Rosamund (20 page)

“Tomorrow,” Rosamund said. “We must ride cross-country in order to reach Friarsgate. It will take us two or more days.”

“Then you will miss Percy’s great banquet tomorrow on St. James’ Day. There will be games, another tournament, dancing, and a great deal of food. Then we will go on to Alnwick Castle so I may have a few days of rest before going over the border at Berwick. Lord Dacre, who is my father’s representative there, and his wife, will meet us with even more lords and ladies. They say my train as it enters Scotland will be at least two thousand people strong. I almost envy you your quiet ride across the summer countryside to your little home.”

“I wish you could see Friarsgate, Meg,” Rosamund told her enthusiastically. “The hills will be so green now, and the lake in our valley blue-blue. It is all very peaceful, and the people are so good,” Rosamund told her.

“When will you wed Owein Meredith?” Meg asked, her blue eyes twinkling. “Grandmother said he was so surprised when she said he was to be your bridegroom. He loves you, I believe. I pray that James Stuart will love me, Rosamund. I know that such an emotion is not supposed to matter in a marriage such as mine, but I want it so!”

“I will pray for you, Meg,” Rosamund promised. “As to your question, Owein wants to be married almost immediately, but I must really inform my uncle Henry of my betrothal first. He cannot stop my marriage, of
course, but if I do not tell him, he will cry insult all over the district. I would not have my husband slandered unfairly.”

“You will love him one day,” Meg predicted.

“I hope so,” Rosamund said, “but if I do not, at least I like him. He is very kind to me. But now, before the Countess of Surrey comes bustling in to eject me, I must bid you good-bye, Meg. There is no way in which I can thank you for all your kindness to me. I do not know what I would have done without you. You, and the Princess of Aragon, but mostly you.”

“You saw Kate before we left?”

“Aye. I gifted her with the remainder of my account at the London goldsmith’s. I spent little of it. She will, I suspect, have need of those funds in the months to come. But tell no one,” Rosamund added.

“Aye, she will, if her father does not pay the rest of her dowry portion,” Meg said. “That was kind. I shall keep the secret.”

“Our carefree days are over with now, your highness,” Rosamund said, rising and curtsying to the young Queen of the Scots. “May your marriage be a happy and fruitful one.”

Margaret Tudor stood straight, accepting the simple homage of her friend. “And you, Lady Rosamund of Friarsgate, I wish the same to you and a safe journey home.”

“Thank you, your highness.” Rosamund curtsied again. Then she backed slowly from the room, stopping briefly at the door to raise her hand in a final farewell. Her last glimpse of Margaret Tudor as the door closed and Tillie escorted her out of the queen’s apartments was of a smiling girl. “Tillie, I thank you,” Rosamund told the tiring woman. She put a silver piece into Tillie’s hand.

The serving woman nodded quietly, slipping the coin into her pocket without looking at it. “God bless you, lady. You’ve been given a good man. Take care of him now. Your Maybel will guide you.”

Rosamund nodded. Then she hurried off to find her own faithful serving woman and her betrothed husband. Tomorrow they would begin the final leg of their long journey back to Friarsgate.

They departed from Newcastle just after the early summer’s dawn. Owein had inquired of the monks at the monastery and learned that their order had a small establishment near Walltown that they could reach by very late afternoon, provided that they did not dally. They followed a track that paralleled the Picts Wall, which Owein explained had been built by Roman soldiers. The wall had been constructed to keep the wild northerners from coming south into the more civilized areas. Several hours along their route they stopped to rest themselves and the horses briefly. Built into the wall was a stone tower. Rosamund and Owein climbed the stairs of the tower and were rewarded with a splendid view of the countryside. Around them the rough landscape spread out in every direction. Cattle and sheep dotted the hillsides.

They finally reached the monastery, which was located on the east side of Walltown, in late afternoon. Owein knocked upon the great wooden gates of the establishment. Very quickly a barred aperture slid open to reveal a face.

“Yes?”

“I am Sir Owein Meredith, traveling in company with my betrothed wife, Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate, and her servant. We have come this day from Newcastle, where we were with the Queen of Scots’ wedding progress. We were informed by the monastery in Newcastle that we could find shelter here for the night.”

The vent shut with a slam, and after a long moment the small door in the gate was opened by a young monk. “You are welcome, Sir Owein,” he said, and ushered them into the courtyard after they had dismounted their horses. “We must have a care here so close to Scotland. Even our calling does not necessarily protect us. I will take you to the abbot if you will please to follow me,” the young monk said.

