“I am not of a mind to match any of my daughters yet,” Owein told Rosamund’s uncle, “but if I were, I should seek farther afield. Fresh blood always improves and strengthens a line, Henry. Find another lass for your lad. You shall have none of mine.”
Henry Bolton rode away, shoulders drooping.
“I think he is defeated at last,” Rosamund said, watching him go. “I never thought he should give up on possessing Friarsgate, but I truly believe now that he has.”
“He is a broken man I can see,” Owein said. “His wife’s brazen behavior has destroyed him. If he were truly a brave man he would put her from his house, but he is not brave. He is a bully and a coward, and always was so.”
For a moment Rosamund almost felt sorry for Henry Bolton. He had fancied himself so superior to his two half-brothers, scorning them because of their illegitimate birth. Now he was forced to accept his wife’s infidelity and her two bastards. He dared not do otherwise else he be publicly made the fool, and that Henry Bolton could not tolerate. So he gritted his teeth and accepted what he could not change.
Now that Henry VIII reigned in England the news came more frequently, especially as the weather was warm. The peddlers were out in force, and they came to Friarsgate knowing of its prosperity.
They heard that the king and queen had been crowned on June twenty-fourth, Midsummer’s Day, at Westminster Abbey. The royal couple had come from Greenwich by barge the twenty-second and had been housed in the Tower of London as was customary. The city of London was one huge festivity. The young king was magnificent in his rich garments.
The harvest came once again, and it was more than bountiful. Friarsgate’s granaries overflowed, and the fruit was being harvested by the bushel from the apple and pear trees in the orchards. Owein was right in the middle of it all. For some reason Rosamund had never understood, he enjoyed climbing to the tops of the trees for those fruits that no one else could reach. He would pick them by hand and toss them down to those women waiting below. Nothing pleased him more than to go to the cellars in the deep of winter and return with a crisp apple or pear. The ones at the top of the baskets, he told Rosamund, were those very same ones he had climbed up to reach. Then he would eat his fruit with a pleased grin upon his handsome face.
He was in the orchards one September afternoon when Edmund entered the hall where Rosamund was sewing a hem into Philippa’s new skirt. She looked up and smiled her greeting at him. He was suddenly beginning to look old, she thought.
“Rosamund,” he said.
“Aye?” It was then she saw Maybel just behind Edmund.
“Rosamund,” he repeated, and then to her amazement he began to weep in great gulping sobs of genuine sorrow.
“Jesu! Mary!” Maybel swore softly, and then pushed past her husband. Men could weaken at the worst possible moment. “There has been an accident,” she began.
Rosamund leapt to her feet, the little skirt falling to the floor of the hall. She said one word. “Owein?”
Maybel drew a deep breath. “He’s dead,” she said.
“Dead?”Rosamund looked at the older woman as if she had lost her wits.“Dead?”she repeated.
“He fell from a tree, lass. Broke his neck, he did,” Maybel said bluntly. “Dead the moment he hit the ground.” She was fighting to hold back her own tears.
Rosamund began to scream, the sound so pitiful that the dogs in the hall started to howl and the two cats fled beneath the high board.
Her husband was sobbing like a maid. Her lass was teetering on the brink of madness. Maybel stepped forward, tears now pouring down her own weathered face, and slapped Rosamund as hard as she could. “Get hold of yourself, my girl,” she said fiercely. “Remember that you are the lady of Friarsgate. There is nothing to do but accept what has happened! It is a dreadful calamity, but it cannot be changed. Remember how the queen bore her adversity, and follow her example.”
Rosamund’s amber eyes finally focused. Her hand went to her mouth as the men brought her husband in upon a board. She drew a deep breath to clear her head. “Edmund, you must cease your grieving now and speak with the carpenter. I want a casket in the hall before nightfall. My lord must be laid out properly for his burial. Someone fetch Father Mata, if they have not already. Annie,” she addressed a serving woman. “Bring my daughters to the hall at once. They must know what has happened to their father.” She walked over to look at Owein. “Put him upon the high board,” she instructed the farm workers. Owein looked so odd, his neck at a strange angle, a look of surprise upon his lips. She turned away, feeling faint. Finding her chair, she sat down heavily. “Oh, God,” she whispered, almost to herself, and she finally began to weep.
Annie brought the children into the hall. Philippa and Banon were holding hands, but Annie carried wee Bessie. Philippa’s eyes went to the high board, but the younger girls noticed nothing except that their mother was crying. Rosamund held out her arms to them.
“What is the matter with papa?” Philippa asked.
“There has been an accident. Papa fell from a tree,” Rosamund explained. “He has gone to be with the angels.” It sounded so inadequate, but she could not think of anything else to say.
Warm water was brought, and they removed the clothing he had been wearing that day. Rosamund washed his lifeless body herself, redressing him in his good velvet gown, the one he had worn the day they were married. There was no need for a shroud. Owein Meredith was set in his casket, a linen band wound above his head and beneath his chin to keep his mouth from falling open. Two round copper pennies were placed upon his eyelids to keep them shut. She bent and kissed his lifeless lips, and then he was put into his coffin.
Footed candlesticks were placed at each corner of the coffin and the beeswax candles lit. The casket lid was placed atop it, leaving just the upper half of Owein’s body to view. Father Mata came now, his arms full of late-summer flowers, which he strewed on the casket’s oak lid. The two prie-dieux were brought from the church. The priest and the lady of Friarsgate knelt in prayer while about them the supper was brought into the hall. Rosamund sat at the high board with Philippa. Her appetite was gone, but she saw with relief that her eldest daughter ate her fill. Banon and Bessie were fed in their nursery. Afterward mother and daughter knelt by the bier and prayed beneath the watchful eyes of the priest, Edmund, and Maybel. Finally Philippa was taken off to bed, but Rosamund refused to go.
“I will stay here with my lord,” she said in a stony voice.
It was agreed among the other three that they would each take a turn praying with her this night. Father Mata sent Edmund and his wife off to sleep while he knelt by Rosamund’s side and prayed. The night was long, and it grew cold for the first time in many months. The priest remained by his mistress’ side for almost the entire night, only giving way when Edmund returned to the hall to scold him that he had not been called.
“’Tis almost dawn,” Edmund said. “You must prepare for the mass, particularly on this sad day.”
“When should we have the funeral mass, Edmund?” the priest asked softly. “Will it be today?”
“Nay,” he heard Rosamund’s voice. “Tomorrow afternoon. I would have everyone be able to come and see my Owein for the last time.” Then she smiled a weak smile at her uncle. “I am not poor mad Juana, Edmund, unable to give up the corpse of my lord. Owein is gone. There is nothing here but his mortal remains. What he was is now with God.”
