Rosamund (2 page)

“Henry Bolton has no interest in Friarsgate!” Edmund said angrily.

“I agree,” Hugh quickly replied. “Friarsgate belongs to Rosamund, and her heirs after her, but Henry Bolton has cleverly attempted to replace you by marrying me to Rosamund. Friarsgate does not need two stewards.
As far as I am concerned I was asked to marry my wife. Nothing more—though Henry has assumed I will take over and thus push you from the place your own father assigned you. I will not.”

“What will you do instead, then?” Edmund queried the older man cautiously.

“Teach Rosamund to read and to write and to keep her accounts, so that when the day comes that neither of us are here for her, she will know what to do. The priest, I assume, has not attempted to teach her. He seems a rather ignorant and dull fellow.”

“Henry Bolton does not believe it necessary that a woman know anything other than her housewifery. He thinks it best our niece learn only womanly pursuits, like making soap and conserves, or salting fish,” Edmund said.

“And how do you feel about that?” Hugh wondered.

“I think she should learn both,” Edmund responded, “but old Father Bernard can’t teach her. He learned the mass by rote, and cannot be counted as an educated man. Hell, he’s older than you surely are, Hugh Cabot, and not just a wee bit queer in the head these days.”

Hugh laughed heartily. “Then it is agreed between us, Edmund. You will continue to administer the estate, and I will educate my wife.”

“We will meet regularly,” Edmund said. “You must know all so that Henry Bolton may be convinced that it is you who now manages Friarsgate. And it is best that you sit in judgment at the manor court, which is held every three months. To all appearances you are now lord of Friarsgate.”

“I hope to play my part well,” Hugh replied graciously.

“This child is falling asleep while you two men plot,” Maybel said sharply. “Get you gone home with your wife, Hugh Cabot, before night falls and you cannot find your way. There are yet robbers about, for we are close to the Scots border as you must know.”

“I have lived farther south,” he answered her. “Are you subject to raids often?”

“Usually we are safe here at Friarsgate, unless,” Maybel said dryly, “the kings and the great lords wish to fight. Then it is the poor and the
helpless who suffer the most. The Scots sometimes come for sheep, or cattle, but they generally leave us in peace.”

“Why is that? I wonder,” Hugh mused aloud.

“ ’Tis our hills,” Edmund explained. “They are very steep about Friarsgate, and to drive a flock, or a herd, or even a few animals quickly away, the terrain must be flatter. It would take a serious quarrel with the Scots to make us vulnerable to them,” Edmund concluded.

“Who is the nearest border lord to Friarsgate?” Hugh asked.

“The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn,” Edmund replied. “I met him once when he came to a cattle market with his sons. He’s probably dead by now, and one of the sons in charge, though which, who knows. The Scots are an argumentative people, and the sons undoubtedly fought over their father’s lands.”

“Aye,” Hugh nodded. “The Scots are like that. They are yet more wild than civilized.” He arose from his place at the table and looked to Rosamund, who was nodding sleepily in her place. “Edmund, take her up. I’ll carry her on my horse and lead the pony.”

“Nay, I’ll ride the beast,” Maybel said. “I should go back with you to watch over my lass, Hugh Cabot.”

“Come along, then,” Hugh replied, and he strode toward the door, opening it and stepping outside into the late afternoon. He unhitched his horse and mounted it, and then reached down to take the sleeping child from Edmund Bolton, settling her gently in the crook of one arm, his other hand gathering the reins up firmly.

Maybel hurried out, pulling her hooded cloak about her. With her husband’s aid she mounted the white pony, saying, “I’m ready. Be sure you leave the cottage clean when you come tomorrow, Edmund Bolton.”

“Aye, my dearie,” he answered her with a small smile. Then he smacked the pony gently on its rump. It moved off alongside of the new lord of Friarsgate. Watching them go Edmund thought that at last his niece had a weapon with which to fight Henry Bolton. If, indeed, Hugh Cabot was all that he appeared to be. But Edmund had a good feeling about the new lord. He chuckled to himself. His greedy and mean-spirited half-brother believed he had chosen a feeble old man to husband their niece. Edmund chuckled again.

