Until You

Chapter 14

Logan Hepburn stared down at the new grave in his family’s burial ground. He could almost hear Jeannie’s voice, pleading with him not to leave her. But he wasn’t leaving her. Not really. He was simply answering his country’s call. The queen’s own messenger, bound for Edinburgh from Friarsgate, had stopped some weeks before to pass on Rosamund’s warning of the strife to come. And then the head of his entire family, Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, had sent word of the king’s call to arms. A man didn’t ignore such a message if he were loyal, especially if he were kin to one of the king’s best friends and longtime supporters.

He had gathered twenty-five men, not including his two brothers, Colin and Ian. But when Jeannie learned he was planning to depart she grew hysterical, and nothing he did could calm her. As she was near her time, he decided to give her a few days to grow used to the idea that he was leaving. But he sent his brothers ahead with twenty of his troop, delegating Colin, the elder, captain in his absence. It was almost a week before he could calm his wife and make her understand that this is what a man did when his king required it.

“Your own father and brothers will have answered the royal summons,” he told her. “I have no choice but to go, else I be branded a traitor and shame our earl.”

“They did not teach me this in the convent,” she wept.

“We have been fortunate in having had peace between our two countries for many years,” Logan explained. “But in our country’s history, Jeannie, when the king has called, his subjects have answered. England is our most ancient and bitter enemy.”

“But they have not attacked us!” she cried. “Why must the king attack them? What do we want with English soil, Logan? Explain it to me. Make me understand why you must leave us now!”

“I do not believe the king means to take any of England for his own, wife,” he began. “I think this is a means of forcing Henry Tudor to come home and cease his war against King Louis. If his own realm is in danger, certainly he will leave France and hurry home to defend it. King James will probably withdraw at that point. They will argue over reparations, and peace will come again. There is little danger, I promise you.”

“No war can be fought without casualties, Logan,” Jeannie said. “Even if there is no English army in the north of that land, its citizens will fight the Scots, and men will die. I fear for you, for our children growing up without their father.”

“I have to go,” he said finally. He could waste no more time cosseting her.

“I know,” she told him, resigned, “but still I do not want you to leave me.”

“My brothers and our men are already a week ahead of me, Jeannie,” he said. “I am ashamed that I am not with them. Is this the lesson you wish me to teach Johnnie? That a man should be a laggard in war, in his duty?”

“No! No!” she cried. “Of course not, Logan.”

“Then I must leave you, lass, lest I bring shame upon the family. It is difficult to erase such shame. It lingers for years,” Logan told her.

“Go, but go before I grow frightened again, Logan,” she told him. “Go now!”

“Maggie and Katie will be coming with their bairns. I promised my brothers,” he said to her.

“Aye,” she replied. “They should be here for safety’s sake.”

He hurried from his hall. He hadn’t even kissed her in farewell. He had just gone, relieved to escape, anxious to catch up with Colin and Ian, and eager to join in the fun of an invasion. After gathering up his five remaining men, they set out unaware of what lay ahead of them.

James Stewart had sold off much of his personal wealth in order to purchase the seven great guns he planned to use to chastise the English and make them fully aware of his strength. They were called the Seven Sisters. His brother-in-law, Henry of England, would continue to fight alone, for the pope had received word that the Ottoman ruler was even now planning a large campaign into Western Europe. He sent to James asking him to mediate between the Holy See and King Louis of France. James Stewart chortled with satisfaction, but the English refused to allow his ambassadors through their territory. They would gladly receive his ambassador in London, but he could go no farther, thus rendering him useless. Henry Tudor considered his war against France a holy war, even if the pope no longer saw it that way. Henry Tudor knew what was right, and besides, the pope had written to him saying that he had changed his mind about Scotland acting as an intermediary between him and France. Having been offered no proof of this, James Stewart and his advisers did not believe it.

No more was heard from the pope, and the Scots knew that this was due to the English cardinal who now had his ear. The English were all but at war with the Scots upon the high seas. James Stewart, after many years of devoted service to Christendom, was shunted aside by the pope in favor of a younger man with a great deal of gold, which Henry Tudor was using to buy as much influence as he might. The Venetians were now busy preparing to defend themselves from the Turks, should it prove necessary. King Ferdinand, that wily and dishonest ruler, did nothing but mouth platitudes. France was busy fighting England, and Scotland was alone to fend for itself.

The Earl of Hume went forth to clear the Northumbrian border forts. He did so, but he lost a third of his men to English arrows due to his own neglect in clearing the gorse and bracken from the field where they fought. The English had hidden in this thick undergrowth, rising to ambush the too-confident Scots. Yet despite this, just about every man in Scotland between sixteen and sixty had rallied to the king’s banner. Clansmen from the Isles, clansmen who normally would have fought each other, artisans, merchants, felons who volunteered to serve the king, the sons of the poor, and the sons of the well-to-do all marched side by side with their beloved king.

The king had been visited before he marched down into England by an old crone who demanded to see him and would not be satisfied until she did. Like the king, she had the lang eey.

“Dinna go down into England, Jamie,” she warned him. “Dinna go, for ye shall nae come hame again!” Her glance pierced him. Her finger waggled at him.

But James Stewart knew it. His own second sight had told him this long ago.

