Rosamund (8 page)

“As I told your uncles,” he responded, “I was knighted at the age of fifteen. It was after the battle of Stoke when we defeated the pretender, Lambert Simmel.”

“What was he pretending, and why was it necessary to fight him?” Rosamund inquired curiously.

Owein chuckled. “It was before you were born, Rosamund. The previous king, Edward IV, had had two sons. Their uncle took his brother’s throne upon the death of King Edward. It was said England did not need a child king. But there were two young boys. They disappeared, never to be seen again. It is said their uncle, King Richard III, murdered them, secreting their bodies in the Tower of London.”

“Did he?”
Rosamund’s amber eyes were wide. What a terrible thing to have done!

“I do not know,” Owein said. “No one does. But it was after that that the heir to the other royal house, Henry Tudor, returned to England to fight King Richard, overthrow him, and take his place upon the throne. He married the Princess Elizabeth, elder sister to those two unfortunate princes, and heiress to the royal house of York. Their union ended a hundred years of warfare here in England, Rosamund, but then in 1487 a young man claimed to be son of the Duke of Clarence, who had a stronger claim on the throne than our own King Henry. He was not, of course. The real Edward Plantagenet was imprisoned in London. To prove this the king paraded him through the streets. But it was still necessary to meet and vanquish this Lambert Simmel at Stoke.”

“You fought well if you were knighted, sir,” she said.

“I did fight well,” Owein admitted modestly. “I would give my life for the House of Tudor, for they took me in and raised me, and gave me everything that I have in life,” he declared passionately.

“And what is it you do have, sir knight?” she wondered aloud.

“I have a home wherever the king goes, but more important I have a purpose in life in their service,” he told her.

“I understand,” she replied, “and yet it seems so little in return for your loyalty. You have no home or land of your own. What will become of you one day when you are too old to fight or to serve? What happens to good knights like you, Owein Meredith?”

“I will either die in some battle, or perhaps my brother will give me a home in my last years because it is the honorable thing to do. At that point I would bring honor to him for my years of service to the House of Tudor,” he said.

“When did you last see your brother or his family?” she asked.

“I have not seen them since I left my birthplace in Wales,” he responded. “But when our father died, my brother sent word. He has not forgotten me, Rosamund.”

No, he had probably not, she considered. It could not hurt Owein Meredith’s brother to have a friend at court, no matter that his brother was not a man of wealth or real influence. He would know men of wealth and influence, and could even petition the king for his family, should it
become necessary to do so. It would be what she would do, Rosamund thought. It was the practical way.

Now the days seemed to speed by in a manner that was almost disconcerting. Rosamund cherished each moment she had remaining at Friarsgate. She did not look forward to leaving. If only Hugh had consulted her, but Owein Meredith was correct when he said if she remained her uncle would find some way to regain her person and his hold on her manor. Leaving was the price she must pay for being the heiress of Friarsgate. She was a little frightened, although she would never allow anyone to know it.
Tracez Votre Chemin.
She would make her own path.

Maybel wondered and fretted over what to take, cramming as much into the small trunk as she could. Sir Owein suggested to Edmund Bolton that it would be advisable to put a certain amount of gold with a London goldsmith for Rosamund to draw upon, for she would quickly learn that her wardrobe was too countrified and it would need to be remedied. He would direct Maybel to an honest and reliable mercer for fabric, but she would need coin for her purchases. Better they not carry too much currency with them to be robbed. The monies could be taken to Carlisle, and from there it would be credited in London with a reputable goldsmith.

The route was carefully mapped out and a rider sent ahead to arrange accommodations in convent and monastery guesthouses along their way. The trip would take a fortnight or more, depending upon the weather. While Sir Owein was used to traveling great distances, he knew his young charge was not. She had, he knew, never been off her own lands but a couple times to purchase cattle or horses in the company of her husband and uncle. She had never even seen a real town.

