“I did not go to King Henry’s court until I was thirteen,” her mother replied.
“Will I meet King James, mama? And Queen Margaret? Will we go to the Scots court?” Philippa demanded.
“Yes,” her mother said, smiling. “We may even celebrate your ninth birthday there. Would you like that, Philippa?”
Philippa’s face shone with her approval.
“You spoil her,” Maybel said. “You must not spoil her.”
“Children should be spoiled. Lord knows you did your best to spoil me, though you forget it now,” Rosamund teased the older woman gently.
“I tried only to make up for Henry Bolton when you were a wee thing,” Maybel defended herself. “I had no opportunity to spoil you once you were in Hugh Cabot’s charge, for he enjoyed spoiling you himself, God assoil his good soul!”
“Aye, God bless both Hugh Cabot and Owein Meredith,” Rosamund responded.
The Leslie clansman departed the following morning with a letter to his master from the lady of Friarsgate. Her correspondence to him was much as his to her had been. She had written of her loneliness without him, a loneliness such as she had never known in all her life until now. She had written of her daughters and of her estate, of their preparations for winter and how they were waiting eagerly for Tom’s return. She told him that Claven’s Carn had an heir at last. And she closed by sending him her undying love and telling him how eager she was for their reunion on the first of April, that she would bring Philippa to Edinburgh so both his only son and her eldest daughter could witness their marriage vows. She put a drop of her white heather scent upon the parchment, smiling as she did so.
On the twenty-first of December, St. Thomas’ Day, Tom appeared back at Friarsgate, bringing with him her uncle Henry. The children swarmed about this favorite relation hardly noticing their great-uncle. Rosamund, however, was shocked. Henry Bolton had indeed changed for the worse. He was gaunt, and his face wore a death’s-head.
“You are welcome at Friarsgate, uncle,” Rosamund greeted him.
His almost colorless eyes fastened upon her. “Am I?” he asked with just a touch of his old spirit. He leaned heavily upon a carved cane. “Lord Cambridge would insist I come, niece. He has purchased Otterly from me.”
“Tom was right to bring you, uncle,” Rosamund replied. “I am told you are alone now, and these festive December days should not be spent alone, without family. I was waiting only for Tom to send to Otterly for you.”
Henry smiled cynically, the facial expression almost a grimace. He nodded. “I thank you for your welcome, niece.”
“Come, uncle, and sit by the fire,” Rosamund said. “Lucy, fetch Master Bolton a goblet of spiced hot cider.” She led him to his place, seating him in a high-back chair with a tapestry cushion. “Your ride was cold, and the dampness threatens snow, I fear.” She took the goblet her serving girl brought and put it in his gnarled hand.
“I thank you,” he said, and he sipped gratefully at the hot cider. Slightly revived, his glance swept the hall. “Your daughters are healthy,” he noted.
“They are,” she agreed.
“The tallest one is your heiress?” he asked.
“Philippa, aye. She will be nine in April,” Rosamund responded.
He nodded once more, then fell silent, the gnarled hand reaching out to stroke one of the hall dogs, a greyhound, which had come to his side.
Rosamund moved away from her uncle. She had thought that Maybel exaggerated Henry Bolton’s state, but the older woman had not. Her uncle was pitiful, though she still sensed he could be dangerous if permitted. They would see he did not have any opportunity to cause difficulty.
Tom now hugged his cousin. “My dear, dear girl!” he exclaimed. “It is so good to see you once again and to return to Friarsgate. My business in the south is concluded. My Cambridge estate is sold to a newly knighted gentleman who paid quite a premium to gain it. Otterly is now mine. I did stop at court to pay my respects to his majesty. The queen strives for another child now that Scotland’s queen is delivered of a fine laddie. King Henry is not pleased by his sister’s successful accomplishment. He speaks of her as if she had betrayed him personally, and worse, as treasonous to England.”
“When Queen Katherine gives him a son, he will consider differently,” Rosamund said. “Remember, Hal never enjoyed being beaten at nursery games.”
Tom chuckled. “Too true, cousin. But he would have Spain to marry when many advised against it. They have been wed several years now, and no living heir or heiress to show for it. A stillborn daughter, and wee Henry of Cornwall, born and died in the same year. There has been no sign of a child in two years. And there is his brother- in-law, Scotland, with six healthy bastards and a legitimate fair son for his heir. Nay, our King Henry is not a happy fellow.”
“How fortunate, then, that we do not have to have anything to do with his court,” Rosamund said.
Tom nodded. “Now, dear girl, what of your handsome Scots earl?” he asked.
“Patrick has returned to Glenkirk, but we are to meet in Edinburgh on the first day of April, Tom. We have decided that we will wed. We will spend part of the spring, the summer, and the autumn here at Friarsgate, and the winters at Glenkirk. That way neither of us deserts our responsibilities,” Rosamund explained. “Patrick was most pleased with the way his son, Adam, managed Glenkirk in his absence. I can hardly wait until the spring, cousin. And I shall bring Philippa with me.”
“With us, dear girl. I do not intend you wed again without me in attendance,” he told her with a smile. “And what news from Claven’s Carn? Has Lady Jean done what was expected of her?” And Tom grinned wickedly at his cousin.
“She birthed a healthy son in early October,” Rosamund answered him. “A peddler returning to England brought word some weeks ago.”
“But Logan Hepburn has not communicated with you,” Tom noted.
“I would not expect Logan to do so,” Rosamund replied. “We did not part on the best of terms, Tom. The night Patrick and I were forced to seek shelter at Claven’s Carn, he fought with me and then drank himself into a stupor. We did not see him the following morning before we left, for which I was most grateful.”
“Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!” Rosamund’s three daughters were surrounding him. “What have you brought us?” Their small faces were eager with anticipation.
Tom swept Banon up into his arms and kissed her rosy cheek. She giggled happily, glad to know she was still a favorite. “Now, my little lasses,” he said. “I have one gift for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas for each of you.”
“But uncle,” Philippa responded, “Christ’s Mass is not for another four days.”
“I know,” he replied, eyes twinkling, “and so my little poppets, you will have to possess your wee souls of great patience until then.”
“ ’Tis not fair,” Banon, who was six, protested.
“Shame on you all,” Rosamund scolded her daughters. “I cannot believe you are so greedy. Run along, now, and have your suppers. Philippa, you will remain.”
Tom put Banon down, but not before giving her another kiss. Then he watched fondly as the two younger girls made their way from the hall. “They have grown even in the few months I was away,” he said.
Rosamund nodded. “I know,” she said. “In the months I was away, the same thing happened. I don’t ever want to leave my lasses again.”
He took her hand, and they sat together on a settle by the fire. Opposite them, Henry Bolton dozed, the greyhound now lying across his feet. “Your uncle has found a friend,” Tom observed. “God help the man, for he has no others.”
Rosamund sighed. “I must forgive him his treatment of me as a child,” she said. “He is to be pitied. I have not feared him since I was six and Hugh took my care upon himself. Poor Uncle Henry. Arranging my marriage to Hugh Cabot was his downfall.”
“More your salvation,” Tom chuckled, and Rosamund smiled.
“Aye,” she agreed.
