Until You

Chapter 13

Rosamund returned to her cousin’s house. It was the second day of May, and preparations were now well under way for their departure on the morrow. Both parties would be leaving in the morning. The Leslies would be going northeast to Glenkirk. The Boltons would travel southwest to Friarsgate. Adam knew how devastated Rosamund was and how she strove to hide it from them all, especially her little daughter. He sat together with her in the hall after everyone else had gone to bed.

“If he remembers, I will send to you,” Adam promised her.

“My instincts tell me he will not remember,” Rosamund replied. “When your father and I met it was as if lightning had struck us. From that first moment our gazes joined, we knew that whatever had been between us in another time and place must once again be between us. But we also had a knowing, a foreboding if you will, that we would not be allowed to remain together in this life. As our love for each other grew even greater, however, we pushed that shared premonition into the back of our minds. We pretended that it was simply we did not know how to do our duty to both Glenkirk and Friarsgate if we wed. And then we resolved this difficulty, which allowed us to plan our marriage. But fate will not be denied, Adam Leslie. Patrick and I were not meant to be forever more. And fate has once again taken a hand in the matter.” She sighed. “Your father will live out the rest of his life without ever remembering those glorious months we had together or how passionately we loved each other. I, on the other hand, will never forget. That is my punishment for attempting to defy fate,” Rosamund concluded sorrowfully.

“He could remember,” Adam insisted.

She smiled sadly. “How like your father you are,” she told him. Then she rose from her place and left him alone in the hall.

The morning came. Once again they gathered in the hall to break their fast. And afterwards both parties found themselves ready to depart. It was an awkward moment. Finally Rosamund walked over to the Leslies. She held out her hand to Adam, who kissed it.

The earl gave Rosamund a brief smile. “I thank you for your care of me, madame,” he said, as he, too, kissed her gloved hand.

Reaching up, she touched Patrick’s handsome face. “Farewell, my love,” she whispered, her eyes scanning his face a final time for something. Anything. There was nothing. Rosamund’s hand fell to her side, and she turned and walked through the front door to where her horse was waiting, mounting it without assistance. She heard Tom and Philippa behind her offering their good-byes. They joined her finally, and their party moved off down the lane and into the High Street.

Adam Leslie watched them go. Watched as they turned into the High Street. “You remember nothing, father? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Patrick Leslie, Earl of Glenkirk said. “I wish I did, for she is lovely, but I do not. I should have been cheating her had I pretended otherwise.” Then he walked from the house and mounted his horse. “Let us go home, Adam. It seems I have been away from Glenkirk forever.”

Tom had hired two dozen men-at-arms to escort them home. Once on the road, Rosamund became more visibly anxious to reach Friarsgate. The first day she forced the pace, refusing to stop until the sun had set and the land was enshrouded in twilight. She had passed the comfortable inn Tom had meant them to stay in, and now they bedded down in a farmer’s barn with no supper.

“You cannot treat the men this way,” he told her half-angrily.

“I must get home,” she insisted. “I will die now if I do not get home!”

“Philippa should not be sleeping in a hayloft, Rosamund,” he said. “And we have had nothing to eat, dammit!”

“Give the farmer’s wife something, and she will feed you,” Rosamund replied.

Tom swore a long string of rather colorful oaths beneath his breath.

Rosamund laughed. “Why, cousin,” she said, “I did not think you knew such wicked language.” The laugh had been hard.

In the morning Tom paid the farmer’s wife more coin than she had ever seen to feed them all. She willingly complied, though the fare was simple. Rosamund barely ate at all, and she demanded that they all hurry.

“We have a long day’s ride ahead of us,” she said, and she mounted her animal and rode off ahead of them.

Without being told, two of the men-at-arms leapt upon their own mounts and hurried after her while the rest of them finished their meal before departing.

“What the hell is the matter with her?” Tom asked Maybel as they rode.

“Friarsgate is where she gains her strength,” Maybel answered. “Her strength is almost gone with her anguish. She will ride her horse into the ground to reach home before her will dies on her.”

“Neither Philippa nor Lucy nor you can keep such a pace,” he said.

“I will do what I have to. Philippa and Lucy are young. We will all survive just knowing that Friarsgate is awaiting us,” Maybel told him.

They rode on. At the noon hour he insisted that they stop at a comfortable inn, to rest the horses, he told her. Then he ordered a large meal for them all, including the men-at-arms, for he knew she would ride until they could no longer see the track ahead of them. He also knew that they were approaching the border.

“We can stay the night at Claven’s Carn,” he told Rosamund.

She looked coldly at him. “No,” she said. “I will not stop at Claven’s Carn.”

“Then break our journey here today. You almost rode us into the ground yesterday,” Tom pleaded.

“No,” she said again. “We can get past Claven’s Carn, and then by noon tomorrow we will reach Friarsgate, Tom.”

“There is no place between Friarsgate and Claven’s Carn where we may stay!” he shouted at her.

“We can bed down in a field,” she replied.

“You would ask Maybel, Lucy, and Philippa to sleep in a pasture?” His face was flushed with his anger.

