Until You

Chapter 12

They reached Edinburgh on a chilly spring day. Philippa was wide-eyed with this sight of her first city, as was Lucy, who had traveled with them. Philippa’s mouth fell open as a boy with a tray of buns on his head raced past them. There were women selling the first of the spring flowers and herbs. There were women selling milk, cream, and eggs as well as freshly churned butter, which was cut into chunks as their patrons desired. There was a man offering cups of water for sale, a poulterer with his crates of chickens, a fishmonger pushing his barrow as he shouted his wares. Philippa Meredith had never seen their like, and she didn’t know where to look next. Rosamund watched her daughter, smiling at the child’s amazement.

“Oh, mistress, look there!” Lucy pointed at a group of gypsies who were performing acrobatics on the street for whatever coins they might garner or steal.

They rode past the gypsies, turning into Barley Lane, where the Unicorn and Crown Inn was located. In the courtyard, stablemen ran forth to take their horses, and Tom paid the armed escort that had escorted them from Friarsgate, counting out the coins each man was to have and then buying them all a round of ale. The men-at-arms thanked him, then clattered out of the inn’s stone courtyard. There were less expensive inns where they might spend their earnings.

Rosamund’s heart was racing. Was he here? God’s boots! She was like a virgin with her first lovelorn swain, but the truth was she longed for the sight of his handsome face. They entered the Unicorn and Crown to be greeted by the innkeeper, a tall, thin man with a dignified stance.

“Welcome, my lord, and my ladies!” he greeted them, bowing as he spoke.

“Has the Earl of Glenkirk’s party arrived yet?” Lord Cambridge asked.

“They are waiting for you, my lord. Allow me to escort you,” the innkeeper said, his face impassive. He led them down a narrow hallway, opening the door at the end of it and ushering them inside. “I will fetch Lord Leslie at once,” he told them. “There is wine on the sideboard. Would the ladies desire anything special now?”

“Please escort my daughter and my servant to our apartment, Master Innkeeper,” Rosamund said quietly. She knelt a moment, putting her arms about Philippa. “I would greet Patrick alone, sweeting,” she told the child. “You understand.”

“Yes, mama,” Philippa said dutifully, following Lucy and the innkeeper from the chamber.

“I need some wine,” Tom said. “It becomes chilly as the afternoon wanes.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a goblet from the pewter pitcher. Sipping it, he noted, “Why, ’tis not half-bad, dear girl. Will you have some?”

“And greet Patrick with wine on my breath?” she said. “I think not, cousin.”

She arose and seated herself by the fireplace where a good fire was burning. “I shall warm myself this way.”

For some minutes they waited in silence, and then the door to the room opened and a gentleman stepped inside. He went immediately to Rosamund, taking her two hands in his and kissing them. “I am Adam Leslie,” he said, “and you are my father’s Rosamund.” He was tall and big, as his father was. His hair was a dark russet brown where Patrick’s was a deep auburn. But he had not his father’s deep green eyes. Adam Leslie was blue-eyed. “You are every bit as lovely as he claimed, madame.” Then he turned to greet Tom. “You will be Lord Cambridge,” he said, bowing.

Tom bowed back, his facile mind already asking the question he saw forming on Rosamund’s lips.

“Where is your father, Adam Leslie? Why is he not here to greet me?” she asked.

“He is here, madame,” came the reply, “and you must be brave now for his sake.”

“What has happened?” Her voice was shaking as she spoke.

Adam sat down heavily in the chair opposite Rosamund. “We arrived late yesterday,” he began. “I have never seen my father so eager to get to Edinburgh. He was like a lad. We might have stayed the night several miles from the city, yet nothing would do but my father reach the Unicorn and Crown so if you arrived early today you would not think he had not come. The landlord served us an excellent dinner, and then we retired for the night. This morning my father awakened complaining of a sharp pain in his head. He arose from his bed, gave a loud cry, and collapsed. The physician is with him now.”

Rosamund jumped from her chair. “Where is he? I must go to him! Take me at once, Adam Leslie!” She was pale and trembling with fear.

Adam did not argue with her. He stood and took her by the arm, saying to Lord Cambridge, “Will you come with us, too, my lord?”

Tom nodded, following as Adam Leslie led them from the chamber where they had been seated, down the corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Opening the door to one of the inn’s guest apartments, he ushered them inside. Almost immediately a very tall, dark-skinned gentleman in long white robes came forth from another room.

“Ah, my lord, you have returned.” He looked curiously at Rosamund and Tom. “This is the lady?” he queried.

“Aye, this is my father’s betrothed wife, Master Achmet,” Adam replied. “This physician was sent by the king,” he explained to Rosamund and Tom.

“How is the earl?” Rosamund asked anxiously. She was still very pale and could not contain the trembling that continued to afflict her.

Seeing it, the physician took her by the arm and seated her near the fire, sitting next to her. He took her hand in his, his fingers wrapped lightly about her wrist, his gaze thoughtful. “Calm yourself, madame,” he said in a quiet voice. “What has happened has happened. Your heart is racing too quickly, and that is not good for you. My lord, would you pour the lady some of that wine? When you have drunk a bit of it, madame, we will speak on the earl’s condition.”