They followed the monk into the abbot’s receiving chamber where they were greeted by the elderly religious. Sir Owein once again explained who they were and from where they had traveled.

The abbot waved them into the chairs set about the chamber. “We do not often get guests or hear news from the outside world,” he said in a quavery voice. “You have traveled with the Queen of the Scots, our own Princess Margaret? When did you join her train?”

“At Richmond,” Sir Owein replied. “I have until recently been in service to the House of Tudor, good father. Lady Rosamund has been a companion to the young queen for almost a year. We are now returning to Friarsgate to have our union blessed by the church and to begin our life together.”

“Would you be related to Henry Bolton, the squire of Friarsgate?” the abbot asked.

“Henry Bolton is my uncle,” Rosamund said stiffly, “but I am the heiress to Friarsgate, holy father. When I was first orphaned my uncle was my guardian, but after my second marriage to Sir Hugh Cabot, my uncle returned to his own home at Otterly Court. When Sir Hugh died his will gave my wardship to the king. The king has effected this new union to Sir Owein. My uncle has no control or authority at Friarsgate. He is certainly not its lord.”

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” the abbot said slowly. “I am old, and my mind often becomes confused.”

“I doubt your mind was confused on the matter, good father,” Rosamund replied, half-laughing. “My uncle has always desired what is mine, and I have no doubt hoped to gain it one day.”

The old man nodded. “ ’Tis often the case with a prosperous estate, my lady. Now let me bid you welcome to our house. We are a simple place, but we should be able to make you comfortable this night. Another day’s ride and you will be home.”

They were invited to join the abbot in his private dining room that evening. Expecting a pottage of root vegetables, they were delighted to be served a roasted capon stuffed with apples and bread, a platter with slices of fresh trout on a bed of watercress, a bowl of onions in milk and butter, bread, freshly baked and still warm, butter, and a fine aged cheese.

“ ’Tis the feast of St. James, the patron of travelers,” the abbot said with a twinkle in his eye, seeing their surprise. “It is a good feast to celebrate, and tomorrow is St. Anne’s Day. She is patron to housewives and unmarried girls. You would, it seems, my lady, stand now between the two.” And the old abbot chuckled.

A young monk filled their pewter goblets with a rather fine wine.

“It is important to keep up your strength here in this desolate location in which this house is set,” Sir Owein said with a smile. “Where do you find such excellent wine?”

“The mother house in Newcastle sends it to us. It is part of our payment for the wool we harvest from our sheep each year. We support our little monastery in that way, sir. They send the wool to the Low Countries where it is turned into cloth that we then sell.”

“You would do better to card your own wool and spin your own cloth,” Rosamund said. “You lose good cloth when you have to ship it and then use a middleman to obtain the results that you could obtain yourselves here at your monastery. Why do you not do it?”

“We have no knowledge of the process other than caring for our sheep and shearing them,” the abbot admitted.

“If you want to learn I will send someone to teach your monks,” Rosamund offered. “You will find it far more profitable, I guarantee it, than sending your wool to the Low Countries.”

“I must ask permission of the abbot at our mother house,” the old man said, “but I see no reason why he would refuse me. Thank you, my lady Rosamund.”

“The king’s mother, who is called the Venerable Margaret, is patron to many good causes, but particularly to the church. I have learned from her, holy father. I am not a great lady so I cannot hope to equal her many accomplishments, but I can do something. This is what I choose to do, and I know that my betrothed husband would agree.”

Owein smiled. He was going to have to speak to Rosamund about asking first and not simply assuming it would be all right, although in this particular case he did indeed agree with her. “My lady knows my mind in such matters,” he agreed, putting the old monk’s concerns at ease.

They were separated to sleep, but in the morning they again departed easily. The monks served them a good breakfast of oat stirabout, sweetened with bits of apple and honeycomb, and awash with heavy golden cream. The hot cereal was placed into small individual trenchers of new bread, and mugs of apple cider accompanied the meal. The mass prior had been beautiful, the pure voices of the monks rising in the quiet morning
air. They left St. Augustine’s well-fed and feeling surrounded by the notion of peace. The day, however, was gray and drizzly as they rode along. The monks had given them bread, cheese, and apples to eat on their journey. They did so, sheltering within another of the Roman towers during a late-morning downpour.

