Until You

Chapter 11

Apeddler, making his way back into England, stopped at Friarsgate in late October. He had spent the previous night at Claven’s Carn. The lady of the house, he informed those assembled in Rosamund’s hall, had a fine new son born earlier in the month. The lord was very pleased and was eager to show his heir to all who entered Claven’s Carn.

“He got her with child quick enough,” Rosamund said dryly. “She must have conceived on her wedding night, or shortly thereafter.”

“It might have been your laddie,” Maybel murmured softly.

Rosamund shot her a hard look. “I had no desire to wed with the lord of Claven’s Carn, and well you know it. Patrick and I will marry next year if his son does not disapprove. It is what I want. It is what he wants.”

“And if his son should not be content to see his father remarried, what then?” Maybel demanded, ever protective of Rosamund.

“Then we will continue on as we have,” came the answer. “Adam Leslie may want to meet me before he gives his father a blessing on this match. If he does, I should certainly understand.”

Maybel sighed. “Another old husband! I do not know why you would prefer Lord Leslie to Logan Hepburn.”

Rosamund laughed. “I cannot explain it to you, dearest. I simply did not love Logan, but from the moment our eyes met, I knew Patrick Leslie was my destiny.”

“A bitter destiny, I’m thinking,” Maybel muttered.

“But it is mine to choose,” Rosamund replied quietly. “No longer will I be told what I must do and whom I must wed. Those days are over.”

“I never thought to hear you speak like this,” Maybel responded. “That you would throw away your responsibilities astounds me.”

“I am not eschewing my obligations, Maybel. I will always fulfill my duties where Friarsgate and my family are concerned. But why must I be unhappy by doing so?”

Maybel sighed. “I do want you happy, but I don’t understand why you could not be happy with the lord of Claven’s Carn.”

“Well, I couldn’t,” Rosamund said, her patience wearing thin. “And he is wed now to a good lass who has given him the desired son and heir.”

Maybel opened her mouth to speak again, but her husband leaned from his chair and put a warning hand on her shoulder. With a sigh of frustration, Maybel grew silent at last.

“Will Uncle Patrick return to us soon?” Philippa asked her mother.

Rosamund shook her head. “We shall not see him until next spring,” she said.

“I want him to come home!” Bessie wailed, large tears rolling down her rosy little cheeks.

“So do I, baby,” Rosamund replied, “but we must winter alone before we see the Earl of Glenkirk again.”

“I want Uncle Tom back,” Banon spoke up. “When will he return, mama?”

“Now, your uncle Thomas may well be back in time for the feast of Christ’s Mass,” Rosamund told her daughters with a smile. “I am certain he will bring you all lovely presents. He will soon be our neighbor, and won’t that be fun?”

The three little girls all agreed it would indeed be grand to have Uncle Thomas as their neighbor.

“What will happen to your uncle Henry when Uncle Tom comes to live in his house?” Philippa queried her mother.

“It will no longer be Henry Bolton’s house,” Rosamund answered her daughter, surprised that she even knew of the man. She had not seen him in several years, and while Philippa might have seen him once, she would have been very young. How had she remembered this relation? “Who has spoken to you of my uncle Henry?” she asked.

“I have,” Edmund replied. “She is the heiress to Friarsgate, and it is important that she know her family’s history, niece. It is better that it comes from me. I am more objective in the matter.”

“And I do not understand why,” Rosamund answered him. “Henry Bolton was never kind to you.”

“But even given that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Edmund responded, “Henry could not take away the plain fact that I was the eldest and that our father loved me every bit as much as he loved Richard, Guy, and Henry. Because he was the youngest of us, he always felt it necessary to try harder. That trait developed into a foolish superiority as he grew older and comprehended that Richard and I were not legitimate while he and Guy were. Yet our father showed no preference among us. It has been quite frustrating for him, Rosamund. He has lived his entire life being haughty and arrogant because he was legitimate, and what has it gained him? His dismissive and overbearing attitude did not bring him happiness or love. It brought him two legitimate sons, one who died young and the other who is a thief. It brought him a second wife who whored with any and all, spawning a passel of bairns your uncle dared not deny for fear of being made a fool. And yet everyone knew. It gained him naught but your scorn. And now he is brought low. Only the kindness of Thomas Bolton will allow him to live out his days in comfort.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Rosamund said bitterly.

“Nay, he does not,” Edmund agreed. “Yet your cousin Tom will keep his word. He is a truly good Christian, Rosamund, whatever else he may be. And you have found your own happiness at last, so be generous of heart, niece, and forgive Henry Bolton. I have, and Richard did long ago.”

Rosamund was thoughtful for a long moment, and then she said, “If Tom returns for Christ’s Mass and the feast days following it, perhaps I shall invite my uncle Henry to be with us.”

“More you the fool,” Maybel said low.

“He is a toothless dog, wife,” Edmund answered her.

“Even a toothless dog may be dangerous if he is rabid,” she snapped sharply.

“If it would make you uncomfortable then I shall not ask him,” Rosamund said soothingly to her old nursemaid.

