“You do not trust me, then,” the laird said with a sarcastic smile.
“It is a requirement of her father’s that the marriage be consummated immediately,” Bothwell soothed the laird. “Robert Logan is an old-fashioned man, cousin. He would see the bloodied sheet made public the morning after the marriage is celebrated. It is his right, and it gives Jeannie the protection she deserves. Surely you cannot object, for your motives are honest, laddie.”
“If I agree to the match, aye, my motives will be honorable,” Logan said.
“Then, in a few hours you will see Rosamund Bolton and Patrick Leslie together. Afterwards you will see wee Jeannie Logan, and the die will be cast. You will not regret wedding this lass. ’Tis a good decision you have made.”
“You and my family have forced me to it, Patrick. I do not do this thing willingly,” the laird said quietly.
“You cannot wait forever for the lovely lady of Friarsgate to decide she wants to be your wife, Logan. She has made it plain to you that she does not,” Bothwell said.
“Nay, what she has made plain is that I was an arrogant fool, and I will now pay for it,” came the distraught reply.
“Accept what fate has handed you, Logan,” the earl advised, “and make the best of it. You will be unhappy otherwise.”
Logan laughed bitterly. “Rosamund advised me in similar terms to do the same thing just a little while back,” he said.
“I begin to admire this lady myself, cousin,” Bothwell said. “She is wise beyond her years. If you will not heed me, then heed her.”
“I have no other choice,” Logan said. “Fear not, Patrick. I will not make this little lass unhappy. If I take her for my wife I will treat her with kindness and respect. It is not her fault that I am a fool and the lady of Friarsgate does not love me.”
“Good, good,” the earl said, relieved. He had painted Robert Logan a rosy picture of his only daughter’s life as mistress of Claven’s Carn. He didn’t want it any other way. The lass was a perfect choice for his cousin.
When evening came, the Earl of Bothwell, his cousin in his company, went to the Great Hall to join the rest of the court. The minstrel’s gallery was full, and music wafted throughout the chamber, which overflowed with revelers. Servingmen and wenches dashed back and forth with trays, bowls of food, and pitchers of wine and ale. The hall was decorated with holly and pine. Beeswax candles and tapers burned everywhere. The fireplaces, full with huge logs, burned bright. They found their way to a table and sat down, and the earl was greeted by many, and introduced his companion. Goblets of wine were set down before them. There were silver plates quickly filled with food and bread.
“There, at the table next to us,” the earl said softly to Logan.
The laird turned, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he beheld Rosamund Bolton and her lover. They were totally absorbed in each other, and he had never seen her so beautiful as she was at that moment. Her face glowed with the open love she had for the man by her side. His expression as he gazed back at her was utterly adoring. “God’s blood!” Logan said under his breath. Then he turned back to his cousin. “Set the match with Jean Logan,” he said.
The Earl of Bothwell nodded quietly. “Now, laddie, look to the end of this table. Do you see the lass in the blue gown? That is Jean Logan. What do you think?”
Logan turned and looked quickly, for he did not wish to appear as if he were staring. The lassie had a sweet face and a quick smile when the young man by her side spoke to her. “She has an admirer,” he noted, “but, then, she is fair. She would. Tell me, Patrick, that her young heart is not involved with another. I would not take her away from someone who loved her.”
“She has been schooled for the convent since age eight. She is newly come to court under the queen’s protection. There is no one that I know of, cousin,” the earl said.
“Do you know her, Patrick?”
“I do. Her father and I are friends of long standing,” came the answer.
“Does the lass know of your plans, cousin?” the laird asked the earl.
“She has an inkling,” Bothwell responded. “She was told there was a possible match for her, and she was to come to court to meet the gentleman.”
“What if Rosamund Bolton had not fallen in love with another and had agreed to be my wife?” Logan queried.
“Then I should have found bonnie Jean another suitable husband,” the earl replied. “But I do not have to, do I, Logan?”
