My grand friend, the Lady Elizabeth Percy, Duchess of Northumberland, has graced me with a few missives which I had neglected to relay unto you, good people. Hereupon is the first of those, sent in January of this year, 1560.
Dear Lady Morgan of Spencer,
This letter shall reach you in good health and humour, I pray. And of course, if not, may it heal and cheer you. There have been excitements to spare since last we met at Crossford's midsummer festival.
In the fall, the beautiful Valanzano Winery gave a gallant backdrop for the 40th anniversary of the natal den of my lord husband, Hugh. He is always a cantankerous toad about aging so to celebrate, I must do so as lavishly and publicly as possible or not at all. Allowing a mile stone victory over death such as this to pass without revelry simply wouldn't do.
The evening was glorious with some adventure following dinner. We were joined by that coquettish bard, William Shakespeare, along with his most talented and handsome lead actor, Richard Burbage. Our questionably esteemed guest culminated his visit by attempting to murder my lord husband. Luckily, our former serving girl is as deft at befouling other's plans as she is with my own. We had to scramble to hire a new page before winter set in after our previous page revealed himself as a spy sent by our good Queen herself. Goodly pages are difficult to find this far north, as we require one who is bright, literate, and without personal agenda. A comely face and clever wit are welcome additions but the position shouldn't create undue competition among us.
Another behest was received from our good Queen, this time the plot included us. Lord Hugh was to settle a small land dispute to the north, a minor spat with Scotland. Sometimes I wonder why we bothered allowing them sovereignty. I suppose our female minds aren't adept for such matters. When an issue wants dissolving without recourse, retaliation, or rebuttal, look to Lord Hugh. Yours truly was to attend to keep the mood light.
The civil visit went swimmingly. Scotland may not have the style of France, the panache of Spain, or the homespun magic of Ireland, but it does have its own rugged impudence which is always lovely to visit. However, on the way back to Northumberland, in order to break up a cold journey, my lord husband decided we were passing near enough his brother-in-law's land to stop by for the sacred holiday. His mother lives there with his sister's family. It's been three weeks thus far. We attended Christ's mass in their strange new church. My hand aches from this nigh frozen quill but if I stop writing, I will have to attend the parlor. Perhaps I'll start a new tapestry. Cross-stitching has me cross-eyed.
We both look forward to summer's frivolity from the depth that only northern England's winter can foster. If my ears serve me, I just overheard haggis is on the menu this evening...again. My dear southern friend, do you know what haggis is? The description itself borders upon the uncouth and the fragrance is haunting. I've tried every delicate phrase to end the parade of feasted organs but they insist it is the chic delicacy of the region. I long for Northumberland. You must visit at first thaw or sooner of course if you wish to see the snow. The eastern tower is completed finally and should give a wonderful view of all our duchy. I do love playing hostess.
Until we meet again dear friend,
Lady Elizabeth Percy
Duchess of Northumberland
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