Rosamund (21 page)

“You could take her,” his brother Colin said softly.

“And have our cousin Patrick, the Earl of Bothwell, come calling? If the lass is the queen’s friend then I have no choice in this matter,” Logan Hepburn told his two companions.

“How did an unimportant little northern heiress become friends wi King Henry’s daughter?” Colin Hepburn wondered aloud.

“I do not know,” Logan replied, “but I believe her. She is very outspoken. I do not believe she would lie about such a thing, but when I see Patrick Hepburn again, I will ask, you may be sure.”

“So who will you marry now, Logan?” his youngest brother, Ian, asked him. “There’s plenty who would have you,” he chortled.

“Aye, but I don’t want them,” Logan said. “There is the lass I want for my wife, and one day I’ll have her.”

“Claven’s Carn needs an heir,” Colin carefully pointed out.

“You and Ian can have them,” Logan replied.

“I don’t know whether you are a fool or—worse—a romantic,” Colin said. “Perhaps both, brother.”

Logan Hepburn chuckled.

“Will you really go to her wedding to the Welshman?” Ian said.

“Aye, I’ll come, and I’ll bring my pipes. We all will.” Then with a great shout of laughter he turned his stallion from the overlook to Friarsgate and galloped off, his two brothers riding in his wake.

Rosamund heard the laughter as she descended the hill. The very sound of it irritated her greatly. She had never before met such an insolent, irritating man as Logan Hepburn. But at the same time she was rather fascinated by what he had told her. She would ask her uncle Edmund if it was indeed true. It was flattering to think that someone had made an offer for her. She wondered if Hugh had been aware of the Hepburns.
Dearest Hugh.
He would, she knew, be very happy for her, and he would certainly approve of Owein Meredith. She had now reached the bottom of the hill. She drew up her mare before Owein and Edmund.

“You are flushed, lovey,” Owein noted, curious.

“I have just met the most annoying, aggravating man,” Rosamund said. “Edmund, do you know the Hepburns of Claven’s Carn?”

“Their holding is on the other side of these hills,” Edmund replied slowly. “Which of them was it, and why have they been spying upon us these past weeks? Did they tell you?”

“It was the laird himself,” Rosamund began.

“Old Dugald? I thought him too ill to sit a horse any longer,” Edmund remarked.

“The old laird is obviously dead. ’Twas his eldest son, Logan Hepburn, and from the look of them his two companions were his brothers,” Rosamund told her uncle. “Let us go back to the house, Edmund, and I
will tell you both everything, but I must have a cup of wine. I do not know when I have been so vexed.” She walked her mount toward the stables, followed by her two puzzled companions.

“This man has admired her,” Owein noted softly to Edmund.

“He would not dare!” Edmund said quickly. “He has no right!”

“Nonetheless he has,” Owein said with a knowing smile. “I have not lived at a Tudor court for most of my life not to know the signs of a woman complimented, confused, and angry over it. Remember that Rosamund is really quite innocent in the games men play with women.”

“And you, my friend, how do you feel about the possibility that another man would pay your betrothed court?” Edmund asked, curious.

“I love her,” Owein said quietly, “but if another would make her happier than I will, then I should step aside, though it would break my heart, Edmund Bolton. However, our marriage is set for Lammas, and I do not intend giving her up.”

“You would fight for her?” Edmund wondered.

“Aye, I would if necessary,” Owein admitted softly. “She has become my world, Edmund. I cannot help myself.”

“So that is why you defer to her in matters pertaining to Friarsgate?” Edmund said.

“Did not you and Hugh Cabot teach her to be independent?” Owein countered. “She is made in the same mold as the Venerable Margaret. It is not fashionable for a man to admire such a woman, I know, but I do. We will make strong babies together, Edmund. I would instruct both sons and daughters to be as strong as she is.”

“My niece has not been fortunate in her family,” Edmund said, “but by God’s blood she has been lucky in her husbands.”

“She is fortunate in you, and I suspect your priestly brother, too,” Owein said. “I shall look forward to meeting all your siblings.”

They dismounted their horses, which were led off by the stable lads, and they entered the hall where Rosamund was already awaiting them, a pewter goblet of wine in her hand.

