us. Who knows when you will come to court again?”
“Perhaps never, Hal, but my Philippa will certainly come,” Rosamund said.
He nodded. “Your daughters will always be welcome at our court,” he told her.
“Thank you, your majesty,” she replied.
“You may return to the Great Hall now, madame,” he said.
Rosamund curtsied again and began to back from the room.
“You should really have another husband,” the king suddenly remarked.
“Do not attempt to shackle me to anyone, Hal. Any bridegroom foisted upon me will not live to see the morning after the wedding,” she warned him.
“I am your king, madame! I have the right to choose for you if I would.”
“I have wed thrice for the pleasure of others, Hal,” Rosamund replied. “It was your own grandmother, God assoil her good soul, who said that after a woman had done her duty, she had the right to marry for love.”
“Will you find love again, Rosamund?” he asked.
“Perhaps, Hal, I will be fortunate,” she said, and then she opened the door and slipped into the hallway, where the little page awaited her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, for he had been dozing on his feet. She smiled and patted his blond head. “Take me back to the hall, lad,” she told him, and she followed in his wake as he went.
She had scarcely arrived back at her destination than Tom was at her side. Philippa was not with him. “Where is Philippa?” she asked.
“I have introduced her to several young ladies, all close to her in age,” he said. “A young girl should not be shackled at court to an older relation. Now, tell me at once, dear girl, what has happened?” He led her to an alcove where there was a bench, and together they sat.
“There is little to tell,” Rosamund began. “He demanded to know why I had gone to Scotland and San Lorenzo. Lord Howard had indeed reported my presence there with Patrick. I explained all, but I will admit to keeping it as simple as possible. Then he thought perhaps we might take up where we had left off.”
“No!” Lord Cambridge actually looked shocked, though he should not have been surprised.
“I have dissuaded him, of course, Tom, but he would have us come to Windsor. He says we may return home from there, but we must bide a while,” Rosamund explained.
“Actually,” her cousin replied, “if you departed now it could cause gossip to arise, especially as Inez de Salinas has been sent publicly from court. They say