Until You

Chapter 9

Annie and Dermid were married on a warm and sunny March day. It was a tale, they both agreed, that they would one day tell their children, of how they were wed by a bishop in a great stone cathedral with stained-glass windows before the Lady’s altar. It was an auspicious occasion for such a humble pair. And afterwards the Earl of Glenkirk and Rosamund escorted them to a small inn, where they shared wine with the newly wed couple. And when the toast had been made and the sweet vintage drunk, the earl told them that he had asked the innkeeper for his finest room. Dermid and Annie would remain the night. The innkeeper was paid for the room and for a good supper to be served in a private salon. Then Patrick and Rosamund left their two servants to enjoy their first day of married life together-alone.

When they returned to the villa, Lord MacDuff was waiting for them. “I have a message from his majesty, just arrived within the hour,” he said. “You are instructed to leave San Lorenzo on the first of April, but you are to travel overland again to Paris, where you will have an audience with King Louis and reassure him in the strongest terms that Scotland will not break the auld alliance.” He handed Patrick a sealed packet. “For you,” he told the earl.

“Thank you,” Patrick said, opening the message.

“So, your servants are successfully wed,” MacDuff said to Rosamund.

“By the bishop himself,” she replied with a smile. “And not a moment too soon, I suspect. They are both very young and filled with the juices of their youth.”

“You are a very kind mistress,” MacDuff said. “Many a woman would have beaten her servant for such behavior and sent her away.”

“Annie and Dermid are both good servants, my lord,” Rosamund responded. “They simply needed to be guided into the proper path.”

“Will you go back to court?” the ambassador asked her candidly.

“I promised the queen I would,” Rosamund said. “I do not break my word once given, my lord. While I miss Friarsgate and my daughters, I owe Margaret Tudor that small allegiance. She was a good friend to me when I was at her father’s court as a young girl. She was responsible for my happy marriage. She is so desperate to give her husband a healthy son, and while I expect the child will be born by the time we return, I would congratulate her and encourage her in her motherhood. The king’s lang eey saw that she would indeed have a healthy son, but until that wee laddie rests safely in his mother’s arms, and she is certain of his health, she will fret. Queens have few friends, my lord, but I am Queen Margaret’s true friend.”

Ian MacDuff nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “Friendship is a rare commodity for those who rule, lassie. I admire your ethics as well as your good sense. They are not qualities a man usually admires in a woman.” He grinned at her. “I also admire your beauty, however, and knowing you these past few weeks, I think I am now envious of my old friend Patrick Leslie.”

“My lord, are you flirting with me?” Rosamund gently teased him.

“It has been a long time, lassie, but I believe I am,” he admitted.

“Well, cease, you old dog,” the earl said, slipping an arm about Rosamund’s waist. “The lady is mine, and I will cede her to no one.”

“What does the king say to you, or should you not share it?” Ian MacDuff asked.

“ ’Tis little more than what you have told me,” Patrick replied. “He wants me to tell King Louis of my attempts here in San Lorenzo. Is the messenger still here? I would send a communiquй with him. He is one of our people?”

“Aye, he’s a Scot. He purports to be a factotum for an Edinburgh guild of merchants, but of course he is not. ’Tis just a pose he affects to divert attention from his travels. He’s come here before,” Ian MacDuff said. “He’ll remain the night, as he usually does. Then we’ll send him back mounted on a fresh horse.”

The earl nodded. “Send him to my apartment and I will give him his instructions.”

Patrick wrote to James Stewart in detail of what had transpired between him, Venice, and the Holy Roman Empire. He had previously sent pigeons with the simple words, Venice, nay. Max, nay. Now he filled in the details of his conversations with Paolo Loredano, the doge’s representative, and Baroness Von Kreutzenkampe, who was Emperor Maximilian’s emissary. The earl’s memory was a flawless one, and always had been. He recalled his conversations with both the artist and the baroness. The king would see it all as if he had been there himself. The earl apologized for his inability to change what was happening, but at least, he wrote the king, he had put a strong suspicion of Henry Tudor in both Venice and the Holy Roman Empire’s consciousness. They would now be suspicious of England, and act accordingly.

“You are to go directly to the king, wherever he may be when you arrive in Scotland,” Patrick instructed the messenger. “And you are to deliver this message only into his hands. No secretary or page. The king’s hands. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said.

“And you will tell his majesty that we will follow his instructions regarding our return. We should reach him by early June.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Patrick handed the messenger a second packet, along with a small bag of jingling coins. “And when you have seen the king, I would have you ride to Glenkirk for me and give my son, Adam Leslie, this. Tell him I am well.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you. Glenkirk is in the northeast, is it not?”

“It is. You will find it,” Patrick told the man. “And I thank you for your service.”

“What did you write to Adam?” Rosamund asked her lover when the messenger had departed.

“That Glenkirk was to remain in his care for a while longer, for I choose to visit a friend in England before I return home,” the earl said.

“San Lorenzo has been like a marvelous dream, and now to know I am to see Paris,” Rosamund replied. Then she laughed. “I have never before enjoyed travel or being away from Friarsgate, but when I am with you, my darling, I do not care.”

He smiled down at her and bent his lips to brush hers. “The artist will be waiting for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Your portrait is almost finished, but mine is not, and I would have it done before we leave so I may make arrangements to ship the paintings back to Scotland.”

“The maestro will not give you my painting,” Rosamund said. “He paints it for himself. I have told you before that he does.”

