Tears sprang to Rosamund’s amber eyes. “He was such a good man, my Hugh,” she said. “My uncle never considered that when he married me to him. His only interest was to protect Friarsgate until he had a son he might foist on me. My first husband was also his son, you know. I hardly remember John. Do you think there are many widows of thirteen, for I shall be thirteen in a few weeks, who have outlived two husbands and are still virgins?”
Owein Meredith choked upon his wine at this revelation. He struggled to regain his breath as a fit of coughing overtook him. Then he burst out laughing, and he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. About him those seated at the high board stared, surprised. When he finally regained control over himself he managed to say, “The wine went down the wrong way.”
“But your laughter?” Richard Bolton inquired, curious.
“Something the Lady Rosamund said. I doubt anyone else should be amused, but her words struck me humorously,” he explained, not wanting to repeat what his young and ingenuous hostess had just said. Her uncles might not find it amusing at all. He looked closely at Rosamund. She was hardly a woman, but then neither was she a child. Her skin was like cream, smooth and fair, with no blemish, the faintest touch of rose in her cheeks. Her amber eyes were fringed with dark lashes. Her hair was a rich auburn in color, parted in the center, a rather flat coiffure with a braid down the back. She had a straight little nose within her oval face, and a mouth that was inclined to be generous, the lower lip fuller than the upper.
“Why do you stare at me so?” Rosamund asked him.
“Because I find you very pretty, my lady,” he answered her frankly.
Rosamund colored. She had never received a compliment from a handsome man. Oh, Hugh had always told her she would be a beauty one day, but Hugh loved her. She was like his child. “Thank you,” she replied shyly. “Should a lady at court express gratitude for a compliment, sir?” she next inquired of him, curious.
“A lady at court would acknowledge such acclaim with a gracious nod of her head, but say naught,” he told her with a small smile. She was a very charming girl, he thought, and quite unaffected. Then he continued, “But if the praise were from someone the lady did not favor she would ignore it and turn away.”
“Will they understand me at court, Sir Owein?”
“I understand you,” he said.
“But certainly my Cumbrian accent will not be comprehended by some,” Rosamund fretted.
“While I am with you,” he said, “I will help you to smooth the north from your speech, lady.”
“And you will correct my manners if I do what would not be done at court?” She eyed him anxiously. “I do not want to disgrace myself or my family’s good name.”
“I will gladly tutor you, lady, in all you need to know,” he promised her. “And will you trust me when I tell you we must leave Friarsgate and go south? I will give you time, lady, but I realize it will be difficult for you to leave. Will you trust me to know the right time?” He gave her an encouraging smile.
“We will not go too soon?” she queried him nervously.
“I think September is a good month in which to travel south,” he replied, again smiling. She was afraid. Of course she was, having never been more than a few miles from her home. It would be an adventure, but Rosamund Bolton didn’t look like a girl who would welcome adventure easily. She was a solid girl. A practical girl, as he had already observed.
“Then I will put my trust in you, sir knight,” Rosamund answered him finally. “But will the king not expect you back sooner than the autumn?”
Owein Meredith laughed. “Nay, lass, he will not. I am just one of the king’s many servants. I am known to be loyal and reliable with any task given me. They know at court that I will return when I have completed my duties. I am hardly important in the scheme of things, my lady.”
“A knight is not important?” She was puzzled.
Around the table her uncles listened as carefully as did the girl, except for Henry Bolton, who was already in his usual evening drunken stupor. Both Edmund and Richard Bolton, while relieved that Rosamund had been rendered safe from Henry, wondered if Hugh had indeed made the right decision for Rosamund by putting her in the wardship of virtual strangers. They leaned forward to catch Sir Owein’s every word.
“Like your late husband, lady, I am only a younger son. The youngest, in fact. My mother died giving me life. My father died when I was thirteen. My family is Welsh mostly. I served as a page to Jasper Tudor, the king’s uncle, from the time I was six years old, then as his squire. I was knighted after the battle of Stoke.”
“How old were you then?” Edmund asked.
“I was past fifteen,” came the answer.
Edmund caught Richard’s eye at this revelation. They silently agreed that they were impressed by this quiet, seemingly gentle man who had been sent to escort Rosamund to court.
“You will certainly be tired by now, sir,” Rosamund said, remembering her duties as chatelaine. “One of the servants will escort you to your chamber. You are most welcome at Friarsgate.” She turned from him and spoke to a large serving man. “Take my uncle to his chamber now, Peter. Then come back and put my young cousin to bed.” She arose from the table. “Sirs, I will leave you to your wine. My day has been a long and sad one.” Curtsying, Rosamund quietly departed the hall.
“She prayed the night by her husband’s bier,” Edmund noted to Sir Owein.
“She is a good Christian girl,” Richard chimed up.
“She is very young to know her duty so well,” the king’s man observed. “She is thirteen?”
“On the last day of this month,” Edmund replied.
“The king’s mother was six months gone with child and widowed at thirteen,” Sir Owein remarked. “The Lady Margaret is an amazing woman. I imagine she was very much like your niece at that age.”