“If you hadn’t made us stop to indulge everyone with food and drink we might have gotten even closer to home today,” Rosamund said, ignoring his outburst.

“You have gone mad!” he accused her.

“I want to go home, Tom! What the hell is the matter with that?”

“Nothing! As long as you don’t kill us all getting there, Rosamund! We will stay at Claven’s Carn tonight, and that is final!”

“You may stay at Claven’s Carn. I will not,” she told him implacably.

The day, which had begun fair, now clouded up with typical springlike contrariness. By sunset, a light rain was falling, and Claven’s Carn loomed ahead, its two towers piercing the graying twilit sky.

“Ahead is where we will overnight,” Tom told the captain of his men-at-arms. “Send a man ahead to beg shelter for the lady of Friarsgate before they close the gates.”

“Yes, my lord!” the captain said, signaling to one of his men to go.

“The laird will not refuse us hospitality,” Tom murmured to Maybel.

“Nay, nor will his wife,” Maybel said. “But I warn you now that your cousin will fight you in this matter. I have known Rosamund all her life, and when she sets her mind to something, nothing will prevent her from enacting her will. Still, I have never seen her quite like this before. I think if there were a border moon she would travel on this night.”

“The horses will not stand the pace,” he said.

“Then try and reason with her,” Maybel told him.

Tom spurred his mount ahead in order to ride apace with his cousin. “Rosamund, be reasonable, I beg of you,” he began.

She stared straight ahead.

“If you will not have mercy on those who travel with you, consider the horses. They cannot be ridden without rest.”

“We can rest when we are past Claven’s Carn and over the border,” she said stonily. “It is not dark yet, Tom. We can make several more miles before the darkness sets in and obscures the track.”

He grit his teeth, struggling to maintain an even tone with her. “I should not disagree if the weather would cooperate, but with every moment the rain grows heavier. It will be one of those all-night spring rains, cousin. You cannot ask Maybel, Lucy, and your daughter to ride through the night in the pouring rain. And again, I beg you to consider the animals. How will we see the road when the darkness falls? There is no moon on a rainy night. If we do not shelter at Claven’s Carn, we will be forced to spend the night out in this weather. If any of us catches an ague, it could kill us.”

“We will have men with torches light the path for us,” she said implacably.

“I know you mourn, Rosamund,” he began, but she waved him away.

“Stop at Claven’s Carn if you must, Tom, but I have to go on,” she told him.

“What does it matter if we stop?” he demanded, his voice now showing his anger and impatience with her. “We will still not reach Friarsgate until tomorrow.”

“I will reach it earlier if I travel farther today.”

“You have truly gone mad!” he said, and after turning his horse about, he rode back to where Maybel plodded along in the line.

“She says we may stop, but she will go on,” he reported. His face was red with his frustration.

Maybel could not help but laugh. “Do not trouble yourself over it, my lord. Let her believe she is going on tonight. We will ask the lord of the keep to ride after her and convince her to return and seek shelter. He will do it. He has never stopped loving her, despite his good wife.”

“She hates Logan Hepburn!” Tom exclaimed. “If he said come, she would go. If he said turn right, she would turn left.”

“True, true,” Maybel agreed. “But I suspect that because he loves her, he will not allow her to remain in the storm even if she insists she will. He will bring her to shelter, never fear.”

And Maybel chuckled again.

“You are a most devious old woman,” Tom said admiringly. “And I never until now realized it.”

“I know my child,” Maybel told him.

They had reached the path that turned off up the hill to the border keep of Claven’s Carn. Rosamund brought their party to a halt as the man-at-arms they had sent ahead came riding down the hill.

“The laird and his wife bid you welcome,” he told them.

Rosamund turned to the captain of the men-at-arms. “All but two may go with my cousin, daughter, and the women,” she told him. “I will want torches to light the path for me, as I must go on as long as I can tonight.”

The captain shook his head. “Lady,” he told her, “we were hired to escort you home, and that we will do. But I will not expose my horses to certain death if you ride them through the night without proper shelter, food, and rest.”

“I will give you new horses,” Rosamund told him.

“You will kill my men,” he replied. “The answer is nay! Look about you! The hills are already shrouded in mist that will turn to fog before long. You will not be able to make enough headway to matter before you cannot even see the path before you with a light. Take shelter here.”

“I will not stop now,” Rosamund said. “Give me a torch, and I will travel on by myself.”

Tom thought his head was going to explode, but remembering what Maybel had advised, he said to the captain, “Let her have a damned torch!”

“My lord!” the man protested, but then he grew silent at Lord Cambridge’s look. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and then he handed Rosamund his own torch. “Lady,” he pleaded, “take shelter, I beg you.”

Ignoring him, Rosamund moved slowly forward, passing them and disappearing into the mist until only a pinpoint of light from her torch could be seen.

Tom led them up the hillside to the keep. In the courtyard Logan was there to greet them despite the rain. He quickly scanned the group, and the disappointment in his eyes was evident when he did not see Rosamund. Lord Cambridge saw it, and dismounting heavily from his horse, he said, “We must speak now, quickly and privily, Logan Hepburn.”