“Nay,” Maybel replied. “I’ll not be responsible for preventing you from making your peace with the old devil, if you will make it. He’ll be dead soon enough.”

In early December a letter came to Friarsgate from Glenkirk, brought by one of the Leslie clansmen. He was given shelter for the night and a hot meal. Dermid returned with him just in time for his son’s birth. Rosamund sat down to read what her lover had written. She would give the messenger a letter to return to Glenkirk. Patrick wrote that his trip home had been uneventful. His son had taken fine care of Glenkirk in his absence. He had already spoken to Adam in confidence regarding their marriage. His daughter-in-law, Anne, was not told.

Adam was agreeable to this match between his father, particularly understanding that there would be no offspring due to his father’s condition. He would, however, come with his father to Edinburgh in the spring to meet Rosamund. The earl wrote to Rosamund that because the winter was setting in, he did not know if he might communicate with her again. They would meet at an inn in Edinburgh called the Unicorn and Crown on the first day of April. They would visit the king at court and ask his permission to be wed in his own chapel by the young archbishop of St. Andrew’s, Alexander Stewart. They would then return to Friarsgate while Adam Leslie rode north with the news of his father’s marriage. In the autumn, Patrick and Rosamund would travel to Glenkirk for the winter months. The earl spoke of his love for her and of how he missed Rosamund. His nights, he wrote, were long, cold, and dreary without her, his days gray and gloomy. He missed the sound of her voice, her laughter. He wished nothing more than to have her within his arms once again. “I will never love anyone as I love you, sweetheart,” he concluded.

Rosamund read the missive, smiling with her happiness. She turned to the clansman who had brought it. “Have you been in the castle’s Great Hall, lad?”

“Aye, m’lady,” he replied.

“And has the painting of the earl been delivered and hung?”

“It came in the summer when the earl be away. Lady Anne were very surprised to see it. It was nae hung until the master returned. It be a fine painting. So lifelike, m’lady. All who see it say so.”

Rosamund nodded. “The painting of me in this hall was painted by the same artist,” she said.

“Aye,” the clansman said. “I can see ’tis similar.”

“I will be sending you home with a message for the earl,” Rosamund told him.

“Thank ye, m’lady,” the messenger said, and he went off with a servant to be given a sleeping space.

“I must be in Edinburgh on April first,” Rosamund said.

“Oh, mama, must you go away again?” Philippa protested.

“Would you like to come with me?” her mother inquired.

“Me?” Philippa squealed excitedly. “Go with you to Edinburgh? Oh, mama! Aye, I should very much like to go with you. I have never been anywhere in all of my life.”

“I did not go to King Henry’s court until I was thirteen,” her mother replied.

“Will I meet King James, mama? And Queen Margaret? Will we go to the Scots court?” Philippa demanded.

“Yes,” her mother said, smiling. “We may even celebrate your ninth birthday there. Would you like that, Philippa?”

Philippa’s face shone with her approval.

“You spoil her,” Maybel said. “You must not spoil her.”

“Children should be spoiled. Lord knows you did your best to spoil me, though you forget it now,” Rosamund teased the older woman gently.

“I tried only to make up for Henry Bolton when you were a wee thing,” Maybel defended herself. “I had no opportunity to spoil you once you were in Hugh Cabot’s charge, for he enjoyed spoiling you himself, God assoil his good soul!”

“Aye, God bless both Hugh Cabot and Owein Meredith,” Rosamund responded.

The Leslie clansman departed the following morning with a letter to his master from the lady of Friarsgate. Her correspondence to him was much as his to her had been. She had written of her loneliness without him, a loneliness such as she had never known in all her life until now. She had written of her daughters and of her estate, of their preparations for winter and how they were waiting eagerly for Tom’s return. She told him that Claven’s Carn had an heir at last. And she closed by sending him her undying love and telling him how eager she was for their reunion on the first of April, that she would bring Philippa to Edinburgh so both his only son and her eldest daughter could witness their marriage vows. She put a drop of her white heather scent upon the parchment, smiling as she did so.

On the twenty-first of December, St. Thomas’ Day, Tom appeared back at Friarsgate, bringing with him her uncle Henry. The children swarmed about this favorite relation hardly noticing their great-uncle. Rosamund, however, was shocked. Henry Bolton had indeed changed for the worse. He was gaunt, and his face wore a death’s-head.

“You are welcome at Friarsgate, uncle,” Rosamund greeted him.

His almost colorless eyes fastened upon her. “Am I?” he asked with just a touch of his old spirit. He leaned heavily upon a carved cane. “Lord Cambridge would insist I come, niece. He has purchased Otterly from me.”

“Tom was right to bring you, uncle,” Rosamund replied. “I am told you are alone now, and these festive December days should not be spent alone, without family. I was waiting only for Tom to send to Otterly for you.”

Henry smiled cynically, the facial expression almost a grimace. He nodded. “I thank you for your welcome, niece.”

