Rosamund (30 page)

“Rosamund,” he said.

“Aye?” It was then she saw Maybel just behind Edmund.

“Rosamund,” he repeated, and then to her amazement he began to weep in great gulping sobs of genuine sorrow.

“Jesu! Mary!” Maybel swore softly, and then pushed past her husband. Men could weaken at the worst possible moment. “There has been an accident,” she began.

Rosamund leapt to her feet, the little skirt falling to the floor of the hall. She said one word. “Owein?”

Maybel drew a deep breath. “He’s dead,” she said.

“Dead?”
Rosamund looked at the older woman as if she had lost her wits.
“Dead?”
she repeated.

“He fell from a tree, lass. Broke his neck, he did,” Maybel said bluntly. “Dead the moment he hit the ground.” She was fighting to hold back her own tears.

Rosamund began to scream, the sound so pitiful that the dogs in the hall started to howl and the two cats fled beneath the high board.

Her husband was sobbing like a maid. Her lass was teetering on the brink of madness. Maybel stepped forward, tears now pouring down her own weathered face, and slapped Rosamund as hard as she could. “Get hold of yourself, my girl,” she said fiercely. “Remember that you are the lady of Friarsgate. There is nothing to do but accept what has happened! It is a dreadful calamity, but it cannot be changed. Remember how the queen bore her adversity, and follow her example.”

Rosamund’s amber eyes finally focused. Her hand went to her mouth as the men brought her husband in upon a board. She drew a deep breath to clear her head. “Edmund, you must cease your grieving now and speak
with the carpenter. I want a casket in the hall before nightfall. My lord must be laid out properly for his burial. Someone fetch Father Mata, if they have not already. Annie,” she addressed a serving woman. “Bring my daughters to the hall at once. They must know what has happened to their father.” She walked over to look at Owein. “Put him upon the high board,” she instructed the farm workers. Owein looked so odd, his neck at a strange angle, a look of surprise upon his lips. She turned away, feeling faint. Finding her chair, she sat down heavily. “Oh, God,” she whispered, almost to herself, and she finally began to weep.

Annie brought the children into the hall. Philippa and Banon were holding hands, but Annie carried wee Bessie. Philippa’s eyes went to the high board, but the younger girls noticed nothing except that their mother was crying. Rosamund held out her arms to them.

“What is the matter with papa?” Philippa asked.

“There has been an accident. Papa fell from a tree,” Rosamund explained. “He has gone to be with the angels.” It sounded so inadequate, but she could not think of anything else to say.

Warm water was brought, and they removed the clothing he had been wearing that day. Rosamund washed his lifeless body herself, redressing him in his good velvet gown, the one he had worn the day they were married. There was no need for a shroud. Owein Meredith was set in his casket, a linen band wound above his head and beneath his chin to keep his mouth from falling open. Two round copper pennies were placed upon his eyelids to keep them shut. She bent and kissed his lifeless lips, and then he was put into his coffin.

Footed candlesticks were placed at each corner of the coffin and the beeswax candles lit. The casket lid was placed atop it, leaving just the upper half of Owein’s body to view. Father Mata came now, his arms full of late-summer flowers, which he strewed on the casket’s oak lid. The two prie-dieux were brought from the church. The priest and the lady of Friarsgate knelt in prayer while about them the supper was brought into the hall. Rosamund sat at the high board with Philippa. Her appetite was gone, but she saw with relief that her eldest daughter ate her fill. Banon and Bessie were fed in their nursery. Afterward mother and daughter
knelt by the bier and prayed beneath the watchful eyes of the priest, Edmund, and Maybel. Finally Philippa was taken off to bed, but Rosamund refused to go.

“I will stay here with my lord,” she said in a stony voice.

It was agreed among the other three that they would each take a turn praying with her this night. Father Mata sent Edmund and his wife off to sleep while he knelt by Rosamund’s side and prayed. The night was long, and it grew cold for the first time in many months. The priest remained by his mistress’ side for almost the entire night, only giving way when Edmund returned to the hall to scold him that he had not been called.