“We will see,” the earl said with a smile, and then he left her. He told the artist what Rosamund had said, and Paolo Loredano smiled.

“She is correct, and she is not,” he told the Earl of Glenkirk. “Wait, my lord, and you will see. You will not be disappointed, and you will pay me well, I guarantee it.” Then he laughed. “You are an excellent subject, my lord. Where will this painting hang when it is yours?” He peered around the large canvas.

“Over a fireplace in the Great Hall of Glenkirk Castle, opposite a painting done of my daughter. Rosamund has commissioned this portrait, but she has given it to me.”

“Sм, she told me that was what she wanted. I have done for her, however, a miniature of your head, my lord. She requested it.”

He had not known that, and he was touched. A shadow passed over his face. How long? he wondered. How long until the fates would part them again?

“Do not look so serious, my lord,” the artist said. “You have lost your happy expression. Think of the bella Rosamund, and be glad!”

Patrick laughed, his bleak mood dispelled.

“Ah, that is better!” Paolo Loredano cried.

San Lorenzo was abloom with spring now. Flowering vines climbed house walls, and the fields along the road were ablaze with color. The air was growing warmer each day. The sea was as warm as their bathwater. They rode out, passing vineyards now green with new growth. They swam and made love whenever and wherever the mood took them. March was coming to a close, and their April departure loomed. Annie and Dermid in a euphoria of newly wedded bliss had to be prodded to complete their daily tasks. Rosamund finally threatened to separate them at night if they did not do their duty.

They would not travel incognito on their return. It was unnecessary. There would be horses for them to ride and a traveling coach when they did not choose to ride. Their route was set, and the duke sent a rider ahead of them to book accommodations at the best inns along their route. They would travel to Paris under the duke’s protection, and from there to the coast to take passage home to Scotland on a vessel that would be awaiting them.

Finally their trunks were packed, and they went to the palace for a farewell dinner with Duke Sebastian. And after the meal was over, Paolo Loredano and his servant brought three canvases into the hall.

“And now, Madonna,” he said, looking directly at Rosamund, “your portrait.” Slowly he drew the covering from the first canvas.

There was a delighted cry from the audience. There Rosamund stood, garbed as the goddess of love in her lavender draperies, her auburn hair blowing in the soft breeze, a single breast bared. She was surrounded by hills, and beyond her lay the blue sea.

“It is beautiful!” the painting’s subject cried. “You have surely made me more than I am, maestro, and while I know you have painted this for yourself, I regret I cannot have it. I remember once telling Queen Margaret that country folk did not have their portraits painted, as did the noble folk. I never thought to see myself portrayed in a painting.”

“Then,” Paolo Loredano said with a delighted grin, “you will be happy with what else I have done, and your lover will pay well for it.” He whipped the covering from the second canvas.

Rosamund gasped with surprise. The artist had done two paintings of her. In this one however, he portrayed her wearing her favorite green velvet gown. She stood proudly, holding a sword pointed downward, a stone edifice and a blazing sunset behind her. It was a truly magnificent portrait, and Rosamund was absolutely stunned.

“It is how I will always think of you, Madonna,” the artist told her. “The mistress of your Friarsgate, defending your beloved home. I have heard your England is green, and you have said your land is surrounded by hills. It is how I have represented it. I hope it pleases you.”

Rosamund rose from her place at the duke’s table and walked over to Paolo Loredano to kiss him full upon his lips. “I have no words to thank you, maestro,” she told him. “I could have never dreamed such a portrait of me. Grazia! Mille grazia!” Then she returned to her seat.

The Venetian put his fingers to his lips. “You have paid me more than my work is worth, Madonna,” he told her gallantly. Then he moved to the third canvas and disclosed its subject, Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, standing tall and handsome as he stared from the painting. “And lastly, San Lorenzo’s first ambassador from Scotland. I hope it pleases you, my lord.” He bowed in the earl’s direction.

“It more than pleases me,” the earl said. “You have certainly earned yourself an excellent commission, maestro, and I gladly pay it. You will see the paintings are made safe for shipping?”

“I will, my lord. Yours shall be sent to Glenkirk, and I shall have the lady’s sent to England.” He came back now to his place at the duke’s table, saying to Rosamund as he did, “The miniature has been packed by your servant and is with your possessions, Madonna.”

When the evening had finally concluded and most of the guests departed, the duke said to the artist, “You have not forgotten you promised me the portrait of the goddess of love, Paolo, have you?”

“I have not forgotten, signore,” the Venetian replied. “And you have not forgotten the price agreed upon, have you?”

The duke reached into his embroidered satin doublet and drew out a bag of coins, which he handed to the artist. “Count it if you will, but it is all there,” he said.

“There is no need, signore, for I accept your word. The painting will remain with you, but I should not hang it until I am certain your friend the Earl of Glenkirk is gone.”

“Were you able to seduce her?” the duke wondered.

“I am ashamed to admit I was not,” the artist said. “She is an unusual woman.” Then he bowed to the duke. “Good night, my lord,” he said. He left the hall and returned to the villa he was renting.