“Nay, you do not. She is pretty, she is young, and being convent bred undoubtedly amenable. If I cannot have Rosamund, this lass will do as well as any,” Logan said, resigned.
“ ’Tis not such a bad fate, cousin,” the earl noted.
“Come then, and introduce us, my lord,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said. “The sooner, the better, if you want me wedded and bedded on Twelfth Night. We should give the lass a little time to know the man she is to be shackled to for the rest of her life.” He arose from the table, the earl with him.
Together the two men walked to the end of the long board, and Patrick Hepburn stopped within the young girl’s gaze. She looked up, stood quickly, and curtsied to him.
“My lord Bothwell,” she said breathlessly, her curious gaze going to the earl’s companion. Her cheeks were pink, and her heart was beating rapidly.
“What, my bonnie Jean, it was Uncle Patrick the last time we met,” Bothwell said jovially. He tipped her small face up and gave her a quick kiss upon her lips. “You are being treated well in the queen’s household?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Patrick!” she replied.
“Well, lassie, you’ll not be there much longer, for you are to be married. But, then, your father told you it might be so, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” came the soft answer. Her blush deepened.
“Then, allow me to present my cousin, whose mother, God assoil her good soul, was a member of your own clan. This is Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn, Jean. You will be married to him on Twelfth Night here at Stirling.”
“Mistress Jean,” Logan said, bowing over the girl’s little hand as he took it up and kissed it. The small hand trembled in his, and he immediately felt protective of her.
She blushed again, but she looked directly at him. “My lord.”
He smiled at her, thinking the blush charming. Poor little lass, she had no choice in the matter and knew not what she was getting into at all. And then in a flash he understood what Rosamund had been forced to endure. “We have little time in which to get to know each other, Mistress Jean,” he said to her.
“We will have a lifetime together, my lord,” she answered, surprising him. “Besides, many girls never meet their bridegrooms until they are standing at the altar.”
“Which,” he remarked, “can often be a shock.”
She giggled. “On both sides, my lord,” she replied quickly.
In that moment he decided he was going to like her. He could only hope that she would like him.
“I shall leave you two to become acquainted,” the Earl of Bothwell said to the pair, and he moved quickly off.
There was a long, awkward silence, and then the laird of Claven’s Carn took Jeannie’s hand and said, “Let us stroll away from the revelers and talk, mistress.”
“I should like that,” Jean Logan responded, moving by his side. She was very petite, and he towered over her.
“I would tell you, Mistress Jean, that I require honesty above all things, and so I must ask you if you are content to make this marriage with me.”
“I am, my lord,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it did not quiver.
“And your heart is not engaged by any other?” he asked her. “For if it is, I would not force you into a match.”
“My heart will be yours, my lord, and no other’s,” Jean Logan said honestly.
He nodded. “I have two brothers,” he began. “Claven’s Carn is in the borders. We are not rich, but we are comfortable. The house is snug, and it wil
l be yours to rule.”
“Have you ever been wed before, my lord?” she asked.
“Never, Mistress Jean,” he answered her.
“Why not?” she wondered.
“It is a long story,” he said.
“I like stories,” she responded quietly.
He laughed. “I see that I shall be unable to hide anything from you, Mistress Jean. Very well. I have for many years sought the hand of an English neighbor. Her guardian would not consider a match, and after he had seen her wed to two husbands—for she was a child when those marriages were celebrated—I thought to have my chance with her. But the English king matched her with one of his own knights. It was a good marriage. There were children, and then her husband was killed in an accident. I sought her hand, but she would not have me. Since I am past thirty, my family appealed to Lord Bothwell to make a match for me, as we are kin. And so he has.”
“I think her a foolish lady, my lord,” Jeannie said softly, having stopped so she might look up at him when she said it. “I shall not be unhappy to be your wife at all.”