Rosamund knew instinctively when they passed into Cumbria from Northumberland. There was something about the hills. There was a familiar smell to the clean and crisp air. She could feel her anticipation mounting with each passing mile. It didn’t matter that it was wet and gloomy. She was coming home! Home to Friarsgate. She had believed when she left it almost a year ago that this day would never come, but it had. Tonight she would sleep in her own bed. And then they reached the crest of a steep hill. Below them, to her surprise, was her lake—her home! At that moment the clouds parted. The sun came out, spreading its golden rays over the entire valley.

“Maybel!” Rosamund cried, her voice breaking with happiness.

“Lord bless us, my sweet bairn. Some nights I never thought to see that sight again,” Maybel admitted. Then she kicked her gelding into a trot. “I’ll not wait another moment to see my Edmund,” she said.

“It’s beautiful,” Owein told Rosamund. “I had almost forgotten how beautiful, lovey.”

“ ’Tis home,” Rosamund said simply. “
Our home,
Owein.”

Reaching out, he took her gloved hand and kissed it. “Let us go down, sweetheart, for Maybel will have surely aroused the whole manor by the time we get there.” He laughed, and releasing her hand, he moved his horse into a trot while Rosamund followed behind.

Maybel had indeed aroused the manor, and as they reached the bottom of the hills surrounding Friarsgate the people were coming from the fields to welcome their mistress home again. They brought their mounts to a halt before the house, and Rosamund said, “Good people of Friarsgate, I am returned to you with my betrothed husband, whom you already know. Sir Owein Meredith will be your new master. I would have you respect and obey him even as I do. Father Mata will bless our union in a week’s time after my uncle at Otterly has been notified.”

The Friarsgate folk cheered her words and pressed about them as they dismounted their horses, wishing them long life and happiness. Escaping into the house both Owein and Rosamund were rosy and laughing. Edmund Bolton met them, his smile warm as he congratulated them.

“Henry will not be pleased,” he said with a wicked chuckle.

“Send a messenger off to him at first light,” Rosamund said. “It is time to end his schemes for good and for all. This time I will not only be wedded, but bedded, uncle!” And Rosamund Bolton laughed aloud with her happiness.

R
osamund consulted with the young priest Father Mata, and it was decided that the church formalities involving her betrothal and marriage would take place on Lammastide, August first. The manor folk would have the day for a holiday no matter, and home again, Rosamund’s practical nature came forward. No need to give two days of holiday when one would do.

“ ’Tis harvest,” she said to the priest. “We cannot afford two days. You have had no difficulties while I was away?”

“No, lady. I celebrate the mass daily, and minister to the spiritual needs of the manor folk. I am honored to celebrate the sacrament for you and Sir Owein.”

“Tell me what my uncle has not,” Rosamund said craftily.

“Lady, I practice only my spiritual duties,” Father Mata replied cleverly, a small smile upon his face.

“Then there is something,” Rosamund mused. “I thought as much! Even a place as remote and quiet as Friarsgate cannot go a year without something happening. Thank you, good father.” And she hurried off to find Edmund Bolton.

He was in the hall with Owein. The two men were conversing in low and somber tones. “What has happened?” she demanded.

Edmund Bolton looked at his niece. She had grown in the ten months she had been away from them. Not only had her height increased, but
there was a new maturity about her young face. “What do you mean?” he countered, his blue eyes meeting her amber ones.

“Uncle, I spoke with the priest. Now tell me what has happened that was unusual while I was gone,” Rosamund repeated. She sat down in Owein’s lap, her blue skirts covering his long legs.

Edmund sighed. “I think it may be naught,” he began, “but the Scots have been seen hereabouts. We have had horsemen on the heights above our valley in recent days. They just stand and watch. Nothing else.”

“Has anyone ridden out to speak with them?” Rosamund asked.

“Nay, niece, we have not. They have done naught. They just observe,” Edmund Bolton replied. He ran a nervous hand through his silver-gray hair and shifted in his chair.

“I want to know the next time they come,” Rosamund said. “I will ride out myself to question these intruders.”

“Rosamund, it is too dangerous!” Edmund cried. “Your husband should go, not you.”

“Nay, uncle. I am the lady of Friarsgate. It is my duty and my responsibility to investigate this. And I must go alone. They will not, whoever they may be, attack a woman, particularly if her menfolk remain below, watching over her. Remember, I am a friend of the Queen of the Scots.”

“As if that would matter to a pack of ravaging borderers,” Edmund muttered irritably. “Owein, you must speak with your wife!”

“What would you have me say?” Owein Meredith demanded. “She is perfectly correct. She is the lady here. I am only her husband. The land is not mine, and will most likely never be. I am not of a mind to inherit, for to do so my Rosamund must die. I am not Henry Bolton.”

