Until You

by Bertrice Small

  “But surely your own family—” Rosamund began, but Jeannie stopped her with a wave of her hand.

  “My family comes from the far north. I am but a memory to them. Please, Rosamund, say you will be my new baby’s godmother. You are the only friend I have.”

  The girl’s words touched her, and with a small smile Rosamund said, “If your husband, the laird, will agree, then I should be honored to be your baby’s godmother, Jeannie Hepburn.” Jesu! Would she never be free of the Hepburns? She kissed Jeannie’s cheek, then turned and left the hall.

  In the courtyard the laird, his men, and her party were already mounted, waiting on her. Rosamund climbed into her saddle, moved her animal up next to Logan’s, and nodded. They moved off through the courtyard and down the path to the road below. The day was a sunny one although the blue sky was filled with clouds of all hues, scudding back and forth in the wind. About them, the hills were a May green, and here and there were grazing sheep. They saw parties of men twice on distant hillsides, but their party being larger, the two bands turned away.

  Seeing the second group, Rosamund said to the laird, “I thank you, Logan Hepburn, for your escort this day.”

  He turned and grinned. “I suspect you would have been a match for any borderer intent on robbing you, lass, but better cautious than sorry.” He moved his horse ahead.

  Tom rode up next to her. “Well, cousin, you seem calmer this day than you have been since we departed Edinburgh. I am relieved to see it.”

  “You were right,” she told him, “about last night.”

  “I know,” he answered her calmly.

  She swatted at him affectionately. Then she grew serious once more. “I do not ever remember being so miserable, Tom,” Rosamund told him. “I shall never get over what has happened. I cannot believe it is over and Patrick is gone from my life.”

  “He may in time regain his memories of you, cousin,” Tom began, but she waved an impatient hand at him.

  “Nay, he will not. Do not ask me how I know, but I do. It is the same way I knew when we first met that we should not be together forever,” Rosamund responded.

  “Then what will you do, cousin?” he asked her.

  “I will not marry again,” she said. “Friarsgate is my responsibility. I have my daughters. Philippa is half-grown, and I must begin considering families to approach with an eye to making her a match. And you and I have a new enterprise to consider. I shall fill my days.” But not my nights or my heart, she thought silently.

  They had departed just as the sun was creeping over the horizon. By late morning Rosamund began recognizing landmarks and knew they were almost home. Finally they topped a hill rise, and there below lay the lake. Her meadows were heavily dotted with sheep and lambs. Her pastures were well tenanted by her cattle. The fields were green with the new growth of grain. They could see the Friarsgate folk going about their workday. Coming down the hill, Rosamund called out greetings to those she saw. A boy ran ahead of them announcing the mistress’ return. Rosamund briefly wondered if they had been told of her unfortunate adventure, but she knew Edmund would not have left her people in the dark lest they ask questions. She smiled at some children waving in the orchards now in bloom. It had been a day like this when she had come home to Friarsgate with Patrick a year ago.

  Her uncle came to greet them as they arrived at the house. Father Mata was with him, and he greeted the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn, as well. He was Logan’s kinsman, and they were friends. Rosamund slid down from her horse as Edmund helped Maybel dismount. Philippa and Lucy were already heading inside.

  “I am sorry, niece, for your misfortune,” Edmund said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Will you see that the laird and his men are fed, Edmund? They intend to travel back to Claven’s Carn today. I am tired and would retire to my own rooms.” She turned to Logan. “Thank you, my lord,” she said to him, and then she was gone.

  “Well,” Tom said with some humor, “at least she didn’t hit you this time. You have just the slightest bruise on your chin, dear boy.” They walked together into the house.

  “What is this?” Edmund asked his wife as they followed the two men.

  “Don’t ask me, old man,” Maybel said. “I was abed long before they dragged her in from the rain and her own folly. Tom will know every detail, and you will obtain it from him. Ah, I thank our Lord Jesu and his Blessed Mother that I am once again safe at home! Annie watched over you all?”

  “Annie did a fine job,” Edmund assured Maybel.

  They entered the house.

  “You look troubled, husband,” Maybel said. “What is it?”

  “A message came from the king while Rosamund was away. It arrived on the very day of your departure. Because it had the royal seal, I opened it. Inside was the terse message: ‘The lady of Friarsgate is commanded to attend on his majesty, King Henry, at Greenwich.’ Because she had gone off to wed, and I knew she would not be back quickly, I sent a reply back to the king saying Rosamund was not at Friarsgate but the message would be given to her upon her return. I sent it with the royal messenger who brought the king’s missive. I have heard naught since.”

  “You must tell her at once,” Maybel said.

  “Tomorrow,” Edmund decided. “I can tell she is weary and heartsore. Let her have a peaceful night before we burden her again, wife.”

  “Aye, you are right, old man,” Maybel agreed

  The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn and his men stayed long enough to eat a good meal while their horses were rested and fed. They departed in early afternoon, Tom seeing them off.

