“Do you want to inform Henry?” Edmund said. “Or Richard?”
“Send to my uncle at St. Cuthbert’s, Edmund, but not to Otterly. Henry will hear sooner rather than later, but I am not strong enough right now to dispute with him the merits of his eldest son as my next mate. I think I shall not wed again. Friarsgate has three heiresses, and surely that is good enough for the next generation.”
Edmund nodded. “I’ll ride to St. Cuthbert’s myself, lass.”
“Thank you,” she told him, and then turned back to the coffin.
Richard Bolton arrived from his abbey late that afternoon. He immediately took his niece in hand, insisting that she sleep for several hours before keeping vigil once more. “If you grow ill you will be no use to your daughters,” he advised her, “and you do not want them in Henry’s tender care.”
She obeyed him, but was awake once again to keep a night’s vigil. The day of the funeral she slept in the morning, and then with her daughters, all garbed in black, she attended the funeral mass for her husband. The small church was overflowing with the Friarsgate folk, many of them weeping. Their grief became noisy as Rosamund and her children followed Owein’s coffin into the graveyard by the church. Weeping openly now, the lady of Friarsgate watched as her husband’s casket was lowered into the ground. Then to everyone’s shock, she fell into a faint as the last shovel of earth was placed upon the grave.
They carried her back into the hall where she was revived by burning a feather beneath her nose. She opened her eyes to the anxious faces around her. “I’m all right now,” she assured them.
“You’re exhausted!” Maybel snapped, “and that’s a plain truth.”
“You should go to your bed, niece,” Richard Bolton said.
“Not until after the feasting is done,” she replied stubbornly. “It is my duty to appear as hostess to the people of Friarsgate.”
They did not argue, but after the funeral feast was served and Rosamund had been put to bed along with her daughters, Richard and Edmund Bolton sat in the hall with Maybel and Father Mata.
“He left no will,” Richard said.
“Then we must see she is protected against Henry and his sons,” Edmund said. “I fear she would turn to violence should Henry attempt to foist his will on her again.”
“Then we shall make a will,” Richard Bolton said quietly. “Henry cannot know Owein’s hand. We shall write what we believe Owein would have wanted for Rosamund and the lasses, and you”—he looked at Father Mata—“shall sign Owein’s name.”
“I?”the young priest said.
“We shall say that Rosamund is charged with the care of her daughters and of Friarsgate. That you and I have been chosen to watch over her, and in the event of our deaths, she is to be in the king’s care again, and her daughters with her.”
“I am to sign Sir Owein’s name?”the priest repeated.
“Aye,” Richard replied. “You will sign the document that I write with Owein’s name, and then you will confess your sin to me. I will, of course, absolve you, Mata.” His blue eyes twinkled.
“In that case,” Father Mata said, “let us get on with it. Henry Bolton will have heard of his niece’s loss by now, and he will be with us in another day or two at the most. We’ll need to rub a bit of dirt in the cracks of the parchment to age it.”
“To age it?” Edmund looked confused.
“You don’t want the document to look shiny and new, Edmund,” Father Mata said seriously. “Dirt in the folds gives the appearance of aging. Do we have an old piece of parchment? That would help us, too.” Now his eyes were twinkling.
Richard Bolton nodded, a faint smile upon his thin lips. “I foresee a bright future for you in the church, Mata,” he said dryly. “Let us get started.”
Part Three
FAIRROSAMUND
ENGLAND 1510–1511
Chapter 13
The king and queen were having a rare quiet moment together in her privy chamber. While there were guards outside the door, and in the dayroom beyond the queen’s ladies chattered away among themselves, Henry and Katherine were actually alone for a brief time. The young king loved his wife, and he greatly respected her, but he had a roving eye for a pretty face and a quick wit. He did not deny himself his pleasures despite his marital state. So far the queen was unaware of his forays into lust. And Henry knew her delicate sensibilities must not be disturbed. She had already lost one child. So he made certain to spend a half-hour alone with his Kate each day. She was content, bless her, just to be with him.
“Do you recall Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate?” the queen asked her husband. In her lap there was a parchment she had just read.
The king’s broad brow furrowed in thought. Of course he most certainly did remember her. He had very much wanted to seduce her, but had been stopped by some damned knight of his father’s who then proceeded to lecture him on chivalry. “I do not believe I do,” Henry said to his wife. “Who is she?”
“She was here at court for a brief time,” Kate answered him. “An heiress from Cumbria. She was your father’s ward.”
