“The king’s mother, who is called the Venerable Margaret, is patron to many good causes, but particularly to the church. I have learned from her, holy father. I am not a great lady so I cannot hope to equal her many accomplishments, but I can do something. This is what I choose to do, and I know that my betrothed husband would agree.”
Owein smiled. He was going to have to speak to Rosamund about asking first and not simply assuming it would be all right, although in this particular case he did indeed agree with her. “My lady knows my mind in such matters,” he agreed, putting the old monk’s concerns at ease.
They were separated to sleep, but in the morning they again departed easily. The monks served them a good breakfast of oat stirabout, sweetened with bits of apple and honeycomb, and awash with heavy golden cream. The hot cereal was placed into small individual trenchers of new bread, and mugs of apple cider accompanied the meal. The mass prior had been beautiful, the pure voices of the monks rising in the quiet morning air. They left St. Augustine’s well-fed and feeling surrounded by the notion of peace. The day, however, was gray and drizzly as they rode along. The monks had given them bread, cheese, and apples to eat on their journey. They did so, sheltering within another of the Roman towers during a late-morning downpour.
Rosamund knew instinctively when they passed into Cumbria from Northumberland. There was something about the hills. There was a familiar smell to the clean and crisp air. She could feel her anticipation mounting with each passing mile. It didn’t matter that it was wet and gloomy. She was coming home! Home to Friarsgate. She had believed when she left it almost a year ago that this day would never come, but it had. Tonight she would sleep in her own bed. And then they reached the crest of a steep hill. Below them, to her surprise, was her lake—her home! At that moment the clouds parted. The sun came out, spreading its golden rays over the entire valley.
“Maybel!” Rosamund cried, her voice breaking with happiness.
“Lord bless us, my sweet bairn. Some nights I never thought to see that sight again,” Maybel admitted. Then she kicked her gelding into a trot. “I’ll not wait another moment to see my Edmund,” she said.
“It’s beautiful,” Owein told Rosamund. “I had almost forgotten how beautiful, lovey.”
“’Tis home,” Rosamund said simply. “Our home,Owein.”
Reaching out, he took her gloved hand and kissed it. “Let us go down, sweetheart, for Maybel will have surely aroused the whole manor by the time we get there.” He laughed, and releasing her hand, he moved his horse into a trot while Rosamund followed behind.
Maybel had indeed aroused the manor, and as they reached the bottom of the hills surrounding Friarsgate the people were coming from the fields to welcome their mistress home again. They brought their mounts to a halt before the house, and Rosamund said, “Good people of Friarsgate, I am returned to you with my betrothed husband, whom you already know. Sir Owein Meredith will be your new master. I would have you respect and obey him even as I do. Father Mata will bless our union in a week’s time after my uncle at Otterly has been notified.”
The Friarsgate folk cheered her words and pressed about them as they dismounted their horses, wishing them long life and happiness. Escaping into the house both Owein and Rosamund were rosy and laughing. Edmund Bolton met them, his smile warm as he congratulated them.
“Henry will not be pleased,” he said with a wicked chuckle.
“Send a messenger off to him at first light,” Rosamund said. “It is time to end his schemes for good and for all. This time I will not only be wedded, but bedded, uncle!” And Rosamund Bolton laughed aloud with her happiness.
Chapter 9
Rosamund consulted with the young priest Father Mata, and it was decided that the church formalities involving her betrothal and marriage would take place on Lammastide, August first. The manor folk would have the day for a holiday no matter, and home again, Rosamund’s practical nature came forward. No need to give two days of holiday when one would do.
“’Tis harvest,” she said to the priest. “We cannot afford two days. You have had no difficulties while I was away?”
“No, lady. I celebrate the mass daily, and minister to the spiritual needs of the manor folk. I am honored to celebrate the sacrament for you and Sir Owein.”
“Tell me what my uncle has not,” Rosamund said craftily.
“Lady, I practice only my spiritual duties,” Father Mata replied cleverly, a small smile upon his face.
“Then there is something,” Rosamund mused. “I thought as much! Even a place as remote and quiet as Friarsgate cannot go a year without something happening. Thank you, good father.” And she hurried off to find Edmund Bolton.
He was in the hall with Owein. The two men were conversing in low and somber tones. “What has happened?” she demanded.
Edmund Bolton looked at his niece. She had grown in the ten months she had been away from them. Not only had her height increased, but there was a new maturity about her young face. “What do you mean?” he countered, his blue eyes meeting her amber ones.
“Uncle, I spoke with the priest. Now tell me what has happened that was unusual while I was gone,” Rosamund repeated. She sat down in Owein’s lap, her blue skirts covering his long legs.
Edmund sighed. “I think it may be naught,” he began, “but the Scots have been seen hereabouts. We have had horsemen on the heights above our valley in recent days. They just stand and watch. Nothing else.”
“Has anyone ridden out to speak with them?” Rosamund asked.
“Nay, niece, we have not. They have done naught. They just observe,” Edmund Bolton replied. He ran a nervous hand through his silver-gray hair and shifted in his chair.
“I want to know the next time they come,” Rosamund said. “I will ride out myself to question these intruders.”
“Rosamund, it is too dangerous!” Edmund cried. “Your husband should go, not you.”
“Nay, uncle. I am the lady of Friarsgate. It is my duty and my responsibility to investigate this. And I must go alone. They will not, whoever they may be, attack a woman, particularly if her menfolk remain below, watching over her. Remember, I am a friend of the Queen of the Scots.”
“As if that would matter to a pack of ravaging borderers,” Edmund muttered irritably. “Owein, you must speak with your wife!”
