Tom nodded, following as Adam Leslie led them from the chamber where they had been seated, down the corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Opening the door to one of the inn’s guest apartments, he ushered them inside. Almost immediately a very tall, dark-skinned gentleman in long white robes came forth from another room.
“Ah, my lord, you have returned.” He looked curiously at Rosamund and Tom. “This is the lady?” he queried.
“Aye, this is my father’s betrothed wife, Master Achmet,” Adam replied. “This physician was sent by the king,” he explained to Rosamund and Tom.
“How is the earl?” Rosamund asked anxiously. She was still very pale and could not contain the trembling that continued to afflict her.
Seeing it, the physician took her by the arm and seated her near the fire, sitting next to her. He took her hand in his, his fingers wrapped lightly about her wrist, his gaze thoughtful. “Calm yourself, madame,” he said in a quiet voice. “What has happened has happened. Your heart is racing too quickly, and that is not good for you. My lord, would you pour the lady some of that wine? When you have drunk a bit of it, madame, we will speak on the earl’s condition.”
Adam quickly filled a goblet and handed it to Rosamund, who drank deeply and then, as she felt calmer, turned her amber gaze to Master Achmet.
“The earl,” the physician said, “has suffered a seizure of the brain. He is yet unconscious. He may awaken with no ill affects at all. There seems to be no harm done to his limbs, for they are quite supple. He may awaken, the ability to speak gone from him. I have seen that in many cases. He may awaken with his memory impaired. Or he may not awaken at all. This is my prognosis, madame.”
“Have you bled him yet?” she asked.
“Bleeding would not be advisable in this particular case, madame,” the physician said. “The earl will need all his strength to recover.”
Rosamund nodded. “When do you think he will awaken?” she asked.
“I do not know, madame,” was the honest answer.
“I will nurse him myself,” Rosamund said.
“That would be best for his lordship. The quality of women who purport to do nursing in this city is not at all good,” the physician agreed.
“Tom, send a message to Friarsgate. Maybel must come!” Rosamund decided. “And we cannot remain here at the inn. You have a house in Edinburgh, don’t you?”
“I sent ahead to have it opened and aired,” Lord Cambridge replied. “I thought to let you and Patrick have a few days to yourselves there after your marriage, while I took young Philippa to court and showed her the sights of the city.”
“When can the earl be moved?” Rosamund asked Master Achmet.
“I think it best he regain consciousness first,” the physician responded.
“Adam”—Rosamund turned to Patrick’s son—“forgive me for giving orders without consulting you. I am not yet your father’s wife. Will these arrangements suit you?”
Adam came and knelt down next to Rosamund. “I know how much he loves you, madame, and I am content in the knowledge that you will take the best of care of him.” He took her small, cold hand and kissed it gently.
“Thank you,” Rosamund said simply. She turned back to the physician. “What am I to do?” she asked him.
“You must keep him comfortable and quiet. Moisten his lips regularly with water or wine. If he is able to swallow, give him wine to drink. I will come twice daily to check on my patient, madame. If there is an emergency, I can be reached either at the castle or at my house in the High Street.” Master Achmet arose from his place by her side. “I will leave you now,” he said, bowing before he departed.
Rosamund was still wearing her cloak. She stood and unfastened it, laying it aside. “I want to see him now,” she said and walked past them into the earl’s bedchamber.
Patrick lay upon the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his skin pale. Yet he looked no different than when they had parted last October.
“Oh, my love,” Rosamund whispered softly as she sat upon the edge of the bed and took his hand into hers. His hand was clammy, and the limp fingers did not squeeze hers back. “Patrick, can you hear me?” she begged him. “Oh, God, this cannot be! Do not take him from me. From his son. From Glenkirk.”
The man on the bed lay still and silent.
Rosamund did not hear her cousin until he spoke to her.
“What am I to do about Philippa? Will you tell her, or shall I?” he asked.
Rosamund looked up at him, her face stricken with her grief. “You must tell her, Tom, if you will, for I cannot. I will not leave him now.”
