Until You

by Bertrice Small

  “I had just bathed,” she responded.

  “My son tells me we are to marry,” he told her.

  “We were,” she said.

  “You do not wish to marry me now, madame?” His look was curious.

  “How can I marry a man who does not remember who I am?” Rosamund asked him. “If your memory does not revive itself, my lord, there will be no marriage.”

  “You do not wish to be a countess?” he asked.

  Rosamund laughed almost bitterly. “I was not marrying you to become a countess, my lord. And before you ask it, I was not marrying you for wealth. I have wealth of my own. Nor were you wedding me for my wealth.”

  “Then why were we marrying? I have a grown heir and two grandsons. I need no other bairns,” he said.

  “You cannot have any more bairns, my lord. A fever burned your seed lifeless many years ago.” So there were other things he did not recall of his past. “We were wedding because we loved each other,” she told him.

  “I had fallen in love at my age?” he laughed, but then he saw the stricken look upon her lovely face, and he said, “Forgive me, madame. It seems so odd to me that a man of my years should fall in love with so beautiful a young woman. And you returned my love?”

  “I did. We spent last winter together, and you came back with me to Friarsgate in early summer. It was there we decided to wed. We would spend the spring and summer and early autumn there. In late autumn and winter we would live at Glenkirk,” she explained. “You believed that Adam had done so fine a job managing your lands in your absence that you might trust him completely now.”

  “Though you say it is so, and I believe you, I can recall none of it,” he said to her.

  “And you do not remember going to San Lorenzo last winter for the king?” she said.

  “Nay, I do not,” he replied. “I would never have gone back to San Lorenzo. ’Twas there that my darling daughter, Janet, was taken from me. Nay. I would not go to San Lorenzo.”

  “And yet you did because the king needed your help, and you are his loyal servant,” Rosamund said. “We spent a wonderful winter and early spring there. Our servants, Dermid and Annie, wed there with our blessing.”

  “Dermid More is married?” He was genuinely surprised. Then he asked her, “What did Jamie Stewart want of me that he sent me back to San Lorenzo?”

  “My king was harassing your king into joining what is called the Holy League,” Rosamund began. “Since the purpose of this alliance is against the French, your king would not join. He sent you to San Lorenzo in hopes you might weaken the alliance once you had spoken with the representatives of Venice and the Holy Roman Empire.”

  “Did I succeed?” the earl asked.

  “Nay. But while King James suspected you would not, he felt he had to try. We stopped in Paris on our way home to reassure King Louis of Scotland’s fidelity,” Rosamund finished. “You recall none of this?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, madame. I cannot believe I went back there.”

  “You were reluctant,” she told him, “but we did go. And we were happy together in San Lorenzo.”

  There was a long, awkward silence, and then he said, “I am sorry, madame, that my memory seems to have fled me.”

  “What is the last thing you recall, my lord?” she questioned him.

  Again he shook his head. “I was, I think, at Glenkirk,” he told her. Then he asked, “What year is this, madame?”

  “It is April in the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and thirteen, my lord,” Rosamund told him. “And we are in Edinburgh.”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “Fifteen hundred and thirteen,” he repeated. “I thought it was the year fifteen hundred and eleven, madame. I seem to have lost two years of my life. But I believe I remember most of the rest of it.”

  “I am glad for that, my lord,” Rosamund said softly. She blinked back the tears she felt pricking at her eyelids. Weeping would change nothing.

  “When,” he asked her, “do you think I shall be well enough to return to Glenkirk?”

  “I believe we must ask Master Achmet,” Rosamund responded.

  “I do not like these dark-skinned Moors,” he noted. “A dark-skinned slave betrayed my daughter.”

  “He is highly thought of by the king,” Rosamund answered him. “The king sent him to you when you fell ill, my lord. His care of you and advice have been excellent.” She arose from her seat by his bedside. “I think, my lord, you had best take your rest now. I shall leave you.”