The old woman continued with her warning. She grasped his sword hand so tightly he thought she had crushed it at first. His bones, she said, would not return home. And then she made reference to his heirs, who would be desperate to live in a green land, not Scotland, and how two gold rings would make one. That he did not understand, but he thanked her and gave her his royal blessing. At that she stared but a moment into his eyes, and then shaking her head, darted off, leaving the king to ponder what he had not comprehended. Two rings making one? But when the morning came, James IV of Scotland began his final march into history. It was his destiny, and he knew it.

Logan Hepburn was aware of none of this as he rode from his holding in the southwest of Scotland to meet with the king’s forces. The journey was an odd one, for the land seemed to be deserted. Here and there he met up with other men both young and old, and they joined his little band, for their destination was the same. So they traveled through the early autumn rains, moving west and south. They crossed the Tweed River moving into England now, the evidence of the army ahead of them plain to see. They found Ford Castle and its lands about it untouched. The lady of the castle, alone, had been cooperative, and James Stewart had spared her holding, though he had burned her house down as he departed. He remained a few days before moving on to Flodden. And it was there Logan and the men with him found the Scots forces on the ninth day of September.

The mist, the smoke and the heat of battle rose from the field below the hill known as Flodden Edge. On the west side of the hill they found the trees had been cut down and a fort constructed. And it was before that fortress that Logan stood, watching in horror as the battle was coming to its dreadful end. He could see the king’s banner in the mud, which meant the king was dead, for while he lived that banner would remain flying no matter what. His gaze moved over the field, but he saw no Hepburn flag aloft either. The ground was muddy, and many of the men had fought in their stocking feet because leather boots would have slipped easily on the treacherous ground. The Scots had lost the battle now coming to its close. That was painfully clear to Logan and his companions. The stench of death was everywhere. The laird of Claven’s Carn put his horn to his lips and blew it. The distinctive note the horn sounded would tell any of his own people still alive to follow the sound and come to him. He waited and then blew his horn twice more. Finally, three of his clansmen struggled from Flodden Field and up the hill to where he waited.

“Any more?” he asked curtly. The smell of death surrounded them.

They shook their heads.

“My brothers?”

“Slain, my lord, with the Earl of Bothwell,” one of the men reported, adding, “The English forces are also to the west, my lord.”

“We’ll go north and east then,” Logan said grimly. “Quickly now, lads, before the English start looking about for living prisoners. Take whatever horses and boots you can find for yourselves.” He waited briefly while the trio found mounts and footwear. Then, with a wave of his hand, they cantered off, leaving the battlefield behind. They rode straight for the border. It was imperative they not be caught in England. Their timely exit gave them more chance at survival than those left alive behind them had had. They rode until there was no more light left to see the ground beneath their horses’ feet.

That first night, they made camp beneath the overhanging rocks in a narrow ravine. They lit a small fire beneath the rocks where it was unlikely to be seen. The formation where they sheltered was almost a cave. They had eighteen oatcakes among them. Broken in two, one cake could serve as a day’s rations. Thirty-six pieces divided among the nine men would last them four days. They would be well into Scotland by then and might beg a meal from a local clansman. They would be welcome into any hall with the news they brought. That night, those with whiskey left in their flasks shared it with their companions. They would refill those flasks with water come the morrow.

Around their little fire that first night the three Hepburn clansmen told their laird the story of the battle. Their spokesman was Claven’s Carn’s blacksmith. His name was Alan Hepburn, and he stood six feet, six inches in his stocking feet. His brow furrowed as he remembered.

“The king were a brave laddie,” he began. “He led us all himself, although the Earl of Hume did give a lot of orders. At one point our own earl said loudly that he saw no crown on Hume’s head and he should shut his mouth and let the king command us, for he did it better than any.”

The men listening laughed quietly, those who had not been there picturing it, for they knew their earl very well.

“The battle was fierce,” Alan Hepburn continued. “The English were led by the Earl of Surrey, I was told. The king did not mean to fight in the field. He meant the English to have to come to us on the height, but their wily old commander sent troops around us to the west. The king feared they might get over the border, and none left to defend the farms but old men, women, and very young laddies. Ah, he were a good man, our Jamie was!” Alan Hepburn said, and he wiped the tears forming in his gray eyes. “ ’Twas he who told us to remove our boots, for the ground was slick with mud and we would be in less danger of sliding and falling in our stocking feet.”

“What happened?” the laird asked his blacksmith. “We were well matched, and we should have won the day. Something had to have happened. Did any of the earls withdraw their men?”

The blacksmith shook his head. “Nay. Half the men were down the hill, and then the phalanx was broken, my lord. They began to slip and slide. One grouping fell or tumbled into the other. The mud was treacherous, and many could not arise. The English swooped in on them, and it was slaughter. Your brothers, however, were already with our earl in the midst of the field with the young archbishop of St. Andrews, who was fighting with his father, the king. Much of the clergy avoided direct combat, instead firing the canons, for then they could be said not to have been fighting.”

“You saw my brothers go down?”

“Colm, Finn, and I were battling nearby. The Earl of Bothwell was surrounded, and your brothers rushed to his defense. They were slaughtered,” Alan said. “Hume, the young archbishop, and the king were then slain. The word began to spread that the king had been killed. It took the heart out of the men, my lord, and then we heard your horn. At first we were not certain it was you, but the call came twice again, and so we fought our way from the battlefield to find you,” Alan finished.

“I am ashamed I was not with you,” Logan said.