“ ’Tis almost dawn,” Edmund said. “You must prepare for the mass, particularly on this sad day.”

“When should we have the funeral mass, Edmund?” the priest asked softly. “Will it be today?”

“Nay,” he heard Rosamund’s voice. “Tomorrow afternoon. I would have everyone be able to come and see my Owein for the last time.” Then she smiled a weak smile at her uncle. “I am not poor mad Juana, Edmund, unable to give up the corpse of my lord. Owein is gone. There is nothing here but his mortal remains. What he was is now with God.”

“Do you want to inform Henry?” Edmund said. “Or Richard?”

“Send to my uncle at St. Cuthbert’s, Edmund, but not to Otterly. Henry will hear sooner rather than later, but I am not strong enough right now to dispute with him the merits of his eldest son as my next mate. I think I shall not wed again. Friarsgate has three heiresses, and surely that is good enough for the next generation.”

Edmund nodded. “I’ll ride to St. Cuthbert’s myself, lass.”

“Thank you,” she told him, and then turned back to the coffin.

Richard Bolton arrived from his abbey late that afternoon. He immediately took his niece in hand, insisting that she sleep for several hours before keeping vigil once more. “If you grow ill you will be no use to your daughters,” he advised her, “and you do not want them in Henry’s tender care.”

She obeyed him, but was awake once again to keep a night’s vigil. The day of the funeral she slept in the morning, and then with her daughters,
all garbed in black, she attended the funeral mass for her husband. The small church was overflowing with the Friarsgate folk, many of them weeping. Their grief became noisy as Rosamund and her children followed Owein’s coffin into the graveyard by the church. Weeping openly now, the lady of Friarsgate watched as her husband’s casket was lowered into the ground. Then to everyone’s shock, she fell into a faint as the last shovel of earth was placed upon the grave.

They carried her back into the hall where she was revived by burning a feather beneath her nose. She opened her eyes to the anxious faces around her. “I’m all right now,” she assured them.

“You’re exhausted!” Maybel snapped, “and that’s a plain truth.”

“You should go to your bed, niece,” Richard Bolton said.

“Not until after the feasting is done,” she replied stubbornly. “It is my duty to appear as hostess to the people of Friarsgate.”

They did not argue, but after the funeral feast was served and Rosamund had been put to bed along with her daughters, Richard and Edmund Bolton sat in the hall with Maybel and Father Mata.

“He left no will,” Richard said.

“Then we must see she is protected against Henry and his sons,” Edmund said. “I fear she would turn to violence should Henry attempt to foist his will on her again.”

“Then we shall make a will,” Richard Bolton said quietly. “Henry cannot know Owein’s hand. We shall write what we believe Owein would have wanted for Rosamund and the lasses, and you”—he looked at Father Mata—“shall sign Owein’s name.”

“I?”
the young priest said.

“We shall say that Rosamund is charged with the care of her daughters and of Friarsgate. That you and I have been chosen to watch over her, and in the event of our deaths, she is to be in the king’s care again, and her daughters with her.”

“I am to sign Sir Owein’s name?”
the priest repeated.

“Aye,” Richard replied. “You will sign the document that I write with Owein’s name, and then you will confess your sin to me. I will, of course, absolve you, Mata.” His blue eyes twinkled.

“In that case,” Father Mata said, “let us get on with it. Henry Bolton will have heard of his niece’s loss by now, and he will be with us in another day or two at the most. We’ll need to rub a bit of dirt in the cracks of the parchment to age it.”

“To age it?” Edmund looked confused.

“You don’t want the document to look shiny and new, Edmund,” Father Mata said seriously. “Dirt in the folds gives the appearance of aging. Do we have an old piece of parchment? That would help us, too.” Now his eyes were twinkling.

