Of Dove and Falcon

By Mary Brockway

The marriage of Anglican, Edward FitzStephen, to Joan Farles is arranged to gain favor with Queen Mary Tudor, and preserve the wealthy family's manors. Love grows for Joan and Edward even when Edward's Anglican prelate uncle is burned at the stake.  Can they save themselves and their families from further violence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090558

Book preview

PART ONE

One

Joan rose from the writing table and closed the red leather cover of her journal with special care to protect the unbound pages. She stretched lazily and peered out the window for the tenth time to watch the lane curling from the dusty road to Gloucester. A softening branch of the great beech tree, rocked by the gentle May breeze, brushed the diamond shaped panes, and a long row of lilacs in front of the portico below told of spring with fragrant bursts of purple.

She pushed the sash open to listen for hoof beats, and scurried down the angles of the wide staircase as fast as her whirling skirts allowed. Mattie, Father! Richard rides the lane!

Her most favored person had arrived home from his studies at Trinity College, Cambridge, and Joan could scarcely await exciting tales reserved for her ears alone. She fidgeted through a long interval while her brother disposed of his baggage and extended greetings to their father.

At last Richard called, Race you to the stables, Jo.

Gypsy pawed the soft earth as impatient to be off as her rider, and Joan needed to tug firmly on the reins for control.

Richard mounted his sorrel hunter and drew up beside the prancing mare. Catch me at yon oak.

The horses cleared the hedgerow abreast, and stretched slender legs in gallop, for the tree stood a mile distant. Joan felt her waist-length hair slip from the confines of its net and flow behind her, where it matched the hue and angle of the chestnut mare’s long silky tail. Richard caught up with her, but she dug her heels into Gypsy’s flank and reached the tree a length ahead.

Have you forgotten how to ride since you live under the arches of Trinity? Joan giggled as always when she felt happy or nervous, sometimes when sad. The habit embarrassed her, but nobody at Farlesbridge had been able to find a cure.

She dismounted, brushed tangles of hair from her face, shook her dark brown woolen skirt, and settled on a protruding root of the ancient tree to await an inevitable lecture from Richard on proper behavior of young ladies.

Still winded from the race, Richard dabbed at damp curls nearly as askew as his sister’s. You must begin to ride like a lady instead of one of Father’s grooms, Jo.

Pah! A lady would quake at horses that run with spirit. Joan lifted her thick hair to cool the heat stinging the back of her neck.

Richard leapt from his mount, picked a bit of bark from his velvet sleeve, and lifting a strand of Joan’s hair with a gentle twist of hand, teased, I vowed Gypsy had become a freak and grown two tails in my absence. And when might you consider wearing shoes?

Races are more easily won without shoes, it seems. Joan felt her eyes fill with moisture, making a mockery of her taunt. Oh Richard, you cannot know how I miss you when you are away, and how I long to be a lad that I might go to Cambridge with you. We could do Latin and sums together. Mattie keeps me hours with a needle at the bore of embroidery.

Should you have been privileged to be male and joined me at Cambridge; you might find the dons less easy to please than is Master Newkirk. You read Latin and Greek and write with a better hand than do most scribes, Jo. Rather unusual talents for a fair young lady who presently resembles a scullery maid.

But no one at Farlesbridge, save Father, can share translations, and I have only you and my journal to practice my hand upon.

Richard made nervous circles in a pile of old acorns with the toe of his boot. I had not intended to race today, which is no doubt why I lost. I have a more serious matter to discuss. Father is receiving a visitor he hopes will find you favorable for betrothal.

You jest! I need not think of marriage for years and might consider becoming a nun to avoid the question altogether.

Richard grinned.

Joan knew he would have been disappointed at a lesser reaction from his spirited and thoroughly pampered sister. She smiled herself. The thought of doing penance on the cold hard stones of a convent strained her own imagination.