“Thank God you were not, my lord, for this day we have lost our good king and the flower of Scottish nobility,” Alan told him. “Claven’s Carn needs you, especially as your lad is so young.”

“The new king is not much older,” Logan replied. “God help Scotland now. What of the Earl of Angus? Was he also killed?”

“Nay, my lord,” Alan said excitedly. “The king left old ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas behind, for the queen begged it. She and Bishop Elpinstone do not get along it is said.”

Logan nodded. It had been a wise thing to do.

They had ridden for the next few days, making their way back to Claven’s Carn. When their oatcakes had run out they stopped at a farm, begging a night’s shelter in the warm, dry barn. Both the men and the horses were grateful.

“Can you feed us?” Logan asked the farmer. “We have eaten the last of our oatcakes last night and have had naught this day. I can give you news of the king.”

The farmer nodded. “We’ve not much, but we’ll share,” he said.

“When my men are cared for I will come in and tell you everything I know,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.

The farmer’s wife delegated Alan, who was the largest of the laird’s men, to carry a cauldron of rabbit stew into the barn. She followed, her apron filled with several loaves of bread. The men called their thanks to her as she returned to her cottage and then set about tearing chunks of bread off the loaves, and dipping them into the stew to eat. Their knives speared what tender pieces of meat they could find. Inside the farmer’s dwelling, the laird of Claven’s Carn told of the disaster at Flodden while he ate a bowl of the stew, thinking it was the best he had ever tasted. The farmer placed a small mug of beer before him, and he nodded his thanks.

“So, our Jamie is dead,” the farmer said. “God assoil his good soul.” He crossed himself, as did his wife. “The battle was terrible, then. I could not go. My bairns are not old enough to help, and my wife is again with child.” He hung his head.

“ ’Twas better you remained than became canon fodder,” the laird replied. “My wife is also with child and grew frightened when she knew I must go. I sent my brothers, now slain, and twenty men with the king. When I had calmed Jeannie, I followed, only to reach Flodden at the end. I saw no fighting. Three of my clansmen survived the battle. The others were with me. I am ashamed, for I knew the king. The Earl of Bothwell, the Hepburn of Hailes, was my kinsman. I was married in the royal chapel at Stirling.”

“What was meant to be has come to pass,” the farmer’s wife said softly. “If it was meant that you die at Flodden, you would have. It was not.”

“You have the lang eey, mistress?” Logan asked her.

“Sometimes I see things,” the farmer’s wife said quietly.

He nodded. “The king had the lang eey.”

“I know,” she answered him. And then she said, “I will feed you and your men again in the morning, my lord of Claven’s Carn. And I will give you what oatcakes I can spare. The harvest was good despite the rains, and I can make more for the winter.”

Logan thanked the woman and left the cottage, joining his men in the warm barn. Most were already sleeping soundly in the sweet-smelling hay. Dry for the first time in days, he joined them. Two days later they arrived at Claven’s Carn, where Logan learned that his wife, Jeannie, had died in childbirth, his second son with her. They had already been buried in the family grave site on the hillside. His sisters-in-law sat gossiping in his hall, oblivious and uninterested in Flodden.

“Do you not wish to know of your husbands?” he asked them.

“Had they survived,” Katie, his brother Ian’s wife, said, “they would be with you.”

“Will you not at least weep for them, then?” he inquired of the pair.

“Would it bring them back?” Colin’s wife, Maggie said.

Astounded by their hard hearts, the laird sought out his old nursemaid, who lived in his keep and knew everything that happened within. He found her in her chamber at her loom, weaving and humming as she worked. “What happened, Flora?” he asked her as he sat down on a stool by her side. “How did my wife die and the lad with her?”

Flora turned her face to him, her hazel eyes sorrowful. “The bairn was just a wee bit early according to my calculations, but bairns will come when they will, Logan laddie. The young mistress was frightened with your going. She wept all the time after you left us. She was certain you would be killed and voiced her fears to any and all who would listen. You would die, and she would be left a widow with two children to manage Claven’s Carn for your son, John. She would be the prey of wicked men and robbers who would know she was alone and helpless.”

“Jesu!” he swore softly. “I did not realize she was that frightened.”

“You had to go, Logan laddie,” Flora said. “The lass was convent bred and afraid of her own shadow, though she hid it well from you. She did not wish to shame you. The wee bairn came feet first, but in his struggle to escape his mother’s womb, he became entangled in the cord and strangled. I could not turn him, though I might have been able to if either of your sisters-in-law had helped me. I needed them to aid me, but they would not. They said you would blame them if anything happened, and they could not afford your ill will for they had their own bairns to consider. The women servants were all in their own cottages, as their men were gone. I had no one. The lad was stillborn, and I am sorry. He was a big bairn for all he came early. As for your poor wife, she bled to death. There was nothing I could do, Logan laddie. You know I would have saved her if I could. I am so sorry,” Flora concluded.

He nodded slowly. “Who buried her?”

“Several of the old men dug the grave. I bathed her and sewed her into her shroud,” Flora told him. There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.

“And Maggie and Katie?” he asked.

“They are bad wenches, both of them,” Flora said in a hard voice. “They would not even accompany your wife to her last resting place. It was raining that day, and they said they did not want to get wet, but all those others left here did follow the bier. Your lady was well liked for all she came from the north,” Flora finished.

