“You are Lord Leslie’s—friend, my lady,” the girl replied.
“I am,” Rosamund admitted.
“And you shall be neighbors,” the queen said wickedly. “Friarsgate is just over the border in England. It is practically a stone’s throw from Claven’s Carn. Do you not know Logan Hepburn, Rosamund?”
“Slightly,” Rosamund responded through gritted teeth. “I believe he and his brothers were guests when my late husband and I were wed.” Had Meg not been a queen, Rosamund thought, she would have smacked her. “But, madame, it is late and in your delicate condition you need your rest.” She arose. “I shall leave you, taking Mistress Logan with me. Do give her your permission and blessing, for that is what she came for—didn’t you, Mistress Logan?”
“Aye, my lady,” Jeannie said.
“You have both, then, my child. My husband and I shall come and bear witness to your vows on Twelfth Night Day. And, Rosamund, you will come, too, with Lord Leslie?” The queen’s eyes were dancing with mischief.
“If you so command, madame,” Rosamund responded. “But your chapel is small, and Mistress Logan will want her family there.”
“Oh, no, my lady. My family is in the north and will not be here. I think it would be lovely to have a neighbor with us on our happy day. Please come!”
“Make your curtsy to the queen, Mistress Logan,” Rosamund said. “I will speak with Lord Leslie.” She practically pushed the girl from the queen’s little privy chamber, murmuring softly to Meg as she did, “I shall repay you in kind for this, you bad creature!”
“God bless you, my child,” the queen called, and grinning from ear to ear she closed the door into her anteroom behind them.
Chapter 4
There was a storm on Twelfth Night Day. Outside Stirling Castle the snow swirled in twisted whorls that were blown about by winds that howled mournfully through the narrow streets of the town and about the castle’s stone towers. In the Earl of Bothwell’s apartments the laird of Claven’s Carn adjusted his garments as he prepared to depart for the royal chapel.
“You can have your privacy here tonight,” Patrick Hepburn said. “I’ll find another place to sleep. You won’t be able to leave Stirling until this storm has blown itself out and down into England.”
“Thank you,” Logan replied glumly.
His cousin laughed. “All men feel this way on their wedding day. A thousand questions run through your head. Did I do the right thing? Will I love her? Will she give me sons and not daughters? Will she object if I take a mistress? Will I have to beat her?” He chuckled. “But we marry nonetheless, Logan, and young Jeannie will make you a fine wife. She’s already half in love with you and eager to please. Keep her that way, laddie, and your life will be a happy one.”
“Rosamund is coming to the wedding,” Logan answered. “What the hell is she coming to my wedding for, Patrick? I didn’t ask her to come. Is it possible she regrets her hasty decision?”
“Put the idea from your thoughts, laddie,” the earl advised. “She is coming to your wedding because the queen insisted she come. And she will be on Lord Leslie’s arm. She has no regrets at all. Why would she trade a simple border lord for her earl? The lass is no fool, Logan, but you stand in danger of being one if you allow your bruised heart to overrule your common sense this day. Let her go, and concentrate on the lovely lassie who will be your wife shortly.” He adjusted the fur collar of his cousin’s mid-calf-length burgundy velvet coat. The garment was lined in the same fur, as were its sleeves, which were flared. Beneath the gown he wore haut-de-chausses and silk hose striped in burgundy, black, and gold. A linen shirt with a ruffle was visible beneath his fur collar. “You look quite handsome, cousin, if I may say so.”
“I feel like a damned prized goose all done up for roasting,” Logan grumbled. “I think you had these wedding clothes waiting for me, Patrick.”
“I did,” the earl admitted with a broad grin.
“You had this whole damned affair planned, too, I’ll vow,” the laird continued.
“I did,” Patrick Hepburn said.
“What if Rosamund had agreed to marry me? What then, cousin?” Logan demanded.
“Come now, cousin. It is time for us to depart for the chapel,” the earl replied, ignoring the question. He took the younger man by the arm, and together they walked from the earl’s apartments.
The queen and her women had kindly seen to the young bride, Margaret Tudor giving the girl one of her own gowns, which had been quickly altered to fit the reed-slim girl. It was peach-colored velvet with an underskirt embroidered and quilted with large gold flowers. The neckline was low and square and fitted tightly. The long, tight sleeves had fur cuffs. An embroidered hanging girdle was wrapped about the bride’s waist.
“Gracious,” Rosamund murmured so that only the queen might hear her. “There is enough material here for another gown, I’ll vow. I do not remember you this plump, Meg.” She smiled sweetly.
“Jamie likes a woman with meat on her bones,” the queen murmured back. “Besides, this girl is very slim. Still, her husband will put a bairn in her belly no matter. Do you think Logan Hepburn is a good lover?”
“I wouldn’t know, Meg,” Rosamund said softly. “Do watch your tongue, else poor Jeannie will hear you.”
“Then take back what you said about my being plump,” the queen muttered.
“My memory of our youth grows faulty, madame,” Rosamund said.
The queen giggled. “I accept your apology,” she whispered. “Now, what shall our bride wear on her head, ladies?”
