Until You

by Bertrice Small

  “Is there no shakefold?” Rosamund asked, looking for the stiffened hooplike garment usually worn beneath her gowns at home.

  “Celestina says just a couple of petticoats, my lady. She says it permits the fabric to drape gracefully, showing the gown and its wearer to better advantage,” Annie parroted. She tied the laces of the undergown tightly, then fitted the overgown atop it, fastening it neatly. Then the servant stepped back. “Oh, my lady, it is so beautiful, so elegant, and I think a bit naughty. But Celestina assures me that it is the fashion here.”

  Rosamund nodded. “She would not lie. She is long past her passion for the earl, and her father’s position would be endangered if she did me a disservice.” She twirled, seeing how the gown moved, and was pleased. “Let us finish my hair,” she said.

  “Celestina’s daughter Martina has been sent to do it, my lady,” Annie said. “I am to learn from her.”

  “Have her come in, then,” Rosamund replied, sitting down at a little table.

  Martina looked nothing at all like her mother. She was tall and lanky, but she did have Celestina’s direct manner. “Ah, madame is ready,” she began. She moved quickly behind Rosamund. “First,” she said, “I must see what kind of hair madame has.” She began brushing the thick auburn locks. “Ah, excellent!” The brush worked vigorously.

  “You will wear no cap,” she said. “I am told that you have a jeweled ribbon to be worn.” She found the part in the center of Rosamund’s head. “Now, here is a style I particularly like and that will suit madame. It is simple. It will not detract from her beauty. I fold the hair thusly, fastening it with pins. Girl! Hold up a mirror for your mistress to see. I call it a chignon.” And as Rosamund viewed herself in the mirror, Martina attached a half-moon of delicate silk flowers in cream, gold, and pale green across the top of the chignon. Lastly, she fastened the pale green silk ribbon with the oval green peridot set in its center about Rosamund’s forehead. Then she held up a second mirror behind her client that Rosamund might see the full effect.

  Rosamund stared. “I do not believe I have ever seen such a beautiful hairstyle,” she said honestly. “In England we keep our hair beneath caps and hoods mostly. Thank you, Martina. Please teach Annie how you do this.”

  “It is simple, madame, and your servant does not seem stupid,” Martina answered.

  “What did she say?” Annie asked.

  “That she will be delighted to teach you how to do this style, Annie. Really, you must try to learn the language better,” Rosamund scolded gently.

  There was a knock on the door, and Dermid stuck his head through. “His lordship wants to know if her ladyship is ready to leave yet. The ambassador’s carriage is already waiting outside.”

  “Give me my shoes,” Rosamund said; then she slipped her feet into the slippers that were placed before her and arose, turning as she did to say, “I thank you both.” Then she hurried from the bedchamber out into the dayroom where the Earl of Glenkirk awaited her. “Oh my!” she said as she caught her first glimpse of him.

  His dark green velvet breeches were striped in deep forest green and cloth of gold. His fine silken hose were deep green with a tied gold cord garter on one shapely leg. His short coat was silk brocade, the sleeves padded and puffed. It was trimmed in dark brown marten fur. The doublet beneath, which was embroidered in gold thread with a floral design, was also slashed to show the cream-colored silk shirt beneath. His matching hat had a soft crown but a hard turned-up brim and a white ostrich plume. His shoes were fine brown leather. He had a large heavy gold chain about his neck, and both his hands were beringed. There was a bejeweled dagger at his waist.

  “May I return the compliment?” the earl said, admiring Rosamund.

  “You may,” she replied.

  “Then let us go, madame. Lord MacDuff awaits us below. I think it is time you met your host.” The earl took Rosamund’s arm and led her from the apartment and downstairs, where Ian MacDuff stood along with Celestina who nodded her approval at the couple, but said nothing.

  The Scots ambassador’s gray eyes widened as he saw them descend. He came immediately forward, taking Rosamund’s hand up and kissing it. “Madame, I am pleased to have you as my guest. It is an honor to entertain the queen’s good friend.”