Logan stood up. Then, bending slightly, he kissed the old lady’s soft cheek. “Thank you, Flora,” was all he said, and he departed her little chamber. In the hall again, he went to where his sisters-in-law sat together. “Get up! Pack your belongings. You will leave here with your children first thing in the morning,” he told them. “I do not want to ever see either of you again.”

“You have been talking to the old woman,” Maggie said. “She hates us.”

“When I sent you to your own cottages you told me Jeannie hated you,” he said scathingly. “My brothers are dead in the defense of our land, yet you shed not a single tear. You wantonly let my young wife perish for you would not help Flora, who might have at least saved Jeannie if she could not save my son.”

“It was Maggie’s idea!” Katie cried to him. “She said we would have our own back on Jeannie for sending us to those poky cottages, Logan. I wanted to help.”

“I think you lie,” he returned. “If you had wanted to help her, you would have helped no matter what Maggie said to you. Now, hear me, both of you. The cottages in which you reside are yours. I shall see you and your bairns fed and clothed. I will train the three lads you have between you in the use of arms. I will dower your two lassies one day, and I shall make matches for them. But I do not ever want to see your faces in my hall again. What I do, I do for my brothers’ sakes. They were good brothers, and their children will not suffer because their mothers are hard-hearted trulls. You will not be permitted to remarry, for if you do I will send you from Claven’s Carn without a moment’s hesitation.”

Katie began to weep, but Maggie said boldly, “I cannot believe you mean to do this to us, Logan. We were good wives to Colin and Ian.”

“Which is why I do not take your bairns from you and put you out upon the high road,” he told her in a hard voice. “Now, get out of my sight, both of you!”

“You never loved her!” Maggie said. “And she knew it, Logan.”

“Nay, I did not love her,” he admitted freely. “But I liked her well, and I respected her position as my wife and the chatelaine of this household. Aye, she knew I did not love her, but I might have, given time.”

Maggie laughed bitterly. “How could you love anyone when it is Rosamund Bolton who has always filled your heart, Logan?” Then, turning, the sniveling Katie behind her, Maggie departed the hall.

He poured himself a large goblet of wine, draining the goblet where he stood. Then, turning, he went outside and up the hill to where his wife and son lay buried. He stared down at the fresh earth mound, just beginning to green over. “Jeannie,” he said, “I am sorry, but I thank you for wee Johnnie. And whatever happens, he will know you were his mam and that you loved him. He will know you were a good wife to me and that I respected you. But still, I am sorry that I didn’t love you.” He remained where he was for many minutes, while the sun set and the stars began to come out above him. Finally he swung about and returned to his hall, where the servants, so well trained by his wife, had his supper waiting. And after he had eaten, he went to the nursery where his son and heir lay sleeping, his thumb in his mouth. Poor bairn, Logan thought, without a mother. And the little king without a father. What was going to happen to Scotland with an infant king whose powerful uncle, namely Henry Tudor, was now just beginning to flex his muscles?

James V was crowned at Stirling on the twenty-first of October in the year 1513 by James Beaton, the Archbishop of Glasgow. He was seventeen months old and surrounded by what remained of the Scottish nobility, who wept loudly as the great crown of office was held over his little red head. It was a cheerless coronation. The country’s main concern was England. A peace must be made, and Henry Tudor could not have anything to do with his nephew’s upbringing, although he should surely desire it and would attempt to influence his sister.

The English queen had been hurrying northward with her own army when Surrey had defeated and killed James IV at Flodden. She was again with child, but in imitation of her late mother, Isabella of Spain, she had been quite prepared to go into battle. She sent Henry the good news of Scotland’s defeat, even going so far as to enclose the bloodstained plaid tunic that James Stewart had been wearing when he was killed. With the influence of both England and Spain, James had been excommunicated by Pope Julius. His body was therefore denied a Christian burial and disappeared. Gone to hell, the English said. Not so, the Scots defended their beloved deceased monarch. James IV, like King Arthur, had disappeared, but he would return-Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus-the Once and Future King-when Scotland needed him the most. It was small comfort.

Henry Tudor returned in October from his French adventures. Katherine made certain he was greeted like the hero he believed himself to be. Henry was no longer the second son of that upstart Tudor family that had usurped a throne. He was Great Harry. The English king was flushed with his own victories even though they were now overshadowed by the victory at Flodden.

“It is your victory as well, my lord,” his queen told him, and the Earl of Surrey, the actual victor, nodded in agreement. “Scotland is crushed.” She carefully omitted the fact that while James IV was now dead, Scotland still had a king-her husband’s nephew, James V. But Henry’s pride in his military accomplishments was short-lived, for in December of that year his wife was delivered of a stillborn son.

“An eye for an eye,” Margaret, Queen of Scotland, said grimly upon hearing the news. She was not of a mind to be charitable now. Full with her second child, she was also filled with sorrow at James’ death and angry to have been left with all the responsibility of Scotland, its infant king, and the child soon to be born. Her husband’s will had named her tutrix, or guardian of the young king. Margaret Tudor was in effect the ruler of Scotland. Her regency was approved by the king’s council. But as the sister of England’s king, she would not be trusted entirely by the Scottish nobility. It mattered not that as James Stewart’s wife and queen her loyalties had always been to Scotland. She was a woman. She was English. Scotland’s nobles looked to France to John Stuart, the Duke of Albany. The duke was James III’s nephew and the king’s nearest legitimate male kinsman. In an age of political intrigue, dishonesty, and backbiting, John Stuart was known as an honest man. His ethics were above reproach.