A great grin suffused his features as he stood looking at the third portrait he had painted of Rosamund. It was somewhat similar to the one he had sold to the duke, but not quite. The beautiful goddess of love in this particular painting was entirely nude. Paolo Loredano chuckled to himself. The sheer draping he had chosen for her to wear had, in the proper lighting, provided him with an excellent view of her delicious body. He had sketched her first in charcoal, and once he returned to his studio he had copied the sketch onto the large canvas, completing this painting at his leisure in the evenings. Some nights he had slept as little as two hours, but it had been worth it. This goddess stood upon delicate gold-edged clouds, surrounded by small winged cupids, the deep blue sea below her, the paler blue sky above and around her. Her luxuriant auburn hair blew delicately about her lush body. Her head was topped by a wreath of spring flowers. He had perfectly captured her exquisite round breasts and the plump mound of her mons.

He sighed, regretting his inability to possess Rosamund Bolton. Her love for Patrick Leslie had rendered her impervious to Paolo Loredano. And that in itself made his loss all the worse, for he had never before failed to woo a woman he fixed his sights upon into his bed. Fortunately, they were far from Venice, and his reputation would be safe. Particularly when he returned with this magnificent rendition of love. It would be assumed that he had made this beauty his mistress during his winter sojourn in San Lorenzo. And when it was suggested he would neither confirm nor deny it. But this was a painting he would retain in his own possession for some time to come. He almost wished he might show her, and her alone, this secret rendition just to see her delightful outrage. But no. It was over, and Rosamund Bolton was now gone from his life.

Paolo Loredano sighed a final time before snuffing out the lamps in his studio and climbing the stairs to his empty bed. He slept well past the dawn, and when he finally awoke, Patrick Leslie and his beautiful mistress were many miles from Arcobaleno, on the road to Paris.

Lord Howard, the English ambassador, had not been invited to the previous evening’s farewell. He arrived at the duke’s palace the following morning to discuss his master, King Henry’s dissatisfaction with the current trade agreement between England and San Lorenzo. Ushered into the Great Hall where the duke was overseeing the hanging of his new portrait of the goddess of love, Lord Howard stared hard at the other two paintings that awaited the artist’s supervision for their transport. He looked at the young woman in the green gown with her sword and her almost defiant look, and he suddenly knew where he had seen her before! It had been at his master’s court several years ago. She was a friend of Queen Katherine’s. Now, what was a friend of the queen’s doing with a Scottish nobleman? He was not certain the answer was of any import, but he would mention it in his next dispatch to his master, the king. He gazed again at the painting. She was very lovely. He wondered that his master had not been enchanted by her, but then, it was soon after that disgraceful episode with two of his female cousins who had been in the queen’s service. The king would have been discreet in his wanderings at that point and would have looked farther afield for his amusement.

The duke turned to greet his visitor now. “Ah, Howard, what do you think of my painting? Does the Lady Rosamund not make a wonderful goddess of love?” He chuckled. “Of course, Lord Leslie believed the artist was keeping this painting for himself. I made a little arrangement with Loredano, for I found the lady quite lovely. What a pity she is so in love with her earl. I would have enjoyed having her in my own bed, and so would have the Venetian, I have not a doubt.” He chuckled again.

“That is why there are two paintings?” Lord Howard thought he understood. “Was not Lord Leslie aware that his mistress was being painted with her breast bared?”

“He knew, but they both found it amusing for her to do so. She commissioned the portrait of him as a gift for her lover. Magnificent, isn’t it?” The duke admired both paintings. “He is a great artist, Paolo Loredano. Every bit as worthy as Titian.”

“Titian?” Lord Howard looked confused.

“Another Venetian artist,” the duke said. “Now, let us get down to business, my lord. The day is warm, and there is a pretty flower seller in the market square I wish to visit this afternoon. She shows much promise,” and he chortled wickedly, winking broadly at the English ambassador. “I remember Patrick Leslie in his younger days. He would have vied openly with me for such a lovely prize.”

“Then, perhaps it is better he is now gone,” Lord Howard replied dryly, and as he said it he wondered just where the Earl of Glenkirk and his mistress had gone. To France? To Venice or Rome? Back to Scotland? He could not ask the duke without seeming overly interested. Besides, did it really matter? Patrick Leslie was not important. He was a man in the twilight of his years, having a final fling with a beautiful young woman. He had no power or influence. He had obviously come to San Lorenzo for no other reason than to escape the Scots winter and impress his mistress with a minor accomplishment that he had held in his younger days. Still, Lord Howard considered, it would not harm him to err on the side of caution and put this in his next report to King Henry. Everything, even the most seemingly minor detail, was important to the king.

The two subjects of Lord Howard’s interest now cantered along the coast road towards Toulouse. They stopped the first night in a town called Villerose, in another little duchy, Beaumont de Jaspre. The weather was fair and warm. And, as they gradually began to travel in a more northerly direction towards Paris, the sunny skies remained with them. They followed a road along the Rhфne River as far as Lyon, turning west then to ride cross-country to Roanne on the Loire. The vineyards in the Loire Valley were green with new growth, but several weeks behind those of San Lorenzo. Their road led to Nevers and from there to Chateauneuf, where they picked up the main road to Paris. There was more traffic as they moved towards the capital. They saw more soldiers than they had previously seen. It was obvious that France was on a war footing and already fighting with the pope’s league.

They finally reached Paris in late April. Rosamund was exhausted and glad for this respite from their travels. Annie was obviously already with child and equally relieved to stop. The duke had arranged for them to break their long journey at a small house he owned just outside the city. The concierge had been alerted to their coming. The house was freshly cleaned and aired. Two servants, a maid, and a stableman had been brought in for their visit. The morning after their arrival, Patrick left to seek out an audience with King Louis, if indeed the king was in Paris.