The laird did not argue, instead beckoning his guest into the keep with the rest of their party. Inside, Logan’s wife was waiting to greet the guests, and she led them into her hall while Logan moved off with Tom. In a small room the laird called his library they spoke without sitting. “What has happened?”

“I will try and make this tale as brief as I may,” Tom began. “When we reached Edinburgh we discovered that the Earl of Glenkirk had suffered a seizure of the brain. He was lying near death at the inn. The king sent a skilled Moorish physician of his own, and between this doctor and Rosamund the earl was saved. But, alas, his memory was impaired. He could not remember the last two years of his life at all. Do you understand, Logan Hepburn, what I am saying?”

“He did not remember Rosamund,” the laird said, his voice a mixture of both regret and joy.

“She nursed him faithfully for a month until he was strong enough to return home, but under the circumstances there could be no marriage,” Tom concluded. “She is filled with sorrow and anger. And tonight, as we seek shelter here at your home, she rides on alone for Friarsgate in the storm.”

“Jesu! Mary!” The strong oath exploded from his mouth.

Tom restrained the smile threatening him. Maybel had been right.

“Are you telling me she is out there in the rain? Alone? Are you mad to allow her to do such a thing?” the laird of Claven’s Carn roared.

“We could not stop her, I fear,” Tom said mildly. “She is a determined woman, and Friarsgate is her strength. She needs to get home.”

“But she does not need an ague. It could kill her!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps you might reason with her, Logan Hepburn,” Tom said.

“I would sooner reason with a she wolf,” he growled, “but she cannot be allowed to endanger her life, even in her grief. I will fetch her. You will go into the hall and explain all of this to my lady wife that she may be prepared for your cousin’s arrival, which will not be a peaceful one, I fear.”

“Thank you, Logan Hepburn,” Lord Cambridge said quietly.

Logan laughed a short laugh. “You knew I would go after her.”

“Maybel knew,” he replied.

They returned to the hall where their party was already warming themselves by the fireplaces. Logan went to his wife, murmured something in her ear, and then departed the company, leaving Tom behind to explain. He called to a servant to bring his cloak, and outside in the courtyard his horse was brought. After mounting it, he took up a torch and cantered through his gates out into the stormy night. At the bottom of the hill he turned onto the track leading over the border and into England. The fog was beginning to thicken now, and he was forced to move slowly. It was growing dark, as well. She had the advantage of a quarter of an hour on him, but he would catch up with her and return her to Claven’s Carn.

His horse moved cautiously but steadily forward, and where the fog and mist lifted in certain places the animal moved a bit more quickly. Finally Logan saw the faint glow of her torch ahead of him. For a time he seemed to gain no momentum as he moved towards it, but then the fog lifted briefly where he rode and he hurried his horse along. The distance between them grew smaller. He had been following after her close to an hour now. He could almost see her horse now. He kept moving until once again he was given the advantage of a clear track. Rosamund was directly ahead of him in the rain, but she did not hear him for the thunder now beginning to rumble. He rode up abreast of her, but she was concentrating so hard on the road beneath her mount’s feet that she didn’t see him at first.

“So, madame, you are as stubborn as ever,” Logan said even as he reached out to half-lift, half-pull her from her horse, placing her before him on his. His arm tightened about her waist like a vise as she immediately began to struggle.

Rosamund had shrieked with surprise, not just a little frightened at the sound of a male voice and then her removal from her horse to her captor’s. She quickly realized in whose company she was. “Let me go, you damned villain!” she yelled.

“You have led me a merry chase, madame, but you will return with me to Claven’s Carn.”

“I will not!” She punched at him in an effort to release his hold on her person.

Logan Hepburn sighed. “I know what happened, you virago. I am sorry! If you had married me in the first place, none of it would have happened.”

“I didn’t want to marry you!” she told him furiously. “Why could you not understand that I wasn’t ready to remarry? All you could do was babble on like some damned brook about needing an heir. You made me sound like breeding stock!”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I thought you understood I loved you, still love you! I assumed because you had children you would welcome the opportunity to give me an heir as you gave Owein Meredith heirs for Friarsgate,” he yelled back at her. He turned his mount and was relieved to see hers turn and follow him.

“You assumed? No, you damned borderer! You presumed! You did not ask. You told me what you would do. What you wanted. You never said you loved me and hoped that I would be the mother of your children. Nay! You told me that you would come and wed me on St. Stephen’s Day and that I would give you heirs. You never asked me what I wanted, Logan Hepburn! Now, put me down and let me be on my way!”

“Nay, madame. You will return to Claven’s Carn with me if it takes us all night to get there. You will eat a hot meal, and you will sleep in a dry bed. And your horse will get his rest, dammit,” he told her.

“Bah! You have learned nothing, have you? There you go, once again telling me what I will do!” she shouted. “Well, I won’t! You aren’t my lord and master!”

“Rosamund, shut up!” he roared, and then unable to help himself, he kissed her mouth hard. His head spun as the familiar white heather fragrance she wore rose up to envelop him with its subtle but powerful scent.