The queen’s council consisted of Archbishop Beaton as her chancellor and the Earls of Angus, Huntley, and Home, who were appointed to aid the queen, but it was noted that the queen would be served by a rota of nobles who would function on her council, in turn, advising her in the daily affairs of her government. It was agreed that the queen would make no decision without first consulting six gentlemen, three of whom would be temporal and three who would belong to the clergy. Margaret was not quite the featherhead her husband had believed. That was a role she had played because that was the kind of woman James desired in his queen. She was, her council quickly discovered, hardheaded and shrewd when she put her mind to a problem.

Stirling Castle was chosen as the king’s chief residence. Lord Borthwick would be the castle’s commander with the title of captain. The arms that had been sent to James IV by King Louis were now brought to Stirling, which made it impregnable. The queen held the treasury, making her even more powerful. She sent out a call for parliament to meet come spring. The government secure, peace would be the next item on the agenda.

England suggested the peace first, and Queen Katherine sent one of her favorite priests to Queen Margaret to comfort her. But in the borders, Lord Dacre, on the king’s instructions, was still raiding the Scots, burning and looting. Scotland was now a land of widows and motherless children. Proclamations were issued in the new king’s name, forbidding their abuse or the abuse of their children. Still, rape, robbery, and other violence was being done to those widows and their offspring, and there were not enough men left to keep the peace, so many suffered though the queen and her council did their best to prevent it.

But many of the young men now come into their lordships were eager to continue a war against England. Eager for revenge, they saw no use in a peace with their ancient enemy. They wanted a strong military leader to confront Lord Dacre. They appealed to King Louis to send them the Duke of Albany. But the French king could not be cajoled into any actions that would threaten Margaret’s regency. He corresponded with the young widowed queen, assuring her that he would not send the Duke of Albany to her until she requested it. He would not make peace with England without her permission, for France was ever Scotland’s oldest and most faithful ally. He asked if he might send to her Le Chevalier Blanc, one Monsieur La Bastie, his most trusted diplomat, to help her. And, too, the Scottish ships that James IV had lent him were still in France. Would she like him to return them along with the king’s cousin the Earl of Arran and Lord Fleming?

The full Scottish council met in Perth in November. It was agreed that the queen’s regency of the young king would not be interfered with in any manner. The auld alliance with France was confirmed once more, and the Duke of Albany was requested of King Louis for the defense of Scotland. Bell-the-Cat Douglas, the Earl of Angus who favored an English alliance, was absent. Grieving the loss of his two sons, he had gone home to die.

In England, King Henry was furious and worried by turns. As the young king’s uncle, he saw himself as the boy’s natural guardian. He wrote to his sister telling her she must stop Albany from coming. He feared the strong duke might supplant Margaret by virtue of his sex and possibly spirit the little king to where he might be eliminated. Then he wrote to Louis asking him to delay Albany’s departure for Scotland until England had made its peace with its northern neighbor. Margaret did not like her loyalties being torn or compromised by any. Her sole duty, she said, was to her bairns.

Both Friarsgate and Claven’s Carn, by virtue of their locations, had been spared any border raids. Adam Leslie wrote to say the Leslies of Glenkirk had ignored the summons to war and had undoubtedly been overlooked in the resulting confusion that followed King James’ death at Flodden. Patrick’s health remained strong, but his memory of the past two years had not returned. Rosamund read the letter stone-faced. She had buried her grief deep in her heart now, allowing it to surface only in the darkest of night when she was alone in her bed. There had been no word from Claven’s Carn regarding Jeannie’s new child. Rosamund assumed that Logan had put his foot down firmly when his wife asked if his neighbor might be the child’s godmother. She was not disappointed. It would have been a very awkward situation, but then, sweet Jeannie did not know the relationship that her husband had attempted to forge between himself and the lady of Friarsgate.

The harvest had long been gathered in, and the St. Martin’s goose eaten. December was upon them. A messenger arrived from Margaret Tudor early in the month, even as it had two years previously. This was not an invitation, however. Meg wrote to tell her old friend of the great battle at Flodden in September at which her husband had been slain. Little Jamie was now Scotland’s king, she was enceinte with her late lord’s child to be born in the spring, and she was regent of Scotland according to her husband’s last will and testament.

“I am weary with all I must do,” she wrote, “but those lords not slain at Flodden with my husband have been most sympathetic and helpful to me. We will survive. My brother, Henry, the cause of my unhappiness, is of course blustering and blowing that he should be the guardian of my bairns. I should never allow such a thing, but if I even considered it, the ghosts of all the Stewart kings before my son would rise up to haunt me, and rightly so.”

“Aye, I imagine Hal would enjoy having Scotland in his custody,” Tom said when he learned the news. Then he chuckled. “He cannot get his own son so he would have James Stewart’s lad to father.”

Rosamund could not help but laugh herself. “Living in the north has caused you to become careless in your speech, cousin,” she said. “You should not dare say such a thing in London.”

“You never did answer the king’s summons, did you?” he said.

“Edmund answered it for me,” she replied. “Besides Henry Tudor has more important things to consider than a widow in Cumbria whom he once knew. He is a player now upon the world’s stage, Tom. Whatever he imagines I was doing with the Earl of Glenkirk has now been overlooked because of the great and terrible victory at Flodden.”