Adam quickly filled a goblet and handed it to Rosamund, who drank deeply and then, as she felt calmer, turned her amber gaze to Master Achmet.

“The earl,” the physician said, “has suffered a seizure of the brain. He is yet unconscious. He may awaken with no ill affects at all. There seems to be no harm done to his limbs, for they are quite supple. He may awaken, the ability to speak gone from him. I have seen that in many cases. He may awaken with his memory impaired. Or he may not awaken at all. This is my prognosis, madame.”

“Have you bled him yet?” she asked.

“Bleeding would not be advisable in this particular case, madame,” the physician said. “The earl will need all his strength to recover.”

Rosamund nodded. “When do you think he will awaken?” she asked.

“I do not know, madame,” was the honest answer.

“I will nurse him myself,” Rosamund said.

“That would be best for his lordship. The quality of women who purport to do nursing in this city is not at all good,” the physician agreed.

“Tom, send a message to Friarsgate. Maybel must come!” Rosamund decided. “And we cannot remain here at the inn. You have a house in Edinburgh, don’t you?”

“I sent ahead to have it opened and aired,” Lord Cambridge replied. “I thought to let you and Patrick have a few days to yourselves there after your marriage, while I took young Philippa to court and showed her the sights of the city.”

“When can the earl be moved?” Rosamund asked Master Achmet.

“I think it best he regain consciousness first,” the physician responded.

“Adam”-Rosamund turned to Patrick’s son-“forgive me for giving orders without consulting you. I am not yet your father’s wife. Will these arrangements suit you?”

Adam came and knelt down next to Rosamund. “I know how much he loves you, madame, and I am content in the knowledge that you will take the best of care of him.” He took her small, cold hand and kissed it gently.

“Thank you,” Rosamund said simply. She turned back to the physician. “What am I to do?” she asked him.

“You must keep him comfortable and quiet. Moisten his lips regularly with water or wine. If he is able to swallow, give him wine to drink. I will come twice daily to check on my patient, madame. If there is an emergency, I can be reached either at the castle or at my house in the High Street.” Master Achmet arose from his place by her side. “I will leave you now,” he said, bowing before he departed.

Rosamund was still wearing her cloak. She stood and unfastened it, laying it aside. “I want to see him now,” she said and walked past them into the earl’s bedchamber.

Patrick lay upon the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his skin pale. Yet he looked no different than when they had parted last October.

“Oh, my love,” Rosamund whispered softly as she sat upon the edge of the bed and took his hand into hers. His hand was clammy, and the limp fingers did not squeeze hers back. “Patrick, can you hear me?” she begged him. “Oh, God, this cannot be! Do not take him from me. From his son. From Glenkirk.”

The man on the bed lay still and silent.

Rosamund did not hear her cousin until he spoke to her.

“What am I to do about Philippa? Will you tell her, or shall I?” he asked.

Rosamund looked up at him, her face stricken with her grief. “You must tell her, Tom, if you will, for I cannot. I will not leave him now.”

“Shall I send her home with Lucy?” he wondered.

“Nay. Poor lass, she was so looking forward to this trip. We are here now. You heard what the physician said. Patrick could awaken and be absolutely fine. If I send her back she could miss the wedding and would not be able to visit the court. You must take her to court, Tom. And how did the king know of Patrick’s illness to send a physician? I would ask Adam that.”

“He has already explained that to me,” Tom said. “The earl had corresponded with King James in order that your marriage be celebrated in the Chapel Royal. As soon as they got here last night, Patrick sent a message to the castle. This morning, when his father fell ill, Adam sent to the king for aid.”

“He is a good son,” Rosamund remarked.

“He is like his father,” Tom responded.

“It is too late to dispatch a messenger today,” Rosamund said. “I will write to Maybel myself, but you must see my correspondence sent in the morning by the fastest means possible, Tom. And we will move Patrick as soon as the physician says we may. He was an odd fellow, wasn’t he? He is not a Scot.”

“He’s a Moor,” Tom told her. “Another bit of information I gleaned from Adam Leslie. His family was driven out of Spain by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. They resettled themselves across the Strait of Gibraltar. The physician has been visiting King James’ court. He is a skilled doctor, and a surgeon, as well. You know the king has begun a college for medicine here in Edinburgh. He feels a physician should be educated and that surgeons should not be barbers as well. Master Achmet is skilled in diagnosing disorders of the brain. He is famous for his knowledge. King James hopes to convince him to lecture to the Scots students. It was fortunate he was here.”

“How do you obtain all this knowledge in so short a time?” she demanded of him.

Tom grinned. “I have my own skills, cousin,” he told her. Then he said, “Come out into the dayroom now with Adam. Your earl is comfortable for the moment. You need not sit by his side constantly.”

“His lips are dry,” Rosamund replied. “Let me moisten them. I will join you shortly.” She went across the bedchamber and dipped a clean cloth she found into the pitcher of fresh water sitting on the table beneath the window that looked out over the inn’s back garden. The garden below was showing signs of green in many places. After returning to Patrick’s side, Rosamund wiped the cloth gently over his mouth several times. He made no movement or sound at all. Rosamund felt tears beginning to fill her eyes. She blinked, and they ran down her cheeks. Impatiently she brushed them away as she bent and kissed his cold lips. Then she replaced the cloth by the pitcher and went out into the next room.