Rosamund yanked her head away from his, slapping him with her free hand as she did. But she was finally stunned into silence. She had not been kissed since Patrick Leslie had kissed her. Why was it that men she didn’t want were always kissing her?

They rode slowly on. It seemed forever, and then the horses turned from the road onto the path leading up to the Claven’s Carn keep. In the courtyard he put her down from the horse and slid from his saddle. Rosamund turned about and hit him a blow with her fist. It was a hard blow, and it actually staggered him. Unable to help himself, he burst out laughing as she turned away and stamped into his house. Rubbing his jaw, he followed her.

In the hall, Jeannie came forward clucking sympathetically as she saw Rosamund enter. “Oh, you poor dear!” she cried. “Come to the fire and warm yourself. I can only imagine how desperately you desire to get home, but you must not wear yourself out, Rosamund. You need your rest. Oh, I hope you have not caught a chill or an ague. These spring rains can be so treacherous.” She took her guest’s soaking cloak from her and gently pressed her into a chair. “Tam, wine for the lady!” she called to a servant. “Logan, take her boots off and warm her poor feet the way you do mine when they are cold,” Jeannie instructed her husband.

“Madame, please,” Rosamund said, “I am not used to being fussed over in such a manner. I will be fine. Well-meaning though the Hepburns may be, I was quite capable of getting home by morning by myself.”

“You were no more than a mile or two from here,” the laird said as he knelt and pulled her boots off.

Jeannie took the footwear and set it by the fire to dry. “Her feet, Logan,” she repeated, smiling at Rosamund. “Logan will have your poor little feet warm in no time at all. You must be ravenous. I will fetch you a plate myself.” She bustled off.

Her belly was even more evident now than it had been at the end of March, Rosamund thought glumly. Then she started as she felt his big hands enclosing one of her feet. “What are you doing?” she demanded, attempting to free her foot from his grasp.

“Warming your feet as my lady wife has instructed me, madame,” he said in bland tones, but the eyes looking up at her were filled with mischief.

He wanted her to argue with him, Rosamund realized. It would be useless, she knew, and so instead she said, “Very well, but be quick about it, Logan Hepburn. I am indeed frozen. Where is my family?”

“I assume they have eaten and gone to their beds, madame. It is late.” One big hand cupped her small foot while the other rubbed it gently. He couldn’t help but stare down at that foot as it nestled in his palm. It was a dainty foot, the skin soft and smooth. He had the most incredible longing to kiss it, which he forced back.

“I think you are actually beginning to succeed,” she remarked.

“Logan is the best foot warmer!” Jeannie said enthusiastically as she returned with a plate of food for her guest.

Rosamund took the plate and began to eat, but her appetite was not what it had once been. In fact, since she had arrived in Edinburgh to find Patrick so ill she had hardly eaten at all. Food had the tendency now to repel her rather than appeal to her. Still, for Jeannie’s sake she made the attempt.

Finally Jeannie reached over and took the plate from her. “I understand,” she said softly. “At least you got something down.”

Rosamund looked into the young woman’s face, seeing genuine sympathy and kindness. She felt the ever-present tears beginning to well in her eyes. She nodded at her hostess, but said nothing.

“Are her feet nicely warmed now?” Jeannie asked her husband.

“Aye,” he said, standing up again.

“Then fetch Rosamund some wine, Logan,” she commanded, and when he had gone off, she said, “I could see you wanted to cry, but would not before a man. I cannot even begin to imagine the sorrow you are suffering, Rosamund. I am truly sorry for it.”

Again Rosamund nodded, wordless. Then she turned away, gazing into the fire.

When Logan returned a few moments later with the requested goblet of wine, his wife stopped him with a hand, putting a finger to her lips.

“She has fallen asleep,” Jeannie said.

“I’ll carry her to her bed,” he replied.

“Nay,” Jeannie said. “You will wake her if you do, and then she will not sleep at all, Logan. Leave her by the fire. Her cloak is dry now. Cover her with it. She will sleep the night, I think. Let us to bed, husband.”

He nodded. “You go ahead, lass,” he told her. “I must be certain all is locked and barred.”

“Of course,” Jeannie answered him, and she left the hall.

Logan moved through his keep as he did every night before he retired. He checked the outer doors to make certain they were barred. He saw that the lamps were doused, the fires banked. Finally returning to the hall, he sat down opposite Rosamund. Her face was so familiar to him, for it was the face that haunted his dreams. He remembered the child he had first seen at that cattle fair in Drumfie those long years back. He had fallen in love with her then and there. Why was it that fate had conspired to keep them apart? He shook his head. Then, realizing his wife would wonder where he was, he arose and left her sleeping in his hall.

Rosamund was awake when he reentered the hall early the next morning. Awake and arguing with her hired captain-at-arms. “We still have another day’s ride!” he heard her say as he came upon them.

“Yer a madwoman, lady, and I’ll not go another step in yer company,” the captain said implacably. “You have almost killed my men and my horses with yer pace these past two days. Pay us what you owe us, and we will be on our way.”

