Katherine was yet again in financial straits. The tension within her little household was fierce. She had dismissed Dona Elvira at long last, but now there was no one to run her household. Her chamberlain treated her boldly and impertinently. She could not dismiss him because she could not pay him. Her confessor, Fray Diego, an extraordinarily handsome Franciscan, had too great a hold over her and a wicked reputation for lechery among the ladies of the court. Katherine would hear nothing against him, for she adored him, and was frankly besotted. The new Spanish ambassador, Don Guitier Gomez de Fuensalida, noted the princess’ frightening dependence upon the young priest. He wrote of his genuine concern to her father, sending his own personal servant with the details and asking that the king replace Fray Diego and send the princess an “old—and honest—confessor.”
Learning of the ambassador’s correspondence with her father, the princess cut him dead from that moment on. The ambassador was recalled at her insistence, and Katherine refused to do anything without her confessor’s consent. Then on the twenty-second of April Henry VII finally died at Richmond. After his funeral the court moved to Greenwich, and the new king’s intentions were soon patently clear. He intended honoring his betrothal to Katherine of Aragon, although for a brief few days he hesitated, troubled by his scruples of conscience. Would he, he wondered aloud, commit a sin by marrying his brother’s widow? Or was the pope’s dispension all right? Some churchmen were not happy with the dispension, but as King Ferdinand pointed out, two of Katherine’s sisters were wed to the same King of Portugal, and each bore him healthy children.
The Privy Council pressed the new king to marry the princess. Despite his qualms, he admitted to them that he loved Katherine and desired her above all women. He had admired her since he was a boy of ten, and now he was eighteen. He respected her and thought her courage these past five years admirable. The Venerable Margaret agreed, and her influence with the young king was considerable. Without further hesitation Henry proposed to Katherine. They were married privily on the eleventh of June in her apartments.
I am happier now than I have ever been in all my life, dear Rosamund. Happier than I could have ever imagined. My lord husband is the finest and gentlest of men. I shall always love him. As for you, my dear friend, I cannot thank you enough for your kind sustenance and especially your prayers these last years. I do not know if I shall ever be able to repay you....
Rosamund read the missive, tears streaming down her face.
“Tell the queen,” she said to the royal messenger, “that the little I did warrants no repayment. I was honored to serve her highness. I will serve her again given the opportunity. You will tell her my exact words? I will not write them, for they would only be seen by some secretary and probably filed away.”
“I will tell her, m’lady,” the messenger said, “and if I may say it, I shall miss my visits to Friarsgate. I have enjoyed watching your daughters grow. May God watch over them.” He bowed.
“Thank you,” Rosamund said with a small smile.
“So there is an end to it,” Owein said quietly that night as they lay abed. “The Henry I served is dead and buried. The young king has done the honorable thing and married Princess Katherine. Now we have but to wait for their heirs.”
“And speaking of heir,” Rosamund murmured in his ear, “it is past time we tried to make a son again, my lord.” She nibbled at his earlobe mischievously.
“Bessie is just a year,” he demurred. “It is too soon.”
“I am twenty years old now, Owein,” she reminded him. “Let us make a son or two, and I will cease my maternal natterings. Besides, the bairn would not be born until next year, and by then Bessie will be two. It is time enough.” She looked down into his face. “Do you not desire me any longer, my lord?”
“You are becoming a very wicked woman, madame,” he told her.
“It is obvious I must be if I am to arouse your passions for me, Owein,” Rosamund said. Then she astounded him by mounting him. “If a man may bestride a woman, why not a woman a man?” she demanded to know, looking down into his surprised face.
He thought a moment, and then, reaching up, he began to fondle her rounded breasts. “I know of no admonition against such a thing,” he considered thoughtfully. His thumbs rubbed against her nipples.
It was startling. That delicious feeling that always began when he played with her breasts. She shifted atop him. “I remember saying to you that we must do something different if we were to have a son, my lord. Perhaps this will be the charm for us.” She bent and brushed his lips with hers. “You shall be my stallion and I your rider.”
Her new and brazen attitude was incredibly arousing. He had never imagined his sweet Rosamund would be so bold and forthright. She had always welcomed his advances, lying contentedly beneath him, taking her full share of their pleasure in each other but doing little else. He felt himself harden with amazing rapidity. For a moment he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the sensation, but then he opened his eyes again and reached out to tease at her little love jewel with a fingertip, and finding her already wet with her own lust he laughed aloud. His fingers tightened about her waist, lifting her up, then lowering her so that she was impaled upon him. He groaned as her warmth surrounded him, struggling to gain a firmer control over his own desire.
He slid so easily into her sheath, and Rosamund’s tongue encircled her dry lips, moistening them. Bracing herself with her hands, she leaned back, shamelessly enjoying the full length of him. Then, her thighs tightening about him, she began to ride him, slowly at first, but as their excitement mounted she plunged faster and faster until she could not restrain the little cries of pleasure that leapt from her throat. Suddenly Owein gave a great cry, and she felt his juices thundering into her own eager body. She collapsed upon his broad chest, suddenly exhausted and close to tears. They had finally made a son! She knew it!
His arms wrapped about her. “’Tis a bold baggage you are, Rosamund, my bonny wife. I love you.”
“I know,” she responded. “Is it not fortunate that I love you as well, my Owein?”
He felt her tears upon his chest and smiled to himself. He did not care if she ever gave him a son. He was content just to be with her. His sweet rose. His own true lovey. She had fallen asleep atop him, and he gently rolled her onto the mattress, drawing the coverlet up over them both, still smiling as he looked down at her. She was so fair. He could understand the prince wanting to seduce her all those years ago. He had wanted to seduce her, too, if the truth be known, but his own code of chivalrous behavior would not allow him to dishonor an innocent girl. Any girl. Owein closed his eyes and drifted into sleep. Thanks to the kindness of the Queen of the Scots and her grandmother, he had been given the fair Rosamund, and for that he would always be grateful.
By Lammastide Rosamund knew she was again with child, and this time her confinement was very different. For several months her belly was extremely sensitive to everything, but especially to the smell of roasting meat. The slightest odor would cause her to disgorge whatever was in her stomach. And then as suddenly as her sickness had begun she was fine once more. But she was growing larger with each day. She had never been quite so big with her girls, but then this, she assured everyone, was her first lad. And he would be named Hugh after her second husband, she reminded them.
“Henry will not be pleased to have that memento presented him,” Edmund Bolton chuckled as they all sat in the hall, a February storm beating at the windows. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly.
“I should hardly call my son Henry,” Rosamund said, reaching for a sugared rose petal that she had put up the previous summer.
“You must have a girl’s name, too,” Maybel said.
“’Tis not a lass,” Rosamund said firmly.
“’Twill be what God wills, Rosamund,” Maybel replied. “Choose a lass’ name just in case.”
But Rosamund could not, nor did she want to. “He is Hugh,” she told them implacably.
Then several days later Rosamund went into labor.
“It is too soon!” she cried. “Oh, God! It is too soon!” She crumbled to her knees, doubled over with the terrible pains racking her.
