Rosamund (9 page)

Rosamund liked the black-faced sheep she saw grazing in the fields of Shropshire. Their wool, she told Sir Owein knowledgeably, was even better than Friarsgate wool. She hoped, she said, to eventually purchase a flock, although such sheep were difficult to come by, as their owners were reluctant to part with them. Still, if she could find a breeding ram and just two fertile ewes it would be a start.

“Here I am taking you to court, and you are thinking about breeding sheep,” he laughed.

“I know Hugh meant to protect me and expose me to more of the world,” Rosamund replied, “but I am a country girl at heart. I hope I shall be allowed to return home quickly. From what you have told me I doubt I can be of any importance to the king or any use to his family. When I meet the king I shall suggest to him that he let me go home immediately. When I wish to wed, should I ever find a man to suit me, I shall not do it without his royal permission.”

“I do not know when you shall meet the king,” Owein told her. “At least not right away. You are wise to understand that you have no real place among the mighty, Rosamund.” Had she grown prettier since he first met her last spring? he wondered to himself. Having spent time at Friarsgate he understood her desire to remain there. He suddenly realized that he would have liked to remain there. It was not easy being in service all of your life.

“Will I like being at court?” Rosamund asked him. He had been staring at her so hard that it made her uncomfortable. She sought to gain his full attention once again.

His greenish eyes met hers. “I hope so, Rosamund,” he told her. “I should not like to see you unhappy.” Having met Henry Bolton he fully understood Hugh Cabot’s desire to protect Rosamund from him; whether removing her from her home was the solution, he was unsure.

The roads in Staffordshire were dreadful and poorly maintained, especially considering one must use them to travel south. It began to rain
once again and the road they were on flooded badly. There were not enough river crossings. It took them almost a full hour to traverse a small bridge one afternoon, so heavy was the local traffic. The wooden span creaked and groaned beneath the heavily ladened carts, the horse traffic, and a small herd of cattle. The countryside was heavily forested with ancient woodlands, but the meadows, where they found them, were particularly lush. However, ugly open pits where coal and iron were mined spoiled some of the countryside. They had now been on the road over two weeks, but Sir Owein was pleased that they were making excellent time, considering his two female companions were not used to such travel.

Warwickshire was beautiful to Rosamund’s eye with its fine pastures and meadows. The market towns, of which they learned there were eighteen, were prosperous and busy. Rosamund was now used to the towns, but she still opined to Maybel, who was quick to agree, that she would rather live in the countryside than in a town. They moved on across Northamptonshire, which seemed strangely isolated and rural in comparison to the other counties through which they had passed. Herds of cattle and sheep grazed in meadows that were still verdant and green at September’s close. As was Buckinghamshire, where, Sir Owein told her, cattle and sheep on the last stage of their journey from Wales to London were stopped and fattened.

They came to the town of St. Albans in Hertfordshire, and knowing she would have little time for pleasures soon, Owein took both Rosamund and Maybel to see the saint’s shrine at the great abbey. He was England’s first saint and had been a Roman soldier. Rosamund had never been in a church like the abbey. The great stone edifice soared above their heads. The stained-glass windows cast multicolored dappled shadows upon the stone floors. Neither Rosamund nor Maybel had ever before seen colored glass.

“How Father Mata would marvel at such beauty,” Rosamund said. “One day I shall put such windows in our wee church, though not as fine or large, of course.”

“They would be even lovelier unencumbered by other buildings, and with the pure light of Cumberland shining through them,” Owein noted quietly. “I think I shall miss your Friarsgate.”

“Perhaps you will be assigned to escort me home,” Rosamund said hopefully. “Mayhap I shall return in the spring.”

“Then you are resigned to spending your autumn and your winter at the court,” he remarked.

“It would seem I have not been given the choice, have I?” she said with a half laugh. “When will we get to London?”

