“How tragic,” sighed the baroness, “to lose your wife so young. Having now lost my husband, I do sympathise, my lord.”
“Umm,” said the earl. He signalled to the serving boy and pointed cheerfully to the platter of tripe baked in beef dripping and the half empty wine jug. “Should have been off to Spain,” he continued. “Chosen specially by the king – emissary – marriage negotiations. The boy spoiled it, you know. Scandal. The king thought it better – well, the mission was a delicate one. Isabella of Castile. His highness aiming to combine his York with the Lancastrian dynasty of course, and stop all that old animosity. Spanish princess is fourteenth in line, you know.”
“But the Portuguese Princess Joanna is third in line,” nodded the baroness patiently. “So that is the marriage most seriously considered, I believe. And the Portuguese king is eager, and has offered his nephew Manuel for our young Elizabeth, King Edward’s eldest daughter. Indeed, we all await the happy conclusion, and a wedding date set.”
“Humph,” said the earl and took his spoon to his platter.
Emeline nibbled a spiced oat cake, wiped her fingers on her napkin, and attempted to be polite although clearly her thoughts were principally on quite other matters. There were no apple codlings. “Such endless conspiracies,” she said, with a brief and poignant glance at her sister. “Nicholas was talking about the line of succession recently. But the Lancastrians have surely stopped expecting to claim back power? After Tewkesbury so many years ago – then King Edward’s long peaceful reign. And now King Richard –”
‘Nicholas talking?” the earl said, nose reappearing abruptly from his cup. “Wretched boy doesn’t know a Lancastrian from a pigeon. Besides, the whole pack is pretty much scattered. There’s that traitor De Vere, and a few Nevilles muttering under their breath. But Nicholas should know better. Not that he ever knows better. No right to go disturbing a lady’s peaceful nights with fears of bloodshed and battle.”
Emeline blinked. “He was only discussing – and it was more a question of marriage – but surely there are many women who are most interested in politics – and some very notable and intelligent ladies –”
“Not a female’s natural place, my dear, not at all,” and refilled his cup.
“So I shall attempt to confine myself to proper female interests, such as the turquoise silk now awaiting the seamstress in my bedchamber,” muttered Emeline with a secret smile. “So many – delightful prospects – awaiting in my bedchamber. Paper and ink, for instance. Lists of – let us say – possibilities. Idle pastimes perhaps, the following of – new paths, and the prospect of just exactly what we ladies intend to do about them. Would that seem proper female behaviour, my lord?”
The baroness sighed, and the earl smiled and said, “No doubt, my dear, no doubt. Sounds most respectable. Turquoise silk? You will look very pretty, I’m sure.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Never,” said the earl earnestly, “been a man to air my shorrowsh, nor bewail my fate. Nor shirk my dutiesh, of coursh.” His eyes failed to focus, but it was his daughter-in-law he addressed. “Been around, you know m’dear, and sheen shush dangers and shadnesh. Lived through it all, shtaggered on besht as may. Wife gone. Little babiesh gone. Peter – ah, Peter. The trashedy of it all, and shush a hard burden. I mish him, you know. Shpect you do too.”
Emeline sighed. “I cannot claim to miss him, my lord. I barely knew him.”
The earl shook his head, though the subsequent vibration spilled the overflowing wine cup which he still grasped. “Thought you did, m’dear. Like him, I mean. Peter shaid – well, no point r’membring now. Marriage. Never eashy. But you’d’ve been happy – wife, that ish – to my Peter. But you’re a good girl, now making do with second besht.”
Sitting a little straighter, Emeline looked around desperately for her mother’s help. “I am proud, sir,” she said, “to be wife to Nicholas.”
“Ah. Young Nick.” The earl was slipping downwards within the chair, his rump sliding forwards on the polished wood, his legs stretching further out. “Bit of a washtrel, y’know. I tried. Peter tried. No avail. Maybe it wash the businessh of hish mother. Hard to watch little babiesh die of coursh. Hurt him. Never wanted to do mush after that. Jusht making a damn fool of himshelf. Nor never close to me. Not obedient lad. Didn’t like hish brother either.” The earl sighed, struggling to stay upright. “Envy, y’know. Jealoushy. Competishon. Not unushual with boysh.”
Emeline waited, trying to ignore the temptation. Finally, exhaling deeply, she relented. “Why, I wonder,” she asked softly, “did Nicholas dislike his brother? I find it hard to believe, my lord, that jealousy motivated that dislike.”
The earl managed to drain his cup, spilled a little down his velvets, and hiccupped. “Ah,” he said with a conspiratorial nod. “Peter older. Would’ve got the lot, y’know. Title. Cashle. Housh. Land.” He thought a moment, but could not remember any other specific benefits. “Young Nick, well, into the church pr’apsh. Peter wash the clever one. Had all the girlsh falling at hish feet.”
Unable to think of any tactful argument, Emeline turned, looking for escape. The baroness sat at some distance, Avice close at her side. Behind her Petronella stood in timid silence. It was the secretary Edmund Harris who was their sudden interest, summoned to stand before them and clearly taking this as a compliment. “Mister Harris,” indicated the baroness with unexpected friendliness, “please sit down.” He sat very upright on the most forward edge of his seat, knees together and hands clasped.
“It is, my lady, an honour. I am, I assure you, at your ladyship’s service in whatever you might consider. I am experienced and qualified in Latin, scribing, in numeracy, in matters of basic law and justice, and in the keeping of records. I was, I believe, much trusted by his lordship the baron, my lady, and never had cause to believe myself out of favour.”
The baroness bestowed a limpid smile. “Indeed, Mister Harris, I am sure that was true. You often travelled with my husband, I believe. You accompanied him on most of his journeys, to London and to Gloucester.”
Edmund Harris nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed I did, my lady.”
“In which case,” continued her ladyship, still benign, “you would have some knowledge of where my husband went and exactly what he did.”
Mister Harris began to glimpse his downfall. “That is true, within limits, my lady.” He sat a little straighter and wriggled on the very edge of his stool. “Of course, whenever there was business of a personal nature, I was dismissed to walk alone.” He frowned with some deliberation. “But never, I assure you, your ladyship, did I accompany the baron on his most private business, nor was privy to his personal affairs. I had no idea – no knowledge at all. I remained at the hostelry until his lordship returned and called for me.”
“But,” continued the baroness sweetly, “your skills would have been required in the matter of the house – purchasing the property where my husband later – died.”
The young man nodded earnestly. “Indeed. That I did, my lady. But without knowledge of its use, I assure you, nor ever went there. I followed orders, and managed the paperwork in accordance with normal practice, and all in the chambers of the city clerk.”
“How clever,” said Avice, interrupting. “Now, I wonder if you’d remember what it cost, Mister Harris? How sad to know it’s destroyed, and all that clever work of yours gone for nothing.”