He was, and after waiting almost the entire day, he was finally admitted to King Louis XII’s august presence. He bowed low and said quietly so that only the king might hear, “I come from James Stewart, but I must speak with you privately, monseigneur.”

The king’s eyes flickered, curious. He was a tall, handsome man with a warm smile. “Leave us!” he said to his attendants, and they immediately vacated the chamber. “Sit down, my lord,” he invited the earl, “and tell me why you have come.”

“Merci,” the earl replied, and he seated himself opposite the king. “I was called by my king several months ago to come from my northern home to Stirling, where he was holding his Christmas court. I had not been in his presence for eighteen years. Long ago I was King James’ first ambassador to the duchy of San Lorenzo. The king wished me to return there, traveling secretly, although once I arrived it was no longer a secret.” He smiled at King Louis. “Though my king held out little hope of his plan succeeding, he still believed it necessary to try. I was to treat with representatives from the Emperor Maximilian and the doge in an effort to weaken the alliance they had made with Pope Julius, Spain, and Henry of England. As you know, the English king has been pressing my king to join with them. But James Stewart will not betray his alliance with France, my lord. I am here to reassure you he will keep his faith with you.”

“I had no doubt he would,” the French king responded. “Your mission, of course, failed.”

“It did. However, I was able to plant within the minds of both emissaries a suspicion of King Henry,” Patrick said.

“And how did you do that?” King Louis asked, smiling.

“I told them the truth of his personality and his ambitions,” the Earl of Glenkirk replied with an answering smile. “You know, of course, the story of the Venerable Margaret’s jewels.”

“I do,” King Louis said. “ ’Twas shocking and most meanly done. I do not believe I should like this Henry Tudor if indeed I ever met him. I doubt I shall, but my son-in-law, Francois, will have to deal with him one day. I think, perhaps, they might get along, for they have similar characters. Francois, like Henry Tudor, is a large man with a large appetite and a great lust for all that life has to offer. Still, he is a good husband to my daughter Claude.” Then King Louis arose from his chair, signaling that the interview was over. “Tell James Stewart that I thank him for his efforts on France’s behalf. And I particularly thank him for his honorable stance. I know it will not be easy. His brother-in-law’s reputation already grows.”

The Earl of Glenkirk bowed politely. “I shall take your good wishes to my king, my lord, and I thank you for seeing me.” Then Patrick backed from the French king’s presence. He returned to the little house outside of Paris on the Seine.

Rosamund was awaiting him. “I began to fear for you when it grew dark,” she told him. “You will not have eaten, I expect. Come. Dermid brought us a good supper from the nearby inn.” He looked tired, she thought, leading him to the table and seating him. “Annie is not feeling particularly well, and so I insisted she rest. It is often this way with a first bairn.” She lifted the cover from a tureen and ladled a good-smelling stew onto his plate. “These French know how to cook,” she told him, setting the plate before him and tearing a hunk of bread off the loaf for him. “Eat, Patrick, and then tell me what transpired this day.” She poured a dark red wine into his goblet and then waited while he ate. He was obviously hungry, she noted, as he quickly cleared his plate of food, mopping every bit of the gravy up with his bread. “More?” she asked, and he nodded. “You did not eat all day, did you, my lord? That is not good for a man of your years.”

Patrick swallowed down a portion of his wine. “I had to wait for King Louis to see me,” he said. “Or at least for one of his pompous secretaries to make an appointment for me. I was so persistent, they let me in at the last moment.” He spooned the stew on his plate into his mouth, eating vigorously until he finally seemed satisfied. His wine cup was refilled twice. Now the Earl of Glenkirk sat back and took Rosamund’s hand up to kiss it. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, sweetheart.”

“We cannot always be roiling with passion, Patrick.” She smiled back at him. “Now, tell me what King Louis said.”

“He said he expected no less of Jamie Stewart than he had gotten in the past. That he knew Scotland would adhere to our auld alliance. He sends King James his good wishes. ’Twas a courtesy the king sought of me, and King Louis knows it. There is little need now for us to remain here.”

“But I have never been to Paris,” Rosamund said. “And when shall this country girl have the opportunity to come again, my lord? Can we not spend just a few days here? I should very much like to see the cathedral, and besides, Annie really could use a respite before we begin the last of our journey. A sea voyage is apt to play havoc with her belly.”

“Two days,” he said, “and we depart on the third. Will that satisfy you, madame?”

“It is more than generous, my lord,” she assured him.

“I’ll send one of the duke’s men to Calais to see if our ship is awaiting us. He’ll not have time to return to Paris, but he can meet us on the road. The English will be on the lookout for vessels sailing beneath the French or Scots flags.”

The following day Patrick and Rosamund visited the great Cathedral of Notre Dame on the Ile de la Citй. Paris itself was a bustling and noisy city, and to Rosamund’s surprise it was quite different from London, despite the similarity of having a river running through it. The French were colorful and vibrant. They saw gypsy performers in the streets. The taverns overflowed with revelers. No matter the war, Paris was always vibrant and alive.

“It is exhausting,” Rosamund laughed as they returned home the evening before they were to finally depart. “I do not think I could live here. Did you see the fabrics in some of the shops? They are marvelous, but they do not have a wool as fine as we raise at Friarsgate. The wools I saw were heavy and coarse. They were Scots, or Irish, or mayhap even English, some of them. But they were not of the quality of Friarsgate wool. I must speak with my agent in Carlisle and see what can be done about that. The French appreciate quality, and I can offer them that.”