Rosamund spent her last few days at Friarsgate riding from one tenant to another, bidding them farewell and reminding them that while she might be gone, Edmund would be in charge in her absence. It was he who would speak for Rosamund Bolton. They were to obey him without question. Some of her people offered her small gifts made with their own hands: a comb of sweet applewood carved with two doves amid the apple blossoms, a needle case that had been made from a piece of leather and lined with a scrap of Friarsgate red wool felt. The woman who had won the
blue ribbon at Lammastide had embroidered it with a bit of gold thread she had obtained from heaven only knew where. She now returned it to her mistress saying, “It’s beautiful, my little lady, but ’tis more suited to yerself than to an old shepherd’s wife. See, I’ve made it with stars so you will remember the night sky over Friarsgate when you are among the high and mighty. You will come back to us, lady?” Her worn face was anxious.

“As quickly as they will let me, Mary, I swear it!” Rosamund said with fervor. “I would as soon not go, but I fear my uncle would attempt to gain my custody and my lands again. This would seem to be the only way that I will be safe.”

Mary nodded. “ ’Twould seem the gentry has their problems too, my lady,” she observed.

Rosamund laughed. “Aye,” she agreed. “Nothing, it seems, is simple in this life.”

Several days before she was to go her uncle Richard came from St. Cuthbert’s, bringing with him the young priest, Father Mata. Rosamund liked the young man immediately, as did Edmund. He was of medium height and a bit plump. His blue eyes danced below his bushy eyebrows. He had rosy cheeks in a baby face. The hair around his tonsure was a bright red, and his skin was very pale.

He bowed to her, saying, “I am grateful, my lady, for the living that you have offered me.”

“It is not great,” Rosamund told him, “and you will always be busy. But you will be well-fed, and the roof of your house does not leak, nor is the chimney drafty.”

“I shall say the mass daily,” he promised her, “and celebrate All Saints’ Day, but first the unchurched must be properly wed and the bairns baptized.”

“Aye,” Rosamund agreed. “We are all glad you are here.”

“And when will you return, my lady?” the young priest inquired.

“When I am permitted,” Rosamund replied.

“Come,” Edmund said, seeing his niece beginning to lose heart again, “let us take the good father to his house, Rosamund. I have an old woman, Nona, who will keep it swept. You will take your meals in the
hall with me, Father Mata. I will welcome the company.” He moved off in the direction of the priest’s cottage next to the little church.

The morning of September first dawned cloudy and windy with the rain obviously imminent before the noon hour. Nonetheless Sir Owein insisted that they keep to their schedule. He knew that another day would make it no easier for Rosamund, whose fears were now threatening to overwhelm her despite their best efforts. Father Mata said an early mass even before the sunrise, had they even been able to see the sun. The fast was broken in the hall, fresh trenchers of bread, still warm from the ovens and hollowed out for the oat stirabout were set at each place. Rosamund could not eat. Her stomach rolled nervously.

“You cannot go the day without a good meal,” the king’s man told her firmly. “This will be the best meal you have for many a day, my lady. The guesthouses of the church are hardly noted for their food or the quality of their drink. You will be sick the day long if you do not eat now.”

Rosamund dutifully shoveled the hot cereal into her unwilling mouth. It lay in her stomach like a stone. She sipped her goblet of watered wine. It lay sour atop the oat stirabout. She nibbled at some cheese, but it tasted salty and was dry. Finally she arose, reluctantly. “We had best start,” she said.

Her house servants lined up to wish her Godspeed. She bid them good-bye with tears in her eyes, and the women among them began to weep. She walked through the door of the manor house. There outside her mare awaited. Rosamund turned suddenly. “I have forgotten to say farewell to my dogs!” She ran back inside.

They waited patiently for her return, but when she did she said, “I wonder if Pusskin has had her litter yet. I must look in the stable before we go.” And again she disappeared.

“Put her on the horse, Edmund, when she returns,” Maybel said irritably. “My bottom is already hurting from this beast, and we have not gone a step yet.”

Edmund and Owein laughed.