Her brother extended a finger to tilt her chin. Come, little Jo. Even Gypsy, could not run in freedom forever. She too, needed taming. A daughter of your station must marry a gentleman of rank, should Father find one who will have you.

Richard called her ‘Jo’, and she missed that fond identity when he was away at Cambridge. His blue eyes hinted at some serious mischief, but this startling conversation left her bewildered. He took her hand with more gentleness than his usual brotherly tug, and his odd expression sent her giggling. She pulled away, stooped for a clod of dirt, and threw it as she ran to mount Gypsy, leaving her brother mumbling oaths and scrubbing at a dark stain on his golden tunic.

Catching Gypsy’s long mane, Joan leapt onto the chestnut’s glistening back. The mare galloped wildly across the meadow, disturbing ripened seed pods to float over the grass. Leaning her face into the horse’s mane, she did not slow the pace until nearing a group of sandstone buildings.

The Manor Farlesbridge had been named for the prominent gentleman who owned it and for the arched stone and oaken bridge spanning a narrow estuary of the River Severn. Gypsy clattered across to the stable area where Joan dismounted without aid from Babcock, the groom.

She stopped abruptly with a cry of surprise at the sight of a black stallion, clearly the most handsome horse she had ever seen, tethered at the portico rail. Whose mount is he, Bab?

The beast belongs to Master FitzStephen who arrived moments ago to see your father, Mistress Joan. The gentleman’s squire will soon take the stallion to the paddock to be rubbed down. Bab nodded toward the stables. ‘Twas a long ride, it seems.

Bother! The guest Richard spoke of, and earlier than expected. ‘Tis barely past dinner. Joan tossed her tangled hair. A man who owns a mount like that could not be too boorish. Father will chide if I am untidy."

Aye, Mistress. A gentleman of substance, likely.

Joan hurried around the corner of the house to the servant’s entrance and scrambled up the back stairs to her room, praying no one except Bab had seen her.

But Mattie had been watching and gestured impatiently from the door. Look at you, child. Ha’ you been lately to a pig sty? Get from those vile rags with haste. The Squire has a visitor direct from London. We dasn’t keep him waiting. Mattie lifted a heavy iron kettle from the hearth, poured steaming water into a wooden tub, and placed a soft cloth and soap on a low bench where Joan sat, stripping off her clothing. Come come, do not tarry!

Joan tested the water with a curved, dirt-stained toe and slipped gingerly into the tub, certain of becoming red as a cherry from Mattie’s scrubbing, if not from the scalding water.

Joan loved the sturdy woman standing over her, for Mattie was more than the housekeeper at Farlesbridge. She came close to replacing the mother she had not known, and Mattie’s stern exterior barely covered a loving heart. Joan had been told that Mathilde Croft arrived to serve the Farles family the very day she was born. They said that Mattie waited helplessly while life ebbed from Lady Farles in spite of valiant efforts from the midwife. She had taken tiny Joan from the woman, wrapped her in soft woolen cloth warmed by the fire, and sat for hours with the baby nestled into her ample bosom while all attention centered on the dying mother.

Squire Farles had barely glanced at his miniature daughter, having already watched several babies die since Richard’s birth six years before. The grief-stricken man walked about the manor in silence for weeks, and months passed before Mattie dared hope the babe would survive. Despite this, Joan knew her father would be grateful to Mattie for the rest of his life for saving his daughter.

Mattie’s flat, broad mouth widened in satisfaction after Joan was dressed in a soft blue gown with full sleeves falling to her fingertips. She patted the net once again enclosing the errant shining locks and stood back to assess her work, and nudged Joan gently toward the door. Be on with you. Remember to curtsy, and with grace, be it possible. Do not speak until asked for a reply, and when refreshments are served, eat lightly of Dagmar’s cakes. Ladies must never appear to hunger. Mattie patted her own rounded waist for emphasis, smoothed the folds of her black woolen skirt, and preceded Joan down the stairs.

Their feet tapped lightly on the polished stones of the long gallery leading to the carved door of the largest room of the house.