“Come, uncle, and sit by the fire,” Rosamund said. “Lucy, fetch Master Bolton a goblet of spiced hot cider.” She led him to his place, seating him in a high-back chair with a tapestry cushion. “Your ride was cold, and the dampness threatens snow, I fear.” She took the goblet her serving girl brought and put it in his gnarled hand.

“I thank you,” he said, and he sipped gratefully at the hot cider. Slightly revived, his glance swept the hall. “Your daughters are healthy,” he noted.

“They are,” she agreed.

“The tallest one is your heiress?” he asked.

“Philippa, aye. She will be nine in April,” Rosamund responded.

He nodded once more, then fell silent, the gnarled hand reaching out to stroke one of the hall dogs, a greyhound, which had come to his side.

Rosamund moved away from her uncle. She had thought that Maybel exaggerated Henry Bolton’s state, but the older woman had not. Her uncle was pitiful, though she still sensed he could be dangerous if permitted. They would see he did not have any opportunity to cause difficulty.

Tom now hugged his cousin. “My dear, dear girl!” he exclaimed. “It is so good to see you once again and to return to Friarsgate. My business in the south is concluded. My Cambridge estate is sold to a newly knighted gentleman who paid quite a premium to gain it. Otterly is now mine. I did stop at court to pay my respects to his majesty. The queen strives for another child now that Scotland’s queen is delivered of a fine laddie. King Henry is not pleased by his sister’s successful accomplishment. He speaks of her as if she had betrayed him personally, and worse, as treasonous to England.”

“When Queen Katherine gives him a son, he will consider differently,” Rosamund said. “Remember, Hal never enjoyed being beaten at nursery games.”

Tom chuckled. “Too true, cousin. But he would have Spain to marry when many advised against it. They have been wed several years now, and no living heir or heiress to show for it. A stillborn daughter, and wee Henry of Cornwall, born and died in the same year. There has been no sign of a child in two years. And there is his brother-in-law, Scotland, with six healthy bastards and a legitimate fair son for his heir. Nay, our King Henry is not a happy fellow.”

“How fortunate, then, that we do not have to have anything to do with his court,” Rosamund said.

Tom nodded. “Now, dear girl, what of your handsome Scots earl?” he asked.

“Patrick has returned to Glenkirk, but we are to meet in Edinburgh on the first day of April, Tom. We have decided that we will wed. We will spend part of the spring, the summer, and the autumn here at Friarsgate, and the winters at Glenkirk. That way neither of us deserts our responsibilities,” Rosamund explained. “Patrick was most pleased with the way his son, Adam, managed Glenkirk in his absence. I can hardly wait until the spring, cousin. And I shall bring Philippa with me.”

“With us, dear girl. I do not intend you wed again without me in attendance,” he told her with a smile. “And what news from Claven’s Carn? Has Lady Jean done what was expected of her?” And Tom grinned wickedly at his cousin.

“She birthed a healthy son in early October,” Rosamund answered him. “A peddler returning to England brought word some weeks ago.”

“But Logan Hepburn has not communicated with you,” Tom noted.

“I would not expect Logan to do so,” Rosamund replied. “We did not part on the best of terms, Tom. The night Patrick and I were forced to seek shelter at Claven’s Carn, he fought with me and then drank himself into a stupor. We did not see him the following morning before we left, for which I was most grateful.”

“Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!” Rosamund’s three daughters were surrounding him. “What have you brought us?” Their small faces were eager with anticipation.

Tom swept Banon up into his arms and kissed her rosy cheek. She giggled happily, glad to know she was still a favorite. “Now, my little lasses,” he said. “I have one gift for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas for each of you.”

“But uncle,” Philippa responded, “Christ’s Mass is not for another four days.”

“I know,” he replied, eyes twinkling, “and so my little poppets, you will have to possess your wee souls of great patience until then.”

“ ’Tis not fair,” Banon, who was six, protested.

“Shame on you all,” Rosamund scolded her daughters. “I cannot believe you are so greedy. Run along, now, and have your suppers. Philippa, you will remain.”

Tom put Banon down, but not before giving her another kiss. Then he watched fondly as the two younger girls made their way from the hall. “They have grown even in the few months I was away,” he said.

Rosamund nodded. “I know,” she said. “In the months I was away, the same thing happened. I don’t ever want to leave my lasses again.”

He took her hand, and they sat together on a settle by the fire. Opposite them, Henry Bolton dozed, the greyhound now lying across his feet. “Your uncle has found a friend,” Tom observed. “God help the man, for he has no others.”

Rosamund sighed. “I must forgive him his treatment of me as a child,” she said. “He is to be pitied. I have not feared him since I was six and Hugh took my care upon himself. Poor Uncle Henry. Arranging my marriage to Hugh Cabot was his downfall.”

“More your salvation,” Tom chuckled, and Rosamund smiled.

“Aye,” she agreed.

“So you are to be the Countess of Glenkirk, dear girl. He loves you deeply, but you know that, for you love him every bit as much,” Tom said.

“It seems so strange,” Rosamund replied, “to have found such love as I have found with Patrick. How I wish he were here now, Tom! God’s blood, I miss him more with each passing day. I do not know if I can wait until April to see him again, to marry him, and be his wife. His title I care naught for, but I know I have never loved anyone as much as I love him.”