  “Unfortunately, the queen does not know I am here,” Rosamund admitted. “She would be most vexed with me, I fear.”

  “Then we shall keep your secret, Lady Rosamund,” the ambassador said with a smile. “But the queen is generous of heart and would certainly want her friend happy,” he finished with another smile. “Shall we go?” He led them outside where the open carriage awaited them.

  Lord MacDuff obviously did not know Meg well, Rosamund thought, amused. Margaret Tudor wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. Still, the man was an ambassador, and obviously a good one.

  Rosamund allowed a footman to help her into the vehicle. She had never seen an open coach, for in England and Scotland such a thing would be considered ridiculous. Here, with the warm evening and the sun setting as they started off to the palace, it was quite perfect.

  They moved down the hill upon which the ambassador’s residence was located and along a narrow street into the cathedral square. The carriage crossed the square traveling into a broader avenue lined with large and elegant houses. It eventually gave way to a thoroughfare lined with tall trees. They began to ascend a hill, coming finally to the duke’s palace at the mount’s summit. They passed through great gates and traveled along a drive of perfectly raked white gravel. As their coach passed, servants came out from the shrubbery to re-rake the drive that it might be perfect for the next vehicle.

  The palace itself was built of cream-colored marble. They stopped before its entry porch, which was lined with elegant marble pillars speckled with green. There was a large marble fountain before the palace with a bronze statue of a boy on a dolphin, which sprayed water into the pool. Lanterns were hung everywhere in the trees. Their carriage stopped, and they were helped from it by servants in the duke’s blue and gold livery. The two gentlemen escorted Rosamund into the palace where a majordomo greeted them obsequiously.

  “My lord ambassador, Lord Leslie, Lady Rosamund,” he said, and he ushered them towards the exquisite hall where the duke was holding his fete.

  Now, how, Rosamund wondered to herself, did this servant, whom she had never before in her life seen, know her name?

  They were announced by a second majordomo, the first having left them at the entry to the hall to return to his place in the entry foyer.

  “His excellency, the ambassador from his most noble and Catholic majesty, King James of Scotland, Lord Ian MacDuff. Lord Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. Lady Rosamund Bolton,” the majordomo called out in ringing tones.

  They moved down several marble steps into the lovely hall, so different from what she was used to, Rosamund noted. For one thing, there were no fireplaces, and one wall of the room opened to a terrace that she could see beyond the pale gold marble pillars. There was a ducal throne at one end of the hall, and they now moved towards it.

  Sebastian, Duke of San Lorenzo, watched them come and struggled to maintain his surprise. When he had learned that his old friend Lord Leslie traveled with a lovely female companion, he had not anticipated she would be so . . . so . . . so young and so deliciously ripe. He would not have expected such a thing from a man from the north. Lord Leslie, while enjoying San Lorenzo during his tenure as ambassador, had always been most correct. A man his age did not travel with so exquisite and youthful a mistress unless he was very much in love. Sebastian di San Lorenzo had never considered that Patrick Leslie would be in love at any age.

  He arose from the ducal throne, and stepping off the dais, offered both his hands in greeting to the Earl of Glenkirk. To any watching it would certainly appear as if they were just meeting. “Patrick!” His voice boomed for all to hear. “Welcome back to San Lorenzo!” He turned his head slightly and gave a sharp look to his heir, Rudolpho,
who immediately stood up and came forward, bowing to the earl. “You will remember my son, of course.”

  “Of course,” Patrick said. He would never as long as he lived forget Rudolpho di San Lorenzo. Had it not been for this man now before him, his daughter might not have been lost to him. He bowed curtly.

  “And this is his wife, Henrietta Maria,” the duke said, drawing his daughter-in-law forward.

  “Madame,” the earl said, bowing low over the outstretched hand. She might have once been pretty, he thought, but she was worn and wan with all of her child-bearing.

  “You are most welcome to San Lorenzo,” Henrietta Maria said in a soft voice. Her warm brown eyes were sympathetic.