“What news from Claven’s Carn? Did the sweet Jeannie deliver her lord a second son, or a daughter?” Tom asked her.

Rosamund shook her head. “I have no idea. I have heard naught, but then, given the times, I am not in the least surprised. Besides, I can hardly believe that Logan Hepburn would have wanted me for that child’s godmother. Do you?”

“Perhaps I shall take a few of my men and ride over the border,” Tom said. “I am curious, and whatever you may say, cousin, so are you.”

“Go, then,” she told him. “The weather will hold for another few days. But beware of getting caught at Claven’s Carn for the winter, Tom. I do not believe that you would like it at all. Jeannie has certainly done her best, but it is still an uncivilized place.”

He laughed. “I remember you once said you should never get to wear your fine gowns if you inhabited such a place.”

“And it is still so,” Rosamund noted dryly.

The next morning being dry and mild for December, Lord Cambridge departed his cousin’s house with the half-dozen men-at-arms he now traveled with when he left Otterly. They reached Claven’s Carn in late afternoon, riding through its gate easily as they were recognized by the clansmen guarding the little castle’s entry. Tom dismounted, and upon entering the house, went directly to its hall. It was empty but for a servant girl rocking the cradle by the fire. Lord Cambridge walked over and looked into it, surprised to find not a new infant, but the laird’s fourteen-month-old heir.

“Where is your mistress?” he asked the servant.

The girl’s eyes grew large with her fright. Nervously, she arose from her place. “The mistress be dead, good sir.”

“And the bairn she carried?” he inquired, surprised and not just a little saddened by the news.

“With its mam, sir,” the girl said.

“Go and fetch your master, lass. Your charge is sleeping and does not need you.”

The girl ran off, leaving Tom to ponder the knowledge he had just obtained. So little Jeannie had died and her child with her. It was a tragedy, yet Logan still had one son to follow him. Widowed, would he now seek out Rosamund again? And would she have him in her grief over Patrick? The winter to come might be dull, he thought, but certainly not the spring and summer to follow. A small smile touched his lips. Already this little journey had provided him with enough information to give him several months’ amusement teasing his cousin.

“Tom!” Logan entered his hall. “What brings you to Claven’s Carn? We are supposed to be enemies again, England and Scotland.” But he smiled.

“I rarely pay heed to the politics of kings and queens, dear boy,” Tom answered. “And particularly when the church is involved. I have only just learned from your son’s little nursemaid of your great tragedy. What happened?”

A shadow passed over Logan’s handsome face. “You have, if I remember, a fondness for my whiskey. Sit down, Tom Bolton, and I will tell you what happened to my poor little wife.” He poured them two pewter dram cups of an amber liquid from a carafe on the sideboard. Bringing them to his guest, he offered him one, and they sat before the fire, the cradle holding Johnnie Hepburn between them. “I got the call to arms. She did not want me to go. I had to send my brothers and most of my men on ahead while I calmed her. When I caught up with them the battle was almost over. Its outcome obvious, and the king dead. When I reached Claven’s Carn again I learned she had died in childbed with the bairn, another son. She was already buried, of course, poor lass. ’Twas just as well. I later learned her father and brothers had all perished in the battle. Her mother has entered the convent where Jeannie was educated to live out her life in prayer and mourning. I sent to her regarding her daughter.”

Tom nodded sympathetically. “ ’Twas a great tragedy for Scotland, but, then, the history between our countries has never been peaceful for long.”

A long silence ensued, and then Logan said, “How is Rosamund?”

Lord Cambridge’s face was impassive as he answered, but he thought immediately, Ah, he still wants her. “She yet mourns her own tragedy, Logan.”

“Did the Leslies go to Flodden?” he wondered.

“I do not know, but I do know that Adam would not let his father answer the call. I suspect he never even told him of the summons. And he wisely remained put at Glenkirk himself. He may have sent a troop, but I know not. He wrote to Rosamund that it was not likely they were missed. He is right, I think. The first earl, like you, was but the laird of his people before he became James IV’s ambassador years ago.”

“Did you like him?” Logan asked.

“Aye, I did. He was a good man, and he loved Rosamund deeply. The misfortune that befell him last spring was indeed tragic. Yet he knows it not, as his memories of the last two years have vanished for good, it would appear.”

“Is her heart broken?” Logan queried Lord Cambridge.

“Aye, it is. But hearts can be mended, or so I am told,” was the reply.

“I have been given another chance with her,” Logan said softly.

“Perhaps,” Tom answered him. “But go slowly, Logan Hepburn. Do not attempt to overwhelm my cousin this time by being forceful with her. She needs a strong man, but that man must also respect that she is a strong woman. You need not break her spirit to bend her to your will.”

The laird of Claven’s Carn nodded, understanding. “You will tell her of my wife’s demise?”

“I will. But do not come courting until midsummer. She liked Jeannie and would not approve of any disrespect shown towards her. And in the name of all that is holy, Logan Hepburn, do not mention the bairns you desire of her! If you can coax her to the altar, the bairns will come as a natural result of your passions for each other. Now, tell me, what is for dinner, dear boy, for I am absolutely ravenous?”

The laird laughed aloud. He had forgotten how amusing Tom Bolton could be. Laughing felt good. It had been a long time since he had laughed. Hearing a small noise coming from the cradle, he saw his son was awake. Lifting the lad from his bed, he displayed him to his guest. “Is this not a fine lad, Tom Bolton? Do I not have a fine son?”