He smiled down at the young girl. It might have been far worse, he thought, and while he would always regret Rosamund, he was going to be a good husband to this sweet lassie. “Then I will certainly be content as well, Mistress Jean, and I think myself fortunate in having found you.” He bent down and kissed her lips softly. “To seal our bargain, lassie,” he told her.
She blushed again. “I have never been kissed before by a lover,” she told him naively.
“And now mine are the only lips your sweet ones shall know, Jean Logan,” he said to her. “I shall take you back now, and we will tell Lord Bothwell that we are content with this bargain.” He took her hand again, and they reentered the crush of guests in the hall. He sought out Bothwell telling him, “We are agreed, Mistress Jean and I, cousin. You may affix Twelfth Night as our wedding day.”
“Excellent!” the Earl of Bothwell declared. “Let us go and speak with the king now.” And he led them to where James Stewart sat observing his court.
“Well, my lord, and what have you come to say, for you are looking most arch this night?” the king remarked.
“I do not believe, highness, that you have met my cousin, Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn,” the earl began, “and this is his betrothed wife, Mistress Jean Logan, who is a relation on his mother’s side. They seek your highness’ permission to be wed here at Stirling on Twelfth Night Day.”
James Stewart’s dark eyebrows quirked. Was this not the man who desired the lovely lady of Friarsgate for a wife? He considered asking, but realized that if this was the man of whom he had heard, the sweet-faced lass by his side might not have known of her future husband’s lust for Rosamund Bolton. It mattered not. The Englishwoman was enamored of the Earl of Glenkirk, and this border lord was to wed another. “They have our permission,” the king said, “and the marriage may be celebrated in my chapel. The queen and I will serve as witness to this union.” Then he smiled at them, delighting in Jean Logan’s blue eyes, which grew round with her excitement. “Come here, lassie,” he said, “and give your king a kiss, now.” He held out his hand to her.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, rosy with her blushes. “Oh, sir!” And catching up the outstretched hand, she kissed it fervently. Then, releasing the hand, she curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lord, for this great honor.”
“And you, Logan Hepburn? Are you satisfied with this matter?” the king probed. His look was sharp and very direct.
“I am advised by my cousin, the earl, and the rest of my small clan branch that it is past time for me to wed, my lord. Mistress Jean should make me a fine wife,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said politically.
The king smiled cynically. “May God and his Holy Mother bless you both, then, and give you many bairns,” he said. The impulsive laird had obviously seen the truth of Rosamund’s infatuation with Lord Leslie and given in to his family’s pleas. Well, the little lass was pretty and obviously well bred. She would probably suit Logan Hepburn far better than the lovely Englishwoman, although right now he undoubtedly did not realize it.
They were dismissed, and the trio made a final obeisance to the king and moved back into the crowd of courtiers.
James Stewart leaned over and murmured to his queen, “The laird of Claven’s Carn will be wed in our chapel Twelfth Night Day to a young cousin.”
“Who?” Margaret Tudor asked her husband.
“A little lass called Jean Logan,” the king replied quietly.
“I know her,” the queen said. “She has been among the women in my household for a fortnight. Bothwell brought her to me. A sweet child.”
“You will want your fair English friend to know,” the king advised softly.
“Aye, I will tell her. I wonder if she will care. She is so wrapped up in her passion for Lord Leslie that I doubt it,” Margaret Tudor said. “How she has changed from our days at my father’s court. She was so young and ingenuous then. Now she is proud and fierce in her determination to have her own way.”
“I imagine that you are not the girl you once were either, my queen,” the king said, amused by his wife’s astute observation of her old friend. “Many years have passed since you were together, Meg. A great deal has happened in each of your lives since that time.”
The queen nodded. “Aye, she has borne three daughters and lost another husband, while I have lost four bairns. But I will not lose this child, Jamie! I feel different this time! This bairn is strong. It virtually leaps in my womb.” She looked up at him, her pretty face both sure and hopeful.
“Aye,” the king told his wife. “This child will live, Meg. I know it.”
