Rosamund (12 page)

“It’s all right, Rosamund,” a familiar voice said, and Sir Owein Meredith pushed in next to her on the bench. “Sometimes the Lucky Bird kisses a lady. ’Tis all part of the fun. Ah, I see he left you one of his feathers. That is an honor usually reserved for those at the high board. Here, lass, put it in your pocket. Would you mind if I sat with you?” He smiled at her.

“No, sir, I should like it. I am so used to being with Meg and with Kate that I hardly know anybody else. I am not, of course, invited to the high board.”

“No,” he answered her. Then, “Ah, look! The bird is about to finish his dance. See, he is going a final time to the high board to importune the king for alms. The coins he collects go to the poor.”

The resplendent Lucky Bird gamboled nimbly before the royal family. With a flourish he tipped his hat, first to the Venerable Margaret, feigning amazement at her donation of gold coins. Then to the queen, whom he thanked prettily, and finally to each princess. The king, he saved for the very last. Prancing gaily, he bowed to King Henry VII, and with a flourish presented his beribboned and feathered hat. The king’s slender hand passed over the hat. The Lucky Bird cocked his head to one side and then shook it, disappointed. He furiously waved his cap beneath the king’s long nose. A wave of laughter rippled through the hall. With a mock sigh of resignation the king reached into his robes and drew out a velvet bag. Reluctantly, he opened it, drawing forth two additional coins. There was more laughter, for the king was known to be tight with his coin. The Venerable Margaret reached out and poked the king, who with another audible sigh dropped the entire velvet bag of coins into the bird’s hat.

The Lucky Bird crowed triumphantly. The crowd in the hall roared their approval of the king’s actions. Henry VII favored them with one of his very rare smiles. The dancer pranced elegantly up before the Archbishop of Canterbury to present the hat filled with alms to the cleric. The bird bowed. Then he ripped off his feathered masque to reveal young Prince Henry. His appearance was met with cheering. He bowed to his audience a last time, and then took his place at the high board with his family.

“Oh my!” Rosamund said, realizing who had kissed her.

“So now,” Sir Owein teased her gently, “you can return home to say you were kissed by England’s next king.”

“I forget he is a boy, for he is so very big,” Rosamund said.

“His grandfather of York, whom he favors, was a big man as well,” the knight told her.

“Was his grandfather of York so bold?” she asked.

Owein Meredith laughed. “Aye, he was. May I be allowed to say how pretty you look tonight, my lady Rosamund.”

“The bodice is Meg’s hand-me-down, and the Countess of Richmond gave me the sarcenet sleeves,” Rosamund told him. “Maybel altered my skirt so it would be more fashionable. Meg’s Tillie showed her how.”

“So you are getting on better now,” he remarked. “I am glad for it, Rosamund. I know how much you miss your Friarsgate.”

“I hope that when the Queen of the Scots goes north to Scotland in the summer I shall be allowed to go home. I do miss it, sir,” Rosamund admitted. “The court is very exciting, but I do not like moving from place to place all the time. I am a stay-by-the-fire, and not ashamed to say it. Besides, other than the princesses, I have no friends. The other girls my age think themselves too high and mighty to be bothered with me. They envy my friendship with Meg. And Kate is little better off than I am, I fear.”

“Then make—and keep—her friendship as well, Rosamund. Then when the king’s daughter leaves you, you will not, perhaps, be lonely. Besides, it is very likely that one day Katherine of Aragon will be England’s queen. It cannot hurt to have such a lady in your debt.”

“You give me good advice, sir. And will you remain my friend as well? I should like to believe that you will be my friend forever.”

“I should like to be your friend forever,” Owein answered her, and his look warmed her, “but someday, Rosamund, you will have a husband again. He may not approve of our friendship. You must be prepared for such a possibility.”

“I should never wed a man who would not accept my friendships,” she replied. “Hugh taught me that I must think for myself and decide what is best for me and for Friarsgate.”

“Mayhap he should not have,” Owein said sadly. “Most men are not as modern in their thought as your late husband was. Think of your uncle Henry, Rosamund. Most men are like him.”