“Indeed, Logan Hepburn, you do!” Lord Cambridge agreed.

The boy squirmed in his father’s arms, anxious to get down. The laird set him upon the floor, and the little fellow toddled over to one of the great wolfhounds in the hall, climbing upon its back and crowing with delight. The two men laughed as the dog turned its massive head and licked the child’s face lovingly.

“I’ll have him on his first pony come the spring,” the laird boasted. “He’s a braw little laddie, Tom Bolton.”

“Aye,” Tom agreed. “I can see that he is.” And I can see you are a good and doting father, which will not harm you in my cousin’s eyes.

“You’ll stay the night?” the laird said.

“I will,” Lord Cambridge responded. “Will your brothers be joining us?”

“They were lost at Flodden,” Logan replied.

“Ah, your sorrow is great, my lord. A winter of mourning will ease your heart, I am sure,” came the reply.

In the morning Tom returned to Friarsgate, eager to impart all that he knew to Rosamund.

She wept learning of Jeannie and her child. “And the wee laddie she bore last year motherless. Ah, cousin, these are hard times for us all.”

“They are,” he agreed.

Afterwards, when she had gone from the hall, Edmund asked Tom, “Will he come courting, do you think?”

“Perhaps, but I have advised him not to appear until at least midsummer,” Tom replied. “She liked Jeannie.”

“Aye, she did,” Edmund agreed.

“You must tell Maybel to hold her peace,” Tom said.

“Aye,” Edmund agreed. “I will remind my well-meaning spouse that if she natters on at Rosamund about Logan Hepburn being a bachelor once more, it could drive the lass away. Of course, Logan may do that himself if he goes on about bairns,” Edmund chuckled.

“I’ve warned him about that, too,” Tom responded, chuckling himself.

They celebrated the festive holidays, which concluded with Twelfth Night in early January. Tom was once again generous with Rosamund’s daughters. She was amazed that he had managed to find gifts for them all under the circumstances.

“Perhaps in the spring,” he told her, “I may travel into Scotland and see about that ship we want to built. It has been a year now since I first suggested it, dear girl.”

“We have lost no time,” she assured him. “The new flocks we bought last summer are doing very well. We’ll have quite a birthing of lambs next month.”

“I have never understood why sheep insist on having their offspring in February,” he said. “The weather is foul, and the wolves are hunting vigorously.”

“No one has ever understood sheep,” Rosamund told him, laughing. “It is their own way, and they will have it, I fear. At least I have the flocks all gathered in now that the snows are covering the grazing on the hillsides.”

The winter had now set in about them. Tom returned to Otterly to husband his own estate and attend to his business affairs. The days were beginning to grow visibly longer again by Candlemas on February second. Father Mata was teaching Rosamund’s daughters six mornings a week. The three girls sat at the high board and studied diligently, for both their mother and their uncles had said it was important, no matter what others might say. All of them could read and write now. The young priest taught them Latin, not simply the church Latin needed for the mass but the Latin that was spoken within the civilized nations. Rosamund taught them French even as their father had taught her when they first met. They already knew their numbers and simple arithmetic. Rosamund and Edmund schooled Philippa in how to keep Friarsgate’s accounts, as the responsibility would one day be hers.

“Great lords have others to do this for them,” Rosamund said, “but a wise woman knows how to manage her monies herself, lest those others attempt to cheat her because she is a woman or make mistakes. It is not easy to manage Friarsgate, but if you would keep it safe you must learn, Philippa. Do you understand me, my child?”

Philippa nodded. “Aye, mama, I do. But when I marry one day, will my husband not take on this task for me?”

“Friarsgate will belong to you, Philippa, not your husband. You are the heiress to Friarsgate, my daughter. It will be yours until you pass it on to your eldest-born son or daughter,” Rosamund explained. “It will never be your husband’s property. I am the last Bolton of Friarsgate. You will be the Meredith of Friarsgate, but your heir, and I do hope it is a son, will be the next lord or lady of this manor. My unfortunate uncle Henry could never live with this knowledge. For him Friarsgate is the Boltons’, but our sons are now all gone.”

“What about Uncle Henry’s son, mama?” Philippa asked innocently.

“He could never be the heir unless your sisters and I were gone from this earth,” she said. “I have not seen him since he was a child. He was an obnoxious little boy, strutting and making pronouncements.”

“They say he is a robber chief now,” Philippa said.

“So I am told,” Rosamund replied. “Who told you that?”

“Maybel did. She said Uncle Henry’s son is even worse than his strumpet mother,” Philippa repeated.

“I suspect Maybel is right,” Rosamund answered her daughter, “but she should not have said it to you, Philippa. Put my wicked uncle and his offspring from your mind. They will have nothing to do with your life.”

“Yes, mama,” the little girl said dutifully.

Rosamund sought out her old nursemaid. “Do not speak to the girls about my uncle’s son. You will frighten them, Maybel.”

“Very little frightens that trio,” Maybel answered pithily.

“That is because they are young and sheltered. They have not lived as I did as a child. I don’t want them to be afraid of the Boltons.”

