“Yes, thanks be. And so do you,” he said more by way of custom than by belief. “Please, be seated.” He nodded toward the chair next to him and I did as he told me to, thankful that Anne had brought me this news early and I was therefore not at a disadvantage. “I’m afraid I bring ill tidings,” he began. “But also good.”
My curiosity was piqued now. I knew the ill tidings. “Go on,” I encouraged him.
“Sadly, Baron Blackston has passed away, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself. If ever there was a more blasphemous action than seeing Edmund claim the cross over himself I was not sure what it was. I crossed myself against him though I suspect he thought it was for the departed baron.
“He was a kind man,” I said, feeling genuine remorse. “And yet this was not completely unexpected. His age, his ill health…. he shared with me his certainty that he would soon depart this world at our last visit.”
“Yes,” Edmund said. “I am sorry for you. But along with these ill tidings I bring some that are glad. The new Baron Blackston, Simon, wishes to take you as a bride. So you’ll not lose your title.”
This was his glad tiding? I took a care not to show my shock and dismay. And then I remembered. I need not say yes.
“What a kind offer,” I said, not bothering to conceal my sarcasm. I tried to gather my thoughts. “I shall think upon it.”
Edmund’s face turned stony. “What is there to think upon? The man has offered, I have agreed, and you have nowhere else to go.”
“I am welcome at court,” I said, nodding to Edithe to refill his mug of ale. “And I have my marriage portion to support me, and the manor the king granted me as a wedding gift.”
So there. I am not dependent upon your lack of good graces.
A wicked grin stole across his face; he licked his lips and it put me in mind of a reptile. “Alas, there is no marriage portion for you.” I scarce could breathe but he continued on. “A widow’s third is only allocated if consummation can be sworn upon. Can you swear upon it?”
I indicated nothing but clearly he knew I’d remained a maiden. How?
“When your dowry was negotiated,” he continued, “it was to be paid in portions over five years. If the baron was to die without issue within five years of the marriage, then half of the portion would be returned to Father, who would agree to care for you as a widow.” He spread his hands in mock concern. “Alas, ’tis not yet five years and, as you have no issue by the baron, the monies shall return to Father for your care. The other half will remain with Simon, Baron Blackston. There is no jointure nor inheritance for you.”
“And what does Father think of this?” I stood up and demanded.
“Father has slipped into twilight most days. He has left family matters in my charge.”
“So you’ve agreed to all of this on my behalf?” I said.
“Not completely. The baron is not yet buried a fortnight. But I suspect that Simon and I shall come to some understanding after I return from France, where I go to attend to the king’s business. Simon must visit all of his new properties and estates. But we shall come to an agreement anon.”
“And if I disagree?”
“You have no dowry, sister. It has been spent. You have no marriage portion. Even the king won’t keep you forever. What else will you do?” He stood up and I resisted the urge to slap him.
“Thank you, Brother. And give my thanks to My Lord Blackston, Simon, as well.” My voice was thick with scorn.
Edmund pulled on his gloves and prepared to take his leave. “No need, Baroness. You can thank him yourself at the king’s dinner two nights hence. He’ll be here for the festivities.”
The dining hall at Hampton Court Palace was ablaze with candles; light shone from every corner, at every table, and surrounded the king’s table, at the head of the room, like the aura of the sun. We were to be seated in the front third of the room, and when Alice and I arrived at our table I was glad I had taken care to wear a finely wrought dress, in dark blue so as to recognize my husband’s passing, and my diamond earrings. My hair was pulled back and up under a net, as a widow’s should be, but I knew it was a becoming style on me. “It appears we’re to sit in Kentish Corner,” my sister whispered teasingly, her daughter Margaret, new at court and named for me, trailing along behind us. I raised my eyes to our seats and saw what she meant. At our table were already seated the Earl of Blenheim and his son and heir, Rose Ogilvy’s husband. Rose was there again, large with the promise of another child. Her brother Walter and his wife both looked peaked. The Earl of Asquith ignored me entirely, so I greeted his daughter.
“I bid you good evening, Rose,” I said.
“Margaret. ’Tis good to see you again,” she responded coolly. I held my hand out to her husband, who kissed it. I then turned to greet her brother Walter. “How fares your family, My Lord?” At that I heard my sister clear her throat warningly.
“We grieve the loss of our son, but as my wife is young still we shall expect more soon,” he said. Grief was fixed upon his thin face.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said. I had not been aware that his young son had died. “I am acquainted with loss myself.” He looked me in the eye and held it for a moment before speaking. He knew I meant my love for his brother.
“I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death, Baroness,” he said. My brother Edmund joined us, as did Simon, who let his eyes explore me disconcertingly. I noted that they lingered upon parts of myself that should be noted only by a husband or a seamstress and I turned to take my seat. As she sat with the king, we were missing Anne from our reunion.
And Will, of course.
My brother introduced Simon to the assembled guests at our table. He didn’t mention the fact that Simon and I were to be betrothed, of course. It would not have been proper for at least a year. When he was introduced to Walter, Simon’s eyes focused.
“Do you have a brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” Walter responded. “My brother William. A priest soon home from Antwerp.”
Unwillingly, unwittingly, I had to believe, nearly every eye at the table turned to me, including Simon’s, whose bored into me. I could feel them. I met no glance and instead turned to quietly instruct my niece, who would need to display stamina for the five to seven hours dinner might take at Henry’s court. Soon enough the servers brought the first of nigh on twenty courses: roast porpoise and salmon pie; figs stewed till they were tender; manchet of the finest, whitest wheat; roast goose with honey and almond paste. I ate but little and drank less, wanting to keep my wits about me. As soon as the meal was over, the king declared it time for dancing and we followed him into the great hall, which was grand indeed. Even the ceiling was intricately sculptured, though the faces carved within, the Gossips, sent a shiver through me.
Simon took my hand afore the first note was struck. I noticed my brother Edmund had pressed in to quickly take the hand of the young raven-haired Charlotte, who had been seated with the Ogilvys. She was their ward, I believed. I should have to ask Alice if Edmund and Charlotte had been her idea.
“Meg, I am sorry about the loss of your husband. You should know that I cared for him as I would care for a father.” Simon drew me as near as was socially respectable.
“Thank you,” I said. “I thought he was a kind man, though we didn’t get to know one another well.”
At this, a smirk crossed his face. Of a sudden, I knew he was thinking I meant in the way a man knows a woman. He knew!
“I am sorry for his loss,” Simon said as we danced. “But glad for my gain.”
“You mean because he died with no son of his own?” I said, having not a care if I offended Simon at this moment.