“Then I shall not marry again,” Rosamund told him firmly.

He didn’t know whether or not to laugh. He quickly realized that she was in deadly earnest. So he said, “I am certain that you will be able to charm any husband to your way of thinking, Rosamund.” She was still so young and so damned innocent. He wondered what would happen to her here at court once her protectress, the king’s daughter, departed for Scotland. Rosamund would certainly not be included in her retinue of ladies. She was neither important enough nor well enough bred. She had no significant family connections. She was just another of the royal wards, although she had been fortunate enough to catch the eye of young Margaret Tudor. Owein Meredith didn’t know why he cared what happened to this girl, but he did. He certainly was not beginning to harbor feelings for her. He had no right to such feelings—but he realized that he did care.

He did not see Rosamund again until Twelfth Night, the last of the Twelve Days of Christmas. The day began with the choosing of the King and the Queen of the Bean. Twin cakes were brought into the hall. One for the men, the other for the women. Everyone received a slice of their respective cake in the search for the elusive bean. To her great surprise, it was Rosamund who found the bean in the women’s cake. At first she was afraid to speak out among so many important females, but Meg, realizing her friend’s good fortune, cried out for all to hear.

“ ’Tis Lady Rosamund Bolton who has found the bean! Now, who will be her king?”

“I am her king,” young Henry Tudor cried out, grinning from ear to ear. “I am the King of the Bean! Bring me my queen!”

Rosamund was brought up to the high board and seated next to Prince Henry. A paper gilt crown, decorated with paste jewels, was placed on her head. A matching crown was put upon the prince’s head.

“All hail the King and Queen of the Bean!” the assembled in the Great Hall of Richmond Palace cried enthusiastically.

“Thank heavens ’tis a pretty girl who is my queen,” the prince said as
the servers began to bring the morning meal into the hall. “I feared when I found the bean that I should be shackled to some crone among the women. ’Tis why I held back admitting my good fortune.”

“And had it been some
crone,
” Rosamund said boldly, “would you have put your prize back amid the crumbs, my lord?”

“Aye,” he admitted with a mischievous grin. “Now, who are you, mistress? I know I have seen you before.” He picked up his jeweled goblet and drank down a draught of rich sweet wine.

“I am Rosamund Bolton, your highness, the lady of Friarsgate. My late husband Sir Hugh Cabot made me a ward of your father’s upon his untimely death last spring. I have been at court just a short time.”

“You are friends with my sister Margaret?” the prince asked.

“It is my great privilege to have found favor with the Queen of the Scots,” Rosamund modestly responded, realizing as the words flowed easily from her mouth that she was learning, really learning, how to conduct herself at court. She must tell Sir Owein when she next saw him.

“How old are you?” the prince demanded.

“I am a few months older than your sister, the Queen of the Scots, your highness,” Rosamund said.

“You are widowed?”

“Yes, your highness.”

His look was assessing. “Are you a virgin?” he asked her boldly.

Rosamund blushed to the roots of her hair. “Of course I am!” she gasped, shocked by his question. “My husband was an elderly man, and we were wed when I was but six. He was like a father to me.”

Young Henry Tudor reached out and caressed Rosamund’s hot cheek, which but increased her embarrassment. However, she could hardly slap him for his insolence, at least not here in public.

“I have discomfited you,” Henry Tudor noted, but he did not look in the slightest bit sorry. “I will be king one day, my lady. A real king, and not a Twelfth Night fool. If I do not ask questions, I cannot learn.” He smiled winningly at her. “Your cheek is very soft as well as being very warm.” His fingers stroked her face, while his other hand offered her his own cup. “Drink a bit of wine, and your little heart will stop racing so
quickly. I can quite see your agitation in the pulse at the base of your throat, Rosamund Bolton, lady of Friarsgate.”

Rosamund gulped some wine. Then she courageously removed his hand from her face. “You are far too impudent, your highness. I am new to the court, and my education has been lacking in the niceties of polite behavior, but I am certain your manner is far too saucy.”

