In the morning Henry Bolton came slowly into the hall of the manor house as his half-brother had predicted. His head hurt him dreadfully and he had almost forgotten the arrival of Sir Owein, the king’s man.
“Where is Rosamund?” he asked. “She is to go with me today, is she not?” He sat down at the high board and shuddered as a trencher of bread filled with hot oat stirabout was placed before him.
“Do you not remember?” Richard Bolton said quietly. “Our niece was put into the king’s care, and will go to court in the late summer with the knight sent to fetch her.”
“I thought I had dreamed it,” Henry Bolton said sourly. “Richard, you know the law. Is what Hugh did legal? Do you want our niece leaving Friarsgate and being wed to some stranger?”
“There is no talk of marriage,” the priest replied.
“But eventually they will use her, for her inheritance is a goodly one,” Henry almost moaned. He pushed away the trencher.
“You have used her,” Richard noted quietly. “Ever since Guy and Phillipa died you have employed every means at your disposal to retain control over Rosamund’s inheritance. You married her to your eldest son first. Then to Hugh Cabot. Now you would force her to wed with your second son, a child of five. You care nothing for Rosamund. Only what she possesses. Hugh was right to see her sent from here for a while. Let her see a little bit of the world. Let her meet the rich and mighty. Our niece is a winsome girl, Henry. Perhaps she will have the good fortune to fall in love with the man chosen for her. Perhaps she will make powerful friends, which cannot hurt this family. When she returns home to us, and she will, I hope she will be happy. But whoever becomes Rosamund’s new husband, she will be happier than if she were yet in your clutches. Now go back to Otterly Court and mind its business. You have three sons and three daughters to provide for, as well as Sister Julia, who you may be pleased to learn, thrives at her convent.”
Henry Bolton’s stomach rolled with his nausea. “Julia,” he muttered, “was provided for when she went to St. Margaret’s.”
“Your oldest daughter will take her final vows in another few years, brother. I will expect you to deliver a goodly sum to the convent at that time in thanksgiving. The sum you settled on the child when you placed her there has hardly been enough for her maintenance. St. Margaret’s is not a wealthy house. She is a godly young girl.”
“She was an ugly baby,” Henry said gloomily. “Mavis’ girls are beauties, every one of them, but they will still need good dowries.”
“Which you, undoubtedly, planned to siphon from Friarsgate’s resources,” Richard observed dryly. “Otterly has good lands, Henry. Small, but fertile. You’ve helped yourself liberally to the livestock here over the years. Your flocks and herds should be good and they should be thriving. Make them even more prosperous. Your girls will have the dowries they deserve one day. They are yet bairns and you have time if you are industrious. You are a Bolton, Henry! Where is your pride? It seems to have disappeared in your quest for what is not yours.”
“Has becoming a priest made you forget from whence you sprang,bastard?” Henry snarled at his oldest brother.
“Our father gave me life on the loins of his mistress, it is true, Henry, but it is our father in heaven who has made me equal to any. I would also remind you that both our father and your mother treatedallof his sons with love,” the priest replied.
“You will want to begin your journey back to Otterly shortly,” Edmund Bolton interrupted quietly. “Shall I have cook pack some bread and meat for you to eat as you ride? Ah, here is your son.”
“I’m hungry,” Henry the younger announced loudly as he climbed up to the high board. “My mother always feeds me oat stirabout and cream in the morning.”
“Your mother isn’t here!” his father snapped. “We’re leaving!”
“But I’m hungry,” the little boy repeated.
“Then sit down and eat what I cannot,” his father shouted, grabbing up his son and slamming him into a chair.
Henry the younger dipped the spoon into the trencher that had been set before his father.“It’s cold,”he whined.
“Then don’t eat it!” Henry the elder roared back.
“But I’m hungry!”
“Fetch Master Henry some hot oat stirabout,” Rosamund said, coming into the hall and hearing the commotion. “Uncle, take some wine. It will help your head. Father Richard, I thank you for the mass this morning. It was lovely to hear mass in our wee church again.”
“Would you like me to send you a young priest, niece?” came the question. “There is a lad at St. Cuthbert’s who I believe would suit admirably. A manor such as Friarsgate should not be without a priest. A small remuneration and his keep will suit Father Mata.”
“Mata?”Henry Bolton looked suspicious. “’Tis a Scots name.”
“Aye,” Richard answered.
“You would bring a Scot into Friarsgate? Are you mad?” Henry said loudly. “You know the Scots are not to be trusted.”
“He is a priest, Henry,” came the calm reply.
“Priest, or no priest, he will have clansmen eager to steal our sheep and our cattle! I will not have it, Richard!” Henry declared.
“Mata is the son of a Scot’s lass, the bastard of the Hepburn of Claven’s Cairn, and an English man-at-arms,” Richard said. “He has been raised at St. Cuthbert’s and knows naught of clan. His mam died giving birth to him, Henry. He is as English as you are. Before she died his mother asked that he be called by the Scots for Matthew, so he would know his whole heritage. He is a gentle young man and will serve Friarsgate well.”
“And the decision is not yours to make,uncle,” Rosamund spoke up. “Edmund? What do you think?”