Richard Bolton nodded, a faint smile upon his thin lips. “I foresee a bright future for you in the church, Mata,” he said dryly. “Let us get started.”

T
he king and queen were having a rare quiet moment together in her privy chamber. While there were guards outside the door, and in the dayroom beyond the queen’s ladies chattered away among themselves, Henry and Katherine were actually alone for a brief time. The young king loved his wife, and he greatly respected her, but he had a roving eye for a pretty face and a quick wit. He did not deny himself his pleasures despite his marital state. So far the queen was unaware of his forays into lust. And Henry knew her delicate sensibilities must not be disturbed. She had already lost one child. So he made certain to spend a half-hour alone with his Kate each day. She was content, bless her, just to be with him.

“Do you recall Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate?” the queen asked her husband. In her lap there was a parchment she had just read.

The king’s broad brow furrowed in thought. Of course he most certainly did remember her. He had very much wanted to seduce her, but had been stopped by some damned knight of his father’s who then proceeded to lecture him on chivalry. “I do not believe I do,” Henry said to his wife. “Who is she?”

“She was here at court for a brief time,” Kate answered him. “An heiress from Cumbria. She was your father’s ward.”

“He had many wards,” the king responded.
But none with such rounded breasts and melting amber eyes.

“She was a favorite of your sister’s in the months before Margaret was
married to Scotland,” the queen persisted. “Your grandmother and your sister convinced your father to give her to Sir Owein Meredith as his wife. They were betrothed here at court and went north with Margaret’s wedding train, although they left it before it got to Scotland,” the queen further elucidated.

Sir Owein Meredith! Aye! That was the knight who had taken him so to task. The king smiled at his wife. “Did she have red hair, Kate, my love? I think I recall a lass with red hair. Or was it dark?” the king’s brow wrinkled again as he appeared to ponder the matter.

“Her hair is auburn, and her eyes the same shade as good Baltic amber, Henry,” the queen said. “She has that exquisite English complexion that I have ever admired. All cream and wild roses, which I always thought appropriate considering her name. Rosamund.”

“Yes,” the king said now. “I do believe I recall the lady. A pretty girl who had been widowed twice though she was but fourteen.”

“Aye! That is right! Oh, I am so glad that you remember her, Henry! I want to ask her to court,” the queen told him.

“What, sweetheart, have you not enough ladies to serve you that you must request the company of a Cumbrian lady? Her husband may have something to say about it, I fear. I should not want to allow
you
to go off without me,” the king said with a broad smile.

The queen colored prettily. But then she responded, “She has been widowed once again, Henry. Her poor heart is quite broken, for she loved Sir Owein. They have three little girls, you know. I am godmother to the second lass, though I have never seen her.”

The king was now intrigued. “How is it, Kate, that you know so much about this country lady and are even godmother to her child?” he asked his wife. Sometimes, he thought, she surprised him, and usually when he least expected her to do so. He still had much to learn about his Kate.

“We have corresponded, my dear lord, almost from the time of her departure from court. You have no idea of how kind she has been to me, Henry, nor how loyal she is to our house. Rosamund Bolton is the best of women. If I can ease her sorrow in the least I should do it most gladly. Please say she may come. It will be such a treat for me.”

“Of course she may come,” the king said, even more curious now, “but tell me, in what way was she kind to you, sweet Kate?”

“She learned of my financial plight during that time when your father, may God assoil his soul,” the queen said, crossing herself most devoutly, “was unsure whether our marriage would take place. And while he and my father niggled about my support, Rosamund Bolton sent me a purse. And not just one. Twice yearly she gave me what she could. It was not a great deal, no more than a few weeks’ worth of coins, but she was faithful. Once, I am told by my messenger, she sold a young stud, a yearling, sired by a great warhorse, and sent me all the proceeds of that sale. Lady Neville, whose husband sought to have the animal but was outbid, confirms the tale.”

“Damn me!” the king said, astounded.