“We will go to Richmond first,” he answered her. “I suspect, as it is the king’s favorite place, he will be there to hunt. If he is not there they will know where he is. Another day on the road, Rosamund.”

The king, however, was at Richmond. As they approached the palace through the park they could see his standard and the red Pendragon banner flying from the towers in the brisk afternoon breeze. Beyond they could see the Thames River sparkling in the sunlight.

“Stop! Please stop!”
Rosamund begged her escort. She brought her horse to a halt and stared with eyes wide. Finally, after a few moments, she said, “It is so very big. I cannot live in a place that is so very big. How will I find my way about?” She was, he could tell, close to tears.

Owein dismounted and lifted Rosamund from her mare. “Let us walk a ways together,” he said. “Maybel, you come, too.” And he lifted the older woman from the back of her beast, setting her upon her feet gently.

Maybel shook her skirts and rubbed her bottom. “Ah, sir, that is much better,” she declared.

Her companions laughed, and then Owein took Rosamund by the hand, and they walked together, leading their horses with Maybel following.

“We have been traveling almost a month,” he began. “I realize that never having been far from your beloved Friarsgate all you have seen has been very new and perhaps just a bit frightening for you. Towns, abbey churches, and now a palace. It is a big place, but in a short while you will know your way about easily.”

“Are all the king’s houses so very big?” Rosamund asked him.

“Some are bigger and some are smaller,” he told her. “Richmond is built on the ruins of a palace called Sheen. It burned to the ground on St. Thomas night three years ago. The king and his family were in residence for Christmas, but everyone escaped the flames. The king, however, loved
this place so much that he rebuilt a fine new palace here. It has all the most modern conveniences and is quite frankly one of the nicest royal residences, although I do have a fondness for Greenwich and Windsor, too. Here you will actually have your own bed, Rosamund. When the queen comes to Richmond, there is room for all of her ladies. You will never be left behind when she comes here, as happens more often than not when the royal household travels about from one residence to another.”

“But what will I do here? I do not enjoy being idle,” Rosamund responded. She eyed the great palace nervously. Oh, Hugh! she thought silently, why did you do this to me? Couldn’t I have remained at home and still been protected from Uncle Henry?

“You will do whatever task the queen assigns you, Rosamund. A queen has many needs. That is why she has so many ladies.”

Rosamund grew silent now as they walked along, her amber eyes taking in the great cluster of buildings ahead of her. The palace faced the river to the south. They now approached it across the greensward from the north. Richmond spread out to the east as far as Friar’s Lane; beyond that one could see the convent of the Observant Fathers that the king had founded two years previously. The palace was built of brick with towers at each corner and more towers set at various angles about the structure and in the midst of the buildings. The gates were made from heart of ash, studded with iron nails and held closed each night by means of heavy iron bars. The left-hand gate, Owein told Rosamund, led into the Wine Cellar Court with its open tennis courts beyond which stretched the privy garden. The garden was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high brick wall and filled with fruit trees, roses, and other flowering vines. There was a menagerie of carved stone beasts, lions, dragons, and the like. Behind the privy garden was a fairly good-size orchard that contained a dovecote and a gallery that led to the privy lodgings.

The main gate to Richmond, which was on the right, led into the Great Court. They remounted their horses now and rode through into this court. Above the gateway was a great stone plaque into which was carved the king’s arms, the Red Pendragon of the Tudors and the
Greyhound of the queen’s Yorkist family. They dismounted, the two women following Sir Owein across the paved courtyard. A liveried servant had magically appeared and now carried their belongings as he trotted along behind them.

“The buildings about this court are for the king’s gentlemen and the wardrobe,” Owein said as he led them through a turreted gateway into another courtyard. “This is the Middle Court,” he explained.

The two women stared. In the court’s center was a great fountain carved around with lions and dragons and griffins and other magical beasts. There were red and white roses planted about the fountains, which ran with crystal water. The bushes, in their sheltered location, were still in goodly bloom.