  So she knew, the earl thought, and then he smiled at her. “I thank you, madame,” he said quietly.

  “MacDuff,” the duke greeted the ambassador.

  “My lord duke,” was the equally short reply.

  The duke’s gaze now fastened itself on Rosamund. “And who is this?” he almost purred, his black eyes plunging into the valley between her breasts.

  “May I present the lady of Friarsgate, Rosamund Bolton,” the ambassador said, and Rosamund curtsied low, allowing the duke an even better view of her ample charms.

  “My dear lady,” the duke said, oozing charm, “so fair a flower is most welcome to my duchy.” And he took her hand up to kiss, but he did not release it.

  “I am honored, my lord,” Rosamund said quietly in perfect French, withdrawing her hand from his in a smooth motion.

  The duke then introduced her to his heir and his heir’s wife before they were able to move off into the crowd of other guests.

  “What happened to his wife?” Rosamund asked Patrick.

  “She died about five years after my daughter disappeared,” he responded.

  “And the duke did not remarry?”

  “He had a grown heir, and by then Rudi had one son and three daughters. I imagine he saw no need. Besides, he has always enjoyed the attentions of many women. The duchess Maria-Theresa was a patient woman with a good heart. I suspect he might even have loved her.”

  Rosamund nodded. “Where is the guest of honor, I wonder?” she said.

  And at that moment the majordomo at the entry to the lovely hall called out, “My lords and my ladies, Maestro Paolo Loredano di Venetzia!”

  And all eyes turned to the man atop the steps.

  Chapter 7

  Paolo Loredano was a tall, slender man with bright red hair. He was dressed in the most elegant and fashionable garb. His silken breeches were striped in silver and rich purple, and his hose was cloth of silver with a gold rosette garter on one leg. His doublet was lavender and gold satin brocade embroidered in deep purple. His short silk coat was of cloth of gold and cloth of silver with large puffed and padded sleeves. On his head was a purple velvet cap with an ostrich plume. The gold chain that fell from his neck and lay on his chest was studded with sparkling gemstones. His round-toed shoes were purple silk, and on each of his fingers he had a ring of some sort. He carried a single silver glove in his hand, and at his waist was a light dress sword with a cruciform hilt.

  He stood a moment atop the steps leading down into the hall, observing. Then, with mincing steps, he descended as the duke came forward to greet him.

  “My dear maestro, I bid you welcome to San Lorenzo. We are so honored you have decided to make it your winter home,” the duke said.

  “Grazia,” Loredano said. “Anywhere is preferable to Venice in February, my dear duke. Your little enclave, however, has everything I like. Sunny weather, the sea, and an abundance of good light for painting. I have taken a villa overlooking the harbor for my servant and myself.” He took in the hall again. “And,” he continued, “you seem to have many beautiful women and young men as well. I think I shall be quite content here, my dear duke. The doge sends you his greetings.”

  “He is well, I hope,” Duke Sebastian replied.

  “Considering his age, he is indeed well. We fully expect him to continue to rule for at least another ten years, if not more,” Paolo Loredano answered.

  “Excellent! Excellent!” the duke said jovially. “Come now, and meet my son and some of our guests.” And he drew the artist forward by the arm so he might be introduced to his son and his daughter-in-law. One by one the other guests came forward to meet the Venetian. “And here is another visitor to my duchy. She joins us each winter,” the duke said. “May I present to you Baroness Irina Von Kreutzenkampe of Kreutzenburg.”

  “Baroness,” the artist, said bowing over the beautiful woman’s plump beringed hand, his bright black eyes surveying her bosom. “You must pose for me,” he said, smiling. “I shall paint you as a barbarian warrior queen.”

  The baroness’ blue eyes looked directly at the artist. “And how shall I be costumed?” she asked. Her tone, while quiet, was also teasing.

  “You shall have a helmet, a spear, and a discreet drapery,” he told her, “but your bosom must be bared. Barbarian warrior women were always bare breasted,” he finished.

  The baroness laughed a low and smoky laugh. “I shall consider it,” she said.

