“You are most solicitous of Rosamund, Henry,” came the amused response. “However, I have already provided for my wife’s future when I am no longer here to guide her.” Hugh watched the look of utter and complete astonishment explode across Henry Bolton’s face.
“You have no right!” he cried.
“Actually, I am the only one who does have the right under the laws of England, Henry.” Hugh was enjoying himself immensely.
“I am her nearest blood relation!” Henry’s voice rose.
“But I am her husband, thanks to you,” Hugh replied with a small smile. “A husband’s rights take precedence over that of her nearest male relation, Henry. You will have neither my wife nor Friarsgate for your heir.”
“You will sign this agreement!”Henry growled at his companion.
Hugh could not help himself. He had never thought to see desperation in Henry Bolton’s eyes, or hear it in his voice, but it was there. He burst out laughing, shaking his head as he did so. His laughter, however, dissolved into a fit of great coughing. He struggled to reach the goblet of medicine that his wife had brewed earlier for him. He could not reach it, and seeing what he sought, Henry moved it farther out of the dying man’s reach. As he actually felt his heart slowing to a stop, a look of understanding filled Hugh Cabot’s blue eyes, to be followed by one of vast amusement. He struggled to form the last words that he needed, and finally he managed to croak them out.“You have lost!”he gasped, falling back against his pillows, the light fading swiftly from his blue eyes.
Henry Bolton cursed softly beneath his breath as he pushed the medicinal goblet back near his victim so no one would know what he had done. He had failed to get Hugh’s signature. He dared not attempt to forge it. Still, with Hugh dead he was now his niece’s master once again. She would do what he wanted her to do, or he would kill her with his own bare hands. Reaching out with a hand he closed Hugh’s blue eyes. Then, rising, he departed the chamber, returning to the hall and saying, “Your husband has fallen asleep again, Rosamund. He wanted me to tell you that he would speak with you on the morrow.”
“You will remain the night, uncle?” she replied. “I will take you and my cousin to your chamber now.”
“Show young Henry the way, girl. I know where the guest chamber is in this house now, don’t I? I would remain here for a time. Bring me some wine before you go,” he instructed her.
She did his bidding and then led her cousin to the guest quarters, bidding him good night as she closed the door quickly behind the boy. Then she hurried off to see that Hugh was comfortable for the night. To her great shock she discovered her husband dead. Stifling her cry of distress Rosamund summoned a servant and said, “Go quietly and fetch Master Edmund. Be certain that my uncle Henry does not see him. And send Maybel to me.” She had earlier sent for Edmund yet he had not come. Obviously he had not been nearby. Pray God he was now!
“Yes, mistress,” the servant said, and left her alone again.
Maybel came, and seeing Hugh Cabot realized immediately what had happened. Her hand flew to her mouth.“How?”she asked.
“We must wait for Edmund,” Rosamund replied stonily. Then she sat down next to her dead husband and took up his cold and stiffening hand in hers, as if she might restore the life to him.
Edmund Bolton came into the chamber finally and posed the same question his wife had.“How?”he asked.
“I suspect my uncle Henry of some treachery,” Rosamund replied. “I am going to kill him with my own hands!” Tears began to pour down her pale face.
“Tell me,” Edmund said. “If you can convince me, I will kill him myself, and we will make it appear to be an accident.” His gray eyes were very serious.
“He came in to see Hugh. When he returned to the hall he said Hugh had gone to sleep, that he would speak with me in the morning. I left my uncle in the hall while I took his brat to his chamber. I then came here and discovered my husband dead.”
Edmund bent down and carefully inspected the stiffening body of his old friend. There were absolutely no marks of violence on Hugh. There was even a faint smile upon his thin blue lips. Looking up at his niece Edmund said, “Rosamund, he has died a natural death. We were expecting it.” He put his arm about his distraught niece. “You are in shock, my child. It came quicker than we anticipated.”
“Henry Bolton is involved,” Rosamund said stonily. “I do not know how, but in my heart I sense it, Edmund. Hugh was fine when I left him. Now he is dead. What else am I to think?”
“Even if your intuition is correct, Rosamund, there is no proof. Hugh was ill unto death. Everyone knew it. However, since Henry does not know he has died, or wants us to believe he does not know that Hugh has died, we will say naught until morning. Where is my half-brother now?”
“In the hall, swilling wine. I doubt he has changed, which means he will drink himself to sleep,” Rosamund said bitterly. Then she sighed deeply and straightened her shoulders. “Maybel and I will prepare my husband’s body for burial.” She looked up at Edmund. “Have you discovered our informant?”
Edmund shook his head in the negative. “It may have been just a careless word on someone’s part,” he suggested. “And that gossip was picked up and traveled on the wind as gossip is wont to do.”
“My husband is to be laid out in the hall so he may be honored,” Rosamund answered. “I will pray by his bier tonight. It is unlikely that my uncle will even notice in his drunken stupor.” She looked at Edmund Bolton. “Hugh said he had made provision to protect me from Uncle Henry. He said you would know what he had done.”
“I do,” Edmund admitted; then he chuckled softly. “My half-brother could not have known the day he married you to Hugh Cabot that it would be a fatal misstep in his plan to gain Friarsgate for himself. Rest assured, niece, that I will not let Henry override your husband’s last wishes for your safety and well-being. Someone is coming, Rosamund. Hugh had hoped it would be before he died, but that someone will be here shortly, and then all will be revealed. We need the authority of our expected guest. Will you trust me?”
“Always, uncle!” she replied, her amber eyes meeting his.
Maybel swiftly crossed herself reverently. Then she enfolded Rosamund to her ample bosom, clucking with sympathy.
To her great surprise the girl began to cry, the sorrow pent up within her pouring forth. Neither Maybel nor Edmund uttered a word as Rosamund vented her anguish. Then finally she ceased, wiping her face with her sleeve, feeling relief and peace overwhelming her very soul. She had never been a girl to weep. Her amber gaze met those of her companions. She drew herself up straight, saying as she did so, “Let us begin. My husband’s body must be washed preparatory to being sewn into his shroud. Edmund, see that the coffin is brought here to his chamber.”
“At once, my lady,” Edmund Bolton said, and hurried off.
“Henry Bolton has had a hand in this death tonight,” Rosamund insisted to Maybel. “Edmund says he can find no sign of such a thing, but I know it to be so. One day I shall have my revenge on him for it.”
