“I want to hear no gossip when I return,” Maybel told her husband. “Take care of yourself, old man. Wear that flannel I sewed for you on your chest this winter or you’ll catch an ague for certain.”
“And you, woman, don’t go flirting with all those handsome gentlemen at the court. Remember you are my dear wife,” he responded with a warm smile. “You’re a bit bossy, lass, but I’ll miss you.”
“Humph!” she snorted, and then turned her horse away from him, following after Sir Owein and Rosamund.
Rosamund had been off her lands but twice in her life, and both times no farther than a few miles from her home. Her husband and her uncle Edmund had taken her to a horse and cattle fair. Once she had gone to a wool market. She had never spent a night away from Friarsgate, nor from her own bed. Had Hugh known what he was doing when he had put her into the custody of a virtual stranger? She almost wished her uncle Henry had prevailed and she was still at Friarsgate.Almost.
As her initial fears wore off Rosamund actually began to enjoy the ride. And mindful of the fact his charge had never spent an entire day on horseback, Sir Owein stopped in midmorning so they might stand and stretch, and eat the food that the Friarsgate cook had prepared and packed. And Rosamund found that her appetite had returned as she ate roasted capon and rabbit pastries still warm from the oven, bread and cheese and crisp pears from her own orchards. They rode on to stop again at a small convent in midafternoon. The rain had finally caught up with them. As they were expected they were welcomed, but Sir Owein was sent to the guesthouse for men, while Rosamund and Maybel remained with the nuns. They were, however, the only visitors that night.
It was that first evening that Rosamund realized the truth in her guardian’s words. Their meal consisted of a thick pottage of root vegetables served them in a small trencher of brown bread and a narrow wedge of hard cheese. The ale was bitter, and they drank little. Their bedding was not much better. Two pallets, their straw mattresses flattened down with much use and somewhat bug ridden. In the morning they were served oat stirabout, which they ate with wooden spoons from a common pot. A single slice of bread was given them to share. When Sir Owein had offered the donation, they departed.
The walled town of Carlisle was the first real town that Rosamund had ever seen. Her eyes grew wide as they passed through the Rickard’s Gate. Her heart beat faster as they traversed the narrow streets, its houses side by side with no gardens to be seen. They moved down the High Street, crossing south to the church of St. Cuthbert’s, which was allied with Richard Bolton’s monastery, and in whose guesthouses they would spend the night.
“I don’t think I like towns,” Rosamund said. “Why does it stink so much, Owein?”
“If you look carefully in the streets, lady, you will see the contents of the town’s night jars as they make their way in the gutters to the sewers,” he explained.
“My cow byres smell better,” she responded.
“Come, lady,” he teased her, “a country girl such as yourself shouldn’t mind a few odors.”
Rosamund shook her head. “Do town folk like being so closed in?” she wondered aloud. “I do not like it at all.”
“The town is walled to prevent invaders from breaking into it,” he said. “There is much to steal here, and the Scots are still quite near. Carlisle is a place of safety for many in the countryside hereabouts. And from here a defense can be mounted effectively.”
They departed Carlisle the next morning, much to Rosamund’s relief, traveling south once again through a corner of Westmorland with its bleak moorlands, hills, and lakes into Lancastershire with its forests and deer parks. They rode, Sir Owein told them, along a road that had been constructed by a people called Romans over a thousand years ago. They moved through Cheshire, a flat county despite the hills that bordered it, and on into Shropshire, where the weather became distinctly autumnal. She was glad for her blue wool cape with its hood.
Rosamund liked the black-faced sheep she saw grazing in the fields of Shropshire. Their wool, she told Sir Owein knowledgeably, was even better than Friarsgate wool. She hoped, she said, to eventually purchase a flock, although such sheep were difficult to come by, as their owners were reluctant to part with them. Still, if she could find a breeding ram and just two fertile ewes it would be a start.
“Here I am taking you to court, and you are thinking about breeding sheep,” he laughed.
“I know Hugh meant to protect me and expose me to more of the world,” Rosamund replied, “but I am a country girl at heart. I hope I shall be allowed to return home quickly. From what you have told me I doubt I can be of any importance to the king or any use to his family. When I meet the king I shall suggest to him that he let me go home immediately. When I wish to wed, should I ever find a man to suit me, I shall not do it without his royal permission.”
“I do not know when you shall meet the king,” Owein told her. “At least not right away. You are wise to understand that you have no real place among the mighty, Rosamund.” Had she grown prettier since he first met her last spring? he wondered to himself. Having spent time at Friarsgate he understood her desire to remain there. He suddenly realized that he would have liked to remain there. It was not easy being in service all of your life.
“Will I like being at court?” Rosamund asked him. He had been staring at her so hard that it made her uncomfortable. She sought to gain his full attention once again.
His greenish eyes met hers. “I hope so, Rosamund,” he told her. “I should not like to see you unhappy.” Having met Henry Bolton he fully understood Hugh Cabot’s desire to protect Rosamund from him; whether removing her from her home was the solution, he was unsure.
The roads in Staffordshire were dreadful and poorly maintained, especially considering one must use them to travel south. It began to rain once again and the road they were on flooded badly. There were not enough river crossings. It took them almost a full hour to traverse a small bridge one afternoon, so heavy was the local traffic. The wooden span creaked and groaned beneath the heavily ladened carts, the horse traffic, and a small herd of cattle. The countryside was heavily forested with ancient woodlands, but the meadows, where they found them, were particularly lush. However, ugly open pits where coal and iron were mined spoiled some of the countryside. They had now been on the road over two weeks, but Sir Owein was pleased that they were making excellent time, considering his two female companions were not used to such travel.
Warwickshire was beautiful to Rosamund’s eye with its fine pastures and meadows. The market towns, of which they learned there were eighteen, were prosperous and busy. Rosamund was now used to the towns, but she still opined to Maybel, who was quick to agree, that she would rather live in the countryside than in a town. They moved on across Northamptonshire, which seemed strangely isolated and rural in comparison to the other counties through which they had passed. Herds of cattle and sheep grazed in meadows that were still verdant and green at September’s close. As was Buckinghamshire, where, Sir Owein told her, cattle and sheep on the last stage of their journey from Wales to London were stopped and fattened.
They came to the town of St. Albans in Hertfordshire, and knowing she would have little time for pleasures soon, Owein took both Rosamund and Maybel to see the saint’s shrine at the great abbey. He was England’s first saint and had been a Roman soldier. Rosamund had never been in a church like the abbey. The great stone edifice soared above their heads. The stained-glass windows cast multicolored dappled shadows upon the stone floors. Neither Rosamund nor Maybel had ever before seen colored glass.
“How Father Mata would marvel at such beauty,” Rosamund said. “One day I shall put such windows in our wee church, though not as fine or large, of course.”
“They would be even lovelier unencumbered by other buildings, and with the pure light of Cumberland shining through them,” Owein noted quietly. “I think I shall miss your Friarsgate.”
“Perhaps you will be assigned to escort me home,” Rosamund said hopefully. “Mayhap I shall return in the spring.”
“Then you are resigned to spending your autumn and your winter at the court,” he remarked.
“It would seem I have not been given the choice, have I?” she said with a half laugh. “When will we get to London?”
“We will go to Richmond first,” he answered her. “I suspect, as it is the king’s favorite place, he will be there to hunt. If he is not there they will know where he is. Another day on the road, Rosamund.”
The king, however, was at Richmond. As they approached the palace through the park they could see his standard and the red Pendragon banner flying from the towers in the brisk afternoon breeze. Beyond they could see the Thames River sparkling in the sunlight.
