Until You

by Bertrice Small

  Rosamund slipped quietly into her little chamber. Annie was dozing in a chair by the embers of the fire. She started awake as her mistress entered. “I am glad you were not worried,” Rosamund said to her.

  “Lord Cambridge come to me, my lady. He said you might be very late.” She rose from her place, yawning and stretching. Then, peeping through the heavy velvet curtain covering the single window, she said, “ ’Tis already false dawn. You had best get into bed, my lady, if you are to have any rest before the mass.”

  “Build up the fire,” Rosamund ordered her, “and heat some water. I stink of passion and cannot enter the queen’s presence until I have washed. Neither will I enter my bed until I am fresh.”

  Annie looked shocked with her mistress’ pronouncement.

  “I have taken the Earl of Glenkirk as a lover, Annie,” Rosamund said bluntly. “You will not gossip about it with the other servants even if they ask you. Do you understand me, girl?”

  “Aye, my lady,” Annie said. “But it ain’t right, a respectable lady such as yourself!” she burst out.

  “I am widowed, Annie, and were you not my confidante when I was with the king?” Rosamund asked her servingwoman.

  “That was different,” Annie said. “You was just obeying our king. There was no harm in it as long as good Queen Katherine didn’t know or be shamed by it.”

  “Nay, Annie, ’twas no different than all of my life before it,” Rosamund said. “I have always done what I was asked. What was expected of me. Now, however, I shall do what I want. I shall live my life to please myself and no one else! Do you understand?”

  “What of the laird of Claven’s Carn?” Annie asked. “He ain’t going to marry with a lady who lifts her skirts so easily, my lady.”

  Rosamund slapped her servant. “You presume upon our friendship, Annie,” she said. “Do you wish me to send you home to Friarsgate? I shall do it, for there are plenty who would be willing to serve me—and keep their tongues silent. I will tell you what I told Logan Hepburn. I do not wish to marry again! And I will not be forced to it. Friarsgate has an heiress, and two more besides. I will unite my daughters one day in marriages that will bring honor and wealth to our family. Logan Hepburn wants a son. He needs an heir for Claven’s Carn. Let him get it upon some sweet young virgin who will adore him and be a good wife to him. I am not that woman. King Henry’s mother, she who was my guardian, once told me that a woman must marry first for her family. Twice at the most. But after that, the Venerable Margaret said, a woman should marry where it suited her. Twice my uncle Henry Bolton has made marriages for me. My third husband was the king’s choice. Now it is my choice, and I choose no husband! Do you understand me, Annie? I will do as I please now.”

  Annie rubbed her cheek and sniffled softly. “Yes, my lady,” she said.

  “Good. Then we are agreed, and you will serve me without question, eh?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Go about your duties, then,” Rosamund instructed her servant, and she sat down upon the bed while Annie built the fire back up and began to heat the water for her ablutions.

  What a night it had been! She had been at court only a short time, yet now, as the day of Christ’s Eve dawned, she was filled with a joy such as she had never known. She knew not where this was all leading, but she realized, to her surprise, that she had no fears in the matter. She was truly, deeply in love for the first time in all of her twenty-two years. She would follow where the road led, and when it ended . . . well, she would worry about that when it happened. For now she meant to live for the moment, and the moment was Patrick Leslie, Earl of Glenkirk.

  Chapter 2

  King James looked closely at his old friend the Earl of Glenkirk. “By the rood, Patrick, if I did not know better I would say you were in love!” he exclaimed.

  Patrick smiled. “Why do you think it impossible for me to be in love, Jamie?” he inquired of the king. “Am I not a man like any other?”

  “A man, aye, but like any other? Nay, Patrick, you are not. You were my ambassador to San Lorenzo. It was an important assignment for an unimportant Highland laird. I created you an earl to honor San Lorenzo’s duke. And you served me well until the tragedy of your daughter, Janet. Then, without even waiting for my permission, you packed up your family and returned home. You stopped at court only long enough to give me your report, and then you disappeared into your Highland eyrie for the next eighteen years. You would still be there had I not called you back to me. I do not know of any other man so loyal to my crown who would do that, Patrick. You were ever my friend, even from the very beginning, unlike some whom I must smile at, praise, and bestow honors upon. You do not dissemble. Your word is your bond. I can trust you.”