Joan entered, and walked its length over a layer of fresh spring rushes, sniffing the pleasant minty scent. Though not elegantly furnished, the room was uncommonly clean. She glanced at a large tapestry which had followed the family from Normandy and through the generations England had been their home. The white doves forming its center needed occasional cleaning because of family members’ habit of touching them in times of stress. She fought the urge as she passed.

Squire Farles, an exceptionally tall man with thick masses of gray hair that shook when he laughed or raised his bushy brows, rose from his chair near the hearth when Mattie bowed to present her.

You summoned me, Father? Joan dipped respectfully toward him.

Ah, dear daughter. I have the pleasure of presenting Edward, the son of Sir Henry FitzStephen of Northington. He nodded at a gentleman standing beside him. Perhaps you remember Sir Henry? He smiled at Joan’s puzzled expression. But you were a child when we served together as advisors to the court of old King Harry.

Joan bent into a curtsy, resisting an urge to cross herself in thanks to Providence that her knees had not made their usual cracking sound, and managed to stand with a semblance of grace when her father took her hand.

The young gentleman stretched to his full height, then bowed stiffly. The honor is mine, Mistress Joan. You have a beautiful name. Of French origin, is it not?

Unsure whether this was a statement or a question, Joan chanced an answer. Thank you, my lord. The name is also popular in Scotland, I am told. She spoke softly, and although eager to have a full view of the gentleman sending the household of Farlesbridge into in such a bustle, lowered her lashes in feigned shyness as Mattie had instructed.

Squire Farles led her to a chair opposite them, and it took great concentration to appear poised when her feet barely reached the floor from the stiff carved surface. The furniture had been designed to suit the stature of her father and Richard, not for one barely reaching their chests. The seat of the chair was of dark oak polished to a satiny sheen from years of cleaning away the smoke from open fires. She dared not fidget lest she fall into an ungraceful heap among the rushes.

A stolen glance revealed a small-boned man of average height, who looked delicate beside her father. A hint of strong hard muscles rippled beneath the gentleman’s plain green riding doublet, and his boots were of expensive Italian quality. Richard prized a similar pair. She guessed Master FitzStephen was in his mid-twenties, perhaps a year or so older than Richard.

So this is the owner of that marvelous black stallion. A beam of sun from the window behind the gentleman drew her attention to a large ring on the third finger of his right hand, an extraordinary ring of gold and some kind of shiny black stone. On the black surface were gems outlining a design she guessed might be family arms. FitzStephen...he recalled the family crest of two falcons with wings upturned and a third in full spread. Three falcons and black horses had marked such a family in the tournament at Gloucester last year, and they had garnered a number of prizes. The black ring would be a proper symbol. Richard said the family held vast lands in the northeast of the Shire.

Squire Farles rang a silver bell, startling Joan from her short reverie. She grasped the arm of the chair to remain seated, causing the gentleman to smile. A flush warmed her face when his dark brown eyes met hers. His eyes were in contrast to his fair skin and sand-colored hair, but his carefully trimmed beard matched them exactly. The combination struck her as unusual, and she quickly lowered her lashes to fight an urge to stare.

Your father tells me you admire fine steeds, Mistress Joan. Did you approve of Talisman?

He is most grand, my lord. The twinkle in his eyes annoyed her. Did it amuse him that he had seen her ride into the compound in disarray?

My family breeds horses for size needed to bear heavy armor, and for black color, which appears regal in battle or tournament. The animals have greater intelligence for training than do many breeds. My grandfather brought the strain from Ireland, and like the natives of that green land, the horses have spirit.

Joan strained to hear his deep voice over the clatter of the tray a servant placed on a small table. A disturbing thought brought a little gasp. Her father expected her to prove her training by serving them. He answered her pleading glance with an affirmative nod. How she longed to cross the room and feel the texture of the tapestry to gain the strength needed for pouring her father’s best claret with a steady hand.