  Rosamund watched from an upper window. She saw Logan turn once as they rode from her courtyard, but she knew he had not seen her, for she was shrouded in shadow. Why had he turned back? she wondered to herself. Then, shrugging, she put herself to bed and slept until first light the following morning. When she woke she did not at first realize she was home. Then a small ripple of contentment slipped over her, and she knew exactly where she was. Rosamund arose and dressed herself. Leaving her chambers, she walked slowly down the stairs. Even the servants were only just beginning to stir. Unbarring the front door of the house, she walked outside into the dawn.

  About her the air was sweet and fresh with the new grass in her meadows. She could hear the faint lowing of the cattle and the baaing of the sheep. The birds sang brightly as they did only in the fullness of spring. Above her the sky was clear and bright blue. She looked east and watched as the stain of gold on the horizon deepened and the bright crimson ball of the sun began to creep upwards. The horizon exploded with color: gold, lavender, scarlet, and orange. It was so unbelievably beautiful that she began to weep. She was home at Friarsgate. Safe at Friarsgate. But Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, was lost to her forever. I do not know if I can go on without him, Rosamund thought to herself, wiping the tears from her face. He should be with me now, seeing the sunrise, smelling the sweetness, knowing my love.

  But it would not be that way between them ever again. “How can I bear it?” she whispered aloud. “How can I live my life without you, Patrick?” But she would. She would live her life without the Earl of Glenkirk because she had no other choice. She had responsibilities. She had Friarsgate. She had Philippa, Banon, and Bessie to consider. She might grieve in the privacy of her own chambers, but she must live her life for Friarsgate and for her daughters now. Turning away from the sunrise, Rosamund walked back into her house, where she found Edmund awaiting her in the hall.

  “It will be a good day,” she told him. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “Nay,” he answered her.

  “Then, let us break our fast together,” she said.

  “Do you not wish to go to mass first?” he asked.

  “Not today,” she replied. “Sit, uncle.”

  He accepted her offer, saying, “A message came for you while you were gone. I answered it for you.” He handed her the packet.

  Rosamund opened it, scanning the contents. Then she said,
“I have no time to attend the king right now.”

  “I do not think, niece, that it was an invitation. It seems more a command to me.”

  “I will go in a few months,” Rosamund responded. “If another royal messenger arrives, I shall say I am too ill to travel.”

  “You cannot ignore the king’s command,” he counseled her.

  “I know,” Rosamund replied. “I will go after the harvest and return before the wintertime. I have no desire to be away from Friarsgate again, Edmund.”

  “I wonder what King Henry wants of a simple countrywoman?” Edmund said.

  “I wonder, too,” she said. He did not want her out of lust, she knew. There were more than enough women at court willing, nay eager, to satisfy his desires. Why had he sent for her? And then she knew. Lord Howard had probably put two and two together, especially after Tom said she was his cousin, and had been at court as a girl. Well, Henry Tudor would have to wait until she was ready and strong enough to travel. Rosamund did not think she was able to do battle with her king at this moment in time.

  A month passed, and it was June. Word filtered up from the south that King Henry had departed for France with a great army sixteen thousand strong. With them went horses and much ordnance for the battles to come. The king was boyishly eager for the encounter. His advisers were nervous. Henry Tudor had no heir. What if he were killed? Would England be plunged once again into civil war?

  At Friarsgate the summer passed peacefully. Tom spent much of his time at Otterly overseeing the construction of his new house. He came from time to time with amusing reports of its progress. New Otterly would be ready for habitation by late autumn, and his servants were up from London and already in residence in the half-built house. They brought with them several cartloads of furnishings. Lord Cambridge arrived bursting with all sorts of information. On the king’s orders, the goldsmiths of London had fashioned a magnificent harness and trappings for King Henry’s warhorse. The monies expended would have purchased at least twenty brass field ordnances. Another thousand pounds was given over to the purchase of solid gold buttons, aglets, branches, and elegant chains so that when his armor and crusader’s tunic was laid aside, the royal doublet would glitter like a sunburst. Emperor Maximilian had sent his fellow monarch a solid silver crossbow in a silver gild case. The royal arms and weapons were equally magnificent.

  “I am devastated I was not there to see it,” Tom lamented.

  “Hal was always one for his appearance. He will surely spend his father’s treasury,” Rosamund noted.

  “There is more, dear girl. Brew houses were constructed in Portsmith so that beer could be made for the armies and the navies. They brewed a hundred tons of beer a day. I do not know how many brewers, millers, and coopers were there, making their barrels as fast as they could. The beer was put in its barrels in deep trenches covered with boards and atop the boards’ turf. But despite this royal generosity, the soldiers complained the Portsmouth beer was too sour and demanded the barley malt beer of London. But it, too, proved sour. I suspect the damp of the coast is responsible. At any rate, the fleet sailed, the ships holes filled with men, horses, and sour beer. And all arrived safely in France.”

  “Then Hal has his amusement and will not notice that I did not answer his summons,” Rosamund said.

  “You will have to go eventually,” Tom told her. “I will travel with you, dear girl. I dare not trust you to the king’s care, now, do I?” He chuckled dryly.