“ ’Tis but another day’s travel,” Rosamund said. “You cannot expect three women and a single gentleman to travel these last miles without the company of men-at-arms. Today is the most dangerous part of our journey, for we are prey to both the Scots and the English as we go. You were hired to take us to Friarsgate!”

“Not another mile in yer company, lady,” the captain said. “Pay us now.”

“Pay him,” Logan said. “You can trust him no longer, madame. If you force the issue, he will wait until he is out of sight of Claven’s Carn, take his monies forcibly, and leave you stranded. My clansmen and I will escort you the rest of the way.”

For once Rosamund did not argue with Logan. She might have been grief-stricken, but she was no fool. His words made perfect sense to her. Reaching into her gown, she drew forth a leather bag of coins. Opening it, she emptied a third of the coins into her hand, stuffing them into a pocket. Then, drawing the bag shut, she tossed it to the captain. “You were hired to take me to Friarsgate, not Claven’s Carn. I have paid you for the distance you traveled with me. Now, take your men and get out of my sight!”

With a curt nod to the laird, the captain walked quickly from the hall.

“I do not like being indebted to you, Logan Hepburn,” Rosamund said.

“You are not,” he replied. “You are my nearest neighbor for all you are English. I would be a bad neighbor if I did not escort you to Friarsgate under the circumstances.”

“I would not waste the day here,” she said sharply.

“As soon as your party is ready, lady, we will go,” he told her.

“How is your son?” she asked politely.

His craggy face lit up. “He’s a braw wee laddie, he is. They say he is my image, and it may be true, but he has his mother’s disposition.”

Rosamund couldn’t help but smile at his words. “Then you are indeed fortunate, Logan Hepburn,” she told him.

Now he laughed. “Meaning?” he teased her.

“I think we need not go into it, my lord,” she answered him.

He nodded. “Aye,” he said, “for you and I will never agree on anything, will we, Rosamund?”

“I cannot predict the future, Logan Hepburn,” she told him wearily. “Once I thought I could, but it has been proved otherwise this spring.”

Tom came into the hall, followed by Maybel, Philippa, and Lucy. “Ah, you are up already,” he greeted her jovially.

“Do not speak to me, you traitor!” she told him. Then she said, “Our men-at-arms have taken their monies and decamped. The captain would not take us farther. The laird has kindly offered to escort us home today.”

“Gracious! Everyone is already up,” Jeannie said, coming into the hall. “I am a poor hostess, I fear.” She bustled about, speaking with her servants, seeing that the morning meal was quickly served.

“The lady of Friarsgate’s escort has run off,” Logan told his wife. “My men and I will be their protection on the final leg of their journey home today. We should be back by dark, lass.” He kissed the top of Jeannie’s head.

“Of course you must accompany Rosamund and her party,” Jeannie said. “It is the most dangerous part of their trek. Take enough men so that the robbers lurking in the hills will be deterred from attacking.” She turned and smiled at Rosamund. “Borderers, I have discovered, be they Scots or English, can be difficult and rash in their actions.”

Rosamund found herself smiling back briefly. “Aye, they can,” she agreed.

The meal was served, and they sat themselves at the hall’s high board. Lucy had gone to the kitchens to be fed, but Maybel was considered an honored guest by virtue of her long service and her marriage to a Bolton. There was hot oat stirabout served with pitchers of heavy golden cream and equally golden sweet honey. Loaves of fresh bread were placed upon the table along with two bowls of hard-boiled eggs, a crock of newly churned sweet butter, and strawberry conserves. Both watered wine and ale were offered.

“Philippa!” her mother cautioned as the young girl signaled a servant to pour some ale into her goblet. “You will drink watered wine or plain water.”

“Mama!” Philippa protested. “I am nine now!”

“You will not have ale at breakfast until you are twelve,” her mother said.

“Your mam certainly never did,” Maybel enforced Rosamund’s ruling.

“Oh, pooh!” Philippa complained, but then she nodded at the servant with the wine pitcher to serve her.

“I remember being her age,” Jeannie said with a small smile. “Nine is neither fish nor fowl. It is a hard age for a girl.”

When the meal was finished Logan announced that he would assemble his men, and they would depart shortly. He hurried from the hall.

They attended to their needs, and then Rosamund thanked their hostess for her kind hospitality. No mention was made of the lady of Friarsgate’s reluctance to shelter at Claven’s Carn the previous evening.

The two women embraced, and then Jeannie said, “Rosamund, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you be this new baby’s godmother?”

“Surely you have someone else who would suit better,” Rosamund protested.

“Nay, I do not. Logan’s sisters-in-law do not like me since I made Logan give his brothers their own cottages. They attempted to undermine my authority in my own hall because they thought I was young and to be taken advantage of, but I was not so innocent that I did not see. So when Logan asked me what I would have as a reward for giving him a son, I told him I would think on it. After their rudeness to you earlier this spring, I told my husband I wanted his brothers and their families in their own homes. He did not protest my request, but in return his brothers and their wives became my son’s godparents. His brothers were satisfied, but their wives were not.”

