Rosamund

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rosamund

A
New American Library
Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2002
by
Bertrice Small

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ISBN:
978-1-1012-0997-4

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Electronic edition: May, 2003

For One of My Favorite Readers, Barbara Morizzo, of The Seashell Restaurant, Southold, NY

T
he first time Rosamund Bolton was widowed she was six years old. The second time she was not quite thirteen, and still a virgin. She was beginning to wish she wasn’t a virgin, but the idea of being free of a husband for a year’s term of mourning was very enticing. She had been married for all but three years of her short life.

Perhaps if her parents had lived it would have been different. If her brother, Edward, had not died in the same epidemic of plague that took their parents it certainly would have been otherwise. But they had all perished in that rainy summer of fourteen ninety-two, and when they had, Rosamund Bolton had suddenly found herself the heiress of Friarsgate, a vast tract of land with its great open flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. She was barely three years old.

Her paternal uncle Henry Bolton had come to Friarsgate with his wife, Agnes, and their son. Had Rosamund succumbed when her family had, it would have been Henry Bolton who inherited Friarsgate, for he was now his sire’s sole legitimate heir. But Rosamund had not died. Indeed, she appeared to be an inordinately healthy child. Henry was a practical man. He did not need to be the lord of Friarsgate in order to control it, but control it he would nonetheless. Without waiting for a dispensation from the church, he married off his five-year-old son, John, to Rosamund. The dispensation would come eventually, and at the right price.

But two years later, the newly arrived dispensation finally locked away in the strongbox beneath his bed, Henry Bolton stood in danger of losing
Friarsgate once again. A spotting sickness had infected both children. While Rosamund easily survived, seven-year-old John did not. His wife had given him no other living children. Henry now berated her fiercely for it. Were they to lose Friarsgate to strangers because of her inability to give him another son? Desperately Henry Bolton cast about for a way to protect his interests in the estate. To his relief he found the perfect solution in the person of his wife’s much older cousin, Hugh Cabot.

For a good deal of his adult life Hugh Cabot had served as the steward in the household of Agnes Bolton’s brother, Robert Lindsay. But now Lindsay needed to provide a place in life for his own second son, so Hugh was to lose his position. Agnes had become privy to this information, as her sister-in-law was a gossip. In an effort to cool her husband’s anger she offered Henry her knowledge, thus regaining her husband’s favor once more as Henry Bolton saw the simple solution that his wife had so neatly provided to his problem.

Hugh Cabot was sent for, and when he had come and had spoken with Henry Bolton, an arrangement was made. Hugh would wed the six-year-old Rosamund, and oversee Friarsgate. In exchange he would have a home and would be comfortable for the remainder of his days. Hugh saw what Henry Bolton was about, but having little choice, he agreed. He did not like his reluctant benefactor at all, but neither was he a doddering fool, as Henry obviously thought him to be. If he lived long enough, Hugh decided, he just might be able to influence his child-wife to protect her own interests against her grasping uncle.

Agnes Bolton found herself miraculously with child again. Unlike her many previous pregnancies it appeared she would carry this baby to term as she had John. Henry made immediate arrangements to return home to Otterly Court, which was his wife’s dower portion. Elated, he was certain the child his wife now carried was the longed-for son. When Hugh Cabot finally died, Henry decided, he planned on wedding this son with Rosamund. The Friarsgate inheritance would once again be in his firm grasp.

Henry and his wife were at last packed and ready to depart. The wedding day arrived. The bridegroom was a tall, painfully thin man, his
slender stature and a shock of snow-white hair giving the impression of frailty. But Hugh was not frail, as anyone looking carefully into the bright blue eyes beneath his sandy-gray bushy eyebrows could see. He signed the marriage papers, his elegant hand quivering slightly for effect, his broad shoulders stooped, never quite meeting Henry Bolton’s eyes. Henry did not notice. All that mattered to him was that Rosamund could not be snatched up in marriage by strangers. He was confident that Friarsgate was still firmly within his control.

The bride wore a simple, tight-fitting gown of grass-green jersey with a long waist. Her long auburn hair was loose about her narrow shoulders. The amber eyes in her small face were curious, but cautious. She was dainty, like a fairy child, Hugh thought as he took the tiny hand in his to repeat his vows before the elderly priest. The girl piped her vows in singsong fashion, having obviously learned them by heart.