“Shall I send her home with Lucy?” he wondered.
“Nay. Poor lass, she was so looking forward to this trip. We are here now. You heard what the physician said. Patrick could awaken and be absolutely fine. If I send her back she could miss the wedding and would not be able to visit the court. You must take her to court, Tom. And how did the king know of Patrick’s illness to send a physician? I would ask Adam that.”
“He has already explained that to me,” Tom said. “The earl had corresponded with King James in order that your marriage be celebrated in the Chapel Royal. As soon as they got here last night, Patrick sent a message to the castle. This morning, when his father fell ill, Adam sent to the king for aid.”
“He is a good son,” Rosamund remarked.
“He is like his father,” Tom responded.
“It is too late to dispatch a messenger today,” Rosamund said. “I will write to Maybel myself, but you must see my correspondence sent in the morning by the fastest means possible, Tom. And we will move Patrick as soon as the physician says we may. He was an odd fellow, wasn’t he? He is not a Scot.”
“He’s a Moor,” Tom told her. “Another bit of information I gleaned from Adam Leslie. His family was driven out of Spain by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. They resettled themselves across the Strait of Gibraltar. The physician has been visiting King James’ court. He is a skilled doctor, and a surgeon, as well. You know the king has begun a college for medicine here in Edinburgh. He feels a physician should be educated and that surgeons should not be barbers as well. Master Achmet is skilled in diagnosing disorders of the brain. He is famous for his knowledge. King James hopes to convince him to lecture to the Scots students. It was fortunate he was here.”
“How do you obtain all this knowledge in so short a time?” she demanded of him.
Tom grinned. “I have my own skills, cousin,” he told her. Then he said, “Come out into the dayroom now with Adam. Your earl is comfortable for the moment. You need not sit by his side constantly.”
“His lips are dry,” Rosamund replied. “Let me moisten them. I will join you shortly.” She went across the bedchamber and dipped a clean cloth she found into the pitcher of fresh water sitting on the table beneath the window that looked out over the inn’s back garden. The garden below was showing signs of green in many places. After returning to Patrick’s side, Rosamund wiped the cloth gently over his mouth several times. He made no movement or sound at all. Rosamund felt tears beginning to fill her eyes. She blinked, and they ran down her cheeks. Impatiently she brushed them away as she bent and kissed his cold lips. Then she replaced the cloth by the pitcher and went out into the next room.
“He is so still,” she said to Adam. “His lips were beginning to dry. I have moistened them.” Looking about, she saw her cousin was no longer there.
“He went to seek out your little daughter,” Adam said.
“Poor Philippa,” Rosamund responded. “She will be very distressed to learn her beloved Uncle Patrick is ill. My girls love him very much.”
“He was always wonderful with my sister, although she tried his patience greatly,” Adam said.
“You never found her,” Rosamund answered him. “I am sorry.”
“I haven’t given up hope, madame,” he told her. “I will seek her until I find her. One day I shall. Then I shall bring her home.”
“My father has told me your history and of how you met,” he replied.
“Does your wife know about me yet?” Rosamund inquired.
A small smile touched Adam’s lips. “My father has told you of Anne?”
Rosamund nodded but said nothing, for she did not think it would be polite to say she had heard Adam Leslie’s wife was a shrew.
He laughed a short laugh. “She is difficult,” he admitted, “but it is just because she wants everything right. I have a fair mistress who keeps me happy. But Anne keeps Glenkirk in perfect order, and she has given me three children. I will ask no more of her. Nay, she does not know of you, madame, for my father was not of a mind to spend a winter locked up with her carping at him about his age and the foolishness of a man of his years thinking he was in love like some green youth. And of how a young woman would be interested only in his small wealth and title. And how if he managed to give her a child, another child would but lessen her children’s inheritance. My father is, as you know, madame, a wise man. Better my wife learn of you after the marriage is celebrated.”
