is a cold joint, a capon, bread, butter, cheese, and a fruit tartlet. Do you wish to serve yourselves?”
“I will serve my husband, Ralph,” Philippa said. “Where is Lucy?”
“Do you require her, my lady?”
My lady! She was now my lady. “Nay, but I will need her later,” Philippa answered the serving man.
“I will tell her you inquired, my lady. She is in the kitchens at this time having her supper,” Ralph said. He bowed again, and moved off.
“Would you like to eat now, my lord?” Philippa asked the earl.
“Not yet,” he said. “I am of a mind to play you a game of chess.”
She shook her head wearily. “My lord, ’tis not fair! You would have me beat you again, and on our wedding day?” Philippa teased wickedly.
“Madame, ’tis our wedding night,” he reminded, chuckling as she blushed.
“So you are determined not to play fair,” she scolded him.
“All is fair, I have heard it said, in love and war,” he answered her.
“But which is this, I wonder?” Philippa riposted quickly.
He laughed aloud. “Well said, little one!”
“Why do you call me little one?” she asked him.
“Because you are petite in stature, and you are younger than I am,” he replied.
“I like it,” she told him, and he smiled.
“Good! I would please you as much as I can,” he said.
“And I you,” she replied, “and so I shall set up the chessboard.”
He stood very close to her. “And you will strive not to beat me too badly, madame?” His lips brushed the top of her head, and when she looked up at him, surprised, he placed his lips on hers, kissing her a long and slow kiss. His arm slid about her slender waist, drawing her closer to him.
Her first instinct was to draw away, but then she remembered he was her husband. She looked into his serious gray eyes, unable to see his emotions. His face was not a handsome one like Giles’s had been. Indeed like everything else about him it was hard, lengthy, and narrow. His lips were long and thin, his chin pointed. Her hand reached up to touch his face. “You are not a beautiful man,” she said, “but I like your visage.”
“Why?” he demanded, taking her hand in his, and kissing the fingers.
“It has strength and nobility in it,” Philippa told him, surprising even herself with her own words.
“Why, little one, what a fine compliment you have given me,” he replied.
“Men at court are often consumed by their appearance, even the king whom we must consider the handsomest man living. What woman wants to compete in her mirror with her husband, my lord? Nay, you are not handsome, and I am glad for it,” she said.