Tom shook his head. “I will admit that I have never seen such passion as I saw between you two. I am glad you changed your mind, cousin, and decided to wed him. You would never again be happy otherwise.”

“He will not live forever,” Rosamund noted. “I will one day have to be without him, but I care not! I can think only of the months we have had together and the years we will have together. We met just a year ago on the eve of Christ’s Mass, Tom.”

“Even as poor Logan Hepburn was contemplating a marriage to you,” her cousin said.

“Why must everyone speak of Logan Hepburn?” Rosamund asked him. “I do not love him. I did not give him my promise to wed him. I wanted no other husband in my life a year ago. Logan sought only a broodmare, and the swift results of his eager couplings with Mistress Jean prove my point.”

“Indeed they do,” her cousin agreed calmly. “I suppose we all speak of him because we expected that you would wed him eventually. We thought you desired a bit of courting, Rosamund, nothing more. That when he had softened your heart, you would agree to marry him. Did you feel nothing at all for the man?”

“At first he fascinated me,” she admitted, “but then his constant nattering about an heir began to seriously irritate me. He never wanted me for myself, Tom.”

“I think, mayhap, he did,” her cousin said softly. “But he is a rough borderer and knew not how to express himself properly to you.”

“ ’Tis water beneath the bridge now,” Rosamund said. “He has his son, and I have my love. We should both be content and happy, Tom. I know I am.”

Henry Bolton listened to their conversation, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. So that damned Hepburn from over the border had been so bold as to seek Rosamund’s hand at long last. Perhaps he had made a fatal error years back when the then lord of Claven’s Carn had asked for the wench for his eldest son. They would have taken her away from Friarsgate, and he would have been left with it. He might even have offered the old lord a gold dowry in exchange for the estate. He could have borrowed on the land to raise it. But as his niece said, ’twas water beneath the bridge. And she, bold creature, had somehow attracted the attentions of a Scots earl. She would be a countess, and her small daughter would be left at Friarsgate when her mother went north. If only he could find a way to contact his son Henry. If he could kidnap this new heiress and wed her to his son, all should not be lost. If he did not woo his son away from the wicked life he was now leading, the lad would eventually end up at the end of the hangman’s rope. He must think on this, Henry Bolton considered as he sat in his niece’s hall eavesdropping.

Rosamund kept a good Christmas. Yule logs burned in the hall’s fireplaces. The chamber was decorated with pine, boxwood, ivy, and holly. Fine beeswax candles burned about the room for the entire twelve days, and there were feasts each afternoon. Mummers from her estate came into the hall to entertain them. There were roasted apples and gingerbread men to eat, mulled cider and wine to drink. There was a side of beef that had been packed in rock salt and roasted. The Friarsgate folk were invited into the hall each day, and on the feast of St. Stephen Rosamund gave every one of her people gifts of fabric, small coins, sugar creatures, and in certain cases, fishing and hunting rights, to help them survive the winter months. No one was overlooked in the celebrations, especially Annie and Dermid. Their son had been born on the fourth day of December, and Rosamund’s gift to them was the promised cottage.

Tom was as good as his word. He gave Rosamund’s small daughters gifts on each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. And so none of the trio be jealous of the others, each day’s gifts were almost identical. There were new leather boots one morning and new blue velvet gowns another. There were fine leather gloves sewn with seed pearls. Gold chains one day, jeweled ear bobs another. Pearl necklaces were tendered on the sixth day, a packet of silk ribbons on the seventh. There were small woolen cloaks trimmed with rabbits’ fur on the eighth day, carved wooden balls and painted hoops on the ninth. The tenth day brought little red leather saddles, the eleventh day red leather and brass bridles. And on the Twelfth Day of Christmas each of Rosamund’s daughters was gifted with an animal for riding. Bessie and Banon had white ponies. Banon’s beastie had a single black hoof and Bessie’s had a black star on its forehead. Philippa was given a pure white mare just fourteen and a half hands high.

“You are so very, very generous to them,” Rosamund said, truly touched by his great kindness.

“Nonsense,” he protested. “What is my wealth for if not to purchase small fripperies to give pleasure to my girls?”

“You can hardly call your gifts fripperies,” Rosamund laughed.

“When you wed with your earl,” Tom told her, “it is not likely we shall have another Christmas together again, particularly if you winter in Scotland.”

“You will come to Glenkirk at Christmas,” she said quickly.

“What?” he exclaimed, looking quite horrified, “I think not, dear girl. You may enjoy a winter in your lover’s Highland eyrie, but I should not.” He shuddered. “The very thought of it is most distressing.”

“That is just an excuse to avoid coming,” she teased him. “I will wager you will ride over the border most eagerly to Stirling and King James’ Christmas revels, Tom.”

“The Scots king keeps a most merry holiday,” he admitted with a grin. Then his look sobered. “God’s blood, cousin! I have forgotten to tell you. When I stopped to see King Henry in the autumn I met a fellow named Richard Howard. He asked if I knew you. I told him, of course, that you were my most beloved cousin.”