“And her sweet letters brought me such comfort. She wrote me about her life at Friarsgate, her confinements, her children, but mostly about Sir Owein. She lost a son, born earlier this year, even as I lost our child. Now she is bereft of Sir Owein.” The queen stopped and looked up at her husband. “You do see that I owe her a debt, Henry.”

He nodded slowly. How interesting that his Kate had commanded such loving loyalty from an unimportant little girl she had but known briefly. Then he said, “How did Sir Owein die? He was not a young man, but neither was he a graybeard.”

“He fell from a tree,” the queen said, “though I do not know what he was doing in a tree. His age was thirty-eight years, poor Rosamund tells me.”

“You may send an escort to Friarsgate to bring her to you, Kate. And send her a purse so she may purchase some materials to have a fine wardrobe while she stays with us,” the king generously instructed his wife.

“Oh, Henry, you are so kind!” the queen cried, and flung herself into his lap, covering his face with kisses. “I do love you, my dearest lord!”

Henry Tudor chuckled and returned her kisses while fondling her breasts as her cheeks grew pink with both her pleasure and embarrassment.

The royal messenger arrived at Friarsgate carrying a bountiful purse for its lady as well as a letter from the queen. Rosamund was to take the purse and purchase fine materials from which she would make several gowns
suitable for wear at court. She would be escorted in six weeks’ time from her home to London. She could bring one servant with her.

“I cannot possibly go,” Rosamund said to Maybel.

“Of course you can go!” Maybel said.

“How can I leave my bairns?” Rosamund wailed. “Bessie is barely weaned. I have responsibilities.”

“Rosamund,” her uncle Edmund said quietly, for he could see his volatile spouse was beginning to work herself up. “Dear niece, this is not a simple invitation. The queen of this realm has asked you to join her court. She will not expect you to remain with her long, but this is a royal command, Rosamund. The harvest is in, and all is in readiness for the winter. Tomorrow I will escort you and my good wife to Carlisle where you will shop for materials for your gowns. We have not a great deal of time to prepare, my dear, but you must go.”

“How long do you think I shall remain?” Rosamund asked. “You know how very much I dislike being away from home, uncle.”

“A few months at the most, my child. Remember, the last time you were at court you were a royal ward, but now you are a woman grown. Perhaps you might even find a fine new husband among the king’s men,” he said, chuckling.

“Jesu! Mary!” Maybel said despairingly, glaring at Edmund. Poor Owein was barely in his grave, and there was her husband going on about another man!

“Oh, uncle, I shall never wed again!” Rosamund told him.

“Well, be that as it may, my niece, you will certainly have a bit more freedom this visit. The young king is said to be quite merry, and his court a gay one. Owein would not want you mourning him for the rest of your life.”

“Uncle, he is gone from me just two months,” Rosamund said, tears springing to her eyes.

“Shut your mouth, old man!”
Maybel hissed at Edmund.

They went to Carlisle and found rich materials for gowns to be worn at court. Rosamund would not choose bright colors in deference to her widowhood. She would wear quiet colors. Over the next few weeks she,
Maybel, and many of the Friarsgate women sewed to make her a wardrobe that was suitable. She would take four gowns. Two were to be black, one of a deep hunter green, and the other a midnight blue. The skirts were bell shaped, for that, the mercer in Carlisle had assured them as he sold them a hoop, was the latest style at court.

“ ’Tis the queen’s Spanish influence,” he said with a wink.

The bodices were difficult, for sleeves now were more intricate, the mercer’s wife explained. She had a sister in London who had sent drawings of the latest fashions. She copied one for Rosamund, telling her as she did that the Spanish were very fashionable.

“Why, the queen has always looked better than any, my sister says. She says the gowns she brought from Spain were all magnificent.”

If she only knew the truth, Rosamund thought to herself, but she nodded, thanking the mercer’s wife for all of her help.