“He is so still,” she said to Adam. “His lips were beginning to dry. I have moistened them.” Looking about, she saw her cousin was no longer there.

“He went to seek out your little daughter,” Adam said.

“Poor Philippa,” Rosamund responded. “She will be very distressed to learn her beloved Uncle Patrick is ill. My girls love him very much.”

“He was always wonderful with my sister, although she tried his patience greatly,” Adam said.

“You never found her,” Rosamund answered him. “I am sorry.”

“I haven’t given up hope, madame,” he told her. “I will seek her until I find her. One day I shall. Then I shall bring her home.”

“She is fortunate having you for a brother, Adam Leslie,” Rosamund said. “My brother died when I was three. I do not remember him or my parents.”

“My father has told me your history and of how you met,” he replied.

“Does your wife know about me yet?” Rosamund inquired.

A small smile touched Adam’s lips. “My father has told you of Anne?”

Rosamund nodded but said nothing, for she did not think it would be polite to say she had heard Adam Leslie’s wife was a shrew.

He laughed a short laugh. “She is difficult,” he admitted, “but it is just because she wants everything right. I have a fair mistress who keeps me happy. But Anne keeps Glenkirk in perfect order, and she has given me three children. I will ask no more of her. Nay, she does not know of you, madame, for my father was not of a mind to spend a winter locked up with her carping at him about his age and the foolishness of a man of his years thinking he was in love like some green youth. And of how a young woman would be interested only in his small wealth and title. And how if he managed to give her a child, another child would but lessen her children’s inheritance. My father is, as you know, madame, a wise man. Better my wife learn of you after the marriage is celebrated.”

Rosamund could not help but giggle at his recitation. “Aye, Patrick is a wise man, Adam, and I am certain he would want you to call me by my Christian name. Will you please do so?”

“I will, Rosamund, and gladly,” he told her.

Tom had told Philippa of Lord Leslie’s tragedy, and nothing would do but that Philippa come to her mother. The little girl could not refrain from weeping, but Rosamund calmed her daughter.

“Will you remain in Edinburgh with me, child?” she asked her daughter. “Your company will be a great comfort to me.”

“Oh, yes, mama!” Philippa cried. “I shall not leave your side.”

Rosamund smiled softly. “Nay. I will nurse the earl alone, Philippa. But Uncle Tom would take you to court to meet the king and the queen. It is important that you make that connection, for one day Queen Margaret could aid you. She is my oldest friend. Friarsgate needs friends on both sides of the border, given its location. You are my heiress. It is your duty to make the most of this first visit to Edinburgh. I will be content by Lord Leslie’s bedside, helping him regain his health. When he is able, child, we will move to your uncle Tom’s house here in town.”

Philippa nodded. “Mayhap we will be there for my birthday,” she said.

“I think we will,” Rosamund agreed. “We are sending to Friarsgate for Maybel.”

“She will not be happy to have to travel, mama,” Philippa remarked.

Rosamund laughed. “Nay, she will not be. But she will come because I call her.”

“I hope Uncle Patrick gets well soon, mama,” Philippa said.

“So do I, my angel,” her mother concurred.

But Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, lay in a stupor for three days. The crisis would come sooner than later, the physician told Rosamund. In his unconscious state he was unable to swallow, and his body was drying out for lack of liquid. Halfway through the fourth day, the earl began to stir restlessly. Rosamund held a cup of water to his lips, and while his eyes did not open and he did not give any other sign of consciousness, he drank greedily until he fell back upon his pillows.

“He will live,” Master Achmet pronounced upon learning of this new development.

“But he is not awake,” Rosamund said.

“He is attempting to wake himself, madame. It may take another few days. Keep him comfortable and feed him watered wine.”

Rosamund followed the physician’s instructions. With Adam’s help, she kept the earl’s large body bathed and clean. She saw that he was put in a freshly laundered linen shirt each morning and again each evening. She changed his bedding daily. Patiently she held the pewter cup to his lips and coaxed him to drink a dozen times a day. She slept by his side at night in case he should awaken or otherwise need her. Her devotion was commendable. Adam began to see what kind of woman his father had fallen in love with and desired to wed. He found himself admiring Rosamund.

At first Adam had been concerned when his father had confided to him that he had fallen in love. Patrick had arrived home to celebrate his fifty-second birthday. Adam was more concerned when he learned that Rosamund was only twenty-three. It was true that marriages between many people of their class had a disparity of age between the bride and the groom. But his father had been widowed for twenty-nine years. While he certainly had a healthy appetite for female flesh, he had never evinced the slightest desire to marry again. But now his father’s face lit up each time he spoke to his son of Rosamund. Each day during the winter Adam’s father had written to his beloved. These letters were now in a leather pouch that the earl had brought with them. He wanted to share his winter’s loneliness with this woman he adored. Adam was finally convinced that his father was not in his dotage and that spending the remainder of his life with Rosamund Bolton was the right thing for the Earl of Glenkirk to do. Now he gave her the packet of letters, but Rosamund, concerned with Patrick’s health, put them aside to read another time.

