“Your lordship will find an apple tartlet and clotted cream on the sideboard,” he told the earl as he bowed himself out of the room, shooing his serving girls before him. He shut the door with a firm click.
Crispin and Philippa burst out laughing.
“I see Uncle Thomas’s hand in this,” she giggled. “Poor Master Summers has been given most specific and careful instructions by him. I expect he visited in person to deliver his orders to this innkeeper.”
“Well, I shall not fault him, little one. The menu is perfect, and the food delicious,” the earl told her. “I can only hope each inn in which we stay is as good.”
“It will be,” Philippa replied. She knew Thomas Bolton well, and with each passing moment she realized she owed him a greater debt than she could ever repay him. And she was certainly enjoying the bedsport she and her husband shared. The earl was a kind man. She had to give him an heir as soon as she might. But first they would go to France for the glorious summer progress. In the autumn they would visit her mother, and then it would be back to court for the Christmas revels. They would spend the winter in Oxfordshire, but then it would be back to court for the month of May, a year from now. There simply wasn’t time for her to give Crispin an heir until the end of next year. She hoped he would understand.
Philippa Meredith did not have an important family, although she did now possess a title. But she had Queen Katherine’s friendship, a fact she knew drew the envy of other women and girls from families of greater significance. Philippa’s loyalty to the queen was as great as her mother’s had been. She would serve Katherine of Aragon as long as the queen asked it of her. This was something she was not certain her husband fully comprehended yet. She prayed silently that she could make him understand. Women, after all, possessed their own personal honor too.
It was still light when they had finished their meal. Outside their windows they heard music, flutes, and drums and cymbals. Going to the window they saw a Maypole had been set up on the village green, and the dancers were even now assembling. Philippa looked at her husband questioningly, and he nodded. There was a door leading to the outside in the corridor outside their apartments. Hand in hand they strolled out to watch the girls and boys dancing around the Maypole, weaving the colored ribbons about the tall pole as they pranced and capered. It was a perfect ending to the day.
He made love to her again that night, cajoling her with the fact their rooms were at the far end of the inn. He was tender and gentle, as he had previously been. In the morning after breakfast they once again embarked, traveling as far as Henley that afternoon. The Queen’s Arms was as fine an establishment as the King’s Head had been. They were housed in another large and private apartment. The food was excellent. They made love in the night as they had the previous night. And in the morning they left the barge to ride across the countryside to the village of Cholsey. The day was sunny, and all around them the woods and fields were burgeoning with new green growth.
The next day the earl gifted Lord Cambridge’s two bargemen and sent them back down the river. They had so enjoyed the ride the day before that they decided to go on to Oxford by horseback rather than spending another day on the river. Philippa had been to Oxford once before, with the queen when they had traveled to Woodstock. She found the hustle and bustle of the town invigorating, and preferred it to London. The inn that Lord Cambridge had chosen was on the edge of the city on the road they would take tomorrow to Brierewode.
“We can reach it if we leave just at first light,” the earl told Philippa.
“I can be ready,” she promised. “I can see how anxious you are to be there, my lord. And I am curious to see my new home.”
“You will love it,” he promised her.
She smiled, but she thought it is just another country house. It is not court. I shall be quickly bored, but then in just a few weeks we will rejoin the king and queen.
The following morning was gray and cloudy, the first dull day since their wedding on April thirtieth. But it was not raining. They departed Oxford in a dim half-light. They had been met at Henley by a troop of hired men-at-arms who had accompanied them ever since. Behind them Lucy and Peter followed upon their own mounts, riding next to the vehicle carrying the bride’s possessions. The innkeeper at the Saracen’s Head in Oxford had seen them off with a hamper of food for their ride. They stopped only briefly, more to rest the horses than themselves, and quickly ate. Then they were on the road again.
In late afternoon the earl called to Philippa over the noise of the horses’ hooves. “We are almost there, little one. Look up ahead. It is my village of Wittonsby. You can see the church steeple.”
“What is the river we ride along?” she asked him.
“The Windrush,” he answered. “You can see it from the house, and around the next bend you will see Brierewode up there on the hillside.” He was smiling.
As they rounded the curve in the road Philippa gazed up, and there was a beautiful gabled gray stone house with several tall chimneys. It did not look at all grand, and she found she was very relieved. She was not certain she could have managed a sumptuous dwelling. “It’s lovely,” she told him, smiling back.
In the meadows along the river there were cattle grazing. The fields they passed were newly tilled, the rich brown earth smooth and ready for planting. The workers in the fields looked up as they passed by. Recognizing their master a shout went up, and they waved enthusiastically as he rode on. Crispin St. Claire waved back. Philippa could see right away that her husband was well liked by his people.
The village was set along the riverbank, which was lined with ancient willows. The stone cottages were neatly kept, from their thatched roofs to their little front door gardens. There was a fountain in the village square across from the steepled stone church, and it was here they stopped. The earl’s tenants came from their houses and from their fields to greet him. The priest, alerted by one of the children, came forth from the church.
The earl held up his hand for silence, and was obeyed. “I have brought you a new countess,” he said. “Greet Lady Philippa, countess of Witton, who became my wife in Queen Katherine’s own chapel six days ago.”
The priest stepped forward and bowed. He was not a young man, but neither was he an old man. “Welcome home, my lord, and welcome to Wittonsby, my lady. May God bless your union with many children. I am Father Paul.”
A stocky ruddy-faced man stepped forward next. “Welcome home, milord,” he said with a small awkward bow. “I am relieved you were not gone for too long a time. Milady.” He pulled politely at his forelock in greeting. Then he turned to the crowd of villagers, and called out, “Let’s have three cheers for his lordship and his bride! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”And the others in the small square joined him.
“This is my bailiff, Bartholomew, little one,” the earl told Philippa. “He’s a good man, is Barto. My countess and I thank you all for your kind greetings,” he said to the crowd. Then with a wave of his hand the earl led his party from the village square, and up the treed hill to the house known as Brierewode.
The earl’s majordomo was awaiting them as they rode up to the house, and there were stable boys to take their horses as they dismounted. “Welcome home, milord, my lady,” the majordomo said, bowing. “Shall I see to the men-at-arms?”
“Aye,” the earl responded. “Feed them, house them, and in the morning have Robert pay them for their service.” He turned to Philippa, and surprised her by picking her up in his strong arms and carrying her across the open threshold of the house, depositing her gently in the hallway. “Old custom,” he said with a grin.
“I know,” she said, laughing. “But I had forgotten.” She looked about her. “Show me everything, Crispin. I cannot rest until I see it all.”
Now he laughed. “Are you not tired with all our traveling, little one?”
“Aye, but this is to be my home, and my curiosity is outweighing my exhaustion,” she told him. “First, the hall!” And she took him by the hand, looking questioningly.
The hall of Brierewode was paneled in a dark wood. Its ceiling soared, and from the carved and gilded beams hung colorful flags which, the earl explained to his wife, were the banners that his ancestors had carried into battle in England, Scotland, and the Holy Land. It was the oldest part of the house.
