Until You

by Bertrice Small

  He nodded slowly. “Who buried her?”

  “Several of the old men dug the grave. I bathed her and sewed her into her shroud,” Flora told him. There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.

  “And Maggie and Katie?” he asked.

  “They are bad wenches, both of them,” Flora said in a hard voice. “They would not even accompany your wife to her last resting place. It was raining that day, and they said they did not want to get wet, but all those others left here did follow the bier. Your lady was well liked for all she came from the north,” Flora finished.

  Logan stood up. Then, bending slightly, he kissed the old lady’s soft cheek. “Thank you, Flora,” was all he said, and he departed her little chamber. In the hall again, he went to where his sisters-in-law sat together. “Get up! Pack your belongings. You will leave here with your children first thing in the morning,” he told them. “I do not want to ever see either of you again.”

  “You have been talking to the old woman,” Maggie said. “She hates us.”

  “When I sent you to your own cottages you told me Jeannie hated you,” he said scathingly. “My brothers are dead in the defense of our land, yet you shed not a single tear. You wantonly let my young wife perish for you would not help Flora, who might have at least saved Jeannie if she could not save my son.”

  “It was Maggie’s idea!” Katie cried to him. “She said we would have our own back on Jeannie for sending us to those poky cottages, Logan. I wanted to help.”

  “I think you lie,” he returned. “If you had wanted to help her, you would have helped no matter what Maggie said to you. Now, hear me, both of you. The cottages in which you reside are yours. I shall see you and your bairns fed and clothed. I will train the three lads you have between you in the use of arms. I will dower your two lassies one day, and I shall make matches for them. But I do not ever want to see your faces in my hall again. What I do, I do for my brothers’ sakes. They were good brothers, and their children will not suffer because their mothers are hard-hearted trulls. You will not be permitted to remarry, for if you do I will send you from Claven’s Carn without a moment’s hesitation.”

  Katie began to weep, but Maggie said boldly, “I cannot believe you mean to do this to us, Logan. We were good wives to Colin and Ian.”

  “Which is why I do not take your bairns from you and put you out upon the high road,” he told her in a hard voice. “Now, get out of my sight, both of you!”

  “You never loved her!” Maggie said. “And she knew it, Logan.”

  “Nay, I did not love her,” he admitted freely. “But I liked her well, and I respected her position as my wife and the chatelaine of this household. Aye, she knew I did not love her, but I might have, given time.”

  Maggie laughed bitterly. “How could you love anyone when it is Rosamund Bolton who has always filled your heart, Logan?” Then, turning, the sniveling Katie behind her, Maggie departed the hall.

  He poured himself a large goblet of wine, draining the goblet where he stood. Then, turning, he went outside and up the hill to where his wife and son lay buried. He stared down at the fresh earth mound, just beginning to green over. “Jeannie,” he said, “I am sorry, but I thank you for wee Johnnie. And whatever happens, he will know you were his mam and that you loved him. He will know you were a good wife to me and that I respected you. But still, I am sorry that I didn’t love you.” He remained where he was for many minutes, while the sun set and the stars began to come out above him. Finally he swung about and returned to his hall, where the servants, so well trained by his wife, had his supper waiting. And after he had eaten, he went to the nursery where his son and heir lay sleeping, his thumb in his mouth. Poor bairn, Logan thought, without a mother. And the little king without a father. What was going to happen to Scotland with an infant king whose powerful uncle, namely Henry Tudor, was now just beginning to flex his muscles?

  James V was crowned at Stirling on the twenty-first of October in the year 1513 by James Beaton, the Archbishop of Glasgow. He was seventeen months old and surrounded by what remained of the Scottish nobility, who wept loudly as the great crown of office was held over his little red head. It was a cheerless coronation. The country’s main concern was England. A peace must be made, and Henry Tudor could not have anything to do with his nephew’s upbringing, although he should surely desire it and would attempt to influence his sister.

