Everyone at the table laughed, including Logan Hepburn who was wise enough to know when he had been bested. Target butts were set up in a nearby field, and long bows in hand, the men took turns shooting. Very quickly it became an open contest between Owein Meredith and Logan Hepburn. Arrow after arrow was shot, each man bettering himself with his next turn. When Logan Hepburn’s arrow split Owein’s previous shaft a gasp of surprise went up among the onlookers.
The Scot grinned, saying, “You cannot better that, Owein Meredith.”
“Perhaps I can,” the Englishman answered softly, and he notched his arrow, letting it fly toward the target.
A shout of amazement went up, followed by a great cheer as Owein’s arrow split the Scotsman’s. Logan Hepburn’s jaw dropped with astonishment as the Englishman, hands on his hips, grinned at him.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.
“I keep telling you that you surely will, my lord,” Rosamund said, coming up next to Owein. Standing on her tiptoes she kissed his cheek. “Well done, husband!” she congratulated him. “Now, come and sit by my side. Cook has made a fine pear tartlet to celebrate this day. You, too, Logan Hepburn. You look as if you could use something sweet right now. And perhaps a bit of wine?”
“I could,” he admitted. “Sir, you must teach me how to shoot like that. I thought I was surely the best archer I have ever known, but I admit that you outshot me easily.”
“There is no trick to it, my lord,” Owein said, “and I will gladly share my skills with you. But not today. I shall need my strength and skill forothersports shortly.” Then putting an arm about Rosamund, he went with her back to the high board.
“He taunts you,” Ian Hepburn said softly.
“Aye, I know,” Logan replied, “but I deserve it. He is no fool and knows I covet his wife. I may not have the first taste, Ian, but I shall have the last one day. She will be mine, I vow it.”
“You’re a fool,” Colin Hepburn sneered at his elder. “Find another lass and marry her. ’Tis your duty as our laird.”
“You find a lass, Colin. If I die without heirs, ’tis your sons who will inherit. I don’t care. The lass who was wed today is the only bride I want.”
“You should have taken her the other day when you had the chance,” Ian remarked.
“Perhaps I should have, but ’tis too late now,” Logan Helpburn replied. “This is not the end of it, brothers. I will have another chance, and when it comes I will take it without question.”
The Friarsgate folk ate until their sides were sore. The men played their rough games, kicking the sheep’s bladder in the mown field beyond the house. The three Hepburns, having regained their honor by besting the English on that field, now took up their pipes and began to play. They were joined by several of the local men upon the double reed pipe, a fiddle, bells, a tambourine, and a drum. The people began to dance, holding hands in a circle. They danced other dances in a long line, weaving amid the tables, led by the bride and the groom. The day began to wane. At Rosamund’s signal loaves of bread were given to each guest. Each loaf had a lighted candle in it. Led by Edmund Bolton, Friarsgate’s steward, the bridal party and its guests circled the house three times. The candles were then snuffed, and each loaf was devoured but for a quarter of the bread, which would be saved for the following year’s Lammas-morning celebration.
The sun beginning to sink in the west, the guests departed back to their own cottages. The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn and his brothers bid their hostess and her bridegroom their thanks and farewell. Logan Hepburn bowed over Rosamund’s hand.
“We shall meet again one day, lady of Friarsgate,” he told her.
“I shall look forward to it, my lord,” she told him, her gaze never flinching from his bright blue one. Then she drew her hand from his and wished them a safe journey home.
“You will not remain the night?” Owein asked hospitably.
“Nay, my lord, but thank you,” Logan said. “There is a fine border moon coming that will guide us home.”
Owein and Rosamund watched the three Scots ride off. The bride had to admit, if only to herself, that she was relieved to have seen the last of the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. He fascinated her in a rather wicked way, but she would tell no one of her secret thoughts. Not even Owein. She had a good man for a husband, and she was going to love him.
They stood silent for a time, watching the sunset over the hills to their west. Then hand in hand they reentered the manor’s hall. There were candles lit as usual, and the fire burned brightly, taking the chill off the evening, which after the unusually warm day had turned cool. Together Rosamund and Owein sat before the hearth on a small cushioned settle. A lute lay by his feet, and Owein picked it up and began to sing to his bride in his clear Welsh tenor. She was both surprised and charmed, for she had never heard him sing or play before; nor had she ever realized that he could.
Look on this rose, O Rose,
And looking laugh on me,
And in thy laughter’s ring
The nightingale shall sing.
Take thou this rose, O Rose,
Since Love’s own flower it is,
And by that rose,
Thy lover captive is.