Owein took her other hand and kissed the palm softly. Then he led her
to a chair by the afternoon fire, saying, “Tell us, lovey, what has distressed you so very much?” He sat himself with Edmund Bolton upon a settle facing her, accepting the wine the serving wench offered him.

Rosamund looked directly at her uncle. “Did the Hepburns of Claven’s Carn offer for me the summer I was six? Do you recall, Edmund? You took me to a cattle fair at Drumfrie. We were yet mourning John’s death, but Uncle Henry let me go at my aunt’s behest.”

“Aye, they did,” Edmund said. “I remember returning home with you and speaking with Henry. The knowledge set him into a frenzy, however. All he could see was that he might lose Friarsgate through your marriage to someone who wasn’t related to him. Shortly afterward he settled upon Hugh Cabot. But he lived in fear for the rest of the summer that the Hepburns would come over the hill and steal you away. I had quite forgotten about it, Rosamund.”

“So the young Hepburn has come courting, has he?” Owein said softly, noting Rosamund’s blush when he spoke.

“I set him aright,” she quickly replied. “I told him I was to be wed at Lammas, and was content to be so. The devil said he would come and dance at my wedding!” Rosamund cried, outraged with the memory.

Owein laughed. “Then we shall welcome him, lovey. Are you having second thoughts with this new knowledge you have obtained?”

“Never!” she declared passionately. “I would be your wife and no other’s, Owein!” She slipped from her chair and knelt by his side, looking up into his face. “Do you not still want me? Perhaps ’tis you who are having second thoughts. Mayhap the thought of marriage to an unsophisticated country girl like me, a life here in the north with no excitement, does not appeal to you any longer, now that we are returned.” Her gaze was anxious.

He reached out and touched her face gently. Then, taking her hand, he drew her up and into his lap. “I will have no other wife but you, Rosamund Bolton,” he assured her. “And life at Friarsgate seems like paradise to me after a lifetime in other men’s houses. Besides”—and here Owein smiled tenderly at her—“I seem to have developed a strong weakness for an auburn-haired wench with amber eyes that melt my heart each
time I look into them.” Then he kissed her soundly, and Rosamund sighed happily, feeling safe and secure again in his strong arms, wishing her uncle were not there so Owein might touch her as he had before. Only three more days, she considered.

Their wedding day dawned unusually hot even for summer. A haze hung over the landscape. The blue sky had a milky look about it. Still dressed in her night garment Rosamund came into the hall at first light. Edmund brought her the year-old quarter loaf, and following the traditional Lammas customs, she carefully broke it into pieces, which she then crumbled, filling a small earthenware dish. She walked barefooted from the hall and out into the morning light, spreading her crumbs for the birds as she came. Having followed the age-old tradition, Rosamund then returned to the house to prepare for her wedding, which would be celebrated immediately following the mass. Her uncle Richard, who had arrived the day before, would assist her own priest.

Maybel had brought Rosamund’s oak tub into her bedchamber. It was already filled with hot water. “Hurry, child,” she encouraged Rosamund, pinning up her hair, which had been washed the afternoon before, so it would not get wet again. “Ah, this will be the last time you use this chamber. I remember you as just a wee lass in this room.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I believe I always shall.”

“Why? Will I not use my room again?” Rosamund wondered aloud as she stripped off her night garment and stepped into the water, seating herself. Then the answer dawned upon her.
“Oh,”
she said with a nervous little laugh. “Tonight I shall sleep in the master and mistress’ chamber with my husband. The room is ready?” She picked up the flannel and soap and began to wash herself.

“Of course,” Maybel said, her tone just slightly aggrieved.

“I think I shall wear my Tudor-green gown today,” Rosamund replied, pretending that she hadn’t noticed.

“You most certainly will not!” Maybel said indignantly. “You’re a bride, my lass.
A real bride.
The gown your mam wore has been packed away in the attics for years. I have spent these past few days altering it for you.
Tillie showed me how to take an old-fashioned garment and remake it in the latest style. She said the king, may God assoil him, is very tight with a penny. He would not waste good coin on new gowns when the old ones were not worn out. And I can’t say I disagree with him. Tillie had to learn how to make do because her mistress insisted on always being dressed in the latest styles.”