  The English queen had been hurrying northward with her own army when Surrey had defeated and killed James IV at Flodden. She was again with child, but in imitation of her late mother, Isabella of Spain, she had been quite prepared to go into battle. She sent Henry the good news of Scotland’s defeat, even going so far as to enclose the bloodstained plaid tunic that James Stewart had been wearing when he was killed. With the influence of both England and Spain, James had been excommunicated by Pope Julius. His body was therefore denied a Christian burial and disappeared. Gone to hell, the English said. Not so, the Scots defended their beloved deceased monarch. James IV, like King Arthur, had disappeared, but he would return—Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus—the Once and Future King—when Scotland needed him the most. It was small comfort.

  Henry Tudor returned in October from his French adventures. Katherine made certain he was greeted like the hero he believed himself to be. Henry was no longer the second son of that upstart Tudor family that had usurped a throne. He was Great Harry. The English king was flushed with his own victories even though they were now overshadowed by the victory at Flodden.

  “It is your victory as well, my lord,” his queen told him, and the Earl of Surrey, the actual victor, nodded in agreement. “Scotland is crushed.” She carefully omitted the fact that while James IV was now dead, Scotland still had a king—her husband’s nephew, James V. But Henry’s pride in his military accomplishments was short-lived, for in December of that year his wife was delivered of a stillborn son.

  “An eye for an eye,” Margaret, Queen of Scotland, said grimly upon hearing the news. She was not of a mind to be charitable now. Full with her second child, she was also filled with sorrow at James’ death and angry to have been left with all the responsibility of Scotland, its infant king, and the child soon to be born. Her husband’s will had named her tutrix, or guardian of the young king. Margaret Tudor was in effect the ruler of Scotland. Her regency was approved by the king’s council. But as the sister of England’s king, she would not be trusted entirely by the Scottish nobility. It mattered not that as James Stewart’s wife and queen her loyalties had always been to Scotland. She was a woman. She was English. Scotland’s nobles looked to France to John Stuart, the Duke of Albany. The duke was James III’s nephew and the king’s nearest legitimate male kinsman. In an age of political intrigue, dishonesty, and backbiting, John Stuart was known as an honest man. His ethics were above reproach.

  The queen’s council consisted of Archbishop Beaton as her chancellor and the Earls of Angus, Huntley, and Home, who were appointed to aid the queen, but it was noted that the queen would be served by a rota of nobles who would function on her council, in turn, advising her in the daily affairs of her government. It was agreed that the queen would make no decision without first consulting six gentlemen, three of whom would be temporal and three who would belong to the clergy. Margaret was not quite the featherhead her husband had believed. That was a role she had played because that was the kind of woman James desired in his queen. She was, her council quickly discovered, hardheaded and shrewd when she put her mind to a problem.

  Stirling Castle was chosen as the king’s chief residence. Lord Borthwick would be the castle’s commander with the title of captain. The arms that had been sent to James IV by King Louis were now brought to Stirling, which made it impregnable. The queen held the treasury, making her even more powerful. She sent out a call for parliament to meet come spring. The government secure, peace would be the next item on the agenda.

  England suggested the peace first, and Queen Katherine sent one of her favorite priests t
o Queen Margaret to comfort her. But in the borders, Lord Dacre, on the king’s instructions, was still raiding the Scots, burning and looting. Scotland was now a land of widows and motherless children. Proclamations were issued in the new king’s name, forbidding their abuse or the abuse of their children. Still, rape, robbery, and other violence was being done to those widows and their offspring, and there were not enough men left to keep the peace, so many suffered though the queen and her council did their best to prevent it.

  But many of the young men now come into their lordships were eager to continue a war against England. Eager for revenge, they saw no use in a peace with their ancient enemy. They wanted a strong military leader to confront Lord Dacre. They appealed to King Louis to send them the Duke of Albany. But the French king could not be cajoled into any actions that would threaten Margaret’s regency. He corresponded with the young widowed queen, assuring her that he would not send the Duke of Albany to her until she requested it. He would not make peace with England without her permission, for France was ever Scotland’s oldest and most faithful ally. He asked if he might send to her Le Chevalier Blanc, one Monsieur La Bastie, his most trusted diplomat, to help her. And, too, the Scottish ships that James IV had lent him were still in France. Would she like him to return them along with the king’s cousin the Earl of Arran and Lord Fleming?