“But surely your own family-” Rosamund began, but Jeannie stopped her with a wave of her hand.

“My family comes from the far north. I am but a memory to them. Please, Rosamund, say you will be my new baby’s godmother. You are the only friend I have.”

The girl’s words touched her, and with a small smile Rosamund said, “If your husband, the laird, will agree, then I should be honored to be your baby’s godmother, Jeannie Hepburn.” Jesu! Would she never be free of the Hepburns? She kissed Jeannie’s cheek, then turned and left the hall.

In the courtyard the laird, his men, and her party were already mounted, waiting on her. Rosamund climbed into her saddle, moved her animal up next to Logan’s, and nodded. They moved off through the courtyard and down the path to the road below. The day was a sunny one although the blue sky was filled with clouds of all hues, scudding back and forth in the wind. About them, the hills were a May green, and here and there were grazing sheep. They saw parties of men twice on distant hillsides, but their party being larger, the two bands turned away.

Seeing the second group, Rosamund said to the laird, “I thank you, Logan Hepburn, for your escort this day.”

He turned and grinned. “I suspect you would have been a match for any borderer intent on robbing you, lass, but better cautious than sorry.” He moved his horse ahead.

Tom rode up next to her. “Well, cousin, you seem calmer this day than you have been since we departed Edinburgh. I am relieved to see it.”

“You were right,” she told him, “about last night.”

“I know,” he answered her calmly.

She swatted at him affectionately. Then she grew serious once more. “I do not ever remember being so miserable, Tom,” Rosamund told him. “I shall never get over what has happened. I cannot believe it is over and Patrick is gone from my life.”

“He may in time regain his memories of you, cousin,” Tom began, but she waved an impatient hand at him.

“Nay, he will not. Do not ask me how I know, but I do. It is the same way I knew when we first met that we should not be together forever,” Rosamund responded.

“Then what will you do, cousin?” he asked her.

“I will not marry again,” she said. “Friarsgate is my responsibility. I have my daughters. Philippa is half-grown, and I must begin considering families to approach with an eye to making her a match. And you and I have a new enterprise to consider. I shall fill my days.” But not my nights or my heart, she thought silently.

They had departed just as the sun was creeping over the horizon. By late morning Rosamund began recognizing landmarks and knew they were almost home. Finally they topped a hill rise, and there below lay the lake. Her meadows were heavily dotted with sheep and lambs. Her pastures were well tenanted by her cattle. The fields were green with the new growth of grain. They could see the Friarsgate folk going about their workday. Coming down the hill, Rosamund called out greetings to those she saw. A boy ran ahead of them announcing the mistress’ return. Rosamund briefly wondered if they had been told of her unfortunate adventure, but she knew Edmund would not have left her people in the dark lest they ask questions. She smiled at some children waving in the orchards now in bloom. It had been a day like this when she had come home to Friarsgate with Patrick a year ago.

Her uncle came to greet them as they arrived at the house. Father Mata was with him, and he greeted the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn, as well. He was Logan’s kinsman, and they were friends. Rosamund slid down from her horse as Edmund helped Maybel dismount. Philippa and Lucy were already heading inside.

“I am sorry, niece, for your misfortune,” Edmund said.

“Thank you,” she said. “Will you see that the laird and his men are fed, Edmund? They intend to travel back to Claven’s Carn today. I am tired and would retire to my own rooms.” She turned to Logan. “Thank you, my lord,” she said to him, and then she was gone.

“Well,” Tom said with some humor, “at least she didn’t hit you this time. You have just the slightest bruise on your chin, dear boy.” They walked together into the house.

“What is this?” Edmund asked his wife as they followed the two men.

“Don’t ask me, old man,” Maybel said. “I was abed long before they dragged her in from the rain and her own folly. Tom will know every detail, and you will obtain it from him. Ah, I thank our Lord Jesu and his Blessed Mother that I am once again safe at home! Annie watched over you all?”

“Annie did a fine job,” Edmund assured Maybel.

They entered the house.

“You look troubled, husband,” Maybel said. “What is it?”

“A message came from the king while Rosamund was away. It arrived on the very day of your departure. Because it had the royal seal, I opened it. Inside was the terse message: ‘The lady of Friarsgate is commanded to attend on his majesty, King Henry, at Greenwich.’ Because she had gone off to wed, and I knew she would not be back quickly, I sent a reply back to the king saying Rosamund was not at Friarsgate but the message would be given to her upon her return. I sent it with the royal messenger who brought the king’s missive. I have heard naught since.”

“You must tell her at once,” Maybel said.

“Tomorrow,” Edmund decided. “I can tell she is weary and heartsore. Let her have a peaceful night before we burden her again, wife.”

“Aye, you are right, old man,” Maybel agreed

The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn and his men stayed long enough to eat a good meal while their horses were rested and fed. They departed in early afternoon, Tom seeing them off.