When Adam met Rosamund he knew instantly that his instincts had been sound. She loved his father every bit as much as he loved her. Her concern for the earl and her tender care of him were real. Not once did she complain. Not once did she whine that now her wedding was to be delayed. Her sole reason for being, it seemed to Adam, was his father’s well-being and eventual recovery. And then Master Achmet said they might move the earl to Lord Cambridge’s house. While he was not fully conscious yet, he did appear stronger and able to make the short journey.

Tom had purchased a house off the High Street with a large garden in the rear that was now beginning to come into bloom. The earl was carried in a litter from the bedchamber in which he had been residing into a covered cart. Rosamund was by his side and rode in the cart with him. At Lord Cambridge’s house, servingmen hurried forth to carry the litter inside and upstairs to the bedchamber where the earl would now rest. He seemed none the worse for the transfer between the inn and the house. Rosamund was beginning to show her exhaustion, but they could not convince her to leave Patrick’s side.

And then Maybel arrived from Friarsgate. “As if my poor child hasn’t had enough difficulty in life,” she announced as she entered the house. “Where is she?”

Tom chuckled, and even Adam was forced to smile at the older woman’s words. His sister’s grandmother, Mary MacKay, had been much like Maybel.

“What, Maybel, no greeting for me?” Lord Cambridge teased her.

“Good day to you, Thomas Bolton,” Maybel said. “And this fine fellow, from the look of him, is the earl’s son.” She curtsied. “My lord. Now, where is Rosamund?”

“She is upstairs, and we are both glad you are here, Maybel,” Tom said. “Come, before you see her, and let us tell you what has transpired. Will you have a bit of ale?”

“I might, if it’s good ale,” Maybel considered as he led her into the house’s small hall and settled her. “Ah, at last a seat that does not rock back and forth. I am not a good traveler, my lords,” she told them. “Now, tell me all.”

Adam Leslie explained what had happened though Rosamund had given Maybel some idea in her message to Friarsgate. Maybel listened and nodded as the tale unfolded.

“Has there been any improvement?” she asked when Adam had finished.

“He hasn’t opened his eyes yet,” Adam said, “but he is awakening. You can tell it. And he is able to drink. Rosamund has been feeding him like an infant. She makes him a drink with wine, eggs, a bit of cream, sugar, and a bit of grated cinnamon stick or vanilla bean. He seems to enjoy it, for he drinks it all each time she gives it to him. She also makes him egg custard, and she gives him milk toast.”

“He is growing stronger?” Maybel said.

“Every day,” came the hopeful reply.

Maybel nodded. “Is the physician bleeding him?”

“Nay. He said it is not necessary and would but weaken my father,” Adam responded.

“I never heard of not bleeding a patient,” Maybel remarked. “Is this a good physician? Have you consulted others?”

“He is the king’s physician,” Tom said. “And so you are not taken unawares, he is a Moor.”

“What is that?” Maybel demanded suspiciously. “Some foreigner, I’ll vow.”

“Aye, he comes from Spain, and the king brought him to lecture at his college,” Adam explained.

“A Jew?” Maybel queried.

“A Mussulman,” Tom answered her, grinning. “An infidel, Maybel.”

“God have mercy on us all,” the old woman said, crossing herself. “Are you absolutely certain he is not out to murder the earl?”

To Maybel’s consternation, both men laughed. “Nay,” they told her with one voice.

“He is the king’s most trusted man, Maybel. I swear it,” Tom said.

“Well,” Maybel allowed, draining the mug of ale a servant had brought her while they talked, “if you says so, my lord, I must believe it.” She stood up. “Now, take me to my child.”

They both escorted her upstairs to the earl’s bedchamber where Rosamund sat. She jumped up when Maybel entered the room, wordlessly hugging her old nursemaid.

“Thank God you have come!” she cried.

“Thank God and his Blessed Mother Mary, indeed!” Maybel agreed. “I have never seen you so pale, so worn. You are to go to bed at once, Rosamund Bolton, and I’ll hear no nonsense about it! I am here now, and I will watch over Lord Leslie myself. You will be no use to the man when he awakens if you continue on as you have. Where is Lucy?”

“With Philippa,” Adam said.

“Have you a servant girl who can help me, my lord?” Maybel asked Tom. “Not one of those flighty lasses with little more wit than a post, but a lass who can follow orders.” She looked at Rosamund. “Are you still here, my lady?”

“I sleep by his side at night in case he should waken,” Rosamund said.

“Well, for now you will sleep in another chamber,” Maybel said firmly.

“Next door,” Tom quickly said to his cousin before she might protest. “And I will find a lass among the servants to help you, Maybel. Come, Rosamund,” he coaxed her, taking her by the arm and leading her from the bedchamber.

“Well, my lord”-Maybel looked straight at Adam-“what think you of this?”

Adam shook his head. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I had hoped he would regain his full faculties by now. The physician says, however, that it is not unusual and that he is making a little progress each day. He believes he will open his eyes shortly.”

“And what think you of my lady, Adam Leslie?” Maybel asked directly.

“I think she loves him desperately, Maybel. I pray my father recovers so that they may marry and live their lives together,” Adam answered honestly.

Maybel nodded. “You are, I can see, like him. At first I was not certain it was right. I have been with Rosamund since her birth. Her sweet mother was not strong. I have protected her as best I could from those who would harm her. She has been fortunate in her men. Both Hugh and Owein adored her and she them. But her feelings for them were nothing like those for your father. I have never seen the like of such a love. I doubt few have. To see them together was to see magic,” she concluded.