“But if you allow her to ride out alone, do you not put her in danger?” Edmund asked the younger man.

“Have these borderers stolen anything belonging to Friarsgate, or even attempted to steal anything?” Owein queried him.

“Nay, they have not. They but sit upon their horses on the hills about us,” Edmund replied slowly.

“They have always remained atop the hills? They have never come down, even a little ways?” Owein continued.

Edmund Bolton shook his head in the negative.

“And other than looking back you have made no move toward them?” Owein asked.

Again Edmund Bolton shook his head in the negative.

“Friarsgate’s wealth is well-known,” Owein noted. “But so is the difficulty in escaping from here with livestock known as well. These borderers have most likely come to see if there isn’t a way around the challenges our natural defenses present them. I suspect that if Rosamund beards them face-to-face they will decide it isn’t worth it. Particularly if they learn she is a friend of their new queen,” he concluded.

Rosamund broke into their conversation. “I am curious. Have you any idea of who they might be, uncle?”

“I do not,” he admitted. “I haven’t gotten close enough to see their plaids or their badges, niece.” He stood up. “We’re beginning the harvest in the pear orchard today. I must go.” Then he smiled. “I think you will entertain each other in my absence, eh?” Then he departed from the little hall, chuckling to himself.

“I like it that you respect me,” Rosamund told Owein.

“I indeed respect your position as this manor’s lady,” he replied as he began to fondle her full young breasts. “What date have you decided upon for our church marriage, lovey? I fear I grow more lustful to possess you as each hour passes. We have already been home a full day.”

“August first,” she murmured, enjoying his hands and leaning forward to kiss his ear. “You have such beautiful ears, Owein. They are long and narrow, and I find the lobes most delicious,” she told him, nibbling upon the flesh.

“I am beginning to regret my nobility in refraining from your bed until the church has formally blessed our union with the sacrament of marriage,” he told her. The hand that had been fondling her breasts now slipped beneath her skirts. His knuckles grazed along the soft, satiny flesh of her inner thigh. He cupped her mons in his big hand and squeezed, feeling the moisture suddenly crown his broad palm. The knowledge that he was exciting her began to arouse him, and he felt himself growing hard. Their lips met, their tongues playfully teasing at each other, as the
kiss between them deepened and grew more passionate. He pressed a single finger against her slit, and it slid between her nether lips. With little difficulty he found her untried love bud and began to bedevil it, the rough ball of his finger harrying and tantalizing the tiny nub of sentient flesh until he felt it swell and heard Rosamund moan against his mouth with a sound of distinct and open pleasure. She shuddered against him, sighing, and he ceased the delicious torture, moving the finger slowly over her again and again until he finally thrust the long digit into her love sheath carefully and gently.

“Oh!”
She sighed again, and shifting her body, attempted to make his penetration deeper.

The finger moved swiftly back and forth within her until she gasped, and he said softly, “This is just the beginning, lovey. Now you have a sweet inkling of what is to come.” He kissed her tenderly.

“I want more,” Rosamund said demandingly.
“More!”

“On Lammas Night I shall give you more than you can even anticipate,” he told her, taking his hand from beneath her gown.

“I think you are ever so mean to tease me thusly,” she complained.

He grinned mischievously at her. “I am beastly,” he agreed cheerfully. “But there will come a time when you may repay me in kind, my sweet Rosamund. I cannot explain it, but you will see.”

There would be the traditional feasting on Lammas Day, of course, but there would also be a special feast for all the manor to celebrate the lady’s marriage to Sir Owein Meredith. Twin sides of beef would be packed in rock salt and slowly roasted. There would be sweets as well, candied rose petals and pear tartlets. And of course the usual products of the first grains harvested and milled.

On the twenty-eighth of July the mysterious riders appeared on the hill for the first time since Rosamund’s return home. Notified, she immediately went to the stables and mounted her horse to ride up the hill where not one but three riders stood. Below, Owein and Edmund watched her progress.

Reaching the crest of the hill she brought her horse to a stop even as
she said, “I am Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate. You are, sirs, trespassing upon my lands.”

“You stand on your lands, lady, but where we rest ’tis not,” the spokesman for the group said. He was the biggest man Rosamund had ever seen, well over six feet and sitting very tall upon his horse, which he gripped with legs like tree trunks. To her surprise he was clean-shaven although most borderers were not. “I am the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn,” he announced in a deep voice that seemed to thunder up from within his broad chest.

