Until You

by Bertrice Small

  “And how long would we be at sea?” Annie asked nervously.

  “A few days at the most,” Rosamund promised her.

  “And we’ll come home after you have all this adventure out of yourself?” Annie pressed her mistress. “You swear on the Blessed Mother’s name?”

  “I swear,” Rosamund said with utmost seriousness. “I expect we will be back by autumn at the latest, Annie. Probably sooner.”

  Annie drew a long, deep breath. Then she said, “I’ll come, my lady. But what will Mistress Maybel and Master Edmund say? And who is to tell them?”

  “Lord Cambridge will tell them, Annie,” Rosamund answered the girl.

  “Have you told him?” Annie persisted as she unrolled two pairs of stockings.

  “I shall tell him today, Annie. Now, remember, this is a great secret. I shall have to lie to the queen, I fear, for she would not understand my leaving her now. And it is not yet time for all the dissembling to begin. Put it from your mind now, and I shall tell you when you may recall it again,” Rosamund said. “Now, I would get dressed before I am late for the mass.”

  Margaret of Scotland signaled to her friend to come and be by her side just as the mass was beginning. This was an honor, and Rosamund well knew it. For a moment she felt almost guilty at the deception she would play on her old friend. But then her eyes met those of the Earl of Glenkirk across the royal chapel, and her guilt vanished. When the morning services were over, the queen linked her arm in Rosamund’s, and they walked together towards the Great Hall where the morning meal would be laid out.

  “What is this gossip I hear about you and Lord Leslie?” the queen asked bluntly.

  “I do not know the gossip to which you refer, madame,” Rosamund answered formally, for they were in public.

  “It is said that you have become lovers,” the queen replied. Then she lowered her voice. “Is it true, Rosamund? Have you? He is very handsome, even if he is old.”

  “He is not that old, Meg,” Rosamund whispered, a twinkle in her amber eyes.

  “Ohhh, then it is so!” the queen chortled. “What a naughty girl you have suddenly become, Rosamund.”

  “I would not offend your highness,” Rosamund quickly said.

  “Offend me? Nay, I envy you!” the queen answered. “Do you remember how my grandmother always said a woman married first, perhaps a second time for her family, but after that she should find her own happiness? Does Lord Leslie make you happy, Rosamund? I hope so! Have you ever had a lover before?”

  The first lie, Rosamund thought to herself. “Nay, Meg,” she murmured softly. “Never before.” And in a sense it was the truth, for she had not really loved Margaret Tudor’s brother, England’s king. But she was surely in love with Patrick Leslie.

  “ ’Tis rather sudden, isn’t it?” the queen pressed her friend further.

  “I cannot explain it,” Rosamund said. “Our eyes met, and we both knew.”

  The queen laughed softly. “You sound like my husband with his lang eey,” she said. Her hand went protectively to her belly. “I don’t want to be an empty vessel like my brother’s wife. Pray God and his Blessed Mother that this child is a strong son, Rosamund. Pray hard for me!”

  “I do,” Rosamund said. “Every day, Meg.”

  “Your highness.” The king’s page was before them. “His majesty would break his fast with you this morning,” the lad said. “I am here to escort you.”

  The queen nodded, and Rosamund gracefully slid into the background, seeking either Glenkirk or her cousin Lord Cambridge. It was Lord Cambridge who found her first.

  “My darling girl, you have set the court upon its ear, I fear. Is it true? Has Lord Leslie become your lover? I have never before heard such delicious tittle-tattle. The Scots court is far more fun than the English court, where poor Spanish Kate and her mate, our stodgy King Henry, hold sway. There everything is proper and ordered while the king casts his eye boldly about and then swives his little conquests in secrecy—no offense, my darling cousin.”

  “None taken, dearest Tom,” Rosamund replied dryly.

  “But in this delightful court,” Lord Cambridge continued, “people are not so damned au fait about their passions. I quite like it! Now come along, dear girl, and tell me absolutely everything!” He linked his velvet-clad arm in hers.

  “I am hungry, Tom,” Rosamund protested. “We have only just celebrated the mass, and I have not eaten since last night.”

