Rosamund (22 page)

“Has Uncle Henry arrived yet?” the nervous girl asked.

“Not yet, and just as well, I’m thinking,” Maybel said tartly. “I wondered if he could bear to see all his scheming go for naught, but then he may show up yet, lass.” She put down the hairbrush, and taking up the floral wreath, set it on Rosamund’s head. “There! You’re ready now, and a prettier bride I have never seen.”

Rosamund turned and hugged Maybel hard. “I love you,” she said, “and I shall never be able to thank you enough for your mothering, dearest Maybel.” She stepped back from the older woman. “How pretty you look,” she told the beaming Maybel. “Is that the gown Tillie helped you make?”

“Aye,” Maybel said, “and perhaps a bit grand for Friarsgate, but I wanted to look special for you on this day.” Maybel’s gown was a dark blue in color, her round-necked and ruffled white linen chemise showing above the gown’s square neckline. Her long tight sleeves had turned-back cuffs in a contrasting lighter blue. She wore a short blue velvet hood with a snow-white veil over her neat white cap.

Outside they heard the little church bell begin to toll, calling them to the mass. Together the two women descended the staircase of the house to where Edmund and Sir Owein Meredith awaited them. Both men were wearing hose attached to their doublets, and overgowns. Edmund’s was a dark blue, matching his wife, but the bridegroom had parti-colored silk hose of black, white, and gold. His overgown was a rich burgundy wine
color trimmed with dark fur, and his round-toed shoes were of black leather. On his dark blond head he wore a soft fabric hat that had been gathered into bands. Its color matched his gown.

Owein’s face lit up at the sight of Rosamund in her bridal finery even as she looked surprised upon him. She had never seen him in such elegant garb, even at the court. His clothing had run, as hers had, to the more practical.

“How handsome you are,” she said almost breathlessly.

Reaching out, he took her hand, bringing her down the last few steps. “And you are surely the most beautiful bride any eyes have ever seen, lovey. If I went blind this moment I should always have the sight of you now in my memory no matter.” Gallantly he kissed the hand in his. Then, tucking it in his arm, he led her out the front door of the house.

Suddenly, and to her great surprise, three kilted borderers appeared, playing their pipes, and prepared to lead the bridal party to the church. “What is this?” she whispered to Owein.

“The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn and his brothers have come to kindly play for us,” Owein said calmly. “You will, I hope, thank them at the feasting later, lovey.”

“It is intolerable!” she hissed back at him.

Owein chuckled. “He does it partly to make his peace with us and partly to tease you, Rosamund,” her bridegroom explained.

“I told him he was not to come!” Her color was high now.

“But surely you knew he would under the circumstances?” Owein replied. “Be gracious, lovey. Logan Hepburn cannot resist a challenge, and you have surely presented him with one by being so firm in your resolve. I doubt he has ever met a woman who didn’t fall swooning into his arms. He is, after all, an outrageously handsome fellow. He would be a huge success at court with his wavy black hair, his blue eyes, his strong jaw, and his great height.” Owein chuckled.

“It is plainly obvious that he was never disciplined or taught the virtues of restraint growing up,” Rosamund grumbled.

“Very shortly you will be my wife, lovey, and naught can ever separate us except death,” Owein told her quietly. “My life, my sword, and my
heart are yours, Rosamund. What could Logan Hepburn possibly offer to tempt you from my side? Do not be afraid, lovey. I will protect you, but be certain before we enter the church that this is what you really want.
Is it?
”

“Aye,” Rosamund answered him without hesitation. “I want only you for my husband, Owein Meredith. I do not know why Logan Hepburn annoys me so greatly.”

“It is his youthful arrogance. Much like Prince Henry’s,” Owein remarked. “It is that air of entitlement that vexes you very much, as it did with the prince,” Owein explained to her.

“Their music is festive,” Rosamund grudgingly admitted as they walked the path to the church.