Rosamund reappeared. “Did you pack the embroidered ribbon,
Maybel? I am certain I saw it on the floor of my bedchamber. I had best go back and see to it.”

Edmund Bolton took his niece by the hand, quickly leading her to her mount. His fingers closed about her waist as he lifted her up into her saddle. “Everything is packed, Rosamund,” he said sternly. He handed the lead from his niece’s mare to Sir Owein. “Go now, lass, and Godspeed! We will all look forward to your return, which will come all the sooner if you will go now.” Then he smacked the horse upon its rump and watched as it moved off.

“I want to hear no gossip when I return,” Maybel told her husband. “Take care of yourself, old man. Wear that flannel I sewed for you on your chest this winter or you’ll catch an ague for certain.”

“And you, woman, don’t go flirting with all those handsome gentlemen at the court. Remember you are my dear wife,” he responded with a warm smile. “You’re a bit bossy, lass, but I’ll miss you.”

“Humph!” she snorted, and then turned her horse away from him, following after Sir Owein and Rosamund.

Rosamund had been off her lands but twice in her life, and both times no farther than a few miles from her home. Her husband and her uncle Edmund had taken her to a horse and cattle fair. Once she had gone to a wool market. She had never spent a night away from Friarsgate, nor from her own bed. Had Hugh known what he was doing when he had put her into the custody of a virtual stranger? She almost wished her uncle Henry had prevailed and she was still at Friarsgate.
Almost.

As her initial fears wore off Rosamund actually began to enjoy the ride. And mindful of the fact his charge had never spent an entire day on horseback, Sir Owein stopped in midmorning so they might stand and stretch, and eat the food that the Friarsgate cook had prepared and packed. And Rosamund found that her appetite had returned as she ate roasted capon and rabbit pastries still warm from the oven, bread and cheese and crisp pears from her own orchards. They rode on to stop again at a small convent in midafternoon. The rain had finally caught up with them. As they were expected they were welcomed, but Sir Owein was sent to the guesthouse for men, while Rosamund and Maybel remained with the nuns. They were, however, the only visitors that night.

It was that first evening that Rosamund realized the truth in her guardian’s words. Their meal consisted of a thick pottage of root vegetables served them in a small trencher of brown bread and a narrow wedge of hard cheese. The ale was bitter, and they drank little. Their bedding was not much better. Two pallets, their straw mattresses flattened down with much use and somewhat bug ridden. In the morning they were served oat stirabout, which they ate with wooden spoons from a common pot. A single slice of bread was given them to share. When Sir Owein had offered the donation, they departed.

The walled town of Carlisle was the first real town that Rosamund had ever seen. Her eyes grew wide as they passed through the Rickard’s Gate. Her heart beat faster as they traversed the narrow streets, its houses side by side with no gardens to be seen. They moved down the High Street, crossing south to the church of St. Cuthbert’s, which was allied with Richard Bolton’s monastery, and in whose guesthouses they would spend the night.

“I don’t think I like towns,” Rosamund said. “Why does it stink so much, Owein?”

“If you look carefully in the streets, lady, you will see the contents of the town’s night jars as they make their way in the gutters to the sewers,” he explained.

“My cow byres smell better,” she responded.

“Come, lady,” he teased her, “a country girl such as yourself shouldn’t mind a few odors.”

Rosamund shook her head. “Do town folk like being so closed in?” she wondered aloud. “I do not like it at all.”

“The town is walled to prevent invaders from breaking into it,” he said. “There is much to steal here, and the Scots are still quite near. Carlisle is a place of safety for many in the countryside hereabouts. And from here a defense can be mounted effectively.”

They departed Carlisle the next morning, much to Rosamund’s relief, traveling south once again through a corner of Westmorland with its bleak moorlands, hills, and lakes into Lancastershire with its forests and deer parks. They rode, Sir Owein told them, along a road that had been constructed by a people called Romans over a thousand years ago. They
moved through Cheshire, a flat county despite the hills that bordered it, and on into Shropshire, where the weather became distinctly autumnal. She was glad for her blue wool cape with its hood.