Her new wardrobe was completed but two days before her escort arrived. The gowns had square necklines. The bodices were all fitted, and the skirts came just to the floor. The black brocade was decorated with gold embroidery to relieve its severity, with gold embroidery on the deep cuffs as well. The green velvet was edged in soft brown fur, with wide fur cuffs on the sleeves. The blue brocade had a medium-blue velvet yoking about the neckline and deep cuffs that were embroidered in silver and gold, and the black velvet had a yoking of white velvet embroidered in silver and tight sleeves with fur cuffs.

“I’ve never wore such clothing,” Rosamund said. “I shall certainly not shame the queen, my sponsor, though most of the gowns at court will be quite magnificent in comparison with mine.” She looked at the garments laid out neatly for her inspection. There were chemises, six in all, more than she had ever seen in her entire life. There were two smocks for sleeping and an embroidered nightcap with pink ribbons. There were at least six pairs of stockings knitted from a fine wool that came from the first combing of the spring lambs. She had a beautiful new hooded cape of Friarsgate wool, dyed in the manor’s famous and unique blue color. It was lined and trimmed in a pale rabbit fur, as were the tan leather gloves that matched it.

The manor’s cobbler had made her new shoes and a pair of boots. There were chopines for her shoes should the weather be wet or muddy. He had also made her an elegant little needle case that fit into a beautiful kid pouch with small scissors.

Rosamund had little jewelry, but she packed what she had, for the ladies of the court would certainly wear jewelry. She possessed a single rope of pearls from which hung a gold and pearl cross. It had belonged to her mother and her grandmother. She had a broach that Owein had given her to celebrate the fifth anniversary of their marriage. It was silver and green malachite. She had a second broach of red jasper that had been her mother’s. She possessed three rings in addition to her marriage band of red gold. One was pearl, one onyx in silver, and the third was a fine red garnet in gold. Then she remembered the beautiful emerald and pearl broach that the Venerable Margaret had sent to Philippa when she was born. Her daughter was too young yet for jewelry, and the king’s grandmother had died but several months after her own son. No one would know, and the broach would be wonderful on her green velvet gown. Rosamund packed the jewel.

It had been decided that Annie, a young serving woman of whom Maybel was quite fond, would accompany Rosamund to court.

“I am too old now, my dearest lass, to go with you. Besides, you must leave someone behind who you know will make certain the bairns are well cared for, and I am that person. I have been training Annie myself, and she will do well for you. I will not always be here for you, Rosamund. You must have someone else to look after you.”

“Do not even consider leaving me,” Rosamund scolded Maybel, “but I will agree that it is better if a younger woman comes with me. You know the hours that they keep at court. If I am with the queen’s suite then I shall not be allowed to seek my bed until her highness is safely tucked into her own chamber.”

Rosamund prepared her daughters for her departure, but only Philippa seemed particularly interested. Banon was curious as to whether her mother would bring her something when she returned, and Bessie was too young to really know what was going on at all.

“Does the queen have a little girl?” Philippa asked.

“Nay, she has no children yet,” Rosamund replied.

“You will not be gone long, mama, will you?” Philippa looked up at her, Owein’s eyes searching Rosamund’s face.

“I do not want to go at all,” Rosamund said candidly, “and I would not, but no loyal subject can disobey the queen’s command, my child.” Rosamund smoothed her daughter’s hair gently. “I should far more remain with my three girls than go to court. I am not a very social creature, I fear, my dearest.”

“It is just that we have lost our father,” Philippa explained, “and we do not want to lose you.”

“You will not lose me, my child,” her mother told her, “and you will have Maybel here to look after you. My own mama died when I was three. I barely remember her at all. It was Maybel who mothered me, and you may trust her to care for you and your sisters. But I will be back as quickly as I may. And I will write to you. I promise.”

Philippa hugged her mother, and then went off with her sisters. Rosamund sighed deeply, but Maybel spoke up.

“No child likes to have its parent go away, my lass. You must not worry. I will be here for them as I was for you. And Edmund will watch over Friarsgate.” She patted Rosamund comfortingly.