Henry Bolton stood smiling broadly, and perhaps a trifle smugly, as he and Agnes witnessed Rosamund’s second marriage. Afterward he said to Hugh, “You are not to tamper with the wench even if she is now your wife. I’ll want her a virgin for her next marriage.”

For a brief moment Hugh felt a black anger filling his soul, but he hid his distaste of this crude and greedy man, saying quietly, “She is a child, Henry Bolton. Besides, I am past such emotions as passion.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Henry said, now jovial. “She’s usually a meek girl, but you can beat her if she isn’t. That right is yours, and I will not take it from you.”

Then Henry Bolton took his leave of Friarsgate, riding over the hills that separated Otterly Court from his niece’s rich holding.

O
n the day she had married Hugh Cabot, the child, Rosamund Bolton, watched silently as her uncle and his wife had ridden away. Finally she turned to her new husband and asked, “Are they gone for good, sir? My uncle always behaved as if this were his house,
but it is mine.
”

“So you understand that, do you?” Hugh replied, amused. What else did she understand? He wondered to himself. Poor lambkin. Her life to date had surely not been easy.

“I am the heiress to Friarsgate,” she answered him simply yet proudly. “Edmund says I am a rich prize. That is why my uncle Henry seeks to control me. Will my uncle return?”

“He is gone for now,” Hugh answered the child. “I am certain he will return to see how you fare.”

“He will return to cast his eye on my lands and see how they prosper,” Rosamund responded astutely.

He took her hand in his. “Let us go inside, Rosamund. The wind is chill and hints of the winter to come, lass.”

Together they reentered the house, settling themselves in the little hall by the warm fire.

Sitting opposite him, her child’s face grave, she said, “So, now you are my husband.” Her slippered feet did not touch the floor.

“I am,” he agreed, his blue eyes twinkling as he considered where this conversation could possibly be going.

“How many wives have you had before me, sir?” she asked him, curious.

“None,” he answered, a small smile touching his angular features.

“Why?” she demanded of him. Reaching out she stroked a large gray hound that had come to sit by her side.

“I had not the means to support a wife,” he explained. “I was my father’s youngest son. He died just before I was born. He, too, was a younger son, dependent upon his family for everything. Long ago I did my cousin a great favor, or so I thought. By convincing her brother to give her the small manor of Otterly, I made her a desirable bride for your uncle Henry. Agnes was a plain girl, but had no calling for the church. She needed something to set her apart from the other marriageable young girls of modest means. By convincing Robert Lindsay that a woman with her own property was more apt to receive an offer, I made Agnes an attractive marriage prospect.”

“Like me,” Rosamund remarked.

“Yes, like you,” Hugh agreed with a chuckle. “You understand a great deal for one so young.”

“The priest says that women are the weaker vessel, but I think he is wrong. Women can be strong, and they can be intelligent,” Rosamund told him frankly.

“Are those your own thoughts, Rosamund?” he asked her. What a fascinating little girl she was, this child who was now his responsibility.

She looked suddenly fearful at his question, sitting back in her chair, whereas before she had been leaning forward enthusiastically. “Will you beat me for my thoughts, sir?” she queried him nervously.

The question disturbed him deeply. “Why would you think that, lass?” he inquired of her quietly.

“I have been very forward,” she told him. “My aunt says a female must not be forward or bold. That it is displeasing to their menfolk and they must be beaten for it.”

“Did your uncle ever beat you?” he demanded.

She nodded silently.

“Well, lass, I will not beat you,” Hugh said, his kind blue eyes meeting her fearful amber ones. “I will always expect that you be open and honest
in your thoughts with me, Rosamund. When people dissemble with one another foolish misunderstandings arise. There is much I can teach you if you are to be truly the mistress of Friarsgate. I do not know how long I will be with you, for I am an old man. But if you are to control your own destiny, free of interference, then you will learn what I have to impart lest Henry Bolton come again to rule over you.”

He saw a flicker of interest leap into her face at his words, but she quickly masked it, saying thoughtfully, “If my uncle knew that you planned to turn me against him, I do not think you would be my husband this day, Hugh Cabot.”

He chuckled. “You misunderstand me, Rosamund,” he replied smoothly. “I do not wish to turn you against your family, but if I were your father, I would want you to be independent of them. Friarsgate belongs to you, lass, not to them. Do you know your family motto?”