  Word began drifting into the north. The king had arrived safely at his possession of Calais. He had been warmly welcomed by the cheering citizenry. But suddenly England found itself practically the sole supporter of the Holy League. Henry Tudor’s father-in-law claimed he believed himself near death and was reluctant to leave Spain. He was, he said, “too old and too crazy to endure war.” But Ferdinand, had the truth been known, was a skinflint who did not choose to expend monies in a war someone else could fight for him. Venice sent no troops, and in that city it was said the pope himself had become neutral, for the papal offensive that had been planned to come through Provence or Dauphine never materialized. The Holy Roman Emperor sent few troops, but those sent were paid by the English. His daughter, Margaret of Savoy, however, continued to defy France loudly, daring the French to do their worst, for she, she claimed, would be protected beneath English arrows.

  In late July the English departed Calais and moved into the French territories. A successful skirmish near St. Omer left them eager for more. On August first the English arrived before the walls of Therouanne. After ten days of siege, a herald arrived bringing a message from Henry Tudor’s brother-in-law, France’s old ally, King James of Scotland. The English were to leave Therouanne. They were to depart the territories of France. They were, in fact, to return home. James Stewart was warning the young English king that war would shortly break out between them if he did not cease his hostilities in France.

  Henry’s reply was a strong and clear one. “It becometh ill a Scot to summon a King of England. Tell him there shall never Scot cause me to return my face.” Henry continued by pretending outrage that James had threatened his ally by marriage. He grew more publicly indignant as his audience grew. “Recommend me to your master,” he told the herald as he sent him off, “and tell him if he be so hardy to invade my realm or cause to enter one foot of my ground, I shall make him as weary of his part as ever was a man that began any such business.”

  The Tudor king knew his wife, acting as his regent, and his captains at home would handle any situation with Scotland should it arise. The King of England was free to pursue his war on the continent.

  On the sixteenth of August, near the town of Guinegate, the English and the French in almost equal numbers met. Surprising the French, who were not expecting them so soon, the English charged. The charge sent one group of French soldiery careening into another. Panic ensued. The French turned and galloped off in a retreat, leaving behind their standards and weapons, and most oddly, many of their spurs. The English followed, gaining a great victory that became known as the Battle of the Spurs. Afterwards the English took Therouanne, and Henry, with his army in tow, went on to Lille, where he paid a social call on Margaret of Savoy. He was royally feted and charmed everyone, playing any instrument offered him, proving his prowess with his silver crossbow and dancing in his stockinged feet until dawn lit the skies about Lille.

  Well rested, the English king moved on to capture the great walled city of Tournai with its double-thick walls and ninety-nine towers. And after that, he captured five more walled towns, seven in total. By autumn, when England’s king left for home, he was no longer considered an untried boy king by his contemporaries. He had become Great Harry, and the news of his victories spread back to England and as far to the east as the sultan’s capital of Istanbul. Henry VIII was now considered a man to be reckoned with by the world about him.

  At Friarsgate, before all of this was known, Rosamund received a message from her old friend, the Queen of Scotland. Margaret saw what was coming. She knew her husband’s plans and how her arrogant, clever brother had driven him into a corner from which he had but one way of emerging: by means of war. There could be no escape from what was happening around them.

  “Gather your harvest in, and keep close to Friarsgate,” she wrote. “I do not believe either of the armies will come your way, but beware of those on both sides of the border, especially the deserters. God keep you, dear friend, and those you love safe from this storm that is upon us. I am again with child. When it is possible I will write to you again.” The letter was signed simply, “Meg.” Not “Margaret R,” but “Meg.”

  Rosamund shared her knowledge with her family and all the Friarsgate folk. “We must keep watch on the hills for invaders or other troublemakers,” she said. She turned to her uncle. “Make it so, Edmund. There must be a watch kept round the clock.”

  “Do you wish to send her highness a reply?” the young messenger asked.

  Rosamund nodde
d. “Remain the night, lad. I will write the queen. You will depart at first light. And on your return, stop at Claven’s Carn. Tell the laird, Logan Hepburn, that war is coming between Scotland and England.”

  “Are you softening your stance towards the Hepburn?” Tom asked her.

  “I send him warning for his good wife’s sake. She is near her time, Tom. Whatever these kings do, Logan Hepburn is my neighbor. We borderers are a different breed from those others of our nationality.”

  He nodded. “I will remain here with you, dear girl. If the queen is right, and war is upon us, it is likely the invasion will come from the southeast. We shall probably see nothing here, but you have the queen’s ring, which should protect us from the Scots if they come over the border in this region.”

  “Aye, I would feel easier if you remained, Tom. I pray that Meg is wrong. The Scots do not fare well when they go to war with England. And we both know Hal. If his brother-in-law is fortunate enough to overcome him, England will not rest until the insult has been avenged. We will be at war forever, and Friarsgate cannot escape if that is so. Damn! Why could not Hal have been a man like his father? Oh, Tom, do you think that Patrick will answer King James’ call?”

  “I think that Adam will see his father, newly recovered from his seizure, not be allowed to join the king’s ranks, though he may do so himself,” Lord Cambridge said, and he shook his head. “And what is it really all about, Rosamund?” he sighed.

  “I do not know, Tom,” she answered him. “I think most wars are begun from nothing.”

  Chapter 14