  “I am being treated like an old man,” he grumbled. “I think you are well rid of me, madame. When shall I be able to leave this bed of mine?”

  “We shall ask Master Achmet that, too, when he comes today,” Rosamund repeated as she slipped from the room. Outside in the hallway, she sighed. His memory of the last two years was not returning, and her hopes for their reunion were slowly fading. She felt hollow and more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life. And the casual words he had spoken, saying she was well rid of him, had been like a blow to her heart.

  Philippa Meredith turned nine years old on the twenty-ninth of April. The Earl of Glenkirk was allowed into the hall for her birthday dinner. He had been walking about his bedchamber for several days now, and his physical strength seemed to be returning. The little girl was shy of the earl now, for he considered her a stranger. It was difficult for her to understand, but her manners were impeccable. In the stress of the situation everyone forgot Rosamund’s twenty-fourth birthday on the thirtieth of the month.

  Plans were now being made for the Leslies to return to Glenkirk, and for Rosamund and her family to go home to Friarsgate. Lord Cambridge escorted his cousin to see the queen. Margaret Tudor had been advised of the state of affairs. She held out her two hands to Rosamund as her old friend entered her privy chamber. There was nothing even she could say, she knew, that could help the situation. The two women embraced.

  “I pray you never know such sorrow and pain as I do now,” Rosamund told her.

  “He remembers not at all?” the queen said.

  “Almost everything up until two years ago. Master Achmet says it may all come back eventually. It is the best I can hope for, Meg.” They were alone.

  “I will pray for it, and for you, dear Rosamund,” the queen said.

  Prince James was brought and displayed for the lady of Friarsgate. He was a healthy- and ruddy-looking little boy, but Rosamund saw little of the Tudors in him. Finally, her visit at an end, Rosamund took her leave of the queen.

  “There will be war soon,” Meg said. “Keep safe, dear Rosamund.”

  “Do you really think so?” Rosamund replied.

  The queen nodded. “My brother will not listen to reason. He is as ever stubborn. He is forcing Scotland to the wall over this damned Holy League.” She sighed. “You should be safe, but keep watch.” She pulled a ring from her finger. “If Scots invade your lands, show them this ring and say the Queen of Scotland gave it to you and says you are to be free of harassment.”

  Rosamund felt tears fill her eyes. “Thank you, your highness,” she said, addressing Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scotland, formally. Damn! She cried so easily these days. The two women embraced a final time, and then Rosamund backed from the queen’s privy chamber and departed the royal residence.

  Chapter 13

  Rosamund returned to her cousin’s house. It was the second day of May, and preparations were now well under way for their departure on the morrow. Both parties would be leaving in the morning. The Leslies would be going northeast to Glenkirk. The Boltons would travel southwest to Friarsgate. Adam knew how devastated Rosamund was and how she strove to hide it from them all, especially her little daughter. He sat together with her in the hall after everyone else had gone to bed.

  “If he remembers, I will send to you,” Adam promised her.

  “My instincts tell me he will not remember,” Rosamund replied. “When your father and I met it was as if lightning had struck us. From that fi
rst moment our gazes joined, we knew that whatever had been between us in another time and place must once again be between us. But we also had a knowing, a foreboding if you will, that we would not be allowed to remain together in this life. As our love for each other grew even greater, however, we pushed that shared premonition into the back of our minds. We pretended that it was simply we did not know how to do our duty to both Glenkirk and Friarsgate if we wed. And then we resolved this difficulty, which allowed us to plan our marriage. But fate will not be denied, Adam Leslie. Patrick and I were not meant to be forever more. And fate has once again taken a hand in the matter.” She sighed. “Your father will live out the rest of his life without ever remembering those glorious months we had together or how passionately we loved each other. I, on the other hand, will never forget. That is my punishment for attempting to defy fate,” Rosamund concluded sorrowfully.

  “He could remember,” Adam insisted.

  She smiled sadly. “How like your father you are,” she told him. Then she rose from her place and left him alone in the hall.