Rosamund watched from an upper window. She saw Logan turn once as they rode from her courtyard, but she knew he had not seen her, for she was shrouded in shadow. Why had he turned back? she wondered to herself. Then, shrugging, she put herself to bed and slept until first light the following morning. When she woke she did not at first realize she was home. Then a small ripple of contentment slipped over her, and she knew exactly where she was. Rosamund arose and dressed herself. Leaving her chambers, she walked slowly down the stairs. Even the servants were only just beginning to stir. Unbarring the front door of the house, she walked outside into the dawn.

About her the air was sweet and fresh with the new grass in her meadows. She could hear the faint lowing of the cattle and the baaing of the sheep. The birds sang brightly as they did only in the fullness of spring. Above her the sky was clear and bright blue. She looked east and watched as the stain of gold on the horizon deepened and the bright crimson ball of the sun began to creep upwards. The horizon exploded with color: gold, lavender, scarlet, and orange. It was so unbelievably beautiful that she began to weep. She was home at Friarsgate. Safe at Friarsgate. But Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, was lost to her forever. I do not know if I can go on without him, Rosamund thought to herself, wiping the tears from her face. He should be with me now, seeing the sunrise, smelling the sweetness, knowing my love.

But it would not be that way between them ever again. “How can I bear it?” she whispered aloud. “How can I live my life without you, Patrick?” But she would. She would live her life without the Earl of Glenkirk because she had no other choice. She had responsibilities. She had Friarsgate. She had Philippa, Banon, and Bessie to consider. She might grieve in the privacy of her own chambers, but she must live her life for Friarsgate and for her daughters now. Turning away from the sunrise, Rosamund walked back into her house, where she found Edmund awaiting her in the hall.

“It will be a good day,” she told him. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nay,” he answered her.

“Then, let us break our fast together,” she said.

“Do you not wish to go to mass first?” he asked.

“Not today,” she replied. “Sit, uncle.”

He accepted her offer, saying, “A message came for you while you were gone. I answered it for you.” He handed her the packet.

Rosamund opened it, scanning the contents. Then she said, “I have no time to attend the king right now.”

“I do not think, niece, that it was an invitation. It seems more a command to me.”

“I will go in a few months,” Rosamund responded. “If another royal messenger arrives, I shall say I am too ill to travel.”

“You cannot ignore the king’s command,” he counseled her.

“I know,” Rosamund replied. “I will go after the harvest and return before the wintertime. I have no desire to be away from Friarsgate again, Edmund.”

“I wonder what King Henry wants of a simple countrywoman?” Edmund said.

“I wonder, too,” she said. He did not want her out of lust, she knew. There were more than enough women at court willing, nay eager, to satisfy his desires. Why had he sent for her? And then she knew. Lord Howard had probably put two and two together, especially after Tom said she was his cousin, and had been at court as a girl. Well, Henry Tudor would have to wait until she was ready and strong enough to travel. Rosamund did not think she was able to do battle with her king at this moment in time.

A month passed, and it was June. Word filtered up from the south that King Henry had departed for France with a great army sixteen thousand strong. With them went horses and much ordnance for the battles to come. The king was boyishly eager for the encounter. His advisers were nervous. Henry Tudor had no heir. What if he were killed? Would England be plunged once again into civil war?

At Friarsgate the summer passed peacefully. Tom spent much of his time at Otterly overseeing the construction of his new house. He came from time to time with amusing reports of its progress. New Otterly would be ready for habitation by late autumn, and his servants were up from London and already in residence in the half-built house. They brought with them several cartloads of furnishings. Lord Cambridge arrived bursting with all sorts of information. On the king’s orders, the goldsmiths of London had fashioned a magnificent harness and trappings for King Henry’s warhorse. The monies expended would have purchased at least twenty brass field ordnances. Another thousand pounds was given over to the purchase of solid gold buttons, aglets, branches, and elegant chains so that when his armor and crusader’s tunic was laid aside, the royal doublet would glitter like a sunburst. Emperor Maximilian had sent his fellow monarch a solid silver crossbow in a silver gild case. The royal arms and weapons were equally magnificent.

“I am devastated I was not there to see it,” Tom lamented.

“Hal was always one for his appearance. He will surely spend his father’s treasury,” Rosamund noted.

“There is more, dear girl. Brew houses were constructed in Portsmith so that beer could be made for the armies and the navies. They brewed a hundred tons of beer a day. I do not know how many brewers, millers, and coopers were there, making their barrels as fast as they could. The beer was put in its barrels in deep trenches covered with boards and atop the boards’ turf. But despite this royal generosity, the soldiers complained the Portsmouth beer was too sour and demanded the barley malt beer of London. But it, too, proved sour. I suspect the damp of the coast is responsible. At any rate, the fleet sailed, the ships holes filled with men, horses, and sour beer. And all arrived safely in France.”

“Then Hal has his amusement and will not notice that I did not answer his summons,” Rosamund said.

“You will have to go eventually,” Tom told her. “I will travel with you, dear girl. I dare not trust you to the king’s care, now, do I?” He chuckled dryly.