Relief flooded the queen’s face as she understood what he was saying to her. She took his hand up and kissed it ardently. “Thank you, Jamie! Thank you!”
“Now, lass, you will have the whole court saying that the queen is in love with her husband if you go on like that,” he said, gently disengaging himself from her grasp.
“But I do love you!” she protested. “I do, Jamie!”
“I know, Meg,” he replied. “And I love you, too.” He patted her cheek, then turned away to speak with a courtier who had been attempting to catch his royal eye.
The evening was coming to an end. The queen signaled to her little page, and he was immediately at her side. “Find the lady of Friarsgate and tell her that I would speak with her now in my privy chamber.”
“Aye, highness,” the child answered, and he hurried off.
The queen arose, and her ladies were instantly clustered about her. “Nay,” she said to them. “Stay and enjoy yourselves. I will be in my privy chamber and am not yet ready for bed. Remain here.” Then she glided off, moving silently across the chamber and down the corridor to her own apartments. Entering, she told her servingwoman, “The Lady of Friarsgate is coming. Send her to me when she arrives.”
“Aye, highness,” the servant said, curtsying.
Margaret Tudor entered her privy chamber, and after sitting down by the blazing fire in the fireplace, kicked off her shoes, wiggling her toes with pleasure. The door opened, and Rosamund entered. “Fetch us some wine,” the queen said, “and then come sit with me. I have some rather interesting news to impart.”
Rosamund did as she was bid, and then after seating herself opposite her old friend, she, too, kicked off her shoes. “Ahh, that is much better,” she said, and she took a sip of wine.
“Do you have any feelings for Logan Hepburn?” the queen queried her friend.
“Nay. What on earth do you mean, Meg? I still find him as arrogant and as irritating as I ever have. He is here at Stirling, you know. I saw him at Bothwell’s insistence. I told him I would not wed him. That I loved Patrick Leslie.”
“He is to be married Twelfth Night Day!” the queen exclaimed.
“Who is to be married?” Rosamund asked, puzzled.
“Logan Hepburn! He is to marry that sweet little Jean Logan who has been
in my household these past few weeks.”
“That quiet little lass with the big blue eyes who hardly says a word?” Rosamund asked. “God’s blood! Bothwell did not wait long to propose that, although I suspect he had it planned all along.”
“Then you do not mind?” Margaret Tudor sounded disappointed.
“Nay, Meg, I do not mind. It is past time Logan Hepburn gave up this childish fantasy about me, and married. He needs an heir, and he has a duty to his family. Nay, I am pleased he has seen reason at long last.”
“You really are in love with Patrick Leslie, then?” the queen asked.
“I really am in love with him,” Rosamund replied.
“I hold myself responsible for what has happened to you,” the queen said. “If I had not invited you to visit me, you should never have met Patrick Leslie. Logan Hepburn might have even forced you to the altar, Rosamund! I have saved you once again, as I saved you from my brother all those years ago!”
Rosamund laughed. “It is true, Meg! Though until now I never thought of it that way. If I had not come to see you at this moment in time, I should not have met Patrick Leslie. But believe me when I tell you, Logan Hepburn would have never forced me to the altar. If I ever marry again, it will be for love alone, and the choice will be mine to make and no one else’s.”
“You remember Grandmother’s advice,” the queen chuckled.
“I do indeed, Meg. The Venerable Margaret was a great woman, and I admired her muchly.”
“I wonder what she would think of us today. I think she would approve of your exchanging Logan Hepburn for the Earl of Glenkirk, no matter he is an old man. She always considered a woman advancing her status in life a good thing. Will you marry Lord Leslie?”
“Nay,” Rosamund said quietly. “And before you ask, Meg, or attempt to interfere, let me explain. Patrick has a duty to Glenkirk. I have a duty to Friarsgate. Neither of us will eschew our duty. We both comprehend that, and we are content. This is the way it must be between us. I know you will not understand, but you must not meddle, Meg. Promise me that you will not involve yourself in this matter.”
Until You Page 8