Rosamund paled. “He was the English ambassador to San Lorenzo,” she replied. “I saw him at court after Owein died, but we were never introduced. He thought he knew me when we met at the duke’s palace in San Lorenzo.

While I most assuredly knew who he was, I was able to tell him honestly that we had never before met. Did he ask you any questions, Tom? Please think back, I beg you!”

“He asked if you had been to court, and I admitted you had indeed and that in fact you were a friend of the queen’s, having been with her in your girlhoods and later after your husband died. But he was too inquisitive, and so I answered no more of his questions. Why are you concerned?”

“I did not want him to mention it to the king. Hal would consider it a fault that I visited San Lorenzo in the company of a Scots earl, I fear. I hoped he would not learn of it, especially now that I am to marry Patrick Leslie. I need no interference from our lusty king,” Rosamund answered him. “Nothing happened in San Lorenzo that would have been of real interest to any king, let alone Henry Tudor. I think, however, Lord Howard felt the need to report something, lest he be considered useless to his master.”

“The king said nothing to me,” Tom responded. “If the purpose of Lord Leslie’s mission was not public, then I believe you have no cause to fear.”

“I hope not,” Rosamund replied. “You know how jealous Hal can be.”

Tom changed the subject, smiling at his cousin and saying, “I have a proposal to make to you, dear girl. While I have inherited great wealth, there is still my grandfather’s enterprise, which supplies me with more funds each year. You have said since your return that you would like to market your fine woolen cloth in France. I believe we should go even farther than France.”

“I have not the wool for a larger market, Tom,” she answered him.

“That is true. But we can increase your flocks over the next few years while building a demand for the wool, and particularly the Friarsgate Blue cloth,” he told her. “I cannot sit idle once Otterly is rebuilt, dear girl. I need an amusement. I think we should own a ship in which to transport the cloth abroad. What do you think? We could have a new vessel built in the shipyards in Leith while we prepare. It will take at least two years for us to make ready on all fronts, my dear Rosamund.”

“Build our own ship?” She was thoughtful. “I have not the means for it, Tom.”

“Of course you don’t, but I do,” he said calmly. “We shall be partners in this venture, cousin. I shall supply the vessel and any funding necessary. You shall supply the wool and the labor.”

“It would appear that you are putting up more than I am,” Rosamund answered him. “And we will need more sheep. You must be the senior partner in such an undertaking, Tom.”

“We shall be equal partners,” he told her. “Think on it, Rosamund. While the initial outlay is mine, afterwards most of the responsibility will fall on your shoulders. Besides, you and your daughters are my heirs. Why should you have to wait until I am dead and gone to benefit from my largesse? Especially when we can build something together.”

“It is such a generous offer,” Rosamund said.

“It is my Twelfth Night gift to you, dear girl,” he told her with a broad smile. “Until you came along, cousin, I was but marking time. My life was dull and seemingly endless. After my sister died I had no one, but then you entered my life. I began to enjoy myself again. I found new meaning. I have a family once more. We shall build this little enterprise of ours together, Rosamund. Now say thank you, Tom, and agree with me.”

Rosamund burst out laughing. “Thank you, Tom,” she responded. “I do agree with you. Friarsgate wool is finer than much of what I saw in France. I do believe there is a market for it. We shall make a market for it!”

“And by keeping the supply low at first, we may keep the price high,” he chuckled. “God’s blood! There speaks the merchant in me. The king and his court would be most horrified to hear Lord Cambridge speaking thusly.” He was wearing a most satisfied grin. “But then, I never really was of noble blood,” he chuckled again.

“I am amazed at you coming to settle back in Cumbria,” Rosamund said. “Once I remember you telling me that it was beautiful, but you wondered how I bore the lack of civilized company. Yet now you are willing to do so.”

“That was before my family reappeared,” he defended himself. “And I did keep the houses in London and Greenwich. We will go sometimes, and the girls must one day visit the court. We cannot have them growing up thinking Friarsgate is the world, even if it is the best part of it.”

“When are you beginning your reconstruction of Otterly?” she asked him.

“The house is being torn down now,” he said, “and the site will be cleared, but we cannot begin building until the spring. I shall start after your wedding to the earl.”

“What are we to do with Uncle Henry in the meantime?” she said.

“I had a small but comfortable house constructed for him this autumn past. He has been living there with Mistress Dodger, the housekeeper I hired to look after him. Twelfth Night is almost over, cousin. Tomorrow we shall send Uncle Henry back to his own little nest. It is time. He is beginning to look too comfortable here at Friarsgate, and I find he asks too many questions. I suspect for all his tale of woe he is yet in contact with his son Henry the younger. He has said to me that he wishes he might save this lad from a bad life and a worse end.”

Rosamund nodded. “I don’t want him getting the idea that he might marry his son to one of my girls,” she said. “I would put Friarsgate to the torch before I allowed that.”

“We will see his dreams have no basis in reality,” Tom replied.