Somehow, she managed to fill their silver cups and pass Dagmar’s sweet cakes without incident. Her mouth watered for a taste of the lovely tarts, but she followed Mattie’s instructions and abstained, for there would be plenty of them in the kitchen after their guest departed.

Joan filled the cups again and again while the two men talked of war, hunts, the management of lands, and the precarious health of young King Edward. She fought to sit in the uncomfortable chair, apparently completely forgotten. After a seeming eternity, her father spoke.

Thank you for your service, my daughter. You may return to your own endeavors. He rose from his chair, took her small hand, and kissed her flushed face. Ah, here is Richard back from his errand, he called over her head. Come in, my son. Join Edward and me for a cup.

Richard gave Joan a nudge and a taunting wink she feared was all too visible to the guest. She longed to return his insult, but stiffened her spine, vowing to keep her unfamiliar act of dignity until their guest departed. She would prove to her brother she could be a lady as well as race him across the meadow.

Dagmar beckoned her to the kitchen to collect her cakes. The buxom cook guarded her stores with the fearlessness of her Viking ancestors who had fought in the battles of York. Dagmar loved all the children of the manor, who ignored her stern exterior to volunteer service in the kitchen for the generous portions of food and sweets available there. Like Mattie, she spoiled Joan and Richard.

No mention was made of a betrothal, Dagmar. I vow Richard only teased. Joan felt certain all the servants knew the mission of her father’s guest. She sat on a low stool by the hearth and leaned on her elbows.

Such plans will be made in due time by your father, Mistress. `Tis said the gentleman visiting today is a most fair choice for a husband. She placed a tart on the table beside Joan and poured a pitcher of thick cream. Come eat o’ these fine strawberry tarts. I picked the berries early this morning.

I thought I might die for the want of one when I passed them to Father and Master Edward. Joan bit into the flaky crust. Mmm, they are your very best.

Dagmar frowned.Ye be too scrawny for a gentleman’s wife, Mistress. You had best stuff yerself wi’ tarts an’ thick cream.

Joan ate three, wiped the crumbs from her mouth and crept down the gallery past the great room where the door had been left ajar, probably by a servant with equal curiosity. Though improper to eavesdrop, she shrugged off guilt, for she had practiced an uncommon measure of good manners today. The gentleman was speaking in a louder voice with a slight slur from quantities of claret, and in English instead of French, the usual language of the Farles household.

Your daughter has great charm sir, but can she be of an age for the alliance we discussed in our correspondence?

Joan inherited her mother’s stature; a blessing. By God’s goodness she didn’t get mine! Squire Farles’ voice trailed to cover the light break it always had when he made reference to his wife. I assure you, the girl is quite mature, if a bit unpolished. In the absence of a mother, her training has fallen to the housekeeper and to Richard’s tutors. I fear she is more inquiring of the tutors than the seamstresses. She begged lessons with Richard.

She still begs, Richard said.

Squire Farles laughed. I must say her hand has better quality than either mine or her brother’s, and she reads Latin and Greek nearly as well as the tutor.

Father’s assessment is accurate. Richard added. For a girl of fifteen, Joan has uncommon interest in the classics, often to my chagrin when she challenges me.

Feet stirred in the rushes, sending Joan scurrying to the first landing to watch from behind the wide oak balustrade. Her curiosity was piqued. Unpolished was she? Immature? But her father and Richard had rather boasted of her intellect.

The afternoon has been most pleasant sir, but I have an appointment of importance in Gloucester. I beg the privilege of returning at a later date to renew the subject of today.

Edward turned to Richard. Shall we soon have the pleasure of another visit to Northington, Richard? Mother and Anne were quite taken with you.

My son usually charms the ladies, a most enviable talent of course. Squire Farles clapped Richard on the shoulder. I hoped you might stay on, Edward. We have few visitors of substance, especially those with late knowledge of the Court.

