“Uncle, you are certainly hungry, and my cousin, too. Maybel is correct. Come and eat before the food goes cold. Then you will speak with my husband.” Rosamund was once again the good hostess, the well-mannered chatelaine. She brought her angry relation and his son to the high board. Then she filled their pewter plates herself, heaping them high with beef and goose, and ladling rabbit stew into hollowed-out trencher loaves. Maybel poured the matching pewter goblets full with the last of the October ale for Henry Bolton and apple cider for his young son. Rosamund pushed the bread, a crock of sweet butter, and a wedge of hard cheese down the table in front of her uncle.
He began to eat, and the worst of his anger slowly drained away. He was pleased to note that his niece kept an excellent table. The food was hot, and it was fresh. It was not overcooked, nor was it filled with spices to disguise rot or decay. He speared a piece of beef with his knife and chewed. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he smeared butter across it with his big thumb and crammed it into his mouth. Maybel kept his goblet filled, and he drank generously. The ale was clean and sharp, stripping away at his tongue so that the food tasted even better.
Rosamund ate sparingly, and then she arose. “You will excuse me, uncle. I must bring broth to my husband.” She then turned her gaze to her young cousin. “There is a sweet for you when you have finished your supper,boy.” Then she noted, “Uncle, he has no manners. Does your wife not teach him?” And she was gone from the hall before Henry Bolton the elder might protest her observation.
“Use your spoon,” he snapped at his son. “Why do you eat with your hands like a peasant?”
“I don’t have a spoon,” the boy whined.
“You have one!” his father said, and he shook his fist at his namesake. “Use it, dammit! The little bitch is right. You have no manners. I shall have words with your mother over this, boy!”
Behind the hall, connected to the house by a stone colonnade, was the kitchen house. Between the columns on either side a kitchen garden grew. Above was an arbor made up of flowering vines just now showing the first signs of green. Rosamund hurried to the kitchen. After complimenting the cook on a fine meal, she obtained a bowl of soup for her husband, and a piece of bread. She carried the small burden back into the house and up the flight of stone stairs to Hugh’s chamber. He was awake again, and he smiled at her as she entered. She smiled back, and setting the bowl down, drew a napkin from the folds of her skirts to tuck beneath his chin. Then she took the piece of bread from her pocket and broke it into small bits that she dropped into the soup. Sitting finally, she began to feed him.
Hugh ate slowly and with difficulty, for swallowing was painful for him now. After a time he held up his hand to signal that he had had enough, yet the bowl was still practically full. “I can eat no more, my dearie,” he told her.
“A spoonful or two more,” she coaxed, but he shook his head in the negative. “Oh, Hugh, how can you get well if you do not eat?” Her amber eyes were filled with concern for him.
“Rosamund,”he chided her gently.
“I know,” she half-whispered, “but I don’t want you to go.”
He smiled a slight smile again. “I wish I could stay with you, Rosamund. In another year or two you will flower into true womanhood. It will be glorious. I should like to be here for that, but I shall watch for you from the other side. Never doubt that while my body may lie rotting in the good earth of Friarsgate, my spirit will watch over you, my dear young wife and friend.”
Rosamund put down the bowl. Unable to help herself, she began to weep. “What shall I do without you, Hugh?” she sobbed.
Reaching out, he comforted her, patting her hand, saying, “You can trust Edmund, and I promise that you will have a far greater protector than I, my dearie. Now, my strength is quickly ebbing. Send Henry Bolton to me.”
She half-stumbled to her feet, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I’ll sit with you after he is gone,” she promised him.
“I should like that,” he agreed with a weak smile.
She gave him a half-smile back and went from the room. In the hall her uncle was just finishing his meal, wiping his plate clean with a chunk of bread. Her cousin was shoveling the apple tart and cream into his mouth as fast as he might use his spoon. “Hugh will see you now, uncle. Try not to tire him, please.” Her voice trembled.
Henry Bolton looked at his niece sharply. “Do you actually care for him?” he demanded of her. Then his eyes narrowed. “He has not tampered with you, has he?”
She knew precisely what he meant, and she gave him a scornful look. “He is like my father, uncle. How vile your thoughts are, but I shall lose my virginity long ere you can try to wed me to your little brat.” And she laughed at his outraged gape of shock.
“You need a good beating, girl,” he told her fiercely.
“Raise a hand to me, if you dare, uncle, and I shall cut it off, I promise you,” Rosamund answered him calmly. “Now, go and speak with my husband while you still can.”
Henry Bolton almost ran from the hall. He did not like the way his niece was behaving or the way in which she spoke to him. What had happened to the frightened and obedient little girl she had once been? He had not had Hugh Cabot wed her in order for Rosamund to turn into an independent and obviously literate female. All the man was supposed to have done was protect Henry Bolton’s interests in Friarsgate until his death, at which time Rosamund would have been married to his son. But Rosamund was suddenly outspoken and damned self-possessed.
“I do not like it,” Henry muttered to himself. “I do not like it at all.” But then he considered if Hugh Cabot were indeed dying, Rosamund would shortly be back in his power. He would correct the problem she now presented him. Especially after Hugh signed the betrothal agreement between Rosamund and young Henry Bolton. He opened the door to the bedchamber and stepped over the threshold.
“Good evening, Hugh,” he said, frankly shocked by what he saw. Hugh Cabot was certainly dying, by the looks of him. He was gaunt and pale, but his blue eyes were yet lively, indicating his strong spirit.
“Come in, Henry Bolton, and sit by my side,” Hugh invited. “We have not seen you in some time. Your good wife is well?”
“Aye,” Henry answered curtly. “Rosamund says I must not tire you so I will come directly to the point.”
“Of course,” Hugh responded.
“I had heard that you were dying, and I can see that it is so,” Henry began bluntly. “Legally you are my niece’s lord and master, by virtue of your marriage. It is therefore up to you to provide for your widow’s future before you depart this life.”
“Aye, it is,” Hugh agreed.
“I have brought the betrothal agreement for Rosamund’s next marriage, to my son Henry the younger. Rosamund will, of course, mourn you for a full year’s time, but the agreement must be in place so that the marriage can be celebrated when her bereavement is concluded.”
