“Indeed! Indeed!” the Venerable Margaret said, crossing herself as well. “Henry! Sir Hugh Cabot once saved your father’s life. Did you know that? We must take especially good care of his young widow.”
“Yes, mama,” the king said dutifully. “While I knew this lass had been put into our care, until today I had not laid eyes on her. She has been with the queen and the princesses.”
“Who brought you to court, my child?” the Venerable Margaret now inquired of Rosamund.
“Sir Owein Meredith,” Rosamund said.
“Ah, a lovely man,” the Countess of Richmond murmured, a small smile touching her lips. Then she said, “My granddaughter’s bodice looks well on you, child.” Her sharp eyes had recognized the garment she had given to her grandchild some months back.
“I have outgrown it,” Meg quickly replied. “My bosom is too full now, but Rosamund is still quite flat-chested.”
Rosamund blushed furiously. She did have breasts! They were just smaller than Meg’s ample proportions. It was most infuriating, especially as the princess was several months younger than she was.
“The bodice suits you,” the Countess of Richmond noted in kindly tones. Then she turned to her granddaughter. “The Queen of the Scots has a good heart but a thoughtless tongue. No woman wishes to have her attributes compared unfavorably or otherwise, particularly by another woman, Margaret Tudor. I hope that you will recall that when you have come into your own. Scots women, I am told, are extremely proud.”
“I will indeed remember your words, madame,” Meg replied, a faint flush just touching her cheeks, although she looked her grandmother directly in the eye.
“It is time to relieve you from a part of your mourning,” the Venerable Margaret decreed. And the very next morning Meg found a pair of tawny orange sarcenet sleeves on her bed when she and Rosamund awoke.
“Oh,” Meg squealed, picking up the bright silk sleeves. “Tillie!” she called to her tiring woman. “Affix them to my bodice. I shall wear them to mass. They are from grandmama, I am certain!”
“They are, your highness,” the serving woman replied, “and she left a nice white pair for Lady Rosamund as well. Shall I give them to her Maybel?”
“Yes!” came the immediate decision. Then Meg turned to Rosamund. “If grandmama says we are coming out of mourning for Arthur, then we will! Mama and Katherine won’t, of course, but I am glad to be done with all this black.”
“Everything is still black,” Rosamund reminded her in practical tones. “Our bodices, our skirts, our headdresses.”
“But the sleeves will set us apart from the others,” Meg said mischievously. “The gentlemen will notice us and not the others.”
“But you are already wed, to all intents and purposes,” Rosamund replied, confused.
“But I am notofficiallywed,” Meg responded. “Besides, the King of the Scots kept a mistress, Maggie Drummond, who was, I have been told, quite dear to his heart. She was poisoned recently, and her two sisters with her. They all died. ’Tis said King James could not bear to be parted from her. Someone near to him, though who is not known, took matters into their own hands. My marriage is very important to both England and Scotland. My father will not send me north until the matter with the Drummond woman is settled.”
“Then why do you wish other men to notice you?” Rosamund asked.
“Because it is fun.” Meg laughed, and then with a wicked smile she said, “Perhaps we will see Sir Owein at the mass. He will surely notice you if you are wearing your beautiful white sarcenet sleeves.”
Rosamund giggled. “Why should I care if he notices me or not?” She climbed from their bed and padded barefooted across the chamber to wash her face and hands in a silver basin that had been set out for her. Her companion’s basin was gold.
“Because you are going to be given a husband sooner than later,” Meg replied. “It might be better if you had one who came to live at Friarsgate and didn’t have his own lands. Besides, your manor is in the borders, and while I do not expect the Scots to invade England once I am officially their queen, it could not hurt if my father had a man like Sir Owein in the borders. He knows that his knight is loyal and faithful. The northern lords blow with the winds. They can often be feckless and unfaithful.”
“But they are English,” Rosamund said, puzzled.
Margaret Tudor climbed from her bed and walked across the chamber to where her new friend stood. Reaching out, she patted Rosamund’s soft cheek. “You are such an innocent,” she said. “I pray that your simple honesty is never tried harshly, Rosamund Bolton.”
They did not see Sir Owein at the mass, but several days later when they had been settled at Windsor he actually came to the queen’s apartments to inquire politely after Rosamund. Seated near Elizabeth of York, sewing on gowns for the new baby, they saw him enter and heard his words. Meg poked Rosamund, who was blushing furiously as the queen’s gentle voice called her to lay her needlework aside and come forward.
“Rosamund Bolton, here is Sir Owein Meredith come to pay his respects to you,” the queen said.
Rosamund curtsied to the queen, but knew not what to say at first.
“You are well, lady, and your good Maybel?” he said politely.
“Yes, sir, and I thank you for your concern,” Rosamund replied, having finally found her voice. Bravely she met his greenish gaze, and he smiled, which to her surprise set her heart to racing.
“And do you still miss Friarsgate, or has the lure of the court caught you up in its spell?” he questioned.
“The court is very grand, sir, and everyone has been kind, but aye, I miss my home,” Rosamund admitted to him.