“And yet I cannot help but feel sorry for him,” she answered. “Still, I am not quite able yet to forgive him my youth. I do not really recall my parents, but from the time they died and Henry Bolton came into my life, I was miserable. Only when Hugh came was I safe. I want to be generous of nature to him, Tom, but I just cannot be.”

“Then do not,” he advised her. “Edmund and Richard have been almost saintly in their forgiveness, but they did not suffer the brunt of Henry Bolton. You did. Perhaps one day you will be able to forgive him, but now is not the time.”

Rosamund took her cousin’s hand in her own and kissed it tenderly. “You are so wise, Tom. If you are grateful for me, I am doubly grateful for you.”

The following day Henry was transported in a comfortable covered cart back to his own home. Before he left he looked about the hall a final time. Seeing Philippa, he remarked, “Your eldest is nine, niece?”

“In April,” Rosamund said. “Why?”

“My Henry is fifteen now. A good age for marriage.”

“My cousin has become a thief. Hardly a match for an heiress,” Rosamund said tartly. She led him from the hall, and a servant helped him into the cart.

“ ’Tis only that he has no home any longer, and his mam’s behavior broke his heart, niece. With a bit of good fortune he could become an upstanding man once again,” Henry reasoned.

“I wish him good luck, then,” Rosamund replied. Then she added, “But put from your mind any thought of a marriage between your son and my child. My girls will marry with men of higher station. Their wealth will bring them that.”

“You would put Friarsgate into the hands of strangers?” he demanded, his color suddenly high. “This has always been Bolton land.”

“As long as there were Bolton sons, it was Bolton land,” Rosamund reasoned with him. “But there are no more Bolton sons, uncle.”

“There is my son,” he told her in a hard voice.

“And he will never wed with my daughter,” Rosamund told him firmly. She patted her uncle’s hand. “I am glad you came for the Twelve Days of Christmas, uncle. I believe your visit has done you good. You seem stronger than when you arrived. Farewell now, and God go with you.” She turned, and hurried back into the house. She could feel her anger rising. Damn Henry Bolton and his spawn! Would the man never give up his quest for Friarsgate? No, she thought. Not as long as he lived.

The winter set in about them. The hills were white with the snows. The lake froze for a short time. Rosamund, Tom, and the girls, bundled in their warmest capes and furs, amused themselves sliding upon the icy surface of the water. They celebrated Candlemas on the second of February, and at midmonth the ewes began lambing. The shepherds watched over their flocks carefully. There had been a rumor of a wolf in the district, and the new lambs were an easy target.

“Put them in the barns at night,” Rosamund ordered. “I will lose not a one.”

“We will purchase some of those Shropshires you’ve wanted, come spring,” Tom said.

She nodded with her agreement. “Aye, I should like a flock of them, Tom.”

The shortest month was quickly over, and the hills began to show signs of life again, greening slowly as the month progressed. She had heard nothing more from Patrick but then he had warned her it would be nigh impossible to get another message through to her.

It would take two days to reach Edinburgh from Friarsgate. Annie, of course, would not be able to come with her mistress. Her younger sister, Lucy, had been being trained all winter to temporarily take her place and in future act as Annie’s helper. Annie was disappointed, but every time she looked at her infant son she realized she was more content to have her wee Harry than to go with her mistress.

They had all been sewing thoughout the winter so that Philippa might have two new gowns to take with her when she accompanied her mother. The young girl had her mother’s coloring. One of Philippa’s gowns was a medium blue velvet, and the other was a rich brown. Philippa was so excited she could hardly remain still at the fittings. She was also to have new chemises and caps. The Friarsgate cobbler made the young girl a pair of square-toed shoes with round enamel buckles decorated with colorful paste jewels.

“I have never had shoes like this!” she exclaimed excitedly when she was presented with them.

“They are for Edinburgh,” Rosamund said. “You’ll be wearing your boots until we get there. These shoes must last you a good long while, unless, of course, your feet grow too quickly. Try not to let your feet grow, Philippa,” her mother cautioned.

Spring now took hold at Friarsgate with the ice gone from the lake and the white sheep dotting the green hillsides. Midmorning of the twenty-eighth, Rosamund and her little party departed for Edinburgh. She had resigned herself to spending the night at Claven’s Carn. There was simply no way they could bypass it and reach decent shelter. She sent a messenger ahead with her request for shelter, and in late afternoon they reached their destination.

“Do try and behave, dear girl,” Tom teased her wickedly.

Rosamund shot her cousin a fierce look. “I will, if he will,” she replied, and Tom cackled with laughter.

They passed through into Claven’s Carn’s courtyard to be met by a Hepburn clansman who helped them from their horses and escorted them into the Great Hall.

Jeannie came forward, smiling, to greet them. “Rosamund Bolton, it is good to see you once again. Lord Cambridge. And who is this lovely lassie? Your daughter, from the look of her.” She took Rosamund’s two hands in hers and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she gave her hand to Tom who kissed it gallantly.

“My dear lady,” he said, “you positively bloom, I am pleased to see.”

