“Do not attempt to fence with me, madame!” he thundered. “You have not the skill for it.”
“I am also not gifted with the long eye, sire, and so you must be more specific in your queries of me,” Rosamund told him. She was not afraid. She should have been, but she was not. What was happening to her? What would happen if the king’s anger could not be stemmed?
Henry Tudor drew a deep breath and seated himself in one of the chairs. “Stand before me, Rosamund,” he said.
She moved to face him.
“Now kneel,” he commanded her.
Rosamund swallowed back her outrage and knelt before him.
“Now, madame, why did you go to Scotland?” he said.
“Because your majesty’s sister invited me, and as your majesty well knows, Queen Margaret and I are friends from our youth,” Rosamund responded.
“And why did you go to San Lorenzo, madame? It was my understanding that you disliked travel,” the king replied.
“I went because the Earl of Glenkirk asked me to go,” Rosamund said.
“He was your lover.” It was not a question.
“Aye, he was my lover,” Rosamund told the king quietly.
“I would not have expected such behavior from you,” Henry Tudor said primly.
“I was to confine my whoring, then, only to your majesty?” Rosamund snapped at him. The floor beneath her knees was hard, and she was becoming angry. For all he was her king, he was still a spoiled lad.
Henry Tudor jumped to his feet, towering over her as his big hand gripped her arm, yanking her up. “Do not try my patience, madame. You well know how dangerous I can become when provoked.” The blue eyes met her amber ones.
Rosamund pulled away from him. “Then, Hal, let us both sit down. I will freely answer any question you have of me, but this charade you attempt to play with me is both childish and hardly worthy of Great Harry.” Her gaze did not waver beneath his.
He motioned her impatiently to one of the chairs, seating himself in the other. “Do not forget I am your king,” he growled.
“I have never forgotten it, Hal.” He had not reprimanded her use of his name, and so she continued it.
“Richard Howard, my ambassador, saw you in San Lorenzo,” the king told her.
“I know,” Rosamund answered. “San Lorenzo is a tiny place, my lord, and there are no secrets there that can be kept for long. Lord Howard recognized my face and was told my name. He knew he had seen me before.”
“He said you lied to him when he asked if you knew him,” the king noted.
“Nay, Hal, I did not lie. He had seen me at court long ago, and I had seen him. But we had never been introduced, so we could hardly know each other, now, could we?”
The king emitted a short burst of laugher, then grew serious once again. “What was Lord Leslie doing in San Lorenzo? He had been my brother-in-law’s first ambassador there years ago. Why did he go back, madame?”
“When the earl and I first met at Stirling, Hal, something odd happened to us. We fell in love, if indeed you believe in love, but whatever happened between us happened. We could not bear to be parted. The Scots court, however, was hardly the place for us to carry on our liaison, any more than your court would have been the right place. It was cold and snowy that winter. The earl conceived the idea of taking me to San Lorenzo, where we might enjoy the warmth of the south and pursue our passion for each other.”
“You lived in the ambassador’s residence,” the king said suspiciously, still not convinced that her tale was completely innocent of deception.
“Aye, we did. It had been Patrick’s home once, and Lord MacDuff insisted that we make it our home. I saw no harm in it. Our apartments looked out over the town, a charming place whose buildings are all the many colors of the rainbow, Hal. We could view the blue sea from our terrace. We had a large bath set out upon the tiled terrace, and we bathed daily in the fresh air, beneath the warm sun. There were flowers in bloom in February! It was a paradise!” Rosamund’s face was alight with the memory.
“You were introduced to the duke,” the king said.
“He was an old friend of Patrick’s. His court is very informal, Hal. We visited several times, meeting a famed artist from Venice, a German countess, your own Lord Howard, and many others. Our servants fell in love there and were wed in a chapel within the cathedral by San Lorenzo’s bishop himself.”
“Lord Howard says this artist, a relation of the Venetian doge, painted you without garments,” the king accused, looking shocked.
“The portrait that hangs in my hall, Hal, is fully clothed. The maestro painted me as the lady defender of Friarsgate. He made my home a castle, which of course it is not. I am surrounded by a sunset. It is quite colorful,” Rosamund said, but then, because she realized the king was very well informed, added, “but he also painted me as a goddess. I wore a Greek chiton that left a shoulder and my arms bare. He vowed he wished to keep that painting for himself, which is why he also painted the other.”