Forgive me, sir. I had planned to see more of Farlesbridge, but I must complete my business in Gloucester and hurry back to Northington. My father’s health is so precarious, I dare not tarry.

Joan crept to the second landing to watch the gentleman bow first to her father, then to Richard. After adjusting the jeweled sword at his side, he walked into the courtyard toward the stallion prancing impatiently at the post.

Hurrying up to her room, she pulled the curtains aside and gasped in awe as the gentleman’s handsome squire and two other men came from the paddock riding shining black horses and leading another. The late afternoon sun reflected from five ebony coats as the horses trotted toward the stone bridge. Even their reins were unusual, a dark shade of red, with shimmering silver trim.

When the group reached the center of the bridge, Master Edward allowed the others to pass, then turning his prancing mount, smiled up at Joan. She giggled aloud as he swept his plumed hat in a low arch before riding down the lane to the barely visible road to Gloucester in the distance. She watched until the dust clouds disappeared.

You have excellent taste in horses, Master Edward. Mayhap if you were as handsome as your squire—

A light tap on her shoulder caused a soft cry of surprise and she turned to face a smiling Mattie, who had heard her talking to herself.

The gentleman seemed quite taken with you, Mistress. What did you think of him?

Joan frowned and tossed her head. "I might well have been a prize filly on display at the Gloucester fair! It is surprising they didn’t find occasion to examine my teeth and my ankles!

Mattie dabbed at moisture forming in her eyes. They would have been found in perfect condition, Mistress.

Joan’s feelings were tangled in confusion. This invasion of her life annoyed, yet excited her. What of Edward FitzStephen? Why had he left suddenly if he intended to bargain for a betrothal? Did he find her all those things her father mentioned? Had he hurried off to view another likely prospect?

Never would she feel the same about life in the isolation of Farlesbridge. Edward FitzStephen of Northington had disturbed her sleeping adolescence and she would find it impossible to forget either him or his handsome horses.

Two

Dusk lengthened shadows as Edward and his men clattered down a narrow cobbled street in Gloucester to the Inn of Three Swans. While the grooms stabled their horses, Edward, and his squire, Ralph Simmons, entered the inn and settled themselves at a table near the hearth.

Edward chose a corner apart from small knots of people about the dark-paneled room because he sought quiet conversation with Ralph, his personal servant and most trusted friend.

Ralph settled onto a bench across a scarred table from Edward. Why did you refuse the hospitality offered by the Master of Farlesbridge?

Edward chuckled. Cowardice. Fear that my tongue would loosen in the good squire’s company. He extended his tongue and wiggled it to show its flexibility. Justice Farles’ close assessment of my qualifications for becoming his son-in-law gave me sympathy for the criminals he tries at the assizes. Edward drank thirstily from the tankard of ale the fat innkeeper brought.

Ralph set his cup down after draining it. And you mean to keep anonymity while we are in Gloucester; else you would have ordered a private room at the Three Swans instead of suffering a night listening to me snore.

Farlesbridge would have been vastly more comfortable, but I learned Squire Farles and his son have a far greater capacity for the contents of his wine cellar than I, and would have needed to assist me into one of his soft beds! He thudded the empty tankard on the table and he pointed a finger at Ralph. You, my friend, will wait until I am fast asleep to snore.

What unfettered spirit the maiden displayed riding like a comet across the meadows! Had it not been for her long tresses, I should have thought a lad rode that chestnut mare. Ralph grinned, white teeth flashing in the dimness, a handsome black brow arched. With her bare legs and feet in view beneath flying skirts, she reminded me of that Gypsy girl who entertained us in Eire!

Rogue! Your eye would not fail to notice bareness. But such informality is questionable for the future lady of Northington. It is clear the girl receives little training in social graces and is pampered by her father and brother. I suspect she is reluctant to leave the freedom she now enjoys. A feeling we share, do we not?

Aye. I trust the lady, should she become your wife, must learn many talents besides satisfying your lustful pursuits.