“I have never before seen this side of you,” he marveled. “You are suddenly a woman of commerce.”

“I have not the advantage of your birth, my lord. Friarsgate folk have always been simple people, but we are industrious. I see profit here, and to overlook it would be foolish,” Rosamund told him.

“You are growing restless with this life you have been leading, aren’t you?” he said, reaching out to tip her face up to him.

“Aye,” she admitted, “I am. You have been busy, Patrick, on your mission of diplomacy for your king. I have been an ornament for your pleasure. And mine,” she amended with a small smile. “But I am not used to being so idle.”

“I will have you home by midsummer,” he promised her, and he smiled back. She almost broke his heart with her loveliness, he thought to himself.

They departed Paris the following morning just before dawn. It was Rosamund’s twenty-third birthday, and quite forgotten even by her. They met the duke’s man along their path. A ship was awaiting them. It was a Scots vessel, but it would fly the flag of a Flemish merchant prince. At Calais they boarded their transport in a falling rain, but the seas were relatively calm. Two days out, as they made their way up the North Sea towards Leith, the weather cleared, giving them a brisk and unusual southeast wind. They saw other sails on the sea, but no one challenged them even as they neared the border between England and Scotland. They sailed closer to land now, and the captain pointed out the opening to the river Tyne.

“We’re almost home, my lord,” the captain said. “We’ll be entering the Fifth of Forth shortly. We dock at Leith in the early morning.”

It was early May, and the mists partially obscured the land as they reached their destination. Their luggage was off-loaded and taken to the inn from where they had departed almost six months before. They were settled in a comfortable apartment with several fireplaces all now blazing warmth and taking the chill off the early morning.

“I will have to arrange for transport to Edinburgh, or wherever the king is now,” Patrick told Rosamund.

“Inquire if the queen has been safely delivered,” Rosamund said, and he nodded.

“Aye,” the innkeeper replied to the question asked by the Earl of Glenkirk. “The wee queen did give birth to a fine healthy bairn on the tenth day of April. They say the king does wrap the laddie in a blanket and ride through Edinburgh town wi him so the people may see this next Jamie Stewart.”

“And the queen is well?” the earl inquired.

“Och, aye, she is, my lord,” the innkeeper answered with a smile. “She but needed a bit of seasoning to do it well.”

“The king is in Edinburgh yet?” the earl queried.

“Aye, he be in the town,” the innkeeper said.

“I’ll ride in today,” the earl said.

“I’ll go with you,” Rosamund responded. “I must see Meg, and I did promise to return. The sooner I see her, the sooner I can confess my deception, and then perhaps she will let me go home. It has been nearly five months since I’ve seen my lasses, Patrick.”

“I’ll send a message to Glenkirk,” he said. “Adam will not be unhappy to remain master there for a while longer. I am anxious to see your Friarsgate, lovey.”

“Annie and Dermid can follow tomorrow,” she decided. “We can do without our servants for a night, and heaven only knows if there will even be room for us. Court life is not the most gracious for ordinary folk.”

They rode the few miles between the port of Leith and the capital city of Edinburgh. Once at the castle, the Earl of Glenkirk sought out the king to give him his final report. Rosamund, however, went immediately to the queen’s apartments. Margaret Tudor spied her friend immediately and shrieked a greeting.

“Rosamund! Oh, come and see my beautiful boy, Rosamund! I am so glad that you are back! How are your girls? Come! Come!”

Rosamund laughed and crossed the room to peer into the ornate cradle by the queen’s side. The month-old boy stared up at her. He was plump and alert. Waving his little fists at her, he made small noises, and Rosamund laughed again. “Oh, Meg, he is a fine laddie! The king must be so pleased!” She curtsied and blushed slightly, realizing that she had slipped back into a familiarity she should not, but the queen waved her hand, dismissing the breach.

“Come and sit with me, and tell me all about Friarsgate,” the queen said.

“We must speak privily about that,” Rosamund said quietly.

Immediately the queen’s curiosity was piqued. “Get out! All of you! I would speak confidentially with the lady of Friarsgate. You, also,” she said to the cradle rocker. “My son will survive without being in constant motion.” And when the queen’s chamber had been emptied, she turned again to her childhood friend and said, “Tell me.”

“I have not been at Friarsgate, Meg. I have been with the Earl of Glenkirk in the duchy of San Lorenzo.” Then she went on to explain the mission the king had sent Patrick on, and of how he would not go without her, and of how she loved him so desperately that she had lied to Margaret Tudor and gone. “Will you forgive me?” she asked the queen as she concluded her tale.

“Of course I forgive you!” the queen said sincerely. “So, you love him. But does he love you? And if he does, why does he not offer marriage?”

“He does love me, but I choose not to marry again, Meg. At least not now. I have a duty to Friarsgate, and Patrick has his duty to Glenkirk, although his son is able to carry on in his absence. With your permission I am now going to go home to Friarsgate, and Patrick will come with me for a time.”

“You must bide with me for a brief while,” the queen pleaded prettily.

“Agreed,” Rosamund said, laughing once more, “though you really do not need me. You have all your women to keep you company.”

“They are not my friends,” the queen replied. “You know that queens have few friends, Rosamund.” Then a sly smile touched her lips, and she asked, “Is he a very good lover? My Jamie certainly is, despite the years that separate us, but the Earl of Glenkirk is really old. Can he still make love? Or is this the kind of love you bore for your second husband, Hugh Cabot?”