“I know only that I have never known my father to be so happy in all of my life,” Adam told her. “My mother died birthing me, but it was said he had a fondness for her. He has never remarried, yet when he speaks of your mistress, Maybel, his whole face is alight and shines with his love for her. His happiness is palpable.”

Maybel smiled at Adam. “Aye, you are like him,” she repeated. “Now, get you gone, and I will watch over your father while my mistress gets a well-deserved rest.”

He smiled back at her, and after bowing, he left her alone with his father.

Well, Maybel thought to herself, and isn’t this a pretty mess? Patrick Leslie appeared to be sleeping, his breathing even and quiet. Maybel shook her head. The earl had been in an unconscious state for more than a full week. Was it indeed possible he would recover? She had full intentions of questioning the doctor thoroughly when he came in the evening. Maybel sat down by the earl’s bed. Poor man, she thought.

Rosamund lay down in her gown, fully expecting to wake in a few hours’ time. Instead, she did not open her eyes for almost twenty-four hours. When she did, Lucy was in her bedchamber preparing a bath. The tub had been set before the fireplace, and tendrils of steam arose from the scented water.

“What time is it?” Rosamund asked her sleepily.

“Why ’tis just shortly past the noon hour, my lady,” Lucy replied politely.

“How long have I been sleeping?” Rosamund demanded.

“Practically a full day, I believe, my lady. Maybel said to prepare you a bath and wake you now.” Lucy curtsied.

“Where is Philippa?”

“Lord Tom has taken her to the castle, my lady. He said it was past time the lass met the queen.” Lucy was most chatty.

Rosamund arose quickly, crossing the floor to open the door between her chamber and the sick chamber. Maybel was sitting by the earl’s bed, knitting. “Why did you allow me to sleep so long?” Rosamund said half-angrily as she moved into the room. She went to Patrick’s bed and felt his forehead. It was perfectly cool to the touch. “I’ll sit with him now,” she told Maybel.

“Nay. You’ll bathe yourself, Rosamund Bolton, for never have I known you to stink, and you do. Wash your hair, too. When you are clean, put on fresh garments, and then you will eat something. After that, you may come and sit by your beloved, but not until then, my lass.”

For a moment Rosamund considered arguing with Maybel, but then she saw the futility in it. There was no emergency. Patrick was comfortable. He had no fever; nor was he restless. He had already survived a day without her. An hour more would not matter. “Yes, Maybel,” she said meekly.

Maybel barked a sharp laugh. “Well, I am glad to see you still know how to bow to the proper authority,” she teased.

Rosamund returned through the door connecting the chambers. With Lucy’s aid, she divested herself of the clothing she had been wearing for almost ten days. She had never in her life, she realized, taken so little care of herself and her person. She was surprised that Tom had said nothing, for he was the most fastidious person she had ever known in all her life. She climbed into the oak tub, and the sweet water surrounded her, easing aches she hadn’t even realized she had. She sighed.

“Warm the drying sheets by the fire, Lucy,” she instructed the girl, and then she began washing her long auburn hair with the perfumed soap. Lucy rinsed her mistress’ tresses after each washing, and then wrung the water from the hair and pinned it up for her mistress. Rosamund now began a serious cleansing of her person. She was shocked to see how much dirt she had collected, but then she realized that, from the moment she had arrived, there had been no time to remove the dust of her travels. She climbed from the tub at last, Lucy wrapping her in a drying sheet. Then, sitting by the fire, she let the girl wipe the water from her arms, her legs, and her shoulders. “Give me my hairbrush, Lucy.”

“It’s here, my lady,” Lucy answered her, handing the brush to her mistress.

Rosamund unpinned her hair and began to brush her long locks free of the remaining water, her head turned to the fire to aid in the drying process. And when her hair was dry again, with Lucy’s help she dressed in clean garments, almost embarrassed at how she had let herself go. What if Patrick had awakened and seen her looking no better than some dirty slut from the streets? Her fingers smoothed the orange tawny velvet of her gown. She braided her hair up and tucked it beneath a matching cap with a pretty gold trim, then adjusted her tapestried girdle about her waist.

“Mistress Maybel says you are to eat now, my lady,” Lucy said. “I’ve already instructed the kitchen for you. I have but to pull this bell cord, and the meal will be delivered.” She yanked on the cord. “ ’Tis a marvelous invention, my lady, ain’t it?”

“Indeed it is, Lucy,” Rosamund agreed. “Perhaps we should see if we can install such a device at Friarsgate. Then perhaps you wouldn’t linger in the kitchens so long.”

“Oh, my lady!” Lucy blushed.

A servingman knocked upon the chamber door and entered with a tray. After handing it to Lucy, he moved the tub away from before the fire, drawing forth a small table from its place against the wall. Setting it before the chair, he took the tray back from Lucy and put it down upon the table. Then, with a short bow, he exited the room.