Edward grinned, sensing comfort in Ralph’s understanding. Most surprising, I find that Joan Farles reads Greek and Latin, which will please Mother. You know her feeling about women also learning the classics.

And teaching them to servants. Ralph smiled broadly when a serving girl brought them steaming bowls filled with thick mutton slices, carrots, onions and cabbage. She thumped a loaf of dark oaten bread on the table, her eyes casting an unmistakable invitation to other favors offered at the inn.

Edward raised an eyebrow. We will have more ale and a slab of cheese, he said, feeling a stab of guilt that Ralph had eaten only rough bread and ale since dawn. They had arrived too late for dinner at Farlesbridge, and his men had not been offered wine and cakes. He forgot the differences in rank between himself and Ralph when alone, for they were boyhood friends. The division grew when among members of the gentry like Squire Farles and his son.

Ralph, son of the overseer at Northington, had been recognized by Edward’s father as a lad of special intellect. Sir Henry had allowed him to take lessons with his sons, then to go to Cambridge as Edward’s personal servant. The two studied together until Edward’s matriculation and years at Inns of the Court. Afterward they spent two years traveling in Holland, France, Italy, and Spain. Strangers found it difficult to tell which of the two came of gentle birth, but Ralph never exceeded his role, or hinted of resentment when the difference in birthright became known.

Ralph rubbed his stomach and belched. Have you other concerns about the alliance with the squire’s daughter?

Edward tugged at the point of his beard. The Farles family is Papist. I am certain that religious persuasion, though barely covered in our conversation, dwelt in the minds of both the squire and me. His own son disguises the faith of Rome by entering Trinity, Cambridge.

Ah, but should frail young King Edward die, the climate may become uncomfortable for Anglicans. The girl brought fresh tankards, brushing a rounded breast against Ralph’s face when she placed them on the table.

Edward finished his ale and threw a chunk of bread toward the dogs waiting patiently by the fire. He pulled his legs over the bench, smiling at the plump serving girl’s flirtation with Ralph. Come, my friend. The climate here is pleasant, but we shall need clear heads on the morrow.

Ralph made no protest. His loyal squire seldom formed casual assignations unless a lady was particularly comely, or he in special need. It was clear that ale had not lightened his head enough to hide his distaste at the streaks of dirt on the girl’s half exposed bosom.

The two climbed up the worn steps to a small room and lit a taper to check the condition of the bedding.

Good fortune. The linen looks fresher than we are. Ralph grunted with the effort of removing his boots.

Edward waited on the straw mattress for Ralph to join him. I shall need sharp wits for the interview with the duke tomorrow and I trust you will be alert for any useful information. Father asked that I listen for any hint of the duke’s plans for the succession, should King Edward soon die.

Ralph blew out the candle and slid noisily into the bedding. My ears are ever trumpets for gossip. How long do you expect to be with the Duke of Northumberland?

According to Uncle Nat, he is in Gloucester on some errand for the King. There may be much to learn even if the interview is short.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Edward left his men in the cathedral courtyard and entered the arched door. A young man in a vicar’s robe appeared and ushered him into a small room, then left silently through the curtained doorway. Settling onto a red cushioned chair, Edward pulled it closer to a fire hearth where smoke from remnants of coals curled lazily upward. The ornate ceiling looked higher than the width of the room, and Edward studied its detail while waiting. When a tall, richly attired man entered, he rose and bowed deeply.

Good morning, Edward. The duke smiled as he appraised the figure standing several inches below him. I note you have inherited your father’s stature and the good fortune of your mother’s eyes. Louisa’s always had a quality of innocence even when she teased.

Thank you, my lord. Both compliments are well taken. Also a keen observer of eyes, Edward studied those of the duke, the lack of sincerity in them revealed by his fleeting glances toward the door. Resisting an urge to tug at his ruff, he recalled his Uncle Nat’s warning about the rise in power of John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, and now by the King’s grace, Duke of Northumberland. He must tread warily with this man, and he wondered if his own eyes were as innocent as those of his mother. Was the duke suggesting they were not?