Henry had always been a smug fellow. Edmund knew just what he was about, for he was as transparent as a piece of glass. Henry had made this marriage for Rosamund because the child was yet too young to be mated and bred. Hugh Cabot was surely past such things. Yet the heiress to Friarsgate was still a married woman, safe from the predators who would marry her and disregard Henry’s wishes. Henry wanted Friarsgate for his own heirs. If the child Agnes carried was a son, Edmund had no doubt that Henry would have married that son to Rosamund as soon as it was possible. Even if the child was still at his mama’s breast. No matter that the bride would be older than the groom. Such things were common in marriages where land was the paramount issue. But if Hugh Cabot was the honest man Edmund believed him to be, then Rosamund would be safe from her uncle Henry, who had probably outfoxed himself in this matter at long last.

Edmund watched as the two riders disappeared over the hill. Turning, he went back into his house to neaten it up. He would return to his duties as Friarsgate’s steward in the morning. Together he and Hugh would teach Rosamund all she needed to know to husband her lands when they were no longer there to do it for her.

Friarsgate had chafed beneath Henry Bolton’s rule. Now with its new lord it once again became the happy place it had been in the time of Rosamund’s parents and grandparents. On All Hallows’ Eve, which was also the feast of St. Wolfgang, bonfires were lit on all the hillsides at sunset. In the hall at Friarsgate, a tall, large candelabra was placed at the center of the room. Garlands of greens hung with apples were suspended about the chamber, decorating it. The highlight of the meal was the crowdie, a sweet apple-cream dessert shared among those at the high board. Within the crowdie had been placed two rings, two coins, and two marbles.

“I’ve a coin!” Rosamund shouted excitedly, laughing, as she pulled the penny from her spoon.

“So do I!” Hugh chortled. “So, wife, if the legend is correct, we shall be rich, but then I already am with you.”

“What did you get, Edmund?” the child asked her uncle.

“Naught,” he said with a laugh.

“But that means your life will be fraught with uncertainty,” Rosamund said. She dug her spoon into their common dish of crowdie. “I will find you the ring!”

“He’s already wed wi me,” Maybel reminded her charge. “Leave the rings for the lasses in the kitchen who will enjoy what is left, my little lady.”

“Did you get a prize?” Rosamund queried her nursemaid.

“The marble,” Maybel admitted.

“No! No!” the little girl cried. “That means your life will be lonely, Maybel!”

“Well, it ain’t been lonely yet,” Maybel replied with a chortle. “I got you to look after, and I got my Edmund. It’s all a bunch of tomfoolery anyway.”

Escorted by her husband, Rosamund went from the hall out into the early evening to pass out crisp apples from a woven willow basket to her tenants who were gathered about the All Hallows’ Eve fire on the hillside. Apples at this time of year were considered good fortune. Rosamund’s fruit was accepted with curtsies and bows and thanks from the people of Friarsgate.

The following day was All Saints’, and a feast was held to honor all of the saints, known and unknown. On November second, All Souls’ Day was celebrated. The Friarsgate children went singing—a-souling—from door to door, and were rewarded with “soul cakes,” a small sweet oatcake with bits of apple in it. On the ninth day of the month Rosamund surprised her husband with a small feast to celebrate his natal day. She also presented him with a silver broach decorated with a black agate that had belonged to her father and her grandfather.

Hugh looked down at the broach nestled in its wrapping of delicate blue wool cloth. He had never in all his life—not once in his sixty years—been gifted with anything. He looked down at the girl who was now his wife, and his eyes shone with tears. “Why, Rosamund,” he said, his voice tight in his throat, “I have never received anything as fine as this.” Bending, he kissed her rosy cheek. “Thank you, wife.”

“Oh, I am so glad that you liked it,” she responded. “Maybel said you would. ’Tis for your cloak, Hugh. ’Twill look so fine!”

Two days later they celebrated Martinmas with roast goose. On the twenty-fifth of November St. Catherine’s Day was observed with cathern cakes, which were shaped like wheels, and lamb’s wool, a frothy drink that was served from a cathern bowl. Afterward circle dances were danced in the hall. The harvest was long gathered in, and many of the ewes and she-cattle were ripening with young to be born in the next few months.