“Aye, she did,” Rosamund recalled. “And how Meg hated to wear mourning so much. Oh, Maybel, thank you! To have a proper gown for my marriage to Owein is more than I could have hoped for ever. What would I do without you?” Her amber eyes were filled with tears that slipped unbidden down the girl’s face.

“Wash your face, lass!” Maybel responded in a husky voice, for she, too, was near tears. Rosamund had been in her charge since her birth, for her mother had never been very strong. Maybel’s own child with Edmund had died before its first birthday. So she had nursed Rosamund at her own milk-filled breasts, with scarcely time to even mourn her own Jane. Rosamund had become her daughter in every sense except that she had not birthed her. “And do the back of your neck!” she half-scolded, a small smile on her lips.

Rosamund giggled happily, vigorously scrubbing the back of her neck with the soapy flannel and rinsing it. Then, standing up, she stepped from her tub, drying herself with the towel that Maybel had been warming by the hearth. She was very eager to see her wedding gown.

Maybel first handed the girl a fine linen chemise with its ruffled lace neckline, which was not high like her everyday chemise, but low to fit the square neckline of the white silk bodice that Maybel had embroidered in silver threads with a design of pendant flowers and small roses. The lace of the chemise would show from beneath the top of the bodice. Her sewn silk stockings were fastened just above her knee with garters of white rosettes. Her round-toed shoes were made of white kid. Some things had not been changed on the dress. The sleeves of the gown were long and tight as they had been on the original dress, and the long skirt was still gracefully pleated.

“Oh,” Rosamund complained, “I wish we had a large looking glass like
Meg’s so I could see what I look like.” She twirled and preened, skirts ruffling out. “This was my mother’s? She wore it on her wedding day?”

“Aye,” Maybel said. “The skirt was longer because it was held up to reveal a fancy brocatelle underskirt. The neckline wasn’t as low, and there wasn’t any embroidery on the bodice. Still, it was the finest gown anyone had ever seen in these parts. They say your mother’s father sent all the way to London for it when he betrothed his only daughter to Guy Bolton, the heir to Friarsgate. I remember your mam well, for we were of an age. She looked lovely. She would be so pleased to know you are wearing her gown on your own wedding day.”

“I wore green for Hugh, and I think it brought me luck,” Rosamund said thoughtfully. “I remember that October day well.”

Maybel nodded. “Henry Bolton thought to bind you to his branch of the family forever with that marriage. You were fortunate in Hugh Cabot, my lass, but then I need not tell you that.”

“And I will be fortunate in Owein, as well,” Rosamund said. “Meg says he loves me. Do you think it is so, or was she just saying it so I would not be afraid or angry again?”

“Gracious, lass, can you not see it?” Maybel exclaimed. “ ’Tis as plain as the nose on your face. Aye, he loves you. And from today you had best learn to love him. ’Tis better when there is love.”

“Do you love Edmund?” Rosamund asked boldly. “Has he ever told you that he loves you?”

“My father was the miller here at Friarsgate when I was a lass. Like you, I was an only child, and he wanted a good marriage for me. He set his sights on Edmund Bolton, whose own da had made him the steward here, for he could not inherit Friarsgate, you know. Still, your grandsire loved all his lads and tried to provide for them all. I was pretty in those days, like all young girls are pretty. Everyone knew I was a hard worker. My father set a generous dowry on me of five silver pieces, a chest of linens, four gowns, four chemises, caps, a wool cloak, and a pair of sturdy leather shoes. He went to the lord of Friarsgate and asked his permission to betroth me to Edmund, for I was a proper lass with a fine dower portion. The lord knew when my da died I’d inherit what was left for my own. Ma
was already gone. Your grandfather gave us our cottage as a gift. Did I love him? Not then. But your uncle’s a man who grows on you. One day out of the blue, and I don’t know why because I never dared to ask him why, Edmund says to me, ‘I loves you, Maybel. Do you love me?’ ‘I do,’ I answered him, and that was the end of it. We’ve never spoken on it since, nor is it necessary, for neither of us has ever been the kind of folk who dissemble. He said it, and I said it, and there’s the end of it. Now, hold still, lass while I brush your hair. Margery has made you a lovely wreath of flowers to wear in it.” She wielded the boar’s bristle brush, sliding it down the long length of Rosamund’s hair until the auburn tresses shone with golden lights. Rosamund’s hair would be worn loose and unbound, for she was a virgin.