  “So you said when you asked me to go to San Lorenzo,” the earl replied dryly. “And suddenly you have called me back to your side, Jamie. Why?”

  “First you must tell me who the lady is, Patrick,” the king teased his old friend.

  The earl smiled. “A gentleman does not gossip like a cotter’s wife,” he said. “I know you possess a good soul of patience, Jamie. I will tell you in time, but not now.”

  The king grinned. “Ahh, then it is love,” he chortled. “I shall be watching you, my lord of Glenkirk.” Then he grew serious again. “Patrick, I need you to return to San Lorenzo for me.”

  “You have a competent ambassador there,” the earl responded.

  “Aye, Ian McDuff is indeed competent, but he is not the diplomat that you were, Patrick. And I very much need a diplomat. You know that the pope is forming what he refers to as the Holy League. He wishes the French out of the northern Italian states, and he cannot do it himself. So he is declaring a righteous war against them, inviting others to join in his cause with promise of eternal salvation, among other rewards. My bombastic young brother-in-law, Henry of England, is his loudest supporter. I am invited to join them, but I cannot. Will not. This aggression is wrong, Patrick!”

  “And the French are our auld alliance. You are an honorable man, Jamie, and I know that you would not turn upon a friend without good reason. And there is no good reason, is there?”

  “Only Henry Tudor’s intense desire to please the pope in order to gain more power than England now has,” James Stewart replied. “Spain, of course, joins the pope and England. Venice and the Holy Roman Empire have joined, as well, but before it goes any farther, I would make an attempt to stop them. I must do it in secret and in a place no one would suspect if they knew of my plans. I do not want the most powerful of the Christian states fighting with one another when we should be mounting a crusade against the Turks in Constantinople. And, too, my brother-in-law knows that, unlike him, I am an honorable man. I will not betray an ally even for my own advantage, as he would. He knows I cannot join this league against the French. He seeks to turn the Holy Father against me—against Scotland. You must meet with Venice’s and the emperor’s representatives in San Lorenzo, Patrick. You must convince them that this league is but England’s plan to achieve a dominant hold over us all. There are parties within each of these countries who understand this. I am in contact with them, and they will arrange for delegates from their governments to be in San Lorenzo to hear you out. Instinct tells me it is unlikely we can succeed, but we must try, Patrick.”

  “There will be war with England sooner than later,” the earl sighed.

  “I know,” the king replied. “My lang eey tells me so, yet I must do what I know is right in this matter. I do it for Scotland, Patrick.”

  “Aye, and we have never had a better king then you, Jamie, the fourth of the Stewarts. But you should not have wed with England. You should have married Margaret Drummond. The Drummonds had given Scotland two queens, and good queens they were.” He sighed. “I mean no disrespect to your wee wife, Jamie.”

  “I know,” the king answered, “and you are right. I knew I should not wed with England, and I avoided it as long as I could. But when my beloved Margaret and her sisters were poisoned, I
had no more excuses. Many desired the match with the Tudor princess, and they believed that it would bring peace between our two nations. The peace has been a fragile one at best. But since my father-in-law’s death and the ascension of his son, I fear for us all. My wife’s brother is a determined man, and the wealth built up so carefully by his father makes him a powerful one, as well.”

  “But Scotland is more prosperous and peaceful under your rule, Jamie, than it has been in centuries,” the earl noted. “It is obvious that we desire nothing more than peace in order to continue on as we have.”

  “Aye, but Henry Tudor is an ambitious man, I fear,” the king replied. “He is jealous of the fact that I have been on good terms with the Holy See. He attempts to destroy that trust by his enthusiasm for the pope’s war, and he will succeed, I fear. You have heard about the matter of my wife’s jewels, have you not?”

  The earl shook his head, puzzled. “Nay, I have not.”

  “Of course,” the king said. “You are only just back at court. My wife’s grandmother, the Venerable Margaret, and her mother, the late Elizabeth of York, left their jewelry in three equal parts: to my Meg, to her sister, Mary, and to her brother’s good Queen Katherine. But the King of England refuses to send his elder sister her portion, making all sorts of excuses as to why he will not. Finally my wife wrote to her brother that she didn’t need the jewelry as much as she desired these mementos of her mother and grandmother, for I, her husband, would gift her with double their value. I can but imagine the sting that gave arrogant King Hal. Meg tells me he used to cheat at their nursery games, and whined and raged if he did not win. These are traits he has obviously carried with him into his manhood.”

  “When do you want me to leave?” the earl asked.

  “Not until after the Twelve Days of Christmas are over and done with,” the king answered. “I want it to appear as if I have just lured you back to court for the Christmas season for old time’s sake. And you came because it had been many years since you had paid your respects to me. The fact that you have involved yourself with a lady is all to the good. After the holidays have ended, you will disappear, and all will assume you have returned to Glenkirk. You know that there are spies here at my court, Patrick, and should they know my plans they would report back to England or Spain or even the pope himself. Your mission must be secret. I realize there is little chance of its success, but I do not want the waters muddied before I have at least attempted to stop this madness. Three years ago the Holy See formed an alliance with France to humble Venice. Now France is the enemy. I despair, Patrick, of this chess game my fellow monarchs play. And no one ever really wins! These politicians will be the ruin of the world.”

  “So, what you actually desire of me is to convince some of the players of the foolishness of this matter,” the earl said. “Which ones, Jamie? Which are the weak links?”

  “Venice, who is suspicious of everyone, and possibly the Holy Roman Empire, who never quite trusts Spain. Spain will side with the pope no matter, especially as the English queen is Spanish born and bred. If I can but weaken the league, the pressure will be off of me to join it and betray the auld alliance we honor with France. And learning of this new coalition, the Turks are bound to make some hostile move that should turn the pope’s attention in other directions. After all, he is the father of the Christian church.” The king chuckled wickedly.

  “So, Venice’s and the emperor’s representatives will be in San Lorenzo?” the earl said.

  The king nodded.

  “Well,” Patrick said, “my son, Adam, is a grown man and can manage our lands without me for a short time. And while I do not imagine my trip across a winter’s sea will be a pleasant one, January and February in San Lorenzo, as I recall it, are most benign. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed a mild winter.”

  “And you will not regret leaving your lady?” the king queried.

  “Leave her? Nay, Jamie, I shall not leave her. I intend to take her with me to San Lorenzo. You are correct when you say I am a man in love. I am. I adored my daughter’s mother. I married my son’s mother, a sweet and gentle girl whom I came to care for most deeply, because I needed a legitimate son and heir. Her sudden death broke my heart. It was not fair that Agnes die as Janet’s mother had. She was so damned good, even making me promise to legitimatize Janet when our son was born. But I have never, never until this moment in time, been truly and deeply in love. I am a man long grown. I have grandchildren. But nonetheless I am in love. I feel like a young man again, Jamie.”

  “Will her absence from this court be noted?” the king asked his friend.

  The Earl of Glenkirk considered a long moment, and then he said, “Mayhap. She is the queen’s friend.”

  “Does she have a husband we should be concerned about?” the king wondered aloud. “Is her family an important one?”

  “She is widowed and of unimportant lineage,” the earl said. “It will be said that she has returned to her own home.”

  “Unless,” the king responded, suddenly knowing of whom the Earl of Glenkirk spoke, “my wife wants her here for the birth of our child in the spring.”

  “You know? That damned lang eey of yours, Jamie,” the earl said with a small smile. “Or are you merely guessing?”

  “You have fallen in love with the little lady of Friarsgate, Patrick, haven’t you?” was the king’s answer.

  The earl nodded. “We met two nights ago,” he began.

  “But two nights ago?” the king exclaimed, surprised.

  “Hear me out, Jamie. It was the oddest experience I have ever had. I saw her across the chamber. Suddenly I had the most overwhelming urge to meet her. Lord Grey managed the introductions through his friend Elsbeth Hume. Our eyes met, and we both knew in that instant that we had known each other in some other time and place and that we were meant to be together for the here and now. I cannot explain it any more plainly than that. There are many who would think me mad, but I know you do not, Jamie Stewart.”

  “Nay,” the king agreed, “for it was the same with Margaret Drummond and me. Rosamund Bolton is lovely, I will concur. But she is English, Patrick. And she was, according to my information, briefly mistress to my brother-in-law.”

  “Was she?” The earl was intrigued. Rosamund had not told him that, but why would she? “Nonetheless, Jamie, I do not believe the lady is politically involved, whatever her past,” he said. “You cannot believe she seeks to curry favor with her king. I do not believe that of her. She need not know why I go to San Lorenzo, just that I would take her there that we might be lovers in peace, far from the prying eyes of your court and our friends. Arcobaleno, the capital, is a most romantic place. I am certain that Rosamund, having never until she entered Scotland been out of England, will find it delightful.”

  “The affair was most discreet. Neither my wife nor Queen Katherine knew of it,” the king said. “Brother Henry had attempted to seduce the lady when she was a young girl at court. He was prevented from doing so, and she was wed to her husband on the king’s orders. He obviously sought her out when she returned to court a grieving widow, to correct his previous failure. He does not like losing at games, I am told.”

  “You are extremely well informed, Jamie,” the earl noted admiringly.

  “Almost nothing a king does is truly secret,” James Stewart replied. “There is always someone, in this case a servant of her cousin Lord Cambridge, with information to sell to the appropriate buyer. I think this fellow thought I might be interested in bedding the lady myself. I have at the moment, however, a perfectly satisfactory mistress in Isabel Stewart, the daughter of my cousin, the Earl of Buchan. And my wife is again with child. I would not distress Meg, as I know that this child she delivers in the spring will be a son, and he will survive—unlike the other wee, frail bairns she has borne me.”

  “The queen does not really need Rosamund, but I do,” the earl said. “I am your most loyal servant, Jamie, and well you know it, but I will not go to San Lore
nzo without my lass. I will speak with Rosamund when the time is right, and she will convince the queen that she must return home to her beloved Friarsgate, but that she will return in the spring when the queen has her bairn. A lad, you say? The lang eey again, eh, Jamie?”

  “Aye, a lad!” He sighed. “I can but hope I live to see him grown, but I will not.”

  The earl did not argue, for he did not want to know what the king knew. James Stewart was known for having incredible intuition and sensitivity to supernatural forces. Patrick knew if the king was concerned, then this mission was of great importance. “I’ll be an old man, Jamie, before I serve your son,” he said comfortingly.

  The king laughed, his mood now suddenly lightened. “You’ve already bedded her!” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Within hours of our meeting. Jesu, Jamie! I feel like a man of thirty again when I am with her. God knows I have had mistresses aplenty in my lifetime, but none of them ever captured my heart as this girl has.”

  “They say she has a suitor,” the king replied.

  “Aye, the Earl of Bothwell’s cousin, the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. She told me,” he chuckled. “He told her he would come on St. Stephen’s Day to wed her. I think he will be most surprised not to find her waiting meekly and eagerly for his arrival.”

  “St. Stephen’s? That’s today,” the king exclaimed, laughing. “What a wench she is, Patrick. Are you certain you would have her?”

  “As long as it is meant to be, Jamie,” the earl said.

  “Ah, then,” the king remarked, “you do not believe it is forever. You will not wed her.”

  “I would wed her if she would have me. But though she will have me as a lover, she will not have me as a husband,” the earl explained. “She has no wish to remarry, and I know she would not leave her beloved Friarsgate any more than I would depart Glenkirk forever. But one day I will ask her,” he finished with a small smile. “So we may both be satisfied that I truly love her. That is why she has rejected the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. She believes his only interest in her is getting a son. I pity the lad. For what can he possibly do to convince her otherwise that he loves her? If he does.”