Bertrice Small - Until You

“You are Lord Leslie’s-friend, my lady,” the girl replied.

“I am,” Rosamund admitted.

“And you shall be neighbors,” the queen said wickedly. “Friarsgate is just over the border in England. It is practically a stone’s throw from Claven’s Carn. Do you not know Logan Hepburn, Rosamund?”

“Slightly,” Rosamund responded through gritted teeth. “I believe he and his brothers were guests when my late husband and I were wed.” Had Meg not been a queen, Rosamund thought, she would have smacked her. “But, madame, it is late and in your delicate condition you need your rest.” She arose. “I shall leave you, taking Mistress Logan with me. Do give her your permission and blessing, for that is what she came for-didn’t you, Mistress Logan?”

“Aye, my lady,” Jeannie said.

“You have both, then, my child. My husband and I shall come and bear witness to your vows on Twelfth Night Day. And, Rosamund, you will come, too, with Lord Leslie?” The queen’s eyes were dancing with mischief.

“If you so command, madame,” Rosamund responded. “But your chapel is small, and Mistress Logan will want her family there.”

“Oh, no, my lady. My family is in the north and will not be here. I think it would be lovely to have a neighbor with us on our happy day. Please come!”

“Make your curtsy to the queen, Mistress Logan,” Rosamund said. “I will speak with Lord Leslie.” She practically pushed the girl from the queen’s little privy chamber, murmuring softly to Meg as she did, “I shall repay you in kind for this, you bad creature!”

“God bless you, my child,” the queen called, and grinning from ear to ear she closed the door into her anteroom behind them.

There was a storm on Twelfth Night Day. Outside Stirling Castle the snow swirled in twisted whorls that were blown about by winds that howled mournfully through the narrow streets of the town and about the castle’s stone towers. In the Earl of Bothwell’s apartments the laird of Claven’s Carn adjusted his garments as he prepared to depart for the royal chapel.

“You can have your privacy here tonight,” Patrick Hepburn said. “I’ll find another place to sleep. You won’t be able to leave Stirling until this storm has blown itself out and down into England.”

“Thank you,” Logan replied glumly.

His cousin laughed. “All men feel this way on their wedding day. A thousand questions run through your head. Did I do the right thing? Will I love her? Will she give me sons and not daughters? Will she object if I take a mistress? Will I have to beat her?” He chuckled. “But we marry nonetheless, Logan, and young Jeannie will make you a fine wife. She’s already half in love with you and eager to please. Keep her that way, laddie, and your life will be a happy one.”

“Rosamund is coming to the wedding,” Logan answered. “What the hell is she coming to my wedding for, Patrick? I didn’t ask her to come. Is it possible she regrets her hasty decision?”

“Put the idea from your thoughts, laddie,” the earl advised. “She is coming to your wedding because the queen insisted she come. And she will be on Lord Leslie’s arm. She has no regrets at all. Why would she trade a simple border lord for her earl? The lass is no fool, Logan, but you stand in danger of being one if you allow your bruised heart to overrule your common sense this day. Let her go, and concentrate on the lovely lassie who will be your wife shortly.” He adjusted the fur collar of his cousin’s mid-calf-length burgundy velvet coat. The garment was lined in the same fur, as were its sleeves, which were flared. Beneath the gown he wore haut-de-chausses and silk hose striped in burgundy, black, and gold. A linen shirt with a ruffle was visible beneath his fur collar. “You look quite handsome, cousin, if I may say so.”

“I feel like a damned prized goose all done up for roasting,” Logan grumbled. “I think you had these wedding clothes waiting for me, Patrick.”

“I did,” the earl admitted with a broad grin.

“You had this whole damned affair planned, too, I’ll vow,” the laird continued.

“I did,” Patrick Hepburn said.

“What if Rosamund had agreed to marry me? What then, cousin?” Logan demanded.

“Come now, cousin. It is time for us to depart for the chapel,” the earl replied, ignoring the question. He took the younger man by the arm, and together they walked from the earl’s apartments.

The queen and her women had kindly seen to the young bride, Margaret Tudor giving the girl one of her own gowns, which had been quickly altered to fit the reed-slim girl. It was peach-colored velvet with an underskirt embroidered and quilted with large gold flowers. The neckline was low and square and fitted tightly. The long, tight sleeves had fur cuffs. An embroidered hanging girdle was wrapped about the bride’s waist.

“Gracious,” Rosamund murmured so that only the queen might hear her. “There is enough material here for another gown, I’ll vow. I do not remember you this plump, Meg.” She smiled sweetly.