“Tell them afterward at the feasting,” Owein said. “The Hepburn has come to taunt you, but if you do not rise to his bait, but rather thank him prettily as if he were a dear friend and neighbor who has done you a kindness, you will, I promise you, Rosamund, get your own back on the laird of Claven’s Carn.”

She laughed. “There is much, I can see, that I can learn from you, my lord. Your years at the Tudor court were not entirely wasted.”

He grinned down at her. “We Welsh can be as canny as yon trio of Scots,” he replied.

Their path was bordered by Friarsgate folk, who having gotten a good look at the bride and her groom now followed along behind the bridal party into the church. The small building had been decorated nicely with sheaves of wheat and late-summer flowers. There were real beeswax candles in polished brass candlesticks upon the stone altar. Unlike the large churches in the towns that often had carved screens between the congregation and the priest, Friarsgate church had no such barrier between its people and God’s representative. There were even some oak pews within the country church. The bridal party now took their places in the first of them, while everyone else who could crowded into the pews behind or stood.

The two priests emerged from the sacristy. Father Mata was garbed in a white linen surplice embroidered with golden sheaves of wheat. It was a special garment that he wore only at Easter as a rule. Usually he celebrated the mass in the simple brown robes of his order, such as Richard
Bolton was wearing this day. The candles upon the altar flickered in the morning sunlight filtering through the plain arched gothic windows with their leaden panes.

One day, Rosamund thought, she would have stained-glass windows in this church as they did in the royal chapel and the churches she had seen in the south. Then she settled down to listen intently to the words of the mass. When it was over Father Mata beckoned her and Owein forward to stand before him. In a quiet voice he spoke the words of the marriage rite. When he questioned their intent, both bride and groom answered in a clear voice heard throughout the church. There was no shyness or uncertainty in either of them this day. Finally the young priest pronounced them husband and wife. Richard Bolton stepped forward to bless the couple, smiling warmly at them. Owein Meredith kissed his bride rosy, and the Friarsgate folk erupted into cheers.

They were led from the church back up the path to the house by the Hepburn pipers. Tables had been set out in front of the building, benches upon either side but for the bridal table, which was the high board brought from the hall along with its carved, high-backed oak chairs. The kegs of ale and cider were broached. The servants began to come forth from the house with platters and bowls of food. In a nearby pit the two sides of beef in their rock salt were turned slowly by four young turnspits. All the traditional wheaten products connected with Lammastide were served as they had been the previous year, but because this was a wedding feast as well, there was the beef, fat capons stuffed with bread and apples that had been mixed with sage, a thick rabbit stew with chunks of carrot and pieces of leek floating in the wined gravy, game pies, and roast mutton. When a platter of thinly sliced salmon lying upon a bed of crisp green cress was presented, Rosamund asked, “From whence came this fine fish, Edmund?”

“The Hepburns brought it, my lady,” Edmund answered.

Rosamund turned to Logan Hepburn, who because of his rank was seated at the bridal table, and said sweetly, “We are truly fortunate in you as a neighbor, my lord. Your gift of music to liven our feast was more than generous, but to bring us salmon, too! I do indeed render you my thanks.” And she smiled brightly at him.

He bowed from the waist in his chair, an amazed smile upon his handsome face. “I am delighted I might bring you pleasure, lady,” he told her, his blue eyes dancing.

“ ’Twas salmon you brought, my lord, only salmon.
And
I shall not ask from whence it was poached,” Rosamund teased him wickedly. “The evidence will be so quickly devoured that you should be safe.”

Everyone at the table laughed, including Logan Hepburn who was wise enough to know when he had been bested. Target butts were set up in a nearby field, and long bows in hand, the men took turns shooting. Very quickly it became an open contest between Owein Meredith and Logan Hepburn. Arrow after arrow was shot, each man bettering himself with his next turn. When Logan Hepburn’s arrow split Owein’s previous shaft a gasp of surprise went up among the onlookers.

The Scot grinned, saying, “You cannot better that, Owein Meredith.”

“Perhaps I can,” the Englishman answered softly, and he notched his arrow, letting it fly toward the target.