“You keep them too close, Rosamund,” Maybel said. “Philippa has been to Queen Margaret’s court. I think you should take her to her own king’s court to meet our good queen. She was once your friend. Perhaps she will favor Philippa if she knows her. Philippa will be ten in April. It is time you begin seeking out a worthy husband for her.”

“Not yet,” Rosamund said. “Perhaps when she is twelve.”

“All the good matches will be taken if you wait too long,” Maybel replied, outraged by Rosamund’s attitude.

“Why, you had two husbands by the time you were her age, and a third two years after you were twelve.”

“Which is precisely why I shall wait until Philippa is older. I don’t want her marrying some graybeard. I want her to fall in love and marry a man closer to her in age, who will hopefully be her one and only husband,” Rosamund said.

“Romantic twaddle!” Maybel huffed.

“But she is my child,” Rosamund said, “and I will plan her life, as it is my right to do. I mean to plan wisely for Philippa and her sisters.”

“They may have their own plans,” Maybel said sharply.

The hillside now began to grow green with the coming of spring. The ewes proudly shepherded their new offspring into the meadows beneath the warm spring sun. The fields were plowed and the grain sown in those being used this year. The orchards came into full bloom. Rosamund’s second daughter, Banon, celebrated her eighth birthday on the fifteenth day of March. Philippa turned ten at the end of April, and Bessie was six by the end of May. Tom came from Otterly, as he had for the two previous birthday celebrations. He brought Bessie a small terrier pup as a present. She squealed with delight upon opening the basket in which he had placed it, and then she hugged him. The squirming puppy jumped from its basket and scampered across the garden with Bessie in hot pursuit, causing them all to laugh. It was at that moment uninvited guests arrived, ushered into the gardens by a house servant.

“Such gaiety,” Henry Bolton said. He was accompanied by a tall young man whom Rosamund immediately recognized as her cousin Henry the younger.

She arose. “Uncle, this is a surprise, but you are, of course, welcome.” She deliberately ignored her cousin.

“I have brought my son with me today. He has been living with me,” Henry said.

“I had heard he has taken to robbery, uncle,” Rosamund replied.

“Nay, nay, niece. He is a reformed man. Aren’t you, my son?” Henry said.

“Yes, father,” the young man responded. His gaze had fastened upon Philippa. “Is that the heiress to Friarsgate?” he asked his sire.

“You have never been noted for your subtlety, cousin,” Rosamund told him. “But if you think to wed my daughter, put it from your mind. I told your father this in December.” She glared at her relations.

“The little wench has to marry someone, cousin,” the young man replied.

“There are two criteria for her husband. She must love the man she marries, and he must be of a high social station. You fit neither of those standards, cousin. If that is the purpose of your visit, then you have wasted your time.”

“Is this the kind of hospitality you offer me?” Henry demanded, outraged.

“You come into our midst unannounced, uncle, bringing my cousin, who has spent his last years in robbery and mayhem. Your purpose is to make a match between my innocent child and this ruffian, something I previously told you was not possible. And you wonder I do not welcome you with open arms? You have dedicated your life, uncle, to stealing Friarsgate from me. You have failed. Now you hope you may yet gain it through my daughter. It will not happen, I tell you! Now, get out! Take your wicked spawn with you and know that you shall never darken my door again!” Rosamund stood as tall as she could, her index finger pointing out of the garden. About her, her family was very, very quiet. Her daughters had never seen her this angry.

“You were always a difficult girl,” Henry said. His face was red with his outrage. “This is Bolton land, you stupid bitch! It must remain Bolton land! I will kill you before I allow Friarsgate to be given to a stranger!” He lunged at her furiously, but Rosamund was quicker and stepped back.

“Get out!” she told him again in a hard voice.

Henry’s face now turned from red to deep red to purple. “Why could you have not died with your brother and your parents? You have ever been a thorn in my side, you damned bitch! This should all be mine!” He was foaming about his lips, and then with a loud cry, he collapsed at her feet and was very still.

“I think you have finally killed the old devil off,” Henry the younger said as Edmund knelt, seeking a pulse from his half-brother.

Edmund looked up. “He is dead, Rosamund.”

“Good!” she replied vehemently.

Father Mata stepped forward. “Have mercy, lady,” he counseled her gently.

“He had none on me,” Rosamund said softly. Henry Bolton was dead. She could scarce believe it, but it was true. Then she said, “I will give him in death what I would not give him in life, Mata. He may be buried here at Friarsgate.”

The priest nodded approvingly.

“His cottage?” Henry the younger said. “Is it now mine?”

“Nay,” Tom quickly said. “I built it for your father to live out his life in, but it is part of Otterly, and Otterly is mine. I know your father had a will, young Henry, and you are his sole heir. Meet me at Otterly in a week’s time, and we will see what it is you have inherited.”

The young man nodded. Then he turned to Rosamund and bowed. “I will not say it has been pleasurable seeing you again, cousin,” he told her wryly. “And I should far rather wed and bed you than the little wench who is your heiress. I am old enough now by far, and it is said that I am skilled in passion.”

“Get out!” Rosamund said once more. “The sight of you sickens me, and your lack of grief is shameful.”

“I do not grieve for him,” her cousin said. “He was wretched to my mother. I hated him for it. Had I gotten my hands on Friarsgate, I should have exiled him from it even as you did. And I would not have allowed his bones to be interred in its soil.” He bowed to her once more. “Perhaps I shall return, cousin.”

“Do not,” Rosamund said in a hard, cold voice.