Edward’s mother and the duke had known each other since childhoods of close proximity. Did the highest noble in the realm now ponder about what use might be made of him in the endeavors toward a Protestant succession? It was said this subject consumed most of his time and energy.

The duke pointed to the pile of papers on a table.

This clutter is designs for changes in the offices of the bishop. His present quarters are much too cramped for the growth of our King’s faith. Do you follow Anglican discipline?

Yes, my lord. His query puzzled Edward. The duke surely knew that his uncle, Sir Nathaniel FitzStephen, was a prominent prelate of the Church of England.

You realize the importance of ensuring the succession to that end. I fear for the King because his health declines daily. The consequences may be precarious for Anglicans should the Roman Catholic Princess succeed him.

Edward searched for a reply. My prayers are for the recovery of the King, my lord.

Include a petition for Lady Jane Grey, the legitimate heir to the throne.

Yes, my lord. Edward had no stomach for argument on the problems of the succession. His concern centered upon the fortunes of his family who hoped to remain aloof in the matter.

What of you, Edward? Have Sir Henry and Lady Louisa not found a bride to suit your taste? I should have thought they would have you well bedded by now. He laughed, as if the thought elevated his mood. Your dear mother can be most persuasive.

Edward struggled to subdue a twinge of alarm over a suspicion the duke knew the nature of his mission to the Manor Farlesbridge. He shrugged, and forced a grin. Perhaps the search gives more pleasure than the prize!

To a certain point, that is a lofty goal! The duke chuckled over the attempt at vulgarity. What of your education in more practical virtues? Did you enter the rigors of Cambridge like your father?

Yes, my lord. Due to the decline in my father’s health, I am now occupied with the management of Northington,

The duke’s brows knit and he glanced toward the door. It saddens me to hear of Sir Henry’s condition, but I am heartened to learn of your excellent qualifications to succeed him in service to the Crown.

Thank you, my lord. My father sent one of our black stallions and would be honored if you might accept him for the King’s guard.

The duke’s bland expression changed. The majestic horses of Northington are widely known and envied. I accept with pleasure, such a fine steed for the stables of the King, though I fear he may not be the rider. His Grace remains in his rooms with his books and music much of the time. A frown wrinkled his forehead and he began to pace about the room. I believe you are traveling to Warwickshire, Edward. I would beg a favor.

It is an honor to serve you, my lord. Edward replied, knowing no other response.

The duke pulled a velvet cord. I must return to Court at once, but need delivery of a parcel to the Bishop of Warwick. I would be grateful if you would ensure its safe arrival.

A fair-haired young man appeared so promptly, it seemed certain their conversation had been monitored from outside the door. Too richly dressed to be a mere servant, Edward wondered what position he might hold at Court. He searched for any previous encounter with the gentleman, a vague remembrance tugging at his conscience.

Please retrieve the packet destined for Warwick from my bags, Bruce. The duke’s brows twitched slightly upward when the man disappeared as silently as he had come.

He returned with a thick packet, too thick for a simple letter. Bowing, he placed it in Edward’s hand.

Edward felt the seal, fighting a gasp of awe. The Tudor Rose.

I will pass through Warwick on my way to my uncle’s estate at Kenilworth and the bishop should have this in his hands tomorrow, my lord.

I am grateful to you, Edward. Take my good wishes to your uncle and to your dear mother. I pray your father will soon enjoy better health.

Thank you, my lord. Please convey my concern for his Majesty. Edward bowed deeply, thinking the interview was over, but he felt the duke’s hand on his sleeve.

A suitable young lady must be found for you to wed, Edward. I have a good eye for fortunate matches. Perhaps I might give Lady Louisa suggestions. He turned toward the door. May your journey be safe.

Edward smiled at the boast of prowess in matchmaking. The Duke of Northumberland had proven himself a master at profitable arrangements for his own