Philippa (27 page)

“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.

There was a long silence, and then Lady Marjorie and Lady Susanna both began to speak at once.

“Blessed Virgin, he is so handsome!”

“His beard tickled me when he kissed my cheek!”

“The queen doesn’t like his beard,” Philippa said. “He has grown it because King Francois has one, and he wishes to honor him.”

The sisters looked fascinated at this piece of information. They had seen how the king and the queen had treated their new sister-in-law. It had been with a familiarity they would have thought reserved for the high and the mighty, not a girl from Cumbria. They each had children who would one day need an ingress into court. Could Philippa possibly provide them with such a service? This marriage was indeed fortuitous.

“If my ladies would enjoy seeing the royal barge,” William Smythe said, “it is now departing from my lord’s quay.”

Lady Marjorie and Lady Susanna rushed to the windows overlooking the river, and at once began ohing and ahing. The royal barge with its rowers all in their Tudor green livery was quite magnificent.

“I’ve never seen its like before!”

“Nor are we apt to see anything like it again!”

“Can you see the king, Susanna?”

“Nay,” came the disappointed reply. “They have drawn the draperies.”

Lord Cambridge reentered the hall and, coming over to Philippa, kissed her soft cheek. “You look exhausted already, and the day is yet new,” he told her. “You must go into the gardens with Crispin and get some fresh air, darling girl.”

“In the rain?” she asked him.

“The rain has stopped. There are even just tiny rays of sunshine peeping through the clouds,” he said. “It is two days until you are formally wed, and it is past time, Philippa,” he advised her meaningfully.

“How is it you know me better than I know myself?” she asked him, and he gave her a small smile and a wink. Then turning, he said to the earl, “A quiet stroll would be just right now, I think. I will send a servant for you when the feast is ready to be served.”

Without an utterance Crispin St. Claire took Philippa by the hand and led her from the hall. “Bring me a cloak, and have Lucy fetch her mistress one,” he told the servant in the corridor. As the servant scuttled away the earl took Philippa by her shoulders and kissed her gently. “We did not kiss to seal our betrothal,” he said with a gentle smile. “In fact we haven’t kissed in some days, Philippa. Do you find kissing me distasteful, little one?” His gray eyes were staring directly down into her eyes as he tipped her face up.

“Nay, my lord, I like kissing you,” she admitted softly, “but I would not have you think me a brazen girl.”

“You are many things, I can see, Philippa, but brazen is not a word I would apply towards your behavior,” he told her, his arms tightening about her. He liked the feel of her petite form against his body.

“Because you were told of the unfortunate episode of the Canted Tower ...” she began.

“I know what was involved in that incident, Philippa. I have already told you that I found it amusing. You are reputed to be the most chaste of the queen’s maids,” he said.

“How would you know such a thing?” she wondered. What was that scent emanating from his velvet doublet? He looked so elegant this morning in his burgundy velvet, and his hose was a most fashionable parti-colored black and white.

“I asked,” he said simply. “I have learned in my thirty years that the best way to discover the answer to your query is to ask.”

“Oh,” Philippa responded, feeling slightly foolish.

“Your cloaks, my lord.” The servant was at their side holding the requested garments. He handed the earl Philippa’s as he set the cloak meant for the earl about his shoulders. Then he retrieved Philippa’s cape and set it about her shoulders.

The newly betrothed couple walked out into Lord Cambridge’s garden. The rain had indeed stopped, and the sun was beginning to peep through the clouds.

“Oh, look!” Philippa cried, pointing. “A rainbow! ’Tis good fortune to see a rainbow. And on this day of all days!”

He looked to where she was pointing and saw the broad arc of color bridging the river Thames. He smiled. “Good luck on our betrothal day is more than welcome.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked him as they walked.

“Of what?” he countered.

“Of marriage. Our marriage. We don’t know each other,” Philippa remarked.

“We would have known each other better had you not avoided me these past few weeks, and do not cry it was your duty, or deny it. Your actions were deliberate, and I do not understand why,” he replied. “You have agreed to this marriage from the beginning.”