Rosamund sat at the table and began to eat. She was not surprised by her good appetite, for she had scarcely eaten since they had arrived in Edinburgh. The cook had sent her up a dish of four fat prawns that had been steamed in white wine. She devoured them before they cooled. On her plate was a thick slice of beef, a slice of rabbit pie with a wonderfully flaky crust, a breast of roasted capon, a slice of ham, an artichoke, and some new peas. Rosamund ate it all, mopping the gravy and juices on her plate with pieces of freshly baked bread that she tore from the small loaf on the tray. She finished the bread, smearing it with butter as she did. Lucy watched wide-eyed, and when her mistress had eaten everything on the tray, she removed it to the sideboard, and refilled her lady’s cup with more wine.

Rosamund sat silently for several minutes, and then she arose. “I am going to the earl now,” she said, and she crossed her chamber to enter his room.

Maybel looked up. “Ah,” she said with a smile. “You do look rested and clean now. He has been restless today, but he seems well otherwise.” She arose. “I will now take a bit of ease for myself. I am not as young as I once was, my child.”

Rosamund put her arms about Maybel and embraced her. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Maybel demanded. “You are my lady, my child. You needed me, and I came. I will always come, Rosamund.”

“But I know how you dislike travel even as I once did,” Rosamund responded.

Maybel chuckled. “ ’Tis true, lass, but this trip was not as bad as going down to London. And I’ve always wanted to see this city.” Then she patted the younger woman.

Rosamund moved to the earl’s bedside and leaned over to feel his forehead. He had no fever. She caressed his dark hair lovingly, and as she did, his nose began to twitch. He sniffed quite distinctly several times. He had never before done that. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened. They were not at first focused, but they were open. His hand reached up to fasten about her wrist. Rosamund gave a little cry of surprise. Then she said, “Maybel! Get Adam Leslie! The earl is awakening!”

Maybel rushed from the bedchamber calling to Adam as she went. “My lord! My lord! Your father is awakening! Come quickly!”

Adam had been in the hall below. He took the stairs two at a time, almost knocking over the older woman as he dashed into the bedchamber to join Rosamund at his father’s side.

The Earl of Glenkirk’s eyes were beginning to focus, and seeing his son, he said, “Adam! What has happened?”

“You have been ill, father,” the young man answered him. “I think now you will get well, thanks to Rosamund. She has barely left your side these ten days.”

“Rosamund?” The earl looked confused.

“Yes, Patrick, my love, it is I,” Rosamund said, almost weeping with her joy.

The confusion on Patrick’s face deepened. Finally he said, “Do I know you, madame?”

It was as if an icy hand had plunged into her chest and gripped her heart. Unable to help herself, she let the tears roll down her cheeks. She pulled free, moving away from the bed, for she could not bear the sight of the confusion on his handsome face. “He does not know me,” she whispered softly to no one in particular.

Maybel grasped her hand. “The Moor said his memory would come back slowly when he regained his senses, my baby. He has just woken up. Lord Adam is his son. He would remember his son first. Be brave!”

“I cannot bear it if he doesn’t remember me!” Rosamund cried.

“You will bear what you must!” Maybel replied. “You cannot run from this, my child. And you have never been a coward. Now, the earl had just opened his eyes. Give him a chance to assemble his memories. Surely the ones he made with you are so precious that he will not have forgotten them.”

Rosamund drew a long, deep breath. Then she said, “We must send for Master Achmet.”

“I agree,” Adam said, coming to her side. “He’s tired and yet confused. Let him rest a bit now that his consciousness is restored to him. It will be all right, Rosamund.” He took her in his arms to comfort her.

The feel of those strong arms about her broke her control. Rosamund began to weep as if she would never stop. “I shall die if he does not remember me,” she sobbed.

Adam said nothing. There was nothing he could say that would possibly comfort Rosamund. He recalled what Master Achmet had said that first day. That his father might regain all of his memory, part of it, or none of it, if he did not die. He was himself anxious to know how much his father recalled, but at least his father had remembered him. Adam knew he would himself have been devastated had his father not remembered him. He could feel Rosamund’s anguish in not being recognized. His arms tightened about her. Certainly his father would eventually remember this woman he loved.

For a brief moment it was, she thought, like being in Patrick’s arms again. She sighed softly, thinking if she but raised her head it would be he, and he would smile down into her eyes and kiss her. “Patrick,” she murmured.

“You must cease this caterwauling at once!” Maybel’s strong voice said.

Rosamund was immediately yanked back to reality. She was not in Patrick Leslie’s arms. She was in Adam’s. He was doing his best to comfort her. She was to be his stepmother. She sniffled several times and was able at last to bring about an end to her weeping. She straightened herself, moving gently from his embrace. “I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to cause such a fuss, Adam.” Reaching up, she patted his cheek. “Thank you for your kindness.” Then pivoting, she went back through the connecting door into her chamber. She turned before closing the door. “Will you let me know when the physician arrives?”

Wordlessly he nodded. He found himself a bit shocked by the reaction he had experienced when holding her in his arms. Had Maybel not been in the chamber, he realized, he would have been tempted to raise her lovely tearstained face and kiss it.

“It is a natural reaction, my lord,” Maybel said. “How can a man not want to comfort a beautiful woman when she cries so piteously?”

“I wanted to kiss her,” he said quietly.

“Well, of course you did!” Maybel answered him. “ ’Twas the most natural thing in the world. A pretty woman in distress. What man wouldn’t want to kiss away her sorrow?” Maybel patted his arm.

“She is to marry my father!” he groaned.

