in those fine feathers, my pet.” He turned again to Baen MacColl. “She is the fairest of Rosamund’s daughters, dear boy. Now tell me what brings you back to Friarsgate. I thought you bound for Claven’s Carn.”
Baen explained, and then Elizabeth told her uncle what was in the missive from the master of Grayhaven.
“You are his son?” Thomas Bolton asked.
“Aye, the eldest, but I am the bastard,” Baen said candidly. “I have lived in my father’s house for almost twenty years. I was raised with my legitimate half brothers and my half sister, Margaret, who is now a nun,” Baen said candidly.
“I have always considered that as long as a man is responsible for his appetites there is no harm done,” Lord Cambridge replied. “Two of the Bolton sons belonging to Friarsgate were born on the wrong side of the blanket: Edmund, the manor’s steward, and Richard, who is the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. Guy was the heir, and Henry the youngest.
Both the legitimate sons are now dead and buried.”
“And where do you fit in the family tree?” Baen inquired boldly.
“There were twin sons several generations back. The second-born twin was sent to London to wed a merchant’s daughter and make his fortune there. His wife, however, lay with King Edward, and then in a fit of remorse killed herself. The king felt guilty, as her family were most generous supporters of his in the war. So he gifted my grandfather with a peerage,” Thomas Bolton explained.
“Yet you live nearby, if I am to understand Mistress Elizabeth,” Baen said.
“Aye, I sold my estates in the south but for two houses, and returned to the north so I might be near my family. It is a decision I have never regretted. Every few years I go to court for a few months, and then eagerly return home.”
“Vowing to never go again”—Elizabeth laughed—“but he always does.”
“Only to get the latest gossip and procure a new wardrobe,”
Thomas Bolton assured his companions. “My Otterly folk would be most disappointed if I did not continue to appear at my most fashionable best.”
“And you never disappoint, Uncle,” Elizabeth assured him mischievously.
“Wretched girl!” he said. “And do not think I have forgotten your lessons in proper court etiquette, for I have not. Come out from behind the board now, and walk across the hall for me.”
Elizabeth groaned, but she complied with his request. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, and there was no escape for her, she knew.
She stepped down from the high board and stamped across the chamber. The pained look on Lord Cambridge’s visage caused Baen MacColl’s handsome face to break into a grin, but he kept silent. He was rather enjoying this quite unexpected entertainment, and it was about to get even better, he discovered.
Thomas Bolton sighed deeply. “No, no, dear girl!” the older man said. “What are you wearing on your feet? Perhaps that is the difficulty.”
Elizabeth stuck out a foot from beneath her skirts. She was wearing a very well worn square-toed boot of brown leather.
“Hmmmm. That may be it,” Lord Cambridge said. “One can hardly glide in such footwear, dear girl, can one? Albert!” he called to the manservant. “Go to Mistress Elizabeth’s chamber and have Nancy bring a pair of court slippers to the hall.”
The manservant ran off to do Lord Cambridge’s bidding.
“At court, dear girl, you will not wear your boots, although they will do nicely for the days that we travel,” Thomas Bolton explained.
“You cannot be expected to walk properly unless you wear the shoes you will wear at court.”
“They hurt my feet,” Elizabeth said.
“A lady bears such torment for the sake of fashion,” he told her gently.
“I wonder if swans’ feet hurt,” Elizabeth muttered darkly.
Thomas Bolton chuckled. “Your mother left this endeavor too long, I fear,” he said. “But go to court you will, darling girl, and you will be a sensation if it is the
Baen explained, and then Elizabeth told her uncle what was in the missive from the master of Grayhaven.
“You are his son?” Thomas Bolton asked.
“Aye, the eldest, but I am the bastard,” Baen said candidly. “I have lived in my father’s house for almost twenty years. I was raised with my legitimate half brothers and my half sister, Margaret, who is now a nun,” Baen said candidly.
“I have always considered that as long as a man is responsible for his appetites there is no harm done,” Lord Cambridge replied. “Two of the Bolton sons belonging to Friarsgate were born on the wrong side of the blanket: Edmund, the manor’s steward, and Richard, who is the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. Guy was the heir, and Henry the youngest.
Both the legitimate sons are now dead and buried.”
“And where do you fit in the family tree?” Baen inquired boldly.
“There were twin sons several generations back. The second-born twin was sent to London to wed a merchant’s daughter and make his fortune there. His wife, however, lay with King Edward, and then in a fit of remorse killed herself. The king felt guilty, as her family were most generous supporters of his in the war. So he gifted my grandfather with a peerage,” Thomas Bolton explained.
“Yet you live nearby, if I am to understand Mistress Elizabeth,” Baen said.
“Aye, I sold my estates in the south but for two houses, and returned to the north so I might be near my family. It is a decision I have never regretted. Every few years I go to court for a few months, and then eagerly return home.”
“Vowing to never go again”—Elizabeth laughed—“but he always does.”
“Only to get the latest gossip and procure a new wardrobe,”
Thomas Bolton assured his companions. “My Otterly folk would be most disappointed if I did not continue to appear at my most fashionable best.”
“And you never disappoint, Uncle,” Elizabeth assured him mischievously.
“Wretched girl!” he said. “And do not think I have forgotten your lessons in proper court etiquette, for I have not. Come out from behind the board now, and walk across the hall for me.”
Elizabeth groaned, but she complied with his request. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, and there was no escape for her, she knew.
She stepped down from the high board and stamped across the chamber. The pained look on Lord Cambridge’s visage caused Baen MacColl’s handsome face to break into a grin, but he kept silent. He was rather enjoying this quite unexpected entertainment, and it was about to get even better, he discovered.
Thomas Bolton sighed deeply. “No, no, dear girl!” the older man said. “What are you wearing on your feet? Perhaps that is the difficulty.”
Elizabeth stuck out a foot from beneath her skirts. She was wearing a very well worn square-toed boot of brown leather.
“Hmmmm. That may be it,” Lord Cambridge said. “One can hardly glide in such footwear, dear girl, can one? Albert!” he called to the manservant. “Go to Mistress Elizabeth’s chamber and have Nancy bring a pair of court slippers to the hall.”
The manservant ran off to do Lord Cambridge’s bidding.
“At court, dear girl, you will not wear your boots, although they will do nicely for the days that we travel,” Thomas Bolton explained.
“You cannot be expected to walk properly unless you wear the shoes you will wear at court.”
“They hurt my feet,” Elizabeth said.
“A lady bears such torment for the sake of fashion,” he told her gently.
“I wonder if swans’ feet hurt,” Elizabeth muttered darkly.
Thomas Bolton chuckled. “Your mother left this endeavor too long, I fear,” he said. “But go to court you will, darling girl, and you will be a sensation if it is the
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