“There the Lord Chamberlain lodges,” Owein said, pointing to the left, “and the prince’s closet as well. Behind them is the chapel royal. And here to the right is the queen’s closet,” he told them, pointing to a two-story brick building.

Rosamund and Maybel followed Sir Owein into the building. A servant in the queen’s livery immediately came up to them.

“This is the Lady Rosamund of Friarsgate in Cumbria. She has been made a ward of the king,” the knight said. “I was instructed to fetch her from her home and bring her to the queen’s house. I am Sir Owein Meredith, in the king’s service.”

“Come with me,” the servant said, and hurried off without so much as a backward glance.

They followed after him as he led them up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, flinging open a door at its end. The chamber was filled with women of various ages. In a large upholstered chair, her feet upon a velvet stool, sat a sweet-faced lady who, seeing her visitors, beckoned them forward.

“Sir Owein, isn’t it?” she said in a gentle voice.

The king’s man knelt and kissed the queen’s hand. “It is good of you to remember me, your highness.” Then, at her nod, he arose and stood before Elizabeth of York.

“And who is this pretty child you have with you?” the queen asked. Her blue eyes were curious.

“This is the Lady Rosamund Bolton, widow of Sir Hugh Cabot and heiress of Friarsgate in Cumbria. Her late husband put her into the king’s care, you may recall. I was sent to fetch her several months ago and was told she was to be put into your charge. We have only now arrived, your highness.”

“Thank you, Sir Owein,” the queen said. “You may tell my husband you have returned and that you have properly discharged your duty. He will be happy to see you back. No one challenges him at chess quite like you do.” She smiled, and immediately her face was transformed into a thing of beauty. She extended her hand to the knight again.

He kissed it and was thus dismissed. He turned briefly to Rosamund. “I will leave you now, lady. Perhaps we will meet again.” He bowed to her, and with a friendly wink at Maybel, left them.

Don’t go!
She wanted to scream it aloud. She and Maybel stood seemingly alone amid the queen and the other women in the chamber. Then suddenly the queen fixed her gaze upon the girl and spoke.

“It was a long trip, I expect,” she said.

“Yes, madame, it was,” Rosamund replied, curtsying.

“And you are terrified by all of this I expect,” the queen noted in her gentle voice.

“Yes, madame.” Rosamund felt close to tears.

“I remember how frightening it was the first time I was sent away from home,” the queen remarked. “Yet in a short time you will feel right at home among us, my child. At least you speak the language. My late son’s widow is not particularly conversant in our tongue or any tongue but her own. She is a Spanish princess. There she is across the chamber, surrounded by those black crows she brought with her from Spain. She is a good girl though. Now, what shall we do with you, Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate?”

“I don’t know, your highness,” Rosamund said, her voice quavering.

“Well, first you must tell me why your husband put you into our care,” the queen gently pressed the girl standing before her. “And who is your companion?”

“This is Maybel, your highness. She is my nursemaid and raised me. She left her husband to come with me,” Rosamund explained. “And I did
not know that Hugh, may God assoil his good soul, was placing me into your care until after his death. He did it to prevent my uncle Henry from marrying me to his five-year-old son and stealing Friarsgate from me. Uncle Henry has wanted Friarsgate ever since my parents and my brother died when I was three. He married me to his eldest son, but John died of a spotting sickness. Then he arranged my marriage with Hugh Cabot because I was yet a child and Hugh an old man. He thought to keep me safe for his next son, who wasn’t even born then. But Hugh was a good man. He saw what my uncle was about. As my husband it was his right to decide my future before he died. He sent me to the king to protect me,” Rosamund finished in a great rush.

The queen laughed softly. “But you wish he hadn’t, don’t you, my child? Still, we will indeed protect you from such a man as your good husband wished. Eventually we will find another good man worthy of you, Rosamund Bolton. Now, what shall I do with you?”