“All the more reason to want to comfort her,” Maybel reasoned. “Now, Adam Leslie, send for the physician and put this innocent lapse from your mind.” She pushed him from the room and went back to sit by the Earl of Glenkirk’s bedside. He lay sleeping a most natural sleep now. Pray God he remembered Rosamund when he next awoke. Had the lass not had enough misery in her life?

The physician came, and the earl was awakened. “He is still weak,” Master Achmet said, “but he is most assuredly past the worst of it. The king will be well pleased when I tell him.”

“And his memory?” Adam asked. “He does not seem to recall everything.”

“It may come, or not,” the Moor said inscrutably.

“He does not remember me!” Rosamund said, desperation in her voice.

Master Achmet’s dark eyes were sympathetic as he spoke with her. “I cannot imagine forgetting a lady such as yourself, madame, but it is possible he will not remember. Still, he has just now awakened. Give him a little time.” Then he turned to Adam. “I believe, my lord, that I can confine my visits to this house now to once daily.” He bowed himself from the room as he said it.

When Tom returned from his visit to court with Philippa, the young girl was filled with excitement for what she had seen and whom she had met.

“The queen says I look like you when she first knew you, mama!” Philippa said.

Rosamund smiled wanly. “Indeed, my daughter,” she replied spiritlessly.

“Run along now, poppet, and tell Lucy of your adventures,” Tom said. He had seen at once his cousin’s malaise. When Philippa had skipped off, he said, “What has happened, dear girl? You look positively half-dead.”

“Patrick has awakened,” she told him.

“That is wonderful news!” he exclaimed.

“He does not remember me,” Rosamund said.

“That is not wonderful news,” Lord Cambridge said.

“What am I to do, Tom? I cannot marry a man who does not know me!” Rosamund was positively distraught.

“I saw the physician departing as we returned,” Lord Cambridge said. “What has he to say about the matter?”

“He says that Patrick may or may not regain all of his memories, Tom. God in heaven, I cannot bear it if he has forgotten me! I will die! I will die without him!”

Tom sighed. He remembered that both Rosamund and Patrick had said when they had first met that while their love would endure, they would eventually be separated. He had thought at the time that Rosamund was being rather dramatic, but now he considered that they both might have had a premonition. Still, their passion for each other had led them to believe they might remain together. And now this. It was eerie, and there was nothing he might do to comfort her. “The queen wants to see you,” he said.

“I cannot see her now!” Rosamund cried.

“You cannot leave Edinburgh without paying your respects. She has been patient with you because of Patrick’s illness, but the physician will tell the king that the earl is now awake. The queen will therefore decide you must come to her soon, and you must, cousin. Philippa charmed them both. She sat on the floor of the queen’s privy chamber and played with the little prince, who has begun to toddle. Today was his first birthday. Your daughter, when she was told it, immediately took off the little gold chain she was wearing and placed it about Prince James’ neck. It was a gracious gesture and much appreciated by both their majesties. Philippa has all the right instincts to please the high and the mighty. I think we may have to take her to Henry Tudor’s court in another few years. I do believe, dear girl, we may snag a noble husband for her.”

Rosamund looked at him bleakly. “He does not know me,” she said again.

“Be patient,” Tom counseled her gently. He could almost feel the pain she was experiencing. “Be brave. You have always been.”

“I know,” Rosamund answered him, “but I love him, Tom. I have never before really loved anyone like this. I do not expect to love again, if ever, like this. If he does not remember me, remember us, what am I to do?”

“We will cross that water when we come to it, cousin,” he replied. “It is all we can do in this situation.”

She nodded slowly.

At first Rosamund was unable to go back to nursing the earl. But then Tom and Adam convinced her that if Patrick’s memory was to be jogged, she must be with him as much as she could. It was difficult, however, for he treated her like a complete stranger. He was polite, but distant.

“You had us all quite frightened,” she told him one afternoon in late April. “I wonder what made you finally open your eyes, my lord. We had almost given up hope.”

“I smelled white heather,” he told her.

And Rosamund remembered that she had bathed and washed her hair that day with her scented oils and soaps, which were all perfumed with white heather. “Did you?”

“You wear it,” he noted.

“Aye, I do,” she said. Remembering how he had always loved the scent, even bathing in it when they were in San Lorenzo.

“But that afternoon it was particularly strong,” he replied.

“I had just bathed,” she responded.

“My son tells me we are to marry,” he told her.

“We were,” she said.

“You do not wish to marry me now, madame?” His look was curious.

“How can I marry a man who does not remember who I am?” Rosamund asked him. “If your memory does not revive itself, my lord, there will be no marriage.”

“You do not wish to be a countess?” he asked.

Rosamund laughed almost bitterly. “I was not marrying you to become a countess, my lord. And before you ask it, I was not marrying you for wealth. I have wealth of my own. Nor were you wedding me for my wealth.”

“Then why were we marrying? I have a grown heir and two grandsons. I need no other bairns,” he said.

“You cannot have any more bairns, my lord. A fever burned your seed lifeless many years ago.” So there were other things he did not recall of his past. “We were wedding because we loved each other,” she told him.

“I had fallen in love at my age?” he laughed, but then he saw the stricken look upon her lovely face, and he said, “Forgive me, madame. It seems so odd to me that a man of my years should fall in love with so beautiful a young woman. And you returned my love?”

