Maybe raised an eyebrow and did not mention to her mistress that she had also seen their guest heading for the church where he would speak with Father Mata, she had not a doubt. Rosamund was to be gone in another day. There was no reason to set her temper aflame any more than it was now.
In the church the priest and the Hepburn embraced.
“Thank you for sending to me, brother,” Logan Hepburn said. “You did not tell me, however, that she was going to court in London.”
“You have found out on your own, then,” the priest answered, his eyes twinkling.
“What if they give her a new husband? And how does she know the Queen of England, too?” He wanted answers, and he was not going to obtain them from Rosamund. Mata was bound to him by blood. By the fact he was head of their clan branch. He would tell him.
Together the brothers sat in a narrow pew, and the priest began. “She met Katherine of Aragon when she was at court before her marriage to Sir Owein. She and Katherine and Margaret were just girls, but great friends. When Rosamund’s eldest daughter was born she sent to Katherine, the king’s mother, and the Queen of the Scots. All answered her, but her heart was touched by the Spanish princess’ plight. She apologized for the poorness of her gift to the baby, but she explained she was in extreme financial straits. It seemed that old Henry and King Ferdinand were haggling over who should pay her allowance and her maintenance, so neither paid. The unfortunate princess was living from hand to mouth in the most abject poverty and her servants in rags because of it. The lady of Friarsgate was touched by the princess’ difficulties. She sent her a small purse, and continued to send what monies she could twice a year. The two women corresponded. When the lady Katherine, England’s queen, learned that her friend was once again a widow, she sent a very gracious purse, which she instructed the Lady Rosamund to spend on materials for court gowns, and she said she would send an escort for her. The escort should arrive tomorrow, Logan.”
“I will kill any husband they give her,” the Hepburn said quietly to the priest.
“And she ordered you from her hall, I am certain,” the priest said, laughing. “I do not believe that this Tudor king will send my lady back with a new husband. His father did because it was expected of him that he do so. My lady is yet mourning her husband, and the queen will understand her delicacy of feelings. Nay, brother, this will just be a social visit, and the Lady Rosamund will return as quickly as she can, for she does not enjoy the court or its inhabitants. She is of no importance in the scheme of things. The court is filled with snobs who make her feel as unimportant as she indeed is. Nay, she will return in a few months’ time to her beloved Friarsgate and darling daughters.”
“Who will she write?” he asked astutely.
“Edmund and Maybel. They will share their letters with me, and I will send to you with what you should know, Logan.”
“Good!” the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn said. “Now bless me, Mata, for I know I am in strong need of it.” He got up from the bench and knelt before his half-brother.
The priest stood, and placing both his hands on his older sibling’s head, he gave him his blessing and then told him, “Go with God, Logan, and try not to kill anyone.”
The Hepburn arose, chuckling, and replied, “I will try, Mata, but I dare not promise you, for you know how I am.”
“I do indeed,” the priest agreed as he walked with Logan Hepburn to the door of his church. The two men embraced a final time, and then, mounting his stallion, Logan Hepburn rode away from Friarsgate.
Rosamund watched him ride off from the window of her bedchamber. She stood thoughtfully, her pearwood hairbrush in her hand, stroking her long hair which she had unplaited. She had told Maybel she had a headache and would eat in her chamber, but the truth was she did not wish to discuss the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn with anyone. She was used to soft-spoken men who treated her gently. Logan Hepburn was not soft-spoken or self-effacing, as both Hugh and Owein had been. He was arrogant. There was simply no other word for it. He was bold, and he was arrogant. He did not use courtly language. Nay. He looked a person in the eye and spoke bluntly.