Philippa sighed. “I know,” she said. “I agreed, and then I became afraid. You are nobility, my lord. And I fear that you cannot love me, that it is only the land you seek.”

“If it were practical, Philippa, I should give up Melville to prove to you that it is not just the land. But I need those grazing pastures. Besides, all marriages are arranged for sensible reasons. The emotion called love has little to do with most matches. But we could come to love one another someday, little one. For now, however, we are finally betrothed, and in two days will be wed. Let us become friends. The king has graciously allowed us some time alone. It is a few days’ journey to Brierewode, and I would show you your new home.”

“But we are going to France!” she said. “I would go with the queen, my lord.”

“And so we shall, Philippa. We shall be at Dover on the appointed day. We shall spend the summer in France with the court before returning home to visit your mother, and then wintering at Brierewode.”

“We must join the Christmas revels,” she told him.

“If you are not with child, we will,” he said.

“With child?” Philippa swallowed hard.

“The purpose of our union is children,” he told her gravely. “I need an heir. If you prove to be as good a breeder as your mother I shall sire several sons on you.”

Philippa stopped dead, and then she stamped her foot at him. “Do not speak as if I am some superior breeding stock,” she cried angrily.

“Whether you are superior breeding stock or not remains to be seen,” he replied dryly, his gray eyes suddenly cold.

“You promised me that you would wait,” she said.

“And so I have, for almost a month, while you have gone out of your way to escape my company, Philippa. Not a kiss or a cuddle have I been allowed. But in two nights’ time, little one, you will do your duty because you will be my wife. Do you understand me?”

“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met!” she declared furiously.

He laughed. “I probably am,” he said agreeably. Then he reached out and yanked her into an embrace, wrapping his arms tightly about her. “That mouth of yours, Philippa, would be put to better use in this manner rather than sparring with me.” His head descended, his lips meeting hers in a hungry kiss.

At first her knotted fists beat against the embroidery on his burgundy velvet doublet. The kiss had rendered her weak, and her head was spinning. But she liked it. Oh, yes! She liked it very much. Her mouth softened beneath his, and she sighed. Her fists ceased their tattoo.

He raised his head, looking down at her through silver slits. “You are so ready to be loved, Philippa. Why do you fight it? I will not be unkind to you.”

“I need to know you better before I offer myself body and soul,” she murmured against his mouth.

“You have these two days, little one. There is no more time,” he told her, pulling her into the shelter of a large pruned bush, and drawing her down onto a marble bench. Then he began to kiss her again, and one kiss fed into another until she was certain that her lips would be visibly bruised. His fingers loosened the laces on her bodice. His hand pushed beneath her neckline reaching for, finding, fondling a sweetly rounded breast.

Philippa couldn’t breathe. Her heart was beating furiously. His hand was warm and gentle as he cupped the captive breast. Her head lolled back against his shoulder. His touch was the most exciting thing she had ever experienced. “You mustn’t,” she feebly protested. “We are not wed yet.”

“The betrothal legalizes our union,” he groaned low.

“The queen says a woman must be chaste even in the marriage bed,” Philippa whispered.

“Bugger the queen,” he said, half angrily. “Is it she who is responsible for your reticence these last weeks?”

“My lord!” Philippa was shocked by his words. “The queen is an example of wifely perfection to all of her women.”

“Mayhap that is why the queen has borne no live son,” he responded, and his thumb rubbed the nipple of the breast he was fondling. “Healthy children come from passion, not saintliness, Philippa!”

“I cannot concentrate when you do that, my lord,” she protested.

“You are not meant to, little one,” he said, laughing low. Then he began to kiss her again even as he continued caressing her breast. “You are meant to lose power over your composure, and yield yourself to the delicious feelings coursing through your veins at this moment.” His lips touched her forehead, her cheeks, her throat with heat.