“He is a magnificent lover and frequently exhausts me, Meg,” Rosamund replied candidly. “I love him, you know, and my passion for him is not in the least as it was for Hugh, who was more father to me than any.”

“How strange that this love should come to you at this time and in this place,” the queen noted. “I love the king, you know. And he is very good to me, although I suspect he believes I am not the cleverest of women. He often treats me as he would a favored animal. So he sent your earl to try to weaken this alliance the pope has now formed. He knew it would not work, of course.” The queen’s foot was absently rocking her son’s cradle as she spoke, and the baby was now falling asleep.

“King James is an honorable man. He will not betray this old alliance that Scotland has with France. There is no need for him to do so,” Rosamund said. “I think we both know that your brother, King Henry, seeks an excuse to make war on Scotland. He cannot be pleased that you have given your husband a son when poor Kate cannot give him one. It must frustrate him that Scotland holds the balance of power here. England cannot invade France with France’s ally on his northern border. So he seeks to isolate Scotland from the rest of Europe. Your husband, Meg, is a man of peace. He sees what peace has brought Scotland. This country is prosperous and content, no matter your easily insulted earls and lairds.” She smiled. “Now Scotland has an heir. There is even more at stake.”

“Yet Jamie builds a navy,” the queen noted.

“To protect Scotland, Meg. He seeks to defend his sea borders. His navy is a bulwark against foreigners,” Rosamund explained. It had always been difficult for Meg to see the large picture.

“Henry is jealous of Jamie’s ships. He is now building a navy, too, Kate writes me,” the queen responded.

“Kate is well?” It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her of Katherine of Aragon, now England’s queen.

“But that she cannot seem to give my brother a living heir,” Meg said. “Henry will be patient just so long, and then who knows what he will do. The fault lies with Kate, I fear, for my brother has his share of bastards, and he has impregnated her several times. But her children die. I wonder if it is not God’s judgment. Perhaps my father should have sent her back to Spain. Perhaps she should not have wed Arthur’s younger brother. But, then, what is done is done. Have they found you a place to rest your head?”

“We arrived early this morning, and after settling at an inn in Leith we came directly here. Annie and Dermid will follow tomorrow. They are wed, and Annie is already expecting a bairn,” Rosamund replied.

“It is always inconvenient when one’s tiring woman finds herself with child. At least they are wed.”

“They might not have been but for Paolo Loredano,” and Rosamund went on to tell the story of how the artist had sketched Annie with Dermid in a most compromising position.

The queen laughed. “I’ll wager the naughty girl was surprised when you faced her with your knowledge.”

“I said nothing. I just left the sketch for them to see. They came then and asked our permission to wed,” Rosamund chuckled.

“Oh, I have gossip about your old suitor, Logan Hepburn,” the queen said. “His little wife is big with child. It will be born sometime in October. They say he mounted her again and again until she proved fecund. Since then he has not been near her, although he treats her with kindness. They say he has a mistress somewhere in the borders. You are well rid of the fellow.”

“Logan is not a bad man, Meg. I was simply not ready to marry again, and he needed a legitimate heir. I am relieved his family prevailed. Besides, Friarsgate is my home, and I could live nowhere else,” Rosamund told the queen.

“So your earl will go with you over the border?”

“Aye. For a while,” Rosamund answered.

“The castle is full, I fear,” the queen announced. “You may sleep in my apartments, Rosamund, and Lord Leslie in the hall. He has done it before, I am certain.”

“The distance between here and Leith is little. We can remain at the inn.” The idea of being separated from Patrick for even a few nights made her unhappy.

“Nay, you will remain with me,” the queen murmured sweetly. “We shall send for your cousin Lord Cambridge to come back to Scotland. He must be bored to death at Friarsgate by now.”

“He will not come unless he has a place to lay his head in privacy,” Rosamund said.

“I understand he leased a house in the Highgate in anticipation of your return. When he arrives I shall give you permission to live there,” the queen said.

“I do not know how to thank you, Meg,” Rosamund told Scotland’s queen sharply.

The queen giggled. “You will find a way to be with your earl, Rosamund. Sometimes the king and I have made love in the oddest places just for the fun and excitement of it. You could not expect to lie to me and disappear for several months, and I would not punish you. Even if you were helping Lord Leslie complete his mission for my husband. Nay. This will be your chastisement.”

When the Earl of Glenkirk learned of the queen’s decree, he said, “I will speak with Jamie.”

“Do not, lest you endanger my friendship with the queen, Patrick,” Rosamund warned him. “Meg cannot remonstrate with her husband for the deception I played on her, and so she punishes me. I will accept it with good grace. We are both exhausted with our travels, and a few nights apart cannot harm us. She is sending to Friarsgate for my cousin, and tells me he has leased a house here in the town. Believe me that Tom will return with the messenger, for he will not wait a moment to rejoin this court given the opportunity. And I am anxious for news of home. He will invite us to join him, and we will be together once more.”

“ ’Tis you who should be the diplomat, sweetheart,” he told her with a smile.

Rosamund was correct when she said that her cousin, once summoned, would come posthaste from Friarsgate. He did, and no sooner had he arrived than he sought her out, knowing he would find her in the queen’s apartments. He had gained a bit of weight, enough to show, and she teased him.