  “I would gift your husband with the painting,” the artist murmured.

  “I am a widow, maestro,” Irina Von Kreutzenkampe answered him, and then she moved away.

  “And this is Lord MacDuff, the ambassador from King James of Scotland,” the duke continued, sorry that the previous conversation had been ended.

  Lord MacDuff bowed, nodded, and moved on.

  “And the Earl of Glenkirk, who was King James’ first ambassador to me many years ago. He has returned this winter with his companion to escape the cold. May I present Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate,” the duke said.

  The earl bowed, but the artist’s eyes went past him to fix themselves on Rosamund.

  “You are beautiful, Madonna,” he said softly.

  “Grazia, maestro,” Rosamund responded. She was beginning to learn the Italian language now.

  “I shall paint you, too,” the artist said enthusiastically. “You, I shall envision as the goddess of love, Madonna. Do not say no to me.”

  Rosamund laughed lightly. “You flatter me, maestro,” she said.

  “But you have not said yes,” he cried.

  “I have not, have I?” she answered him, and then, taking Patrick’s arm she moved off.

  “You flirted with him,” the earl said, sounding slightly aggrieved.

  “I did,” she agreed, “but I did not say I should allow him to paint me with my breasts bare or otherwise.” And Rosamund laughed.

  “If it would help me to gain my ends with Venice, would you?” he asked wickedly.

  “Yes!” she told him. “Yes, I would, Patrick! He wants to seduce me, you know. But before or after he has had his way with the baroness I am not certain,” she giggled.

  He laughed. “You are probably right. Now, the baroness interests me very much. My information tells me that she is the daughter of one of Emperor Maximilian’s contemporaries. She comes to San Lorenzo each winter. MacDuff thinks she is the emperor’s eyes and ears here, for the duke is much in favor with the Germans, who visit his port on a regular basis. Who would suspect a woman of spying?”

  “She is very beautiful,” Rosamund noted.

  “If you like large-bosomed women with gold hair, blue eyes, and an inviting smile,” Patrick said mischievously.

  “Well, she has had her eye on you this evening,” Rosamund muttered, “but don’t you think she is a bit, er, large?”

  “These Germanic woman tend to be big-boned,” he replied. “They make a right armful, I am told. Are you jealous, my love?”

  “Of the baroness? No more than you are of the Venetian, my lord,” Rosamund responded smoothly. And she looked up at her lover and smiled.

  Before he might reply, however, the lady in question glided to his side. “My lord Leslie,” she said. “I believe there are matters we must discuss soon. When may we speak?”

  C
lose up, Rosamund could see the baroness’ face was lightly pockmarked. She did not speak to the earl’s companion.

  “My ambassador will be giving a small feast in a few days. You will be invited, madame, and there we may speak with each other in the privacy of the embassy and not arouse suspicions by doing so,” the Earl of Glenkirk told her.

  She held out her plump hand to him. “That is suitable,” she said.

  “I shall look forward to our next meeting,” he murmured, kissing her hand.

  “I did not know Lord MacDuff was giving a feast in a few days’ time,” Rosamund said.

  “Neither does MacDuff,” the earl replied with a grin. “I would prefer it if I could speak with Venice first. That is why you will tell the artist that you are considering his invitation but that you would like to see his studio first. I will come with you. If he is our man, he will use that opportunity to approach me. Our visit to his studio will not arouse anyone’s suspicions. Neither will the baroness’ visit to the embassy for a feast.”

  “I think that if you come with me the Venetian will not approach you. He will have his guard up and consider that you come because you don’t trust him to be alone with me. He may even think I am King James’ emissary. Let me go alone, and then you shall call for me. When you do, you shall ask to see his studio and say you are considering allowing the maestro to paint me. I shall feign weariness and retreat to the street for fresh air at that point. If he is your contact, he will certainly speak with you then, and no one shall be the wiser.”

  The Earl of Glenkirk smiled admiringly at Rosamund. “You really do have a taste for intrigue, my love,” he said. “I think King Henry has lost a valuable ally in you.”