Rosamund could not help but giggle at his recitation. “Aye, Patrick is a wise man, Adam, and I am certain he would want you to call me by my Christian name. Will you please do so?”
“I will, Rosamund, and gladly,” he told her.
Tom had told Philippa of Lord Leslie’s tragedy, and nothing would do but that Philippa come to her mother. The little girl could not refrain from weeping, but Rosamund calmed her daughter.
“Will you remain in Edinburgh with me, child?” she asked her daughter. “Your company will be a great comfort to me.”
“Oh, yes, mama!” Philippa cried. “I shall not leave your side.”
Rosamund smiled softly. “Nay. I will nurse the earl alone, Philippa. But Uncle Tom would take you to court to meet the king and the queen. It is important that you make that connection, for one day Queen Margaret could aid you. She is my oldest friend. Friarsgate needs friends on both sides of the border, given its location. You are my heiress. It is your duty to make the most of this first visit to Edinburgh. I will be content by Lord Leslie’s bedside, helping him regain his health. When he is able, child, we will move to your uncle Tom’s house here in town.”
Philippa nodded. “Mayhap we will be there for my birthday,” she said.
“I think we will,” Rosamund agreed. “We are sending to Friarsgate for Maybel.”
“She will not be happy to have to travel, mama,” Philippa remarked.
Rosamund laughed. “Nay, she will not be. But she will come because I call her.”
“I hope Uncle Patrick gets well soon, mama,” Philippa said.
“So do I, my angel,” her mother concurred.
But Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, lay in a stupor for three days. The crisis would come sooner than later, the physician told Rosamund. In his unconscious state he was unable to swallow, and his body was drying out for lack of liquid. Halfway through the fourth day, the earl began to stir restlessly. Rosamund held a cup of water to his lips, and while his eyes did not open and he did not give any other sign of consciousness, he drank greedily until he fell back upon his pillows.
“He will live,” Master Achmet pronounced upon learning of this new development.
“But he is not awake,” Rosamund said.
“He is attempting to wake himself, madame. It may take another few days. Keep him comfortable and feed him watered wine.”
Rosamund followed the physician’s instructions. With Adam’s help, she kept the earl’s large body bathed and clean. She saw that he was put in a freshly laundered linen shirt each morning and again each evening. She changed his bedding daily. Patiently she held the pewter cup to his lips and coaxed him to drink a dozen times a day. She slept by his side at night in case he should awaken or otherwise need her. Her devotion was commendable. Adam began to see what kind of woman his father had fallen in love with and desired to wed. He found himself admiring Rosamund.
At first Adam had been concerned when his father had confided to him that he had fallen in love. Patrick had arrived home to celebrate his fifty-second birthday. Adam was more concerned when he learned that Rosamund was only twenty-three. It was true that marriages between many people of their class had a disparity of age between the bride and the groom. But his father had been widowed for twenty-nine years. While he certainly had a healthy appetite for female flesh, he had never evinced the slightest desire to marry again. But now his father’s face lit up each time he spoke to his son of Rosamund. Each day during the winter Adam’s father had written to his beloved. These letters were now in a leather pouch that the earl had brought with them. He wanted to share his winter’s loneliness with this woman he adored. Adam was finally convinced that his father was not in his dotage and that spending the remainder of his life with Rosamund Bolton was the right thing for the Earl of Glenkirk to do. Now he gave her the packet of letters, but Rosamund, concerned with Patrick’s health, put them aside to read another time.
When Adam met Rosamund he knew instantly that his instincts had been sound. She loved his father every bit as much as he loved her. Her concern for the earl and her tender care of him were real. Not once did she complain. Not once did she whine that now her wedding was to be delayed. Her sole reason for being, it seemed to Adam, was his father’s well-being and eventual recovery. And then Master Achmet said they might move the earl to Lord Cambridge’s house. While he was not fully conscious yet, he did appear stronger and able to make the short journey.