“I see Maybel has taken good care of you, cousin,” she greeted him, and patted the small silk-covered belly he attempted to hide beneath his ornate doublet.

“My dear Rosamund,” he murmured, kissing both of her cheeks. “You are looking lean, yet strangely content, cousin.” He glanced about the queen’s antechamber. “Am I permitted to see the princely heir?”

“My lady, here is my cousin Lord Cambridge, who you will remember. He has returned at your invitation and is anxious to see the prince.”

“You will go back to England this summer, my lord,” the queen greeted Tom, “and you will tell my brother, Henry, what a fine laddie I have birthed the King of Scotland.” She smiled and held out her hand to be kissed.

Lord Cambridge took the plump little hand and saluted it. Then he said, “Madame, it would be worth my life, and you surely must know I am not a brave man, for me to bring your kingly brother such a bold message. If I should see King Henry, I will say that you are looking well and that your son appears healthy for the moment.”

The queen laughed. “My husband says this wee laddie of ours will reign as king one day, for his lang eey tells him that. You are welcome back to our court, my lord.”

“I could not refuse so gracious an invitation, madame, but I regret that I cannot remain long. My cousin must return home, and I must go south to see to my own holding. I have been gone far too long.”

“Aye, and Rosamund does long for her Friarsgate after her adventures abroad,” the queen said mischievously. “Go along now and tell your cousin of what has transpired while she has been gone. I know she is anxious to speak with you.”

The two Boltons bowed themselves from Queen Margaret’s presence and found a secluded place in the castle’s Great Hall where they might sit and speak.

“My lassies are well?” was her first question.

“They thrive, and Philippa grows more like you every day,” he told her. “Bessie and Banon are charming little wenches, the wee one in particular. She has a way about her, and all who meet her love her. Maybel wants me to tell you that you are to cease your foolishness and return home immediately.” His eyes twinkled as he said it.

“Patrick is coming with us,” Rosamund said quietly.

“Will you wed him?” Lord Cambridge inquired.

She shook her head. “Nothing has changed, Tom. I still owe Friarsgate my loyalty first, and Patrick his to Glenkirk. We need no vows between us to prove our love for each other. He will come with me and remain until he feels it is time for him to go. His son is grown and capable of managing in his father’s absence.”

“Then you will be safe while I am gone. I go south only to sell my estate, Rosamund. I am purchasing Otterly from your uncle Henry. It is practically in ruins at this point. Mavis, his wife, has run off, and ’tis unlikely he’ll ever see her again. Her sons, including your uncle’s lad, have taken to robbery on the high road. They’ll all be hung eventually. One already has been. The two daughters Mavis birthed are whoring in Carlisle, I am told. Henry Bolton is a broken man. I have promised him a cottage on the estate and a servant to look after his needs. I intend that Otterly be restored and made magnificent. It is for Banon one day, and I will see that Bessie is so well dowered that she will be considered quite the heiress. Philippa, of course, has Friarsgate after you, unless, of course, you give the earl a son.”

“Patrick can no longer sire bairns, Tom. An illness rendered his seed dead. There is no chance of my having another child.” Leaning over, she kissed her cousin on the cheek. “You are so good to my girls, Tom. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Aye, I do, Rosamund. I am but a few generations out of Cumbria, and the land seems to catch at your heart. I never cared much for my house at Cambridge. I’ll keep the London and Greenwich houses, however,” he said. “You never know when we might want to trot south to court, although quite frankly, Queen Katherine’s court is a bit too formal, dull, and staid for me. I far prefer this delightful court of King James.”

“Here you are, sweetheart.” Patrick had come upon them. “I understood you were back, my lord.” He held out his hand to Tom. “Stay seated, my lord. I am going to join you.” He looked at Rosamund. “You have asked him, I hope.”

“Asked me what?” Tom wanted to know.

“There has been no time. I have been getting the news of home,” she replied.

“You must ask him,” the earl said, a desperate tone in his voice.

“Ask me what?” Lord Cambridge repeated.

“May we please stay at the house you have leased here in Edinburgh, Tom? The queen has had me sleeping in her antechamber, and poor Patrick has been in the hall. We so long for a comfortable bed to lay our heads in, dear cousin.”

Tom laughed. “The Tudors have a rather wicked sense of humor, my dear Rosamund. I told the queen when I leased the Edinburgh house that when you returned she was to give you the key to it. This great hulking old castle is scarcely a place a guest of little importance, such as you and the earl, want to stay. She must have truly missed you, cousin, that she played this jest on you. Of course you may stay with me. The house is not large, but it is comfortable and clean. And it is an easy walk up the castle hill. You know how I dislike being late for social functions. I thought when I arrived yesterday that you had not returned yet, as you were not in residence and the housekeeper said no one had come. I assumed the queen had been sent word of your impending return, which was why she sent for me. What a wicked tease she is.” And he laughed heartily.

Neither the Earl of Glenkirk nor Rosamund joined in his laughter. They were not amused.

“Can we go now?” the earl asked. “I need a bath and a soft bed.”

“I will excuse myself from the queen’s presence,” Rosamund said. “Do not go without me, my lords. You will have to share your bath, Patrick.”

“As we did in San Lorenzo,” he replied softly, and he smiled into her eyes.

“Aye,” she said slowly, her amber eyes never leaving his.

