Philippa (32 page)

“You have not lost your family, you foolish creature,” he told her, laughing. “You will always have them, no matter you are my wife. And you and I will but add to that family as we begin our own. Stop weeping, Philippa. I believe you are having an attack of the nerves, finding yourself with only your bridegroom to sustain you. Have you not considered how I feel? I am shortly to reach my thirty-first year. I have spent much of my adult life in service to the king. Now I suddenly find I have a wife. It is all very strange to me too, Philippa.”

Philippa sniffed noisily. She looked up at him, and her dark lashes were clumped in sharp-looking little spikes. Her hazel eyes were wet, her cheeks stained with her tears. “I am not a foolish creature!” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. “You are a man, and it is different for men than it is for girls. You have traveled the world for the king. You are experienced.”

“And you are not,” he said quietly, “nor should you be. You are a young bride who has just seen her family go off leaving her with a man she hardly knows. But this is the way of the world in which we live, Philippa. You are going to have to learn to trust me, little one, for we are now shackled together for life.”

“It was Uncle Thomas turning to wave that unnerved me,” she told him. “After my father died he appeared to escort mama to court. He explained his relationship to us; his great-grandfather and mama’s great-grandfather had been brothers. He was like nothing any of us had ever seen before.”

The earl laughed. “I can but imagine,” he told her.

“But he was so kind,” Philippa continued. “He and mama came to adore each other as they were better acquainted. Maybel and Edmund loved him too. Suddenly we were a real family again.”

“His lands were here in the south, were they not?” the earl said.

“Aye, but he sold them and purchased our great-uncle Henry’s home. Of course he tore it down and rebuilt it, for Uncle Henry was a wicked man, and his wife and children were no better. It is a long story, and I will not bore you with it.”

“Nay,” he said. “I would hear it.”

“Then let us go out into the garden,” Philippa answered him, “and I will tell you all. And then you will tell me more about yourself, and your family.” She turned, and was startled when he took her hand in his. “ ’Tis a shame to waste a day so fair,” she said.

They went out into the garden and sat with the sun warm upon their backs as Philippa told her bridegroom the story of her family, and of how Henry Bolton had attempted to wrest the Friarsgate inheritance from Rosamund Bolton, its rightful heiress. She told Crispin St. Claire how her mother, with the help first of Hugh Cabot, Owein Meredith, her father, Thomas Bolton, and Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Cam, who had eventually become her stepfather, had foiled Henry Bolton and his family. How Henry the elder had died of a fit when her mother had refused to let his son, Henry the younger, have Philippa for his wife. How Henry the younger had been tricked into an ambush with English borderers, led by Lord Dacre, and killed, thus ending the threat his family had posed towards hers.

The earl of Witton shook his head. “Your mother is a brave and resourceful woman. I hope, Philippa, that you possess some of her virtues.”

“My mother’s greatest passion is Friarsgate. It always has been, but nay, that is not so. Once my mother loved so deeply, so passionately, that I believe she might have left Friarsgate behind. Sadly for her it was not to be. But then my great-uncle might have had his way, and I be shackled to Henry Bolton the younger, and not you.”

“Another story?” he asked, smiling at her.

“For another time,” Philippa said. “It would seem I have many stories to tell of my family.” She chuckled.

“I am afraid my family is dull by comparison, little one,” he told her.

“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.

He laughed then, and the magic between them dissolved. It would be ignited between them again, and soon, he knew, but not now. He released her from his embrace. “Set up the board, madame,” he told her.

They sat down to play, and as in most of their games Philippa quickly gained the advantage, capturing his rooks and his queen. “You are too impatient,” she told him. “You must study the board, and consider at least three moves ahead.”

“How can I?” he replied. “I do not know what piece you will move.”

“Crispin!” Her tone was exasperated. “There are only so many moves you can make in each play. You must contemplate in your mind which ones they are, and then weigh and balance the best of them.”

The earl of Witton was very surprised by her explanation. “Do you do that?” he asked her, and knew before she spoke what she would answer.

“I do. I dislike losing. You must allow me to teach you better, for you are no challenge for me now. There is no fun in playing an opponent you know you will beat,” Philippa said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Did no one ever tell you that to best a man at chess is not particularly feminine?” he queried her.

“Yes, they did,” she said, “but the queen never lets the king win easily, and more often than not she will beat him. I but follow her example, my lord. I am not nor will I ever be one of those fluttering females lacking intellect, and giggling over the latest gossip making the rounds of the court.”

“Nay, I do not imagine you will,” he said, “but sometimes women of reason who revel in their sense of intellectual superiority miss the obvious. Check and mate, my dear countess.” He grinned triumphantly as he captured her king.

Philippa stared openmouthed, but then she burst out laughing and clapped her two hands together. “I bow to your cleverness, my lord,” she told him. “I am beginning to see now that there is more to you than I anticipated.”

“Indeed, madame, there is much more,” he said meaningfully. He stood up and stretched. “It is time we ate something, madame, for we cannot avoid the inevitable forever.” He took her hand, and leading her to the high board he seated her gallantly. “We must be grateful that Lord Cambridge has had the delicacy of manners to leave us alone. I think neither of us would have enjoyed the crudity and general drunken merriment that goes with the bedding of a bride and groom.”

Blushing, Philippa nodded silently. Then she carved him several slices of beef and two more of capon, laying them carefully on his plate before she served herself. Her own appetite had suddenly faded away at his careful mention of the night to come. She poured them both goblets of rich and fragrant red wine.

He, however, ate with good appetite, but he saw how she picked at her capon, and how she drank half a goblet of wine down after she had poured it. She was afraid. But how afraid? Philippa was, of course, a virgin. He did not relish the thought of deflowering a reluctant virgin, but the deed must be done this night. He knew very well, even if she didn’t want to, that Lord Cambridge would expect to see the proof of Philippa’s lost virtue in order to assure himself and his family that the marriage was consummated. He drank deeply of his own wine. The night ahead was going to prove to be a lesson in both diplomacy and his strategic abilities. He hoped that he was up to it.

W
hen they had finished their meal and the servants had cleared the high board, a long and awkward silence ensued between them. Finally the earl said in a quiet voice that nonetheless brooked no resistance, “I believe we should retire, my dear. I shall remain in the hall until Lucy tells my serving man that you are prepared for bed.” He stood up, taking her hand to lead her down from the high board. Then he kissed the icy little hand, bowed, and said, “I am patient to a point, Philippa.”

She curtseyed to him, the color drained from her face, and she swayed slightly. But then she took a deep breath, saying, “I will try not to keep you waiting, my lord,” and drawing her hand from his, she turned and hurried from the hall. Reaching her apartment she entered her bedchamber and gasped, surprised. “Lucy! What has happened here?”

“Lord Cambridge had the entire room redone today after you left for the church, and while you were all feasting, and this afternoon while you and the earl was in the garden. He had everything prepared and ready. He said that you and your husband should begin on an even playing field. That you should not remember the bedchamber of your girlhood as the place you spent your wedding night. He wanted it all different.”

Philippa gazed about her. Gone were the rose-colored velvet draperies that had hung on the windows and curtained the bed. This had been her mother’s room once, and then it had been hers ever since she had come to court. The furniture in both rooms of the apartment was the same, except for the bed in her bedchamber which had been replaced by a very large bed that would obviously accommodate two. The draperies were now a rich shade of burgundy reds and the Turkey carpets deep reds and blues. The velvet curtains that would surround the bed were hung from fine shiny brass rings.