Yet was that a bad trait? Still, what right had he to come to her in her grief, and announce that he intended wedding with her? He had been waiting for her since he was sixteen, and had first seen her at age six at a cattle fair at Drumfrie. What nonsense! And women flung themselves at him. Well, perhaps that wasn’t nonsense. He was devilishly attractive with his wild dark hair and his blue-blue eyes. She never thought of his eyes as just plain blue. They were bluer than blue, like her lake itself. Her brush caught on a tangle, and Rosamund swore softly to herself. “This time,” she muttered as Logan Hepburn disappeared over the hill, “this time no one is going to plan for me or tell me who I will wed.” Hadn’t she already decided that there would be no next time? Rosamund swore again to herself.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what marriage to such a bold man would be like. They would fight she had not a doubt. And what was this Claven’s Carn like? There could surely be no place on the face of this earth that was as beautiful as Friarsgate. She knew enough of the Scots tongue to translate the meaning of his holding’s name.Claven’s Carn. It meant therocky hillock of the kites. A kite was a bird of prey. She grimaced and wondered who had named it that. Nay, it would not be as beautiful as her own Friarsgate, named for an ancient, long-gone monastery.
Tracez Votre Chemin.Her family’s motto slipped into her thoughts. Well, wasn’t that what she was doing? She was making her own path, and it was past time that she did so. She had let other people make her decisions for far too long. But then, she was a woman, they kept reminding her, and women didn’t make their own decisions. That was up to the men in their lives.Says who?Setting down her brush she began to rebraid her hair once again.
The following day the royal escort arrived, and at its head was a gentleman who introduced himself as Sir Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge.
“We are distantly related,” Sir Thomas informed Rosamund as he looked around her little hall with a sharp eye. “Our great-grandfathers were first cousins,” he explained. “I have always wondered what this Friarsgate looked like. I actually knew my great-grandsire. He died when I was seven, but he loved to tell stories of this Cumbria where he had been raised. It is beautiful, I will grant you, but my God, lady, how do you bear the want of civilized company?”
Under other circumstances Rosamund would have been greatly offended, but for some reason she wasn’t certain of she had taken an immediate liking to Sir Thomas. He was of medium height and stockily built. He had beautiful blond hair that had been cut in a very elegant bob with bangs across his high forehead. His curious eyes were the same amber as her own. His clothing was simply gorgeous, and quite obviously the height of style. How he managed to look so perfectly turned out after his days on the road she could not imagine. But it was his manner that delighted her, for there was absolutely no malice in it no matter what he said. And Sir Thomas said a great deal.
“I am content, my lord, to live a quiet life,” she answered him. “I take my responsibility to Friarsgate seriously.”
“Indeed,” Sir Thomas sighed, and he flung himself into a chair. “With the proper clothing, my darling, you would be simply spectacular.” Then he pierced her with a sharp look. “I like you, cousin, and I am going to take you beneath my wing, but first you must give me something to drink, for I am perishing with thirst, and then you must tell me how you were invited to court. I am weak with curiosity, dear girl.”
Rosamund giggled. She just couldn’t help it. She had never in her whole life met anyone like Sir Thomas. She poured him a pewter goblet of cider, fearing her rustic wine would insult his palate, and handed it to him.
He sipped, looked at her over the goblet, and then drained it down, holding it out for more. “Excellent, and pressed just recently. Am I right, darling girl? When in the country...” he said with a smile. “Now, tell me the answer to my question, cousin Rosamund.”
“I was at court as a ward of King Henry VII for a brief time. I met the Princess of Aragon then. When I returned home, the wife of Sir Owein Meredith, we fell into a correspondence. After my husband died the queen called me to court. She means to cheer me, I know, but I should far rather remain here,” Rosamund told him.
“Oh, I am sure you would, cousin, but the queen is right in this matter. A visit to court will help you through the worst of the doldrums. I remember Sir Owein. He was an honorable man, and loyal, if perhaps a bit dull. Now do not be offended. Many good men are dull, but it means naught unless you are bored to death by them, and you were obviously not bored, I can see.” His gaze went to the end of the hall, where Philippa, Banon, and Bessie stood gazing in both awe and amazement at the sight of the beautifully fashionable Sir Thomas Bolton. “Are these your daughters? How charming they are,” Sir Thomas said.
“We lost a son,” Rosamund said as if to defend her lack.
“Ah, poor girl! Another tie with the queen,” he remarked. Then he said, “We will depart tomorrow, cousin, if that is suitable. You are ready, I hope. The autumn is late, and I fear the road should the snows come early. The trip was far longer than I anticipated.”
Rosamund had refilled his cup, which he now sipped. “How,” she queried, sitting opposite him by the hearth, “is it that you were chosen to accompany me, Sir Thomas?”