A shout of amazement went up, followed by a great cheer as Owein’s arrow split the Scotsman’s. Logan Hepburn’s jaw dropped with astonishment as the Englishman, hands on his hips, grinned at him.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.

“I keep telling you that you surely will, my lord,” Rosamund said, coming up next to Owein. Standing on her tiptoes she kissed his cheek. “Well done, husband!” she congratulated him. “Now, come and sit by my side. Cook has made a fine pear tartlet to celebrate this day. You, too, Logan Hepburn. You look as if you could use something sweet right now. And perhaps a bit of wine?”

“I could,” he admitted. “Sir, you must teach me how to shoot like that. I thought I was surely the best archer I have ever known, but I admit that you outshot me easily.”

“There is no trick to it, my lord,” Owein said, “and I will gladly share my skills with you. But not today. I shall need my strength and skill for
other
sports shortly.” Then putting an arm about Rosamund, he went with her back to the high board.

“He taunts you,” Ian Hepburn said softly.

“Aye, I know,” Logan replied, “but I deserve it. He is no fool and knows I covet his wife. I may not have the first taste, Ian, but I shall have the last one day. She will be mine, I vow it.”

“You’re a fool,” Colin Hepburn sneered at his elder. “Find another lass and marry her. ’Tis your duty as our laird.”

“You find a lass, Colin. If I die without heirs, ’tis your sons who will inherit. I don’t care. The lass who was wed today is the only bride I want.”

“You should have taken her the other day when you had the chance,” Ian remarked.

“Perhaps I should have, but ’tis too late now,” Logan Helpburn replied. “This is not the end of it, brothers. I will have another chance, and when it comes I will take it without question.”

The Friarsgate folk ate until their sides were sore. The men played their rough games, kicking the sheep’s bladder in the mown field beyond the house. The three Hepburns, having regained their honor by besting the English on that field, now took up their pipes and began to play. They were joined by several of the local men upon the double reed pipe, a fiddle, bells, a tambourine, and a drum. The people began to dance, holding hands in a circle. They danced other dances in a long line, weaving amid the tables, led by the bride and the groom. The day began to wane. At Rosamund’s signal loaves of bread were given to each guest. Each loaf had a lighted candle in it. Led by Edmund Bolton, Friarsgate’s steward, the bridal party and its guests circled the house three times. The candles were then snuffed, and each loaf was devoured but for a quarter of the bread, which would be saved for the following year’s Lammas-morning celebration.

The sun beginning to sink in the west, the guests departed back to their own cottages. The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn and his brothers bid their hostess and her bridegroom their thanks and farewell. Logan Hepburn bowed over Rosamund’s hand.

“We shall meet again one day, lady of Friarsgate,” he told her.

“I shall look forward to it, my lord,” she told him, her gaze never flinching from his bright blue one. Then she drew her hand from his and wished them a safe journey home.

“You will not remain the night?” Owein asked hospitably.

“Nay, my lord, but thank you,” Logan said. “There is a fine border moon coming that will guide us home.”

Owein and Rosamund watched the three Scots ride off. The bride had to admit, if only to herself, that she was relieved to have seen the last of the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. He fascinated her in a rather wicked way, but she would tell no one of her secret thoughts. Not even Owein. She had a good man for a husband, and she was going to love him.

They stood silent for a time, watching the sunset over the hills to their west. Then hand in hand they reentered the manor’s hall. There were candles lit as usual, and the fire burned brightly, taking the chill off the evening, which after the unusually warm day had turned cool. Together Rosamund and Owein sat before the hearth on a small cushioned settle. A lute lay by his feet, and Owein picked it up and began to sing to his bride in his clear Welsh tenor. She was both surprised and charmed, for she had never heard him sing or play before; nor had she ever realized that he could.

Look on this rose, O Rose,
And looking laugh on me,
And in thy laughter’s ring
The nightingale shall sing.

Take thou this rose, O Rose,
Since Love’s own flower it is,
And by that rose,
Thy lover captive is.