Philippa pulled her head away from him. “Oh, my lord, you must not assault me so sweetly. My head is spinning with your caresses and your kisses. I cannot think! ”

He laughed, and then he smiled at her. “Very well, little one, I will cease momentarily. I suspect from this brief encounter that there is a deep well of unexplored lustful passion within your innocent soul. I shall very much enjoy awakening it, Philippa.” His hand removed itself from her bodice.

“My lord,” she said disapprovingly, “such speech is unseemly in a gentleman. My mistress, the queen, would never approve of the words you so freely use.”

“Your mistress, the queen, is a good woman, and she has struggled to be a good wife to the king. But your mistress, the queen, is a prude, Philippa. She cannot help it. She was raised in Spain to have a devotion to her duty. A strict piety to the church first and foremost. A fidelity to her position as a Spanish infanta, and secondly as England’s queen. And her last allegiance is to her husband. Duty does not belong in the marital bed, Philippa.”

She gazed up at him, obviously puzzled.

“A man wants a woman in his bed who enjoys being there,” he explained. “A woman who opens herself to their shared passion and trusts that her lord will lead the way to a pleasure they may both enjoy. I know you are a virgin, Philippa. It pleases me that you have been chaste. But the time for purity is past. For the short time we have before our marriage you will yield yourself to my will, little one. And you will not regret it. That I promise you.”

“The queen ... ,” Philippa began, but he placed two fingers against her lips.

“You are not the queen, Philippa,” he told her. “Now I want you to say, ‘Aye, Crispin. I will do as you say.’ ” His gray eyes were dancing with his amusement.

“But you have to understand ... ,” Philippa tried again, and the two fingers were again pressed across her mouth.

“ ‘Aye, Crispin,’ ” he gently prompted her.

“I will not be spoken to as if I were a child!” she protested.

“But you are a child where passion is concerned,” he told her. “And I am he who will teach you and make you the most skilled pupil, Philippa. Now your first lesson is to kiss me sweetly, and say, ‘Aye, Crispin, I will do as you say.’ ”

The hazel eyes glaring at him were most definitely mutinous. She compressed her lips together into a straight, narrow line. She stood up from the bench. “No, Crispin, I will not say it! You are an arrogant horse’s rump!” Then she turned and ran back into the house, the laces of her bodice trailing behind her.

The earl of Witton burst out laughing. Marriage to Philippa Meredith was going to be anything but dull, he decided.

T
he day after her betrothal ceremony, Philippa celebrated her sixteenth birthday. Her sister, Banon, now dismissed from the queen’s service, arrived at Bolton House early with all her belongings. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and she had a more sophisticated air about her now than when she had arrived at court several months back. Banon had turned fourteen on the first day of March.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday,” she said, flinging her gloves aside as she pulled them from her elegant little hands, “but the mistress of the maids said since I would be at your wedding it didn’t matter. The old cow!” She hugged Philippa eagerly. “The queen said I might go this morning, and believe me I was out of the palace even before the first mass. The place is in an uproar with the move today to Greenwich. Honestly I don’t see what you see in living at court. All that pandemonium and commotion, not to mention the constant moving.” She stopped. “Oh! Happy natal day, sister!” And she kissed both of Philippa’s cheeks. Then stepping back she said, “You look pale. Are you alright?”

“Uncle Tom says I am suffering from what he describes as bridal nerves,” Philippa answered her younger sister. “I am so glad to see you, Banon! Come, and let us have something to eat before my new sisters-in-law come into the hall. They never stop chattering, and they are so provincial. They are sweet, but I think I am grateful they will not live near us.” She took Banon’s hand in hers, and together they seated themselves at the table while the servants hurried to bring them food, and set goblets of morning ale before them.

“Ohh, real food again!” Banon enthused. “I found the food at court almost inedible, I fear.” She pulled a piece from the hot cottage loaf that had been placed before them, buttering it lavishly and taking a bite. A blissful look came over Banon’s face as the butter drizzled down her chin. “Ah, that is pure heaven,” she said.