“Did your uncle share his knowledge of the land with you?” Hugh asked her.
Rosamund shook her head. “Nay. I am naught to Henry Bolton but a possession to be controlled so he in his turn may control Friarsgate.”
“Then how is it you are so well informed?” he wondered.
“My grandfather had four sons,” she began. “My father was the third born, but the first two were born on the wrong side of the blanket—before my grandfather wed. That is why my father was the heir. Uncle Henry is the youngest of my grandfather’s sons. The eldest is my uncle Edmund. My father loved all his brothers, but he loved Edmund the best. Uncle Henry was not born until my father was five. The other two were closer in age, and grandfather, I am told, made no distinction between his lads, but that my father was the heir. My uncles Edmund and Richard were given permission to take the family name. Uncle Henry hates them, but especially he hates Edmund, for my father loved him best.
“My grandfather gave Richard to the church to expiate his sins. He is at the abbey of St. Cuthbert’s nearby. Edmund he made his steward when he was grown and the old steward died. Uncle Henry dared not dispossess his elder brother, for Edmund knows too much about Friarsgate and Henry does not. Edmund has kept out of his way, of course, but both he and Maybel have explained everything to me.”
“Maybel?” Here was another new name.
“My nursemaid,” Rosamund replied. “She is my uncle Edmund’s wife, and more mother to me than my own. Mama was never strong after I was born, they tell me, but she was, I remember, a sweet lady.”
“I should like to meet Maybel and Edmund,” Hugh said.
“We will ride to their cottage, then,” Rosamund responded. “You will like them!”
Now Hugh Cabot realized another reason Henry Bolton had chosen him to be Rosamund’s husband. Certainly it would irritate Edmund Bolton, an obviously good steward, to be so subtly replaced. He would have to mend that fence quickly else it cause a breach. Nothing must detract from keeping Rosamund—and Friarsgate—safe. If Edmund Bolton was as his niece had said he was in character, they should all get along together.
They reached their destination, a stone cottage located on an isolated hillside overlooking a small lake surrounded by the hills. It was well kept, its roof thatched tightly, its whitewash clean. There was a single well-worn bench beneath a front window. A narrow ribbon of pale gray smoke arose from the chimney. A few late roses bloomed by the door. After dismounting from his horse, Hugh lifted Rosamund from her pony.
She hurried into the cottage, calling as she went. “Edmund! Maybel! I have brought my bridegroom to meet you!”
Hugh ducked beneath the lintel of the door. He found himself in a cheerful room, a bright fire burning in the stone fireplace. A man of medium height, his face brown with the outdoors, his amber eyes curious, came forward, bowing.
“Welcome, my lord,” he said. “Maybel, come and meet the new lord.” He drew his plump wife forward.
She was a tiny woman of indeterminate age, her gray eyes sharp. She looked Hugh Cabot over carefully. Finally, obviously satisfied, she curtsied to him. “Sir,” she said.
“May we offer you a cup of cider, my lord?” Edmund queried politely.
“It would be appreciated,” Hugh agreed. “We have been out riding my wife’s lands all the day long.”
“And my child has not had a bite to eat since early morning?” Maybel demanded. “Shame!”
Rosamund giggled. “I have not been hungry,” she assured her nurse. “This is the first time I have been out of the house in weeks, Maybel. You know it to be true. Uncle Henry never let me out of his sight but to pee and sleep. It was glorious riding the hills!”
“Yet Maybel is correct, wife,” Hugh said in his quiet voice. “Like you, I enjoyed the day, but you are a growing lass, and need to be fed in a timely manner.” He turned to his host and hostess. “I am plain Hugh Cabot, and would be pleased to have you address me by my Christian name, Edmund and Maybel Bolton.”
“When we are together, by ourselves,” Edmund agreed, “but before the servants you must take the mantle of lord, Hugh Cabot. Your wife is, after all, the lady of Friarsgate.” Edmund found himself pleasantly surprised by Hugh’s tone and his gentle manners.
“Sit down!” Maybel ordered them. “I will feed you.” She bustled about the room, taking bread from a basket by the fire, cutting it open, and hollowing out the trenchers. She set them upon the table and filled them with a delicious-smelling pottage of rabbit, onions, carrots, and gravy. The trencher before Rosamund and Hugh was twice the size of the other two. They would be expected to share it. Maybel supplied them with polished wooden spoons with which to eat. Then she sat down to join them. Edmund plunked down upon the table pewter goblets of cider that had been pressed just that morning.
Rosamund found to her surprise that she was indeed very hungry. She ate enthusiastically, her spoon dipping swiftly into the trencher again and again, shoving the pieces from the insides of the cottage loaf that Maybel had put in a dish before them into her mouth.
Maybel watched them surreptitiously, noting that Hugh Cabot deferred to the child, letting her eat her fill while he pretended to do the same. Only when Rosamund was obviously satisfied did he seriously eat himself. Well, well, Maybel considered, this is an interesting turn of events. But she was not yet ready to believe that Henry Bolton had done his niece a good turn in choosing this ancient bridegroom. Still, it appeared that Rosamund liked the man. She was usually cautious of strangers, especially those connected with her greedy uncle.
“That, Maybel, was the best rabbit stew I have ever eaten!” Hugh Cabot pronounced when he had finished. He pushed himself away from the table with a satisfied sigh.
Edmund Bolton smiled. “She’s a good cook, my Maybel,” he said. “A bit more cider, Hugh?”
“Nay, I think not, Edmund. We must leave you shortly if we are to find our way home before dark.”
“Aye, the winter’s coming soon enough with its dark days,” Edmund answered him.
“Before we go, however,” Hugh rejoined, “I would put matters straight, for Henry Bolton has sought to make trouble between us, and I will not have it. For many years I have served as steward to Agnes Bolton’s brother. I was asked to train his son to fill my position, and I did. When Agnes learned I had lost my place she suggested that I become Rosamund’s husband to protect her husband’s interests in Friarsgate.”
“Henry Bolton has no interest in Friarsgate!” Edmund said angrily.