“Come sit by the fire and warm yourself,” Jeannie invited them. “The spring is trying to gain hold here in the borders, but it was still, I will wager, a cold ride.”

She signaled to a servant, and he brought a tray of mulled wine forth for her guests.

“This is my daughter Philippa Meredith,” Rosamund introduced her child to the lady of Claven’s Carn.

Philippa curtsied beautifully. “Madame,” she said.

“Your eldest?” was the polite query.

“Aye,” Rosamund answered her. “And your bairn?”

Jeannie nodded to a cradle by her side. “He sleeps,” she said. “He is such a fine laddie! He shall have a brother come the autumn.” And her hand went to her belly proudly.

“Or a sister,” Logan said, coming into his hall. “Lord Cambridge. Madame.” He came to stand behind his wife.

“Nay, Logan, ’tis another wee laddie I carry,” Jeannie insisted.

“This is my daughter Philippa,” Rosamund introduced her eldest.

“You have grown somewhat since the last time I saw you, Mistress Philippa,” Logan said quietly.

“There was nowhere else where we could break our journey, my lord,” Rosamund quickly said.

“You are welcome,” he replied. “To where do you travel?”

“Edinburgh,” Rosamund said briefly.

“Mama is being married to the Earl of Glenkirk, and I am to be her witness!” Philippa said excitedly. “I have two new gowns and a pair of shoes with buckles!”

“How marvelous!” Jeannie said. “What color are your gowns, Mistress Philippa? And shoes with buckles, too!”

“One gown is blue, and the other is a fine golden brown, madame,” Philippa replied.

“What a lucky girl you are!” the lady of Claven’s Carn responded, smiling. Then she turned to Rosamund. “The earl is the gentleman who traveled with you last summer?”

“Aye,” Rosamund answered her.

“He’s a fine-looking man. You’ll be a countess, won’t you?” Jeannie smiled again, but her husband’s look was dark.

“Aye, I will be, but I do not wed him for his title,” Rosamund said.

“So you will desert Friarsgate,” Logan growled.

“Nay, I will not. Nor will Patrick desert his Glenkirk. We will spend part of the year in England and part of the year in Scotland. It is no different than others, even the king, with many estates. And my daughters will be with me.”

“I have bought Otterly from Henry Bolton,” Tom quickly interjected before the conversation took a dangerous turn. “I tore the old house down and am just now beginning to build a new one.”

“Which will be identical to his houses in London and Greenwich,” Rosamund said, and she laughed. “My cousin dislikes change or discommoding his servants. The same people serve him wherever he goes. They, however, have spent the winter in the south without their master.”

“They have been quite busy,” Tom defended himself.

“Doing what?” Jeannie asked.

“I have a passion for beautiful things,” Tom explained. “Consequently, I have too many possessions for two houses. I sent a list of what I wanted transported north to Otterly, and my servants have spent these last months collecting the items, cleaning them, and preparing them for their journey.”

“Ah, I see,” the lady of Claven’s Carn replied. Then a servant came to her side and murmured in her ear. “The meal is ready now,” their hostess said. “Let us to the high board. Lady Rosamund, please sit on my husband’s right. Lord Cambridge, you will sit on my right, and Mistress Philippa will be on my left.” She led them from their places before the fireplace to the great oaken table where the food was now being brought.

The meal was a simple but well-prepared one. There was trout sautйed in butter and served with watercress; a fat capon stuffed with bread, apples, and sage; half a ham; and a lovely game pie with a flaky crust. The bread was fresh and warm. There was cheese and butter. To drink they were served an excellent brown ale. And when the meal had been consumed, a tartlet of winter pears in a wine sauce was brought forth.

“You keep a fine table, lady,” Rosamund praised Jeannie.

The young woman smiled. “I was well taught. Logan does enjoy a good meal, as do his brothers.”

“I notice them missing,” Rosamund said softly.

“They are often late to table these nights,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.

“Their wives are jealous that I have such a fine son, and even though they have bairns of their own, now that I am again with child, they seek to birth more bairns themselves,” Jeannie giggled. “They are also not pleased that I have taken over the management of my household. They were most lazy. They flout my authority when they can, but it is unforgivable they are not here to greet our guests, Logan.”

“The authority is yours, and they will eventually bow to it,” Rosamund said. “You have simply to hold your ground, lady.”

“My wife does not need advice from you,” the laird growled.

“Logan!” his wife cried, blushing for him. “The lady of Friarsgate but meant to support me with her advice, which is good advice, I might add. I tell you little of the rudeness and disrespect your brothers’ wives give me, but be assured that if it were possible for them to have their own homes, I should not be unhappy!”

“I did not realize, Jeannie,” he quickly excused himself. “I will correct the situation as soon as I may.”

“Nay, you did not know, for I do not complain. Now, ask the lady of Friarsgate’s pardon, my lord,” his wife instructed him.

“Nay! Nay!” Rosamund quickly spoke up. “I realized the laird meant no harm. He is but protective of his wife. I understand. My Patrick would be the same way.”

“Your pardon, madame,” he said nonetheless, and their eyes met.