“Jamie likes a woman with meat on her bones,” the queen murmured back. “Besides, this girl is very slim. Still, her husband will put a bairn in her belly no matter. Do you think Logan Hepburn is a good lover?”

“I wouldn’t know, Meg,” Rosamund said softly. “Do watch your tongue, else poor Jeannie will hear you.”

“Then take back what you said about my being plump,” the queen muttered.

“My memory of our youth grows faulty, madame,” Rosamund said.

The queen giggled. “I accept your apology,” she whispered. “Now, what shall our bride wear on her head, ladies?”

“Oh, madame,” said Tillie, the queen’s chief tiring woman, “do you not remember? A virgin going to her wedding wears her hair loose to indicate her virtue. You did on your wedding day, and I will wager that Mistress Rosamund did, too.”

“I did indeed, Tillie,” Rosamund replied.

“Where is your jewelry?” the queen asked Jeannie Logan.

“I have none, madame,” the bride answered.

“Here, take these pearls,” Rosamund said generously, removing a strand from about her neck. “They are a wedding present, Jeannie Logan, from your neighbor, the lady of Friarsgate.” She slipped the long strand about the girl’s neck. “There! They make the gown even lovelier.”

“Oh, Lady Rosamund, I could not!” the girl cried, but she was already fingering the pearls longingly.

“Of course you can,” Rosamund replied. “They are perfect, as are you. Logan Hepburn is a fortunate man. Make certain he knows it, Jeannie.”

“Thank you, my lady! I shall tell him how kind you have been to me,” the girl said ingenuously.

“Yes,” Rosamund agreed, “do tell him, and say I wish you both much happiness, Jeannie. Perhaps you will allow me to entertain you when I return to Friarsgate.” She smiled at the girl.

As they escorted the bride to the royal chapel, Margaret Tudor leaned over and whispered to her old friend, “You do have a bit of the bitch in you, Rosamund. This is another revelation.”

“I have naught against the lass, Meg. It is her arrogant mate my words were for, and I know she will repeat them as I have said them, and they will sting him. This is repayment for what he did on my wedding day to Owein.”

At the chapel door, the Earl of Bothwell was waiting to escort the bride. They left her with him and entered. The queen moved swiftly to the front of the room where her husband awaited her. They would formally witness the vows. Rosamund slipped into her seat next to Patrick. He took her hand immediately in his.

“No regrets, my darling?” he asked softly.

“None,” she told him, smiling.

The bridegroom came forth, and the bride was led to him by the Earl of Bothwell. The priest shook his censer of incense over them while the candles on the altar flickered and the storm outside moaned mournfully. The mass began. Logan’s eye went just once to Rosamund. She was standing next to the Earl of Glenkirk, gazing up at him adoringly. It was as if a hand had reached out and squeezed his heart to half its size. Then he felt the small hand slipping into his, and he looked down into the sweet face of his bride. She gave him a tremulous smile, and unable to help himself, he smiled back at her. Poor lassie. She wasn’t responsible for his heartbreak. Nay! ’Twas that brazen, false bitch boldly standing with her lover! He would put her from his heart and give what was left of it to this sweet lass who was about to become his wife.

The bride spoke her vows in a soft but clear voice. The bridegroom spoke his in a loud, almost defiant voice. The ceremony over, the wedding party adjourned to the Great Hall of Stirling Castle to join the rest of the court in the Twelfth Night celebration. The long holiday was about to come to an end, and the winter was setting in with a vengeance. The entire court drank to the health and long life of the newly wed couple. There was much jesting, and the bride was soon rosy with her blushes.

Patrick took Rosamund aside. “We must depart in two days,” he said in a low voice. “Remember, you can take but a few necessaries, my love.”

“I know. But Annie must pack for me as if I am leaving court for home,” she answered. “I can but hope the weather clears.”

“It may be better if it doesn’t,” Glenkirk told her. “We’re less apt to encounter the English at sea if the weather remains foul. They have no real navy, although the king’s brother-in-law, seeing our Jamie’s success in building ships, is embarking on the same course. You’re sure you would come?”

“Absolutely,” Rosamund told him. “Are you having second thoughts, my lord?”

“Nay! I cannot imagine my life without you now, Rosamund,” he told her.

“One day…” she began.

He stopped her lips with his fingers. “But not now.”

She nodded. “I hope the queen believes me,” she said. “I had best speak with her now, while I can.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss upon the lips, then rose from the board where she had been seated with him and other guests. Finding her way to the High Board, Rosamund caught the queen’s eye. Margaret Tudor beckoned her forward, and Rosamund hurried to her side.