Lord Cambridge shook his head wonderingly. Nothing had changed, he thought. They were as deeply in love now as they had been at Christmas. Yet Rosamund would not marry the Earl of Glenkirk and had said quite frankly that one day they would be parted, as the fates meant them to be. He worried for his cousin. He had loved her as the sister he lost ever since they had met. But this love she bore for Patrick burned white-hot, and what would happen when they were separated he feared to learn.

The queen was gracious in her small victory over her friend. She released Rosamund from her company. “Go home, and be with your lasses,” Margaret Tudor said. “Your earl has done us good service, and you should be together. I will ask you to come to me again one day. Godspeed, dear Rosamund.”

Rosamund kissed the queen’s hand, and after curtsying, immediately left her. Together she and Patrick took their leave of the king.

James Stewart’s warm amber eyes surveyed the pair. “Twice you have come to my aid, Patrick. If I call you again, will you come?”

The Earl of Glenkirk nodded. “You are my king, Jamie Stewart, and though I lost my beloved daughter, Janet, in your service, I will answer your call. I think that you royal Stewarts are not fortunate for the Leslies of Glenkirk, but I will come should you need me.”

“Had you not come this time, Patrick, you should not have met Rosamund Bolton,” the king reminded the earl.

“Aye, that is to your credit,” the earl agreed affably.

“Are you bound for Glenkirk, then?” the king asked.

“Nay. I have sent a messenger to my son asking him to maintain his position as sole keeper of our lands for a time longer. I am of a mind to see England. I shall go with Rosamund to Friarsgate.”

“Claven’s Carn is on your route,” the king said mischievously.

“We will not be stopping,” Rosamund replied tartly.

The two gentlemen laughed. Then the king and the Earl of Glenkirk embraced. James kissed Rosamund’s hand, and she curtsied prettily.

“Go with God,” the king told them as they left him.

Lord Cambridge was waiting for them, and together they walked down the castle hill to the house in the Highgate that he had leased. “I have come all the way to Edinburgh and am not to go to court,” he grumbled. “It does not seem fair.”

“You are welcome to remain,” Rosamund told him sweetly.

“Without you? After all these months? I think not, cousin!” Lord Cambridge said firmly. “Ah, here we are.” Drawing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door of the gray stone house and led them inside. “Mistress MacGregor!” he shouted. “We are here!”

A small, thin woman came from the dark recesses of the long hall. “I am nae deef, yer lordship,” she said, and seeing the earl and Rosamund, she curtsied.

“My cousin wants a bath,” Lord Cambridge announced to the housekeeper.

“You’ll have to take it in the kitchen, m’lady,” Mistress MacGregor said. “The tub is there wi the hot water. There is nae one to lug it all upstairs.”

“I shall be happy to bathe before a hot fire in your kitchen,” Rosamund said. “My servants will be here shortly. Dermid will do any heavy work you require, and Annie, while expecting a child, is quite strong.”

The housekeeper smiled broadly. “I’ll be pleased for a wee bit of help, m’lady,” she said.

“Annie is expecting a child?” Tom looked at her askance.

“She and Dermid wed in March,” Rosamund quickly explained. “After Patrick and I have washed, are in warm, clean clothing, and are fed, I shall tell you all of our adventures in San Lorenzo, Tom. Oh, I wish you had been there! You would have simply adored it. The weather was warm. There were flowers everywhere in February. It was really a little bit of heaven on earth.”

“I am so pleased to learn that,” he replied dryly.

Annie and Dermid arrived with a cart carrying the luggage. They had been directed from the castle where they had first gone, having just come this day from Leith. Rosamund, with Annie’s help, bathed in a sturdy oak tub before the kitchen fire. Afterwards, the earl, with Dermid’s aid, bathed in the same water before it grew cold. Wrapped in chamber robes, they sat before the fire in the room that served as a hall, their feet turned to the fire taking the chill from the June night. Mrs. MacGregor served them a fine dinner of broiled salmon, duck with plum sauce, fresh green peas, bread, and cheese. There was good brown ale to drink. Finally sated and relaxed, they shared with Tom their adventures of the past few months. He laughed to learn of the nudes the artist, Loredano, had done of them unawares. He was interested to learn that a Howard was an ambassador from King Henry.

“I remember that particular Howard. A sly fellow with ambition not suited to his few talents. He recognized you?”

“Aye, but as I was never formally introduced to him, I claimed I knew him not,” Rosamund said. “He looked like the sort of fellow who sees plots where there are none.”

Tom nodded. Then he said, “I cannot wait to see the portrait he did of you, my dear girl. Is it marvelous? Is it too wonderful?”

“It is magnificent!” the Earl of Glenkirk enthused. “He pictured her among her hills, a flaming sunset behind her, defending Friarsgate. There are really no words to describe how wonderful this painting is, Tom. You will have to judge for yourself.”

And afterwards, as Patrick and Rosamund lay together in the first bed they had shared in weeks, he held her close, stroking her long auburn hair. They had made long and sweet love earlier. Now they were both allowing the exhaustion of the past few weeks to claim them.

“Are you asleep yet?” he asked her.

“Almost,” she murmured.

“Let us leave for your Friarsgate soon, Rosamund. I am weary of travel,” he told her.

“Aye, in a day or two, after I have caught up with my sleep. It will give Tom a few days to play at court before we go,” she said, and she yawned. “I am so tired, Patrick.”

“A few days to sleep, aye, my love,” he agreed, and then he began to snore softly, and curling up next to him, Rosamund joined him in his slumber.