  The full Scottish council met in Perth in November. It was agreed that the queen’s regency of the young king would not be interfered with in any manner. The auld alliance with France was confirmed once more, and the Duke of Albany was requested of King Louis for the defense of Scotland. Bell-the-Cat Douglas, the Earl of Angus who favored an English alliance, was absent. Grieving the loss of his two sons, he had gone home to die.

  In England, King Henry was furious and worried by turns. As the young king’s uncle, he saw himself as the boy’s natural guardian. He wrote to his sister telling her she must stop Albany from coming. He feared the strong duke might supplant Margaret by virtue of his sex and possibly spirit the little king to where he might be eliminated. Then he wrote to Louis asking him to delay Albany’s departure for Scotland until England had made its peace with its northern neighbor. Margaret did not like her loyalties being torn or compromised by any. Her sole duty, she said, was to her bairns.

  Both Friarsgate and Claven’s Carn, by virtue of their locations, had been spared any border raids. Adam Leslie wrote to say the Leslies of Glenkirk had ignored the summons to war and had undoubtedly been overlooked in the resulting confusion that followed King James’ death at Flodden. Patrick’s health remained strong, but his memory of the past two years had not returned. Rosamund read the letter stone-faced. She had buried her grief deep in her heart now, allowing it to surface only in the darkest of night when she was alone in her bed. There had been no word from Claven’s Carn regarding Jeannie’s new child. Rosamund assumed that Logan had put his foot down firmly when his wife asked if his neighbor might be the child’s godmother. She was not disappointed. It would have been a very awkward situation, but then, sweet Jeannie did not know the relationship that her husband had attempted to forge between himself and the lady of Friarsgate.

  The harvest had long been gathered in, and the St. Martin’s goose eaten. December was upon them. A messenger arrived from Margaret Tudor early in the month, even as it had two years previously. This was not an invitation, however. Meg wrote to tell her old friend of the great battle at Flodden in September at which her husband had been slain. Little Jamie was now Scotland’s king, she was enceinte with her late lord’s child to be born in the spring, and she was regent of Scotland according to her husband’s last will and testament.

  “I am weary with all I must do,” she wrote, “but those lords not slain at Flodden with my husband have been most sympathetic and helpful to me. We will survive. My brother, Henry, the cause of my unhappiness, is of course blustering and blowing that he should be the guardian of my bairns. I should never allow such a thing, but if I even considered it, the ghosts of all the Stewart kings before my son would rise up to haunt me, and rightly so.”

  “Aye, I imagine Hal would enjoy having Scotland in his custody,” Tom said when he learned the news. Then he chuckled. “He cannot get his own son so he would have James Stewart’s lad to father.”

  Rosamund could not help but laugh herself. “Living in the north has caused you to become careless in your speech, cousin,” she said. “You should not dare say such a thing in London.”

  “You never did answer the king’s summons, did you?” he said.

  “Edmund answered it for me,” she replied. “Besides Henry Tudor has more important things to consider than a widow in Cumbria whom he once knew. He is a player now upon the world’s stage, Tom. Whatever he imagines I was doing with the Earl of Glenkirk has now been overlooked because of the great and terrible victory at Flodden.”

  “What news from Claven’s Carn? Did the sweet Jeannie deliver her lord a second son, or a daughter?” Tom asked her.

  Rosamund shook her head. “I have no idea. I have heard naught, but then, given the times, I am not in the least surprised. Besides, I can hardly believe that Logan Hepburn would have wanted me for that child’s godmother. Do you?”