“I did. We spent last winter together, and you came back with me to Friarsgate in early summer. It was there we decided to wed. We would spend the spring and summer and early autumn there. In late autumn and winter we would live at Glenkirk,” she explained. “You believed that Adam had done so fine a job managing your lands in your absence that you might trust him completely now.”

“Though you say it is so, and I believe you, I can recall none of it,” he said to her.

“And you do not remember going to San Lorenzo last winter for the king?” she said.

“Nay, I do not,” he replied. “I would never have gone back to San Lorenzo. ’Twas there that my darling daughter, Janet, was taken from me. Nay. I would not go to San Lorenzo.”

“And yet you did because the king needed your help, and you are his loyal servant,” Rosamund said. “We spent a wonderful winter and early spring there. Our servants, Dermid and Annie, wed there with our blessing.”

“Dermid More is married?” He was genuinely surprised. Then he asked her, “What did Jamie Stewart want of me that he sent me back to San Lorenzo?”

“My king was harassing your king into joining what is called the Holy League,” Rosamund began. “Since the purpose of this alliance is against the French, your king would not join. He sent you to San Lorenzo in hopes you might weaken the alliance once you had spoken with the representatives of Venice and the Holy Roman Empire.”

“Did I succeed?” the earl asked.

“Nay. But while King James suspected you would not, he felt he had to try. We stopped in Paris on our way home to reassure King Louis of Scotland’s fidelity,” Rosamund finished. “You recall none of this?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, madame. I cannot believe I went back there.”

“You were reluctant,” she told him, “but we did go. And we were happy together in San Lorenzo.”

There was a long, awkward silence, and then he said, “I am sorry, madame, that my memory seems to have fled me.”

“What is the last thing you recall, my lord?” she questioned him.

Again he shook his head. “I was, I think, at Glenkirk,” he told her. Then he asked, “What year is this, madame?”

“It is April in the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and thirteen, my lord,” Rosamund told him. “And we are in Edinburgh.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Fifteen hundred and thirteen,” he repeated. “I thought it was the year fifteen hundred and eleven, madame. I seem to have lost two years of my life. But I believe I remember most of the rest of it.”

“I am glad for that, my lord,” Rosamund said softly. She blinked back the tears she felt pricking at her eyelids. Weeping would change nothing.

“When,” he asked her, “do you think I shall be well enough to return to Glenkirk?”

“I believe we must ask Master Achmet,” Rosamund responded.

“I do not like these dark-skinned Moors,” he noted. “A dark-skinned slave betrayed my daughter.”

“He is highly thought of by the king,” Rosamund answered him. “The king sent him to you when you fell ill, my lord. His care of you and advice have been excellent.” She arose from her seat by his bedside. “I think, my lord, you had best take your rest now. I shall leave you.”

“I am being treated like an old man,” he grumbled. “I think you are well rid of me, madame. When shall I be able to leave this bed of mine?”

“We shall ask Master Achmet that, too, when he comes today,” Rosamund repeated as she slipped from the room. Outside in the hallway, she sighed. His memory of the last two years was not returning, and her hopes for their reunion were slowly fading. She felt hollow and more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life. And the casual words he had spoken, saying she was well rid of him, had been like a blow to her heart.

Philippa Meredith turned nine years old on the twenty-ninth of April. The Earl of Glenkirk was allowed into the hall for her birthday dinner. He had been walking about his bedchamber for several days now, and his physical strength seemed to be returning. The little girl was shy of the earl now, for he considered her a stranger. It was difficult for her to understand, but her manners were impeccable. In the stress of the situation everyone forgot Rosamund’s twenty-fourth birthday on the thirtieth of the month.

Plans were now being made for the Leslies to return to Glenkirk, and for Rosamund and her family to go home to Friarsgate. Lord Cambridge escorted his cousin to see the queen. Margaret Tudor had been advised of the state of affairs. She held out her two hands to Rosamund as her old friend entered her privy chamber. There was nothing even she could say, she knew, that could help the situation. The two women embraced.

“I pray you never know such sorrow and pain as I do now,” Rosamund told her.

“He remembers not at all?” the queen said.

“Almost everything up until two years ago. Master Achmet says it may all come back eventually. It is the best I can hope for, Meg.” They were alone.

“I will pray for it, and for you, dear Rosamund,” the queen said.

Prince James was brought and displayed for the lady of Friarsgate. He was a healthy- and ruddy-looking little boy, but Rosamund saw little of the Tudors in him. Finally, her visit at an end, Rosamund took her leave of the queen.

“There will be war soon,” Meg said. “Keep safe, dear Rosamund.”

“Do you really think so?” Rosamund replied.

The queen nodded. “My brother will not listen to reason. He is as ever stubborn. He is forcing Scotland to the wall over this damned Holy League.” She sighed. “You should be safe, but keep watch.” She pulled a ring from her finger. “If Scots invade your lands, show them this ring and say the Queen of Scotland gave it to you and says you are to be free of harassment.”

Rosamund felt tears fill her eyes. “Thank you, your highness,” she said, addressing Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scotland, formally. Damn! She cried so easily these days. The two women embraced a final time, and then Rosamund backed from the queen’s privy chamber and departed the royal residence.