Word began drifting into the north. The king had arrived safely at his possession of Calais. He had been warmly welcomed by the cheering citizenry. But suddenly England found itself practically the sole supporter of the Holy League. Henry Tudor’s father-in-law claimed he believed himself near death and was reluctant to leave Spain. He was, he said, “too old and too crazy to endure war.” But Ferdinand, had the truth been known, was a skinflint who did not choose to expend monies in a war someone else could fight for him. Venice sent no troops, and in that city it was said the pope himself had become neutral, for the papal offensive that had been planned to come through Provence or Dauphine never materialized. The Holy Roman Emperor sent few troops, but those sent were paid by the English. His daughter, Margaret of Savoy, however, continued to defy France loudly, daring the French to do their worst, for she, she claimed, would be protected beneath English arrows.

In late July the English departed Calais and moved into the French territories. A successful skirmish near St. Omer left them eager for more. On August first the English arrived before the walls of Therouanne. After ten days of siege, a herald arrived bringing a message from Henry Tudor’s brother-in-law, France’s old ally, King James of Scotland. The English were to leave Therouanne. They were to depart the territories of France. They were, in fact, to return home. James Stewart was warning the young English king that war would shortly break out between them if he did not cease his hostilities in France.

Henry’s reply was a strong and clear one. “It becometh ill a Scot to summon a King of England. Tell him there shall never Scot cause me to return my face.” Henry continued by pretending outrage that James had threatened his ally by marriage. He grew more publicly indignant as his audience grew. “Recommend me to your master,” he told the herald as he sent him off, “and tell him if he be so hardy to invade my realm or cause to enter one foot of my ground, I shall make him as weary of his part as ever was a man that began any such business.”

The Tudor king knew his wife, acting as his regent, and his captains at home would handle any situation with Scotland should it arise. The King of England was free to pursue his war on the continent.

On the sixteenth of August, near the town of Guinegate, the English and the French in almost equal numbers met. Surprising the French, who were not expecting them so soon, the English charged. The charge sent one group of French soldiery careening into another. Panic ensued. The French turned and galloped off in a retreat, leaving behind their standards and weapons, and most oddly, many of their spurs. The English followed, gaining a great victory that became known as the Battle of the Spurs. Afterwards the English took Therouanne, and Henry, with his army in tow, went on to Lille, where he paid a social call on Margaret of Savoy. He was royally feted and charmed everyone, playing any instrument offered him, proving his prowess with his silver crossbow and dancing in his stockinged feet until dawn lit the skies about Lille.

Well rested, the English king moved on to capture the great walled city of Tournai with its double-thick walls and ninety-nine towers. And after that, he captured five more walled towns, seven in total. By autumn, when England’s king left for home, he was no longer considered an untried boy king by his contemporaries. He had become Great Harry, and the news of his victories spread back to England and as far to the east as the sultan’s capital of Istanbul. Henry VIII was now considered a man to be reckoned with by the world about him.

At Friarsgate, before all of this was known, Rosamund received a message from her old friend, the Queen of Scotland. Margaret saw what was coming. She knew her husband’s plans and how her arrogant, clever brother had driven him into a corner from which he had but one way of emerging: by means of war. There could be no escape from what was happening around them.

“Gather your harvest in, and keep close to Friarsgate,” she wrote. “I do not believe either of the armies will come your way, but beware of those on both sides of the border, especially the deserters. God keep you, dear friend, and those you love safe from this storm that is upon us. I am again with child. When it is possible I will write to you again.” The letter was signed simply, “Meg.” Not “Margaret R,” but “Meg.”

Rosamund shared her knowledge with her family and all the Friarsgate folk. “We must keep watch on the hills for invaders or other troublemakers,” she said. She turned to her uncle. “Make it so, Edmund. There must be a watch kept round the clock.”

“Do you wish to send her highness a reply?” the young messenger asked.

Rosamund nodded. “Remain the night, lad. I will write the queen. You will depart at first light. And on your return, stop at Claven’s Carn. Tell the laird, Logan Hepburn, that war is coming between Scotland and England.”

“Are you softening your stance towards the Hepburn?” Tom asked her.

“I send him warning for his good wife’s sake. She is near her time, Tom. Whatever these kings do, Logan Hepburn is my neighbor. We borderers are a different breed from those others of our nationality.”

He nodded. “I will remain here with you, dear girl. If the queen is right, and war is upon us, it is likely the invasion will come from the southeast. We shall probably see nothing here, but you have the queen’s ring, which should protect us from the Scots if they come over the border in this region.”

“Aye, I would feel easier if you remained, Tom. I pray that Meg is wrong. The Scots do not fare well when they go to war with England. And we both know Hal. If his brother-in-law is fortunate enough to overcome him, England will not rest until the insult has been avenged. We will be at war forever, and Friarsgate cannot escape if that is so. Damn! Why could not Hal have been a man like his father? Oh, Tom, do you think that Patrick will answer King James’ call?”

“I think that Adam will see his father, newly recovered from his seizure, not be allowed to join the king’s ranks, though he may do so himself,” Lord Cambridge said, and he shook his head. “And what is it really all about, Rosamund?” he sighed.

“I do not know, Tom,” she answered him. “I think most wars are begun from nothing.”