She shook her head in the negative.

“
Tracez Votre Chemin.
It means,
Make Your Own Path,
” he explained to her.

Rosamund nodded. “Please live long, Hugh, that I may be able to choose my next husband all by myself,” she replied, her eyes dancing with merriment.

He laughed aloud. It was, she decided, a good sound. Rich, and deep, with no malice in it at all.

“I will try, Rosamund,” he promised her.

“How old are you?” she inquired of him.

“Today is the twentieth day of October,” he replied. “On the ninth day of November I will be sixty years of age.” The blue eyes twinkled at her. “I am
very
old, Rosamund.”

“Aye, you are,” she agreed soberly, nodding her auburn head.

He chuckled again, unable to help himself. “We shall be friends, Rosamund,” he told her. Then he fell on his knees before her, and taking her hand in his said, “I vow to you on this, our wedding day, Rosamund Bolton, that I will always put you, and the interests of Friarsgate, before all else, as long as I may live.” Then he kissed the little hand in his.

“Mayhap I will trust you,” Rosamund decided out loud. “You have kind
eyes.” She withdrew her hand from his grasp. Then she smiled a mischievous smile. “I am glad that you were chosen for me, Hugh Cabot, although I think if my uncle Henry knew your true worth, he would not have picked you, no matter my aunt’s debt.”

“My child-wife,” he addressed her, “I suspect you have a taste for intrigue, which I find interesting in one so young.” He pulled himself to his feet and sat again.

“I do not know what
intrigue
means. Is it a good thing?” she asked him.

“It can be. I shall teach you, Rosamund,” he assured her. “You will need all your wits about you when I am gone and can no longer protect you. Your uncle will not be the only man who desires to gain Friarsgate through you. There may be one day a man who is even stronger and more dangerous than Henry Bolton. Your instincts are sound, lass. You but need my tutelage that you may survive and become stronger.”

So had their marriage begun. Hugh quickly came to love and cherish his child-wife as he might have loved a daughter had he had one. As for Rosamund, she, too, loved her elderly mate as she might have loved a father or grandfather. The two were easily companionable. The morning after their wedding day they rode out. Hugh upon a sturdy nut-brown gelding, and Rosamund upon her white pony, which had a black mane and tail. Hugh found himself surprised again, for Rosamund knew a great deal about her holding. More, he considered, than he would have thought any child could know. She was very proud of Friarsgate, showing him the lush meadows where her flocks grazed and the verdant pastures where her herds of cattle browsed in the autumn sunlight.

“Did your uncle share his knowledge of the land with you?” Hugh asked her.

Rosamund shook her head. “Nay. I am naught to Henry Bolton but a possession to be controlled so he in his turn may control Friarsgate.”

“Then how is it you are so well informed?” he wondered.

“My grandfather had four sons,” she began. “My father was the third born, but the first two were born on the wrong side of the blanket—before my grandfather wed. That is why my father was the heir. Uncle Henry is the youngest of my grandfather’s sons. The eldest is my uncle
Edmund. My father loved all his brothers, but he loved Edmund the best. Uncle Henry was not born until my father was five. The other two were closer in age, and grandfather, I am told, made no distinction between his lads, but that my father was the heir. My uncles Edmund and Richard were given permission to take the family name. Uncle Henry hates them, but especially he hates Edmund, for my father loved him best.

“My grandfather gave Richard to the church to expiate his sins. He is at the abbey of St. Cuthbert’s nearby. Edmund he made his steward when he was grown and the old steward died. Uncle Henry dared not dispossess his elder brother, for Edmund knows too much about Friarsgate and Henry does not. Edmund has kept out of his way, of course, but both he and Maybel have explained everything to me.”

“Maybel?” Here was another new name.

“My nursemaid,” Rosamund replied. “She is my uncle Edmund’s wife, and more mother to me than my own. Mama was never strong after I was born, they tell me, but she was, I remember, a sweet lady.”

“I should like to meet Maybel and Edmund,” Hugh said.

“We will ride to their cottage, then,” Rosamund responded. “You will like them!”