Rosamund nodded. Then she leaned forward to say to the lady of the keep, “We must leave you early in the morning, madame. Might we be shown to our sleeping places now?”

Jeannie jumped up. “Of course, lady! Please follow me.”

“I think I shall remain in the hall a while longer,” Tom called after them.

“So,” Logan said, after the women were out of earshot, “she is going to marry her earl.”

“Aye,” Tom responded.

“Do you like him?” the laird asked.

“Aye, I do,” came the answer. “He loves her deeply. I have never before seen such passion between two people, Logan Hepburn. It is the right thing for both of them.”

“If you say it, my lord,” the laird replied gloomily. “I shall always love her.”

Tom nodded. “I know that,” he said. “But fate has given you a good wife, and God knows she is doing her duty by you. Two bairns in two years. You can ask no more of the lass. She is a gracious hostess, and she is devoted to you. I have never seen your hall look so fine. Be content. None of us ever gets all that we want in this life.”

“Haven’t you?” came the query.

Tom laughed. “Nay, not until recently,” he admitted. “You mean to live at Otterly?”

“I do, indeed. I sold my home in Cambridge. Finding my family here has made a new man of me, Logan Hepburn.”

The laird nodded glumly. “Family is important,” he agreed. “When is the wedding?”

“We will meet the earl and his son on the first of April at the Unicorn and Crown. Rosamund and Patrick are hoping that the king will allow their marriage to be performed in his chapel by the bishop of St. Andrews. The ceremony should be celebrated sometime in April. When is your new bairn due?”

“In early autumn,” came the reply.

“Yon laddie is a fine boy,” Tom noted.

For the first time Logan’s face grew cheerful. “Aye, he is!” he replied enthusiastically. “He is very strong, my lord. Why, when he grips my finger I fear he will bend it. And he smiles all the time. He has obviously gotten his mother’s sweet nature.”

“You are fortunate,” Tom said quietly. Then he arose. “Where am I to lay my head, Logan Hepburn?”

The laird arose. “ ’Tis a small chamber, but one wall is against the chimney. You’ll not be cold this night, my lord.” And when he had settled his guest, Logan returned to the hall to sit before the fire. His son was gone from his cradle. A servant had obviously carried the lad to his mother for nursing. He sighed deeply. What the hell was the matter with him? There was peace. His lands prospered. He had a sweet wife who was as fertile as a rabbit and already one son to follow him. Why could he not be content with his life? But he knew the answer to his unspoken question.

He loved Rosamund Bolton. He had always loved her and always would. Nothing else mattered to him. It was a secret he must take to his grave, for he would not hurt Jeannie with his perfidy. She was a good lass. She was not the problem. He was. He asked himself again why it was he had not understood Rosamund enough to know she needed to hear the words “I really love you.” Pressed by his family, he had babbled about heirs instead of telling her that the very sight of her set his pulses racing. That he could not sleep for the yearning he had for her. And now she would wed once again. Yet she had told him once that she would never wed again. What had changed her mind? There could be only one answer, and he knew it. She really did love Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. Loved him enough to leave Friarsgate for part of each year. The knowledge felt like a great weight on his heart. Why was it that she had loved Patrick Leslie at first sight, but she would not love Logan Hepburn? He had no answers to that question.

In the morning Rosamund and her party departed Claven’s Carn after breaking their fast and thanking their hostess.

“Let us know when you are returning, and break your journey with us,” Jeannie said graciously. “I shall look forward to seeing that handsome earl of yours again, lady.”

“We will,” Rosamund promised. She could do nothing else. She smiled and waved as they rode down the hill back onto the Edinburgh road.

“I do like the lady of Claven’s Carn,” Philippa said. “She was so nice to me. She said when we come back I may hold the baby.”

Rosamund smiled at her daughter. Everything was so new and exciting for Philippa. “I like the lady of Claven’s Carn, too,” she told her child.

“The laird is very solemn, isn’t he?” Philippa remarked. “I don’t remember him very well, mama. Was he always so grave?”

“I would not know, Philippa,” her mother said. “I do not know Logan Hepburn that well.”

“I can’t wait to see Uncle Patrick, mama. I am so glad he is going to be our new father. Banon and Bessie are, too, you know,” Philippa confided.

“You have discussed it amongst yourselves?” Rosamund was surprised.

“We are young, mama, but who you wed affects us, as well,” Philippa said wisely.

“Her mother’s daughter,” Tom murmured with a chuckle.

“When will we get to Edinburgh, mama? Will we get there today?” Philippa shifted in her saddle.

“Nay, tomorrow. Tonight we will shelter at Lord Grey’s home. He lives near the city, but not quite near enough,” Rosamund told her daughter.

“Scotland doesn’t look much different from England,” Philippa noted, looking about them as they rode. “I’m glad we are not fighting them, mama. But what will happen if King Henry does fight King James?”

“We will pray that that does not happen, my child,” Rosamund said, but a shiver ran down her back. She shook it off. “Come on, Philippa! I’ll race you to the top of the next hill!” And kicking her mount, Rosamund raced off, her daughter in hot pursuit.