  “Perhaps I shall take a few of my men and ride over the border,” Tom said. “I am curious, and whatever you may say, cousin, so are you.”

  “Go, then,” she told him. “The weather will hold for another few days. But beware of getting caught at Claven’s Carn for the winter, Tom. I do not believe that you would like it at all. Jeannie has certainly done her best, but it is still an uncivilized place.”

  He laughed. “I remember you once said you should never get to wear your fine gowns if you inhabited such a place.”

  “And it is still so,” Rosamund noted dryly.

  The next morning being dry and mild for December, Lord Cambridge departed his cousin’s house with the half-dozen men-at-arms he now traveled with when he left Otterly. They reached Claven’s Carn in late afternoon, riding through its gate easily as they were recognized by the clansmen guarding the little castle’s entry. Tom dismounted, and upon entering the house, went directly to its hall. It was empty but for a servant girl rocking the cradle by the fire. Lord Cambridge walked over and looked into it, surprised to find not a new infant, but the laird’s fourteen-month-old heir.

  “Where is your mistress?” he asked the servant.

  The girl’s eyes grew large with her fright. Nervously, she arose from her place. “The mistress be dead, good sir.”

  “And the bairn she carried?” he inquired, surprised and not just a little saddened by the news.

  “With its mam, sir,” the girl said.

  “Go and fetch your master, lass. Your charge is sleeping and does not need you.”

  The girl ran off, leaving Tom to ponder the knowledge he had just obtained. So little Jeannie had died and her child with her. It was a tragedy, yet Logan still had one son to follow him. Widowed, would he now seek out Rosamund again? And would she have him in her grief over Patrick? The winter to come might be dull, he thought, but certainly not the spring and summer to follow. A small smile touched his lips. Already this little journey had provided him with enough information to give him several months’ amusement teasing his cousin.

  “Tom!” Logan entered his hall. “What brings you to Claven’s Carn? We are supposed to be enemies again, England and Scotland.” But he smiled.

  “I rarely pay heed to the politics of kings and queens, dear boy,” Tom answered. “And particularly when the church is involved. I have only just learned from your son’s little nursemaid of your great tragedy. What happened?”

  A shadow passed over Logan’s handsome face. “You have, if I remember, a fondness for my whiskey. Sit down, Tom Bolton, and I will tell you what happened to my poor little wife.” He poured them two pewter dram cups of an amber liquid from a carafe on the sideboard. Bringing them to his guest, he offered him one, and they sat before the fire, the cradle hol
ding Johnnie Hepburn between them. “I got the call to arms. She did not want me to go. I had to send my brothers and most of my men on ahead while I calmed her. When I caught up with them the battle was almost over. Its outcome obvious, and the king dead. When I reached Claven’s Carn again I learned she had died in childbed with the bairn, another son. She was already buried, of course, poor lass. ’Twas just as well. I later learned her father and brothers had all perished in the battle. Her mother has entered the convent where Jeannie was educated to live out her life in prayer and mourning. I sent to her regarding her daughter.”

  Tom nodded sympathetically. “ ’Twas a great tragedy for Scotland, but, then, the history between our countries has never been peaceful for long.”

  A long silence ensued, and then Logan said, “How is Rosamund?”

  Lord Cambridge’s face was impassive as he answered, but he thought immediately, Ah, he still wants her. “She yet mourns her own tragedy, Logan.”

  “Did the Leslies go to Flodden?” he wondered.

  “I do not know, but I do know that Adam would not let his father answer the call. I suspect he never even told him of the summons. And he wisely remained put at Glenkirk himself. He may have sent a troop, but I know not. He wrote to Rosamund that it was not likely they were missed. He is right, I think. The first earl, like you, was but the laird of his people before he became James IV’s ambassador years ago.”

  “Did you like him?” Logan asked.

  “Aye, I did. He was a good man, and he loved Rosamund deeply. The misfortune that befell him last spring was indeed tragic. Yet he knows it not, as his memories of the last two years have vanished for good, it would appear.”