Now Hugh Cabot realized another reason Henry Bolton had chosen him to be Rosamund’s husband. Certainly it would irritate Edmund Bolton, an obviously good steward, to be so subtly replaced. He would have to mend that fence quickly else it cause a breach. Nothing must detract from keeping Rosamund—and Friarsgate—safe. If Edmund Bolton was as his niece had said he was in character, they should all get along together.

They reached their destination, a stone cottage located on an isolated hillside overlooking a small lake surrounded by the hills. It was well kept, its roof thatched tightly, its whitewash clean. There was a single well-worn bench beneath a front window. A narrow ribbon of pale gray smoke arose from the chimney. A few late roses bloomed by the door. After dismounting from his horse, Hugh lifted Rosamund from her pony.

She hurried into the cottage, calling as she went. “Edmund! Maybel! I have brought my bridegroom to meet you!”

Hugh ducked beneath the lintel of the door. He found himself in a cheerful room, a bright fire burning in the stone fireplace. A man of medium height, his face brown with the outdoors, his amber eyes curious, came forward, bowing.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said. “Maybel, come and meet the new lord.” He drew his plump wife forward.

She was a tiny woman of indeterminate age, her gray eyes sharp. She looked Hugh Cabot over carefully. Finally, obviously satisfied, she curtsied to him. “Sir,” she said.

“May we offer you a cup of cider, my lord?” Edmund queried politely.

“It would be appreciated,” Hugh agreed. “We have been out riding my wife’s lands all the day long.”

“And my child has not had a bite to eat since early morning?” Maybel demanded. “Shame!”

Rosamund giggled. “I have not been hungry,” she assured her nurse. “This is the first time I have been out of the house in weeks, Maybel. You know it to be true. Uncle Henry never let me out of his sight but to pee and sleep. It was glorious riding the hills!”

“Yet Maybel is correct, wife,” Hugh said in his quiet voice. “Like you, I enjoyed the day, but you are a growing lass, and need to be fed in a timely manner.” He turned to his host and hostess. “I am plain Hugh Cabot, and would be pleased to have you address me by my Christian name, Edmund and Maybel Bolton.”

“When we are together, by ourselves,” Edmund agreed, “but before the servants you must take the mantle of lord, Hugh Cabot. Your wife is, after all, the lady of Friarsgate.” Edmund found himself pleasantly surprised by Hugh’s tone and his gentle manners.

“Sit down!” Maybel ordered them. “I will feed you.” She bustled about the room, taking bread from a basket by the fire, cutting it open, and hollowing out the trenchers. She set them upon the table and filled them with a delicious-smelling pottage of rabbit, onions, carrots, and gravy. The trencher before Rosamund and Hugh was twice the size of the other two. They would be expected to share it. Maybel supplied them with polished wooden spoons with which to eat. Then she sat down to join them.
Edmund plunked down upon the table pewter goblets of cider that had been pressed just that morning.

Rosamund found to her surprise that she was indeed very hungry. She ate enthusiastically, her spoon dipping swiftly into the trencher again and again, shoving the pieces from the insides of the cottage loaf that Maybel had put in a dish before them into her mouth.

Maybel watched them surreptitiously, noting that Hugh Cabot deferred to the child, letting her eat her fill while he pretended to do the same. Only when Rosamund was obviously satisfied did he seriously eat himself. Well, well, Maybel considered, this is an interesting turn of events. But she was not yet ready to believe that Henry Bolton had done his niece a good turn in choosing this ancient bridegroom. Still, it appeared that Rosamund liked the man. She was usually cautious of strangers, especially those connected with her greedy uncle.

“That, Maybel, was the best rabbit stew I have ever eaten!” Hugh Cabot pronounced when he had finished. He pushed himself away from the table with a satisfied sigh.

Edmund Bolton smiled. “She’s a good cook, my Maybel,” he said. “A bit more cider, Hugh?”

“Nay, I think not, Edmund. We must leave you shortly if we are to find our way home before dark.”

“Aye, the winter’s coming soon enough with its dark days,” Edmund answered him.

“Before we go, however,” Hugh rejoined, “I would put matters straight, for Henry Bolton has sought to make trouble between us, and I will not have it. For many years I have served as steward to Agnes Bolton’s brother. I was asked to train his son to fill my position, and I did. When Agnes learned I had lost my place she suggested that I become Rosamund’s husband to protect her husband’s interests in Friarsgate.”