  The morning came. Once again they gathered in the hall to break their fast. And afterwards both parties found themselves ready to depart. It was an awkward moment. Finally Rosamund walked over to the Leslies. She held out her hand to Adam, who kissed it.

  The earl gave Rosamund a brief smile. “I thank you for your care of me, madame,” he said, as he, too, kissed her gloved hand.

  Reaching up, she touched Patrick’s handsome face. “Farewell, my love,” she whispered, her eyes scanning his face a final time for something. Anything. There was nothing. Rosamund’s hand fell to her side, and she turned and walked through the front door to where her horse was waiting, mounting it without assistance. She heard Tom and Philippa behind her offering their good-byes. They joined her finally, and their party moved off down the lane and into the High Street.

  Adam Leslie watched them go. Watched as they turned into the High Street. “You remember nothing, father? Nothing?”

  “Nothing,” Patrick Leslie, Earl of Glenkirk said. “I wish I did, for she is lovely, but I do not. I should have been cheating her had I pretended otherwise.” Then he walked from the house and mounted his horse. “Let us go home, Adam. It seems I have been away from Glenkirk forever.”

  Tom had hired two dozen men-at-arms to escort them home. Once on the road, Rosamund became more visibly anxious to reach Friarsgate. The first day she forced the pace, refusing to stop until the sun had set and the land was enshrouded in twilight. She had passed the comfortable inn Tom had meant them to stay in, and now they bedded down in a farmer’s barn with no supper.

  “You cannot treat the men this way,” he told her half-angrily.

  “I must get home,” she insisted. “I will die now if I do not get home!”

  “Philippa should not be sleeping in a hayloft, Rosamund,” he said. “And we have had nothing to eat, dammit!”

  “Give the farmer’s wife something, and she will feed you,” Rosamund replied.

  Tom swore a long string of rather colorful oaths beneath his breath.

  Rosamund laughed. “Why, cousin,” she said, “I did not think you knew such wicked language.” The laugh had been hard.

  In the morning Tom paid the farmer’s wife more coin than she had ever seen to feed them all. She willingly complied, though the fare was simple. Rosamund barely ate at all, and she demanded that they all hurry.

  “We have a long day’s ride ahead of us,” she said, and she mounted her animal and rode off ahead of them.

  Without being told, two of the men-at-arms leapt upon their own mounts and hurried after her while the rest of them finished their meal before departing.

  “What the hell is the matter with her?” Tom asked Maybel as they rode.

  “Friarsgate is where she gains her strength,” Maybel answered. “Her strength is almost gone with her anguish. She will ride her horse into the ground to reach home before her will dies on her.”

  “Neither Philippa nor Lucy nor you can keep such a pace,” he said.

  “I will do what I have to. Philippa and Lucy are young. We will all survive just knowing that Friarsgate is awaiting us,” Maybel told him.

  They rode on. At the noon hour he insisted that they stop at a comfortable inn, to rest the horses, he told her. Then he ordered a large meal for them all, including the men-at-arms, for he knew she would ride until they could no longer see the track ahead of them. He also knew that they were approaching the border.

  “We can stay the night at Claven’s Carn,” he told Rosamund.

  She looked coldly at him. “No,” she said. “I will not stop at Claven’s Carn.”

  “Then break our journey here today. You almost rode us into the ground yesterday,” Tom pleaded.

  “No,” she said again. “We can get past Claven’s Carn, and then by noon tomorrow we will reach Friarsgate, Tom.”

  “There is no place between Friarsgate and Claven’s Carn where we may stay!” he shouted at her.

  “We can bed down in a field,” she replied.

  “You would ask Maybel, Lucy, and Philippa to sleep in a pasture?” His face was flushed with his anger.

  “If you hadn’t made us stop to indulge everyone with food and drink we might have gotten even closer to home today,” Rosamund said, ignoring his outburst.

  “You have gone mad!” he accused her.

  “I want to go home, Tom! What the hell is the matter with that?”