Tom had purchased a house off the High Street with a large garden in the rear that was now beginning to come into bloom. The earl was carried in a litter from the bedchamber in which he had been residing into a covered cart. Rosamund was by his side and rode in the cart with him. At Lord Cambridge’s house, servingmen hurried forth to carry the litter inside and upstairs to the bedchamber where the earl would now rest. He seemed none the worse for the transfer between the inn and the house. Rosamund was beginning to show her exhaustion, but they could not convince her to leave Patrick’s side.
And then Maybel arrived from Friarsgate. “As if my poor child hasn’t had enough difficulty in life,” she announced as she entered the house. “Where is she?”
Tom chuckled, and even Adam was forced to smile at the older woman’s words. His sister’s grandmother, Mary MacKay, had been much like Maybel.
“What, Maybel, no greeting for me?” Lord Cambridge teased her.
“Good day to you, Thomas Bolton,” Maybel said. “And this fine fellow, from the look of him, is the earl’s son.” She curtsied. “My lord. Now, where is Rosamund?”
“She is upstairs, and we are both glad you are here, Maybel,” Tom said. “Come, before you see her, and let us tell you what has transpired. Will you have a bit of ale?”
“I might, if it’s good ale,” Maybel considered as he led her into the house’s small hall and settled her. “Ah, at last a seat that does not rock back and forth. I am not a good traveler, my lords,” she told them. “Now, tell me all.”
Adam Leslie explained what had happened though Rosamund had given Maybel some idea in her message to Friarsgate. Maybel listened and nodded as the tale unfolded.
“Has there been any improvement?” she asked when Adam had finished.
“He hasn’t opened his eyes yet,” Adam said, “but he is awakening. You can tell it. And he is able to drink. Rosamund has been feeding him like an infant. She makes him a drink with wine, eggs, a bit of cream, sugar, and a bit of grated cinnamon stick or vanilla bean. He seems to enjoy it, for he drinks it all each time she gives it to him. She also makes him egg custard, and she gives him milk toast.”
“He is growing stronger?” Maybel said.
“Every day,” came the hopeful reply.
Maybel nodded. “Is the physician bleeding
him?”
“Nay. He said it is not necessary and would but weaken my father,” Adam responded.
“I never heard of not bleeding a patient,” Maybel remarked. “Is this a good physician? Have you consulted others?”
“He is the king’s physician,” Tom said. “And so you are not taken unawares, he is a Moor.”
“What is that?” Maybel demanded suspiciously. “Some foreigner, I’ll vow.”
“Aye, he comes from Spain, and the king brought him to lecture at his college,” Adam explained.
“A Jew?” Maybel queried.
“A Mussulman,” Tom answered her, grinning. “An infidel, Maybel.”
“God have mercy on us all,” the old woman said, crossing herself. “Are you absolutely certain he is not out to murder the earl?”
To Maybel’s consternation, both men laughed. “Nay,” they told her with one voice.
“He is the king’s most trusted man, Maybel. I swear it,” Tom said.
“Well,” Maybel allowed, draining the mug of ale a servant had brought her while they talked, “if you says so, my lord, I must believe it.” She stood up. “Now, take me to my child.”
They both escorted her upstairs to the earl’s bedchamber where Rosamund sat. She jumped up when Maybel entered the room, wordlessly hugging her old nursemaid.
“Thank God you have come!” she cried.
“Thank God and his Blessed Mother Mary, indeed!” Maybel agreed. “I have never seen you so pale, so worn. You are to go to bed at once, Rosamund Bolton, and I’ll hear no nonsense about it! I am here now, and I will watch over Lord Leslie myself. You will be no use to the man when he awakens if you continue on as you have. Where is Lucy?”
“With Philippa,” Adam said.
“Have you a servant girl who can help me, my lord?” Maybel asked Tom. “Not one of those flighty lasses with little more wit than a post, but a lass who can follow orders.” She looked at Rosamund. “Are you still here, my lady?”
“I sleep by his side at night in case he should waken,” Rosamund said.
“Well, for now you will sleep in another chamber,” Maybel said firmly.
Until You Page 31