“But I am your king,” Henry Tudor said.

“And as your queen I am deserving of your respect,” Rosamund swiftly answered him.

He laughed. “You are quick,” he told her. “I like that!”

“If I have pleased your highness then I am glad,” Rosamund murmured smoothly.

He laughed again. “I kissed you on the first day of Christmas,” he admitted. “I think before this last day of Christmas is over I shall kiss you again, lady of Friarsgate. Your lips were sweet as untried lips are wont to be, I have found.”

“You are two years my junior, your highness, and you admit to much kissing and the knowledge of tried and untried mouths?” she teased him, a smile on her own lips.

“I do!” young Henry Tudor said enthusiastically. “I have not many years, lady, but look at me. I am bigger already than most men, and I am beginning to sense I have a man’s appetite as well.”

“Then sir, eat your eggs, for you have more to grow,” she told him, laughing, for she was unable to help herself. He was really quite a wicked boy. “Our eggs have been poached in a delicious sauce of cream and marsala wines. I have never tasted anything so good!”

“You may be older than I am,” he said with a smile as he dove into the plate before him that had been filled with eggs, “and you may be new to my father’s court, but I do believe, my lady of Friarsgate that you learn easily and will do well here.” He began to eat.

“I want nothing more than to return home,” Rosamund admitted to him. “The court is very grand, but I miss my home.”

“I have many homes,” he said, pulling a piece of bread from the loaf before him. He buttered it lavishly and ate it.

“I know,” she replied. “I have been to Richmond, Westminster, and Windsor so far. They are very beautiful and very grand.”

“We also live at Baynard’s in London. My mother far prefers it to Westminster, which is really cramped for us; and we have apartments at the Tower, another castle at Eltham, and one at Greenwich,” the prince boasted as he ate the second helping of eggs served him and two large slices of pink ham. He banged his goblet upon the table for more wine. It was immediately served him, and he drank thirstily.

“One home is more than enough for me,” Rosamund responded. “This moving about is quite tiresome, sir.”

“Do you know why we do it?” he asked.

“Of course, sir. Your sister explained it to me, but I still do not have to like it. I hope your father will send me home when he sends your sister to her husband in Scotland,” Rosamund said.

“What do you have at Friarsgate that you do not have here?” the prince said as he popped several sugarplums, one after another, into his greedy young mouth.

“Sheep,” Rosamund told him drolly. “They cause me far less difficulty than trying to recall all the whys and wherefores of court etiquette, my lord prince.”

“Aha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed England’s heir. “What an amusing girl you are, my lady of Friarsgate. Do you speak French?”

“Badly, but
oui, monseigneur,
” she answered him.

“Latin?”

“Ave Maria, gratia plena,”
Rosamund parroted wickedly.

He chuckled. “I won’t inquire about your Greek,” he said with a wide grin.

“That is fortunate, my lord King of the Bean, as I don’t have any knowledge of such a tongue. It is a tongue, isn’t it?” Her amber eyes were twinkling at him.

“Aye,” he said.

“I play the lute, and I can sing, or so I have been told,” Rosamund volunteered. “I can keep accounts, and I will one day, with my lord’s gracious permissions, tell you all about wool, of which I am very,
very
knowledgeable.”

“You are learned in other ways than I would have imagined,” the prince noted, “and you have enough education of a more traditional kind, which combined with your quick wit, my lady of Friarsgate, makes you a most amusing and delightful companion. Do you dance?”

“Not nearly as well as the Queen of the Scots,” Rosamund said.

“Aye, Meg is light of foot, but I am even better,” he boasted.

“So even she has said, your highness,” Rosamund flattered him with a smile.

“We will dance this evening,” he promised her. “Ah, look! Here are some mummers coming into the hall for our entertainment.” He took her hand in his, and lifting it to his lips, kissed it, his bright blue gaze meeting her startled look. “I am a hundred years older than you, my lovely lady of Friarsgate. I think we are going to become very good friends eventually.” Then, still holding her hand in his, he turned to watch the mummers as they danced.