  “Nothing! As long as you don’t kill us all getting there, Rosamund! We will stay at Claven’s Carn tonight, and that is final!”

  “You may stay at Claven’s Carn. I will not,” she told him implacably.

  The day, which had begun fair, now clouded up with typical springlike contrariness. By sunset, a light rain was falling, and Claven’s Carn loomed ahead, its two towers piercing the graying twilit sky.

  “Ahead is where we will overnight,” Tom told the captain of his men-at-arms. “Send a man ahead to beg shelter for the lady of Friarsgate before they close the gates.”

  “Yes, my lord!” the captain said, signaling to one of his men to go.

  “The laird will not refuse us hospitality,” Tom murmured to Maybel.

  “Nay, nor will his wife,” Maybel said. “But I warn you now that your cousin will fight you in this matter. I have known Rosamund all her life, and when she sets her mind to something, nothing will prevent her from enacting her will. Still, I have never seen her quite like this before. I think if there were a border moon she would travel on this night.”

  “The horses will not stand the pace,” he said.

  “Then try and reason with her,” Maybel told him.

  Tom spurred his mount ahead in order to ride apace with his cousin. “Rosamund, be reasonable, I beg of you,” he began.

  She stared straight ahead.

  “If you will not have mercy on those who travel with you, consider the horses. They cannot be ridden without rest.”

  “We can rest when we are past Claven’s Carn and over the border,” she said stonily. “It is not dark yet, Tom. We can make several more miles before the darkness sets in and obscures the track.”

  He grit his teeth, struggling to maintain an even tone with her. “I should not disagree if the weather would cooperate, but with every moment the rain grows heavier. It will be one of those all-night spring rains, cousin. You cannot ask Maybel, Lucy, and your daughter to ride through the night in the pouring rain. And again, I beg you to consider the animals. How will we see the road when the darkness falls? There is no moon on a rainy night. If we do not shelter at Claven’s Carn, we will be forced to spend the night out in this weather. If any of us catches an ague, it could kill us.”

  “We will have men with torches light the path for us,” she said implacably.

  “I know you mourn, Rosamund,” he began, but she waved him away.

  “Stop at Claven’s Carn if you must, Tom, but I have to go on,” she told him.

  “
What does it matter if we stop?” he demanded, his voice now showing his anger and impatience with her. “We will still not reach Friarsgate until tomorrow.”

  “I will reach it earlier if I travel farther today.”

  “You have truly gone mad!” he said, and after turning his horse about, he rode back to where Maybel plodded along in the line.

  “She says we may stop, but she will go on,” he reported. His face was red with his frustration.

  Maybel could not help but laugh. “Do not trouble yourself over it, my lord. Let her believe she is going on tonight. We will ask the lord of the keep to ride after her and convince her to return and seek shelter. He will do it. He has never stopped loving her, despite his good wife.”

  “She hates Logan Hepburn!” Tom exclaimed. “If he said come, she would go. If he said turn right, she would turn left.”

  “True, true,” Maybel agreed. “But I suspect that because he loves her, he will not allow her to remain in the storm even if she insists she will. He will bring her to shelter, never fear.”

  And Maybel chuckled again.

  “You are a most devious old woman,” Tom said admiringly. “And I never until now realized it.”

  “I know my child,” Maybel told him.

  They had reached the path that turned off up the hill to the border keep of Claven’s Carn. Rosamund brought their party to a halt as the man-at-arms they had sent ahead came riding down the hill.

  “The laird and his wife bid you welcome,” he told them.

  Rosamund turned to the captain of the men-at-arms. “All but two may go with my cousin, daughter, and the women,” she told him. “I will want torches to light the path for me, as I must go on as long as I can tonight.”

  The captain shook his head. “Lady,” he told her, “we were hired to escort you home, and that we will do. But I will not expose my horses to certain death if you ride them through the night without proper shelter, food, and rest.”

  “I will give you new horses,” Rosamund told him.