“What is it you seek, my lord?” Rosamund queried him. “Your clansmen have been observed upon the hills about my home for some weeks now. If your purpose is honest, you have always been welcome here.”

“I could hardly come courting until you had returned, lady,” the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn replied. His thick black hair was cropped close, and he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Even bluer than Prince Hal’s.

“Who would you court?” she queried him.

The two clansmen with the Hepburn laughed aloud.

“Why you, lady,” the Hepburn replied.

“Me?”
Rosamund was genuinely surprised.

“My father, God assoil him, tried to make a match between us when you were but a youngling, but your uncle instead married you to his cat’s paw so he might keep your estate in his hands. Several months ago I learned that your husband had died but that you had been taken south. I have had men posted on the hills about Friarsgate awaiting your return,” the Hepburn explained. “Now I have come to court you, lady, and I intend to wed you whether your uncle will or nay.” He looked directly at her when he spoke.

Rosamund’s cheeks grew warm, but she held her ground and stared straight back at him. “I am betrothed,” she said quietly, “and at the king’s command, not my uncle’s. The cat’s paw had claws and was not the toothless lion my uncle believed.”

The Hepburn laughed. “You have spirit, lass,” he said. “I like it. And is your betrothed the English coward who sits his horse at the bottom of the hill with your steward?”

“Owein sits his horse at the hill’s bottom because he is not the lady of
Friarsgate, and I am,” she replied. “I speak for myself and my people. No one else does.” This Scot was arrogant, but she would not be cowed by either his size or his manner.

The Hepburn laughed again. “One of Henry Tudor’s Welshmen, is he? When is the wedding, lass?”

“Lammastide,” she answered.

He nodded. “Aye, ’tis well done, for they will have a day for the holiday no matter.” Then the blue eyes narrowed. “I could steal you away right now, Rosamund Bolton. Bride stealing is considered an honorable pastime in the borders.” He moved his mount up next to hers, so close that she could scent him, and her nostrils twitched.

But she did not flinch, saying instead, “And would you take me to King James’ court to show me off, my lord?” Her dark lashes brushed against her cheeks in a most flirtatious manner.

“Aye, I would,” he replied, reaching out to finger one of her auburn braids.

“Then my friend,
the Queen of the Scots,
would be quite curious to learn why I was not with the man she personally chose to be my husband,” Rosamund told him with a wicked grin.

The Hepburn’s jaw dropped in surprise. “You know Jamie Stuart’s new queen?” he said, astounded.

“I have been her companion for the last ten months,” Rosamund told him in dulcet tones. “My betrothed and I traveled as far as Newcastle in her wedding train, my lord. Aye, I know Meg Tudor very well.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn said.

“Aye, sir, I have no doubt that you will,” Rosamund replied with a small grin. “Now, tell me, why on earth did your father offer for me? You’re a Scot and his heir. I am English, as are my lands.”

“We’re borderers, my lady,” he said, “no matter which side. I saw you when you were just a wee lass. It was at a cattle fair, and you had come with Edmund Bolton.”

“I must have been six then,” Rosamund recalled. “It was on the Scots’ side of the border in Drumfrie, was it not? Aye, I was six that summer. How old were you, sir?”

“Sixteen, and my given name is Logan,” he answered her.

“Sixteen, and you had no wife?” she queried him, curious.

“My father was still alive. I chose not to wed until I was the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn,” he told her.

“And by not marrying, Logan Hepburn, you have been able to bestow your affections generously
and
on both sides of the border, I have not a doubt,” she replied tartly.

“Jealous?” he teased her. “You need not be, lass, for I have been saving my heart only for you.”

She blushed again. “I am, sir, to all intents and purposes, a married woman,” Rosamund snapped.

“The Welshman looks old, yet young enough to bed you,” Logan Hepburn said boldly. “ ’Twill be more a marriage than the other two you have had, Rosamund Bolton. I envy the man. And does your greedy uncle approve?”

“His approval is not necessary,” she answered.

“And has he been invited to the wedding?” he taunted her.

“Aye, he has!” she said.

“And will you invite me?” The blue-blue eyes danced wickedly.

“No, I will not!”
Her foot stamped against her stirrup, and the mare danced nervously.

“I may come nonetheless,” he said seriously.

“You would not dare!” she cried.

“Aye, I would,” he drawled.

“We have no business between us, Logan Hepburn. I will bid you good day,” Rosamund told him. Turning her mare about, she rode off down the hill without even looking back.