  “We shall go to my house, and my cook will feed you,” he responded. “And that will allow us our privacy, cousin, for I do indeed mean to hear all.”

  “You bought a house in Stirling Village!” Rosamund exclaimed.

  “Nay, I have just rented it. It is little more than a cottage, but quite charming, and the old woman who owns it cooks like an angel. I had no intention, dear girl, of sleeping in the king’s hall with those other poor disenfranchised souls who are at court. You were given a little box to nest in, cousin, but I am not the queen’s friend. I only accompanied you. Therefore I was on my own. The royal hospitality does not mean to be niggardly, but you see how many follow this court. There is simply no room to house them all decently, Rosamund. Now, come along, my darling. Shall we invite Lord Leslie?” he teased her wickedly, and he gave her arm a little pinch.

  “Do I need my horse?” she asked, ignoring his teasing.

  “Nay, darling girl. ’Tis only a short walk down the hill. The house is but a few yards from the castle gates. The old woman used to cook for the royal nursery when it was at Stirling. Your little friend, the queen, however, objected to the king housing his bastards in a castle she had a particular fondness for, and she threw such a tantrum when she first discovered the little by-blows there that the king moved his nursery to a more discreet location out of his queen’s sight. The king wanted to make his eldest son, Alexander, his heir, you know, and the queen still fears he might if she doesn’t give him a nice healthy babe.”

  “Alexander Stewart is the bishop of St. Andrew’s,” Rosamund said.

  “Aye, he is, and he is amazingly well suited to the task despite his youth. He and the king have a great bond of love between them. The queen is jealous. She knows that even if she gives her husband a healthy son and heir, Alexander will always be his favorite. But then, of course, he is the firstborn.”

  “How do you learn all this gossip, and in such detail?” Rosamund demanded of her cousin. “We have been here scarce a week,” she laughed.

  They had exited the castle, walked across the great courtyard, and were now passing through Stirling’s open gates into the street beyond. It was a cobbled byway lined in well-kept stone houses with dark slate roofs. Three houses down on the left Lord Cambridge stopped and turned to enter the building, calling as he did, “Mistress MacHugh, I have brought my cousin home, and we are hungry, having just come from the mass.”

  A tall, thin woman appeared from the depths of the darkened hallway. “Yer cousin, is it, my lord?”

  “Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate and the queen’s good friend, Mistress MacHugh. I’ve spoken of her,” Lord Cambridge said. He divested himself of his cloak and took Rosamund’s from her.

  “Ye’ve done naught but chatter away since ye rented my dwelling from me,” Mistress MacHugh replied sharply. She looked directly at Rosamund. “Does he ever stop speaking, my lady?” But her gray eyes were twinkling.

  “Not often, I fear, Mistress MacHugh,” Rosamund answered with a smile. Then she shivered involuntarily.

  The lady saw it and she tched. “Come into the parlor, my lady. I have a good fire going there. It’s the coziest room in the house. I’ll bring yer meal there.” Then she bustled off.

  The parlor of the cottage was indeed warm with the blazing fire. Rosamund sat down in a tapestried chair next to the warmth. Tom placed a small goblet of wine in her hand, advising her to drink it to restore the heat to her slender frame.

  “I’ll not press you until the meal is served,” he said. “I don’t w
ant to be interrupted, and you, I am certain, don’t wish to share your news with the entire world.”

  She nodded and slowly sipped at the sweet wine.

  “You are wearing one of my favorite gowns,” he noted. “The fur-trimmed sleeves make it a whole other garment, I vow. It complements your lovely hair, cousin.”

  “It is pretty, isn’t it?” Rosamund agreed. “And I thank you for the new sleeves. The marten is just wonderful in both texture and color.”

  The door to the parlor opened, and Mistress MacHugh came in carrying a large tray. She set it on a sideboard, then said, “My lord, help me with this table.” And together the landlady and Lord Cambridge set a sturdy oak table before the fire. Rosamund immediately drew her chair up. Their hostess filled two pewter plates with small trenchers of oat stirabout, fluffy eggs, ham, and individual cottage loaves that were hot from her ovens. She placed a stone crock of fresh butter, another of cherry preserves, and a generous wedge of cheese between them. Then, with a small curtsy, she departed the chamber.

  They ate in silence until both plates were empty and half the cheese was devoured between them. The wine, Rosamund thought, was really quite good. Finally satisfied, they sighed in unison, laughed, and Tom said to his cousin, “Well, now, dear girl, I would know absolutely all! Hold back nothing!”

  “We are lovers,” Rosamund began, and he nodded, not in the least surprised. Anyone at court who thought otherwise was a simpleton and a fool. “I am going away with him shortly, Tom. I would have you understand everything, but you must keep what I tell you a secret, for many lives depend upon it. Can you do that, cousin?”

  He nodded. “You know, Rosamund, that while I love England, I am not a man to involve myself in politics. Do you swear to me that this will not be treason on your part or mine by hearing you out?”

  “There is no treason, Tom,” she assured him.

  “Then I will keep secret all you tell me, but haven’t I always, dearest girl?”

  “You have, Tom. But this is very different. Hal has entered into an agreement with the Holy Father in Rome to attempt a removal of the French from northern Italy. Venice, Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire have joined them. They call themselves the Holy League. Hal has been pressing King James to join them. This Scots king has always been in high favor with the pope. That favor is now endangered by England insisting that Scotland join their cause. Patrick has told me what King James would do.”

  “Ahh,” said Lord Cambridge, seeing the problem immediately. “The auld alliance, of course. King James is an honorable man. He has no cause to break his word.”

  “Exactly,” Rosamund replied. “So the king is sending Lord Leslie to San Lorenzo, where he once served as Scotland’s ambassador, to meet secretly with Venice and the Empire in hopes that he may convince them to withdraw from this league, and by doing so weaken the alliance. Then Scotland will not seem so out of step. But if there is any chance of this plan succeeding, it must be done clandestinely. When Lord Leslie disappears from court it will be assumed that he has gone home. He hasn’t been to court in eighteen years, after all, and is hardly considered among the powerful or influential. He has asked me to go with him. I have said that I would, but my absence would be questioned, as I was asked to come to court by the queen and am considered her friend. I must lie to Meg. I will tell her that I have been sent a message that one of my daughters is very ill. That I must return to Friarsgate immediately, but that I will return to her as soon as possible—and indeed I will.”

  “You want me to go back to Friarsgate and tell Edmund and Richard? Is that it?” he asked her.

  “Aye, I do, Tom, but there is more. I would give you authority over my lands and my daughters until I return home again. I will not allow Henry Bolton any opportunity to steal my lasses, and by doing so, steal Friarsgate from me. He would try to bully Edmund and even Prior Richard, but he will not bully you. You are Lord Cambridge, and he just plain, ordinary Henry Bolton. I realize that I am asking a great deal from you, cousin. You thought to spend the winter here with me at the Scots court, escort me home, and then return to your own holding near London.”

  “True,” Tom said. “And I am more disappointed that I cannot travel with you to San Lorenzo. I have heard it is a most beautiful little duchy.”

  “I told Patrick you would be disappointed not to be accompanying us,” Rosamund responded with a small smile.

  Lord Cambridge chortled. “And I am certain he expressed his regrets at losing my company, dear girl.”

  She laughed. “Forgive us, dear Tom. Unexpectedly, and quite to our mutual surprise, we have fallen madly in love with each other. We must have this time to be together before it ends.”

  “You do not expect to marry him, cousin?” Tom looked troubled.

  “I will not leave Friarsgate, and neither can he leave his Glenkirk. We both understand this, Tom, and are content to have what time fate will allow us. That is why when the king asked Patrick to go to San Lorenzo he said he would only obey if I might come with him. Soon enough our duties will call us to our own holdings, Tom. I do not comprehend really what has happened, and I certainly do not understand why it has happened, but for the first time in my life I am in love. And I am loved in return. I have spent my life doing what was required of me. Now I require this little time for myself, and I shall have it.”

  “I will keep your secret, cousin. I will help you create this subterfuge, and then I will return to Friarsgate with your authority to watch over your daughters for you. Edmund guards your lands, and he is an amusing companion, although he will persist in beating me at chess. It is not quite the winter I had envisioned, but you are my beloved Rosamund, and I will do it. When must we leave?”

  “Not until after Twelfth Night,” she said.

  “And Logan Hepburn? What of him? What am I to say when he comes calling? What if he comes here to court before you escape?”

  “I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” she said. “And if he comes to Friarsgate seeking me, you will tell him I went off with a lover, and ’tis all you know,” Rosamund instructed her cousin. “I will not be bullied by that wild borderer!”

  “He’s in love with you, cousin,” her companion said.

  “He wants a son of me,” she replied. “I will not be his broodmare, Tom. Let him get his son on another!”

  “His family may force him to it now, dear girl. What will happen when you and Lord Leslie part and you decide that you want Logan Hepburn after all?” he asked her candidly.

  “Then I shall allow him to become my lover,” she answered pertly. “If he indeed does love me for myself and not my fecundity, he will be content with that, Tom.”

  “You have changed, my darling, since Owein’s death,” he told her. “Once you were a sweet innocent, but now you have become a willful wildcat. I love you nonetheless, however, and I do understand.”

  “Then you are probably the only one who does, Tom, and I am grateful for it,” she responded softly. “Thank you for being the best friend I have ever had or ever will have!”

  He shook his head at her. “Lord Leslie will not hurt you, I know. ’Tis you, I fear, who may hurt yourself. Do not lose your common sense, Rosamund. Enjoy this idyll you are about to embark upon, but keep a clear head, I beg you.”

  “I will, dear Tom,” she promised. “I am in love, but I am not a fool. And Patrick, I suspect, will protect me from myself.”

  “But who, I wonder,” he said quietly, “will protect Glenkirk?”

  Chapter 3

  Logan Hepburn came to court on the last day of the old year. He should have arrived a day earlier, he told his cousin, the Earl of Bothwell, but the weather had slowed him down. “I’ve come to wed with my lass,” he said with a grin.

  Patrick Hepburn’s look was disturbed. “Why have you set your heart on this English girl, Logan? Are there not plenty of fine Scots lasses for you to choose from, cousin? This woman is not for you.”

  Logan’s blue eyes were at once curi
ous and wary. “You have seen her?” he said.

  “Aye, and I will agree that she is fair and charming, Logan, but she is not for you, I fear,” the Earl of Bothwell said quietly.

  Logan shifted his large frame in the too-small chair in which he was seated. “And why is Rosamund Bolton not the lass for me, cousin?” His tone was decidedly dangerous.

  Patrick Hepburn sighed. He was annoyed by the position in which he found himself and troubled by his cousin’s insistence that he marry this Englishwoman. “Did you ever consider, Logan, that Rosamund Bolton might not want to marry you or any other man right now?” he asked the younger man.

  “But I love her!” the laird of Claven’s Carn replied.

  “It isn’t enough to just love a woman, Logan,” his cousin began.

  “What has happened?” Logan demanded.

  There was no help for it, the earl decided. Candor was the best route to take in this matter. “The lady has taken a lover, cousin. He is the Earl of Glenkirk, and their passion for each other is both public and palpable. You cannot possibly wed her now.”

  “I will kill this Earl of Glenkirk!” Logan shouted, jumping from his chair. “I warned Rosamund that I should destroy any man who tried to take her from me! Where is she? Where is he?”

  “Sit down, Logan,” his cousin ordered in a hard voice. “The Earl of Glenkirk is a cherished friend of the king’s. He is a widower with a grown son and grandchildren. He has not been to court in almost two decades, but the king invited him to Stirling this Christmas, and he actually came. He and Rosamund Bolton took one look at each other, and while I do not pretend to understand it, they were lovers that same night, I am told. They have contracted that rarest of conditions: love. You can do nothing about it, Logan. Their hearts are engaged, and that is an end to it.”

  “She knew I wanted her for my wife,” the laird said, and he slumped again in the chair by the fire in his cousin’s apartments. Why did Rosamund not understand?