“You saw Kate before we left?”
“Aye. I gifted her with the remainder of my account at the London goldsmith’s. I spent little of it. She will, I suspect, have need of those funds in the months to come. But tell no one,” Rosamund added.
“Aye, she will, if her father does not pay the rest of her dowry portion,” Meg said. “That was kind. I shall keep the secret.”
“Our carefree days are over with now, your highness,” Rosamund said, rising and curtsying to the young Queen of the Scots. “May your marriage be a happy and fruitful one.”
Margaret Tudor stood straight, accepting the simple homage of her friend. “And you, Lady Rosamund of Friarsgate, I wish the same to you and a safe journey home.”
“Thank you, your highness.” Rosamund curtsied again. Then she backed slowly from the room, stopping briefly at the door to raise her hand in a final farewell. Her last glimpse of Margaret Tudor as the door closed and Tillie escorted her out of the queen’s apartments was of a smiling girl. “Tillie, I thank you,” Rosamund told the tiring woman. She put a silver piece into Tillie’s hand.
The serving woman nodded quietly, slipping the coin into her pocket without looking at it. “God bless you, lady. You’ve been given a good man. Take care of him now. Your Maybel will guide you.”
Rosamund nodded. Then she hurried off to find her own faithful serving woman and her betrothed husband. Tomorrow they would begin the final leg of their long journey back to Friarsgate.
They departed from Newcastle just after the early summer’s dawn. Owein had inquired of the monks at the monastery and learned that their order had a small establishment near Walltown that they could reach by very late afternoon, provided that they did not dally. They followed a track that paralleled the Picts Wall, which Owein explained had been built by Roman soldiers. The wall had been constructed to keep the wild northerners from coming south into the more civilized areas. Several hours along their route they stopped to rest themselves and the horses briefly. Built into the wall was a stone tower. Rosamund and Owein climbed the stairs of the tower and were rewarded with a splendid view of the countryside. Around them the rough landscape spread out in every direction. Cattle and sheep dotted the hillsides.
They finally reached the monastery, which was located on the east side of Walltown, in late afternoon. Owein knocked upon the great wooden gates of the establishment. Very quickly a barred aperture slid open to reveal a face.
“Yes?”
“I am Sir Owein Meredith, traveling in company with my betrothed wife, Lady Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate, and her servant. We have come this day from Newcastle, where we were with the Queen of Scots’ wedding progress. We were informed by the monastery in Newcastle that we could find shelter here for the night.”
The vent shut with a slam, and after a long moment the small door in the gate was opened by a young monk. “You are welcome, Sir Owein,” he said, and ushered them into the courtyard after they had dismounted their horses. “We must have a care here so close to Scotland. Even our calling does not necessarily protect us. I will take you to the abbot if you will please to follow me,” the young monk said.
They followed the monk into the abbot’s receiving chamber where they were greeted by the elderly religious. Sir Owein once again explained who they were and from where they had traveled.
The abbot waved them into the chairs set about the chamber. “We do not often get guests or hear news from the outside world,” he said in a quavery voice. “You have traveled with the Queen of the Scots, our own Princess Margaret? When did you join her train?”
“At Richmond,” Sir Owein replied. “I have until recently been in service to the House of Tudor, good father. Lady Rosamund has been a companion to the young queen for almost a year. We are now returning to Friarsgate to have our union blessed by the church and to begin our life together.”
“Would you be related to Henry Bolton, the squire of Friarsgate?” the abbot asked.
“Henry Bolton is my uncle,” Rosamund said stiffly, “but I am the heiress to Friarsgate, holy father. When I was first orphaned my uncle was my guardian, but after my second marriage to Sir Hugh Cabot, my uncle returned to his own home at Otterly Court. When Sir Hugh died his will gave my wardship to the king. The king has effected this new union to Sir Owein. My uncle has no control or authority at Friarsgate. He is certainly not its lord.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken,” the abbot said slowly. “I am old, and my mind often becomes confused.”
“I doubt your mind was confused on the matter, good father,” Rosamund replied, half-laughing. “My uncle has always desired what is mine, and I have no doubt hoped to gain it one day.”
The old man nodded. “’Tis often the case with a prosperous estate, my lady. Now let me bid you welcome to our house. We are a simple place, but we should be able to make you comfortable this night. Another day’s ride and you will be home.”
They were invited to join the abbot in his private dining room that evening. Expecting a pottage of root vegetables, they were delighted to be served a roasted capon stuffed with apples and bread, a platter with slices of fresh trout on a bed of watercress, a bowl of onions in milk and butter, bread, freshly baked and still warm, butter, and a fine aged cheese.
“’Tis the feast of St. James, the patron of travelers,” the abbot said with a twinkle in his eye, seeing their surprise. “It is a good feast to celebrate, and tomorrow is St. Anne’s Day. She is patron to housewives and unmarried girls. You would, it seems, my lady, stand now between the two.” And the old abbot chuckled.
A young monk filled their pewter goblets with a rather fine wine.
“It is important to keep up your strength here in this desolate location in which this house is set,” Sir Owein said with a smile. “Where do you find such excellent wine?”
“The mother house in Newcastle sends it to us. It is part of our payment for the wool we harvest from our sheep each year. We support our little monastery in that way, sir. They send the wool to the Low Countries where it is turned into cloth that we then sell.”
“You would do better to card your own wool and spin your own cloth,” Rosamund said. “You lose good cloth when you have to ship it and then use a middleman to obtain the results that you could obtain yourselves here at your monastery. Why do you not do it?”
“We have no knowledge of the process other than caring for our sheep and shearing them,” the abbot admitted.
“If you want to learn I will send someone to teach your monks,” Rosamund offered. “You will find it far more profitable, I guarantee it, than sending your wool to the Low Countries.”
“I must ask permission of the abbot at our mother house,” the old man said, “but I see no reason why he would refuse me. Thank you, my lady Rosamund.”