The Christmas season came beginning with the first day of the twelve to follow on the eve of Christ’s Mass. It was the happiest time Rosamund could ever remember in all her life. There was no word from her uncle Henry. In the hall a huge Yule log burned night and day. Mistletoe and greens were hung along with branches of holly. There were twelve candelabrums all burning by Twelfth Night. Twelve dishes were served at each meal. There was a wassailing for each day, and sweet foods were especially popular. There was frumenty, humble pie, mince pie, and pudding, but Rosamund’s favorites were Yule dolls, which were made of gingerbread.

Rosamund’s gift to each tenant family was that they might hunt rabbits each Saturday for the winter months. Since it had been a good harvest, her stone granaries were full, and she would also be able to feed the Friarsgate folk during the cold weather. Grain was distributed once monthly to be taken to the miller and ground into flour. In her own cellars were baskets of onions, apples, and pears, and carrots and beets were hung from the cellar rafters.

January fifth was the last day of the Christmas feast, known as Twelfth Night. Rosamund and Hugh were entertained in the hall that night by six dancers from the village dressed up as oxen complete with horns and bells. When they had finished their amusement, Rosamund chose one among them as the “best beast.” Giggling, she placed upon its horn a hard oat cake in the shape of a doughnut. The best beast then tried to shake off his reward while Rosamund and Hugh debated heatedly over whether the cake would fall before or behind the dancer. Finally the cake flew up
off the beast’s horn and onto the table before the young mistress of Friarsgate. Rosamund burst out laughing, and clapped.

“Bravo!” she cried as the oxen danced from the hall.

The meal finished, the lord and lady of Friarsgate arose with their goblets and went outside into the clear cold night. Above them in the black sky the stars twinkled silver, blue, and red. Before the house stood a great gnarled oak with branches that spread themselves out in all directions. It was said to have been there before the building was constructed over two hundred years ago. Their cups contained cider, and they had with them three small pieces of seedcake. Rosamund and Hugh toasted the ancient tree, and then they each ate a single piece of cake, offering the other two bits to the tree. Then they circled the tree, singing an ancient tune and pouring the remainder of the cider onto the tree’s knobby roots that lay upon the surface of the hard earth.

“This is the best Twelfth Night I have ever had!” Rosamund declared happily.

“Yes,” Hugh agreed as he walked with his young wife back into the hall, “it has been for me also, lass.”

Now the winter months were here. Rosamund set about to learn how to read and write. With infinite patience, Hugh, himself, taught her, making the letters with a piece of charcoal upon a scrap of parchment. She was, to his surprise, left-handed, which was, of course, very unusual. Following his lead she carefully copied the letters over and over again, speaking aloud their names. She was very serious in her endeavors, and quickly became a good student. Within a month she knew her alphabet by heart and could write each letter neatly. Next he taught her to write her name. She was fascinated when she first saw it, the letters spread out upon the worn parchment. She swiftly began to learn how to write other words, and by late winter she was beginning to read.

“I fear she will outstrip me,” Hugh told Edmund. “She is very intelligent. By summer she will read better than you or I.”

“Then teach her—we shall do it together—how to do her sums, so she may know how we keep her accounts,” Edmund said. Then he chuckled. “Henry will not be happy when he learns this.”

“He can do nothing,” Hugh replied. “I am Rosamund’s husband. Under the law I am responsible for her behavior and her lands. We both know he chose me because he wanted to keep the child safe from other families’ offers of marriage until he can wed her to his own son after I am gone.”

“The older she gets the more difficult she will be to manage,” Edmund remarked. “She is much like her father. I see it even now.”

The hillsides began to grow green with the spring. The lambing had yielded a goodly crop of new sheep. Rosamund’s herds had also increased with several young heifers and two young bulls. One would be kept for breeding purposes, and the other sold. Over the winter months the houses of Friarsgate’s tenants had been repaired by their occupants. Roofs had been patched, and chimneys had been resealed. Now it was time for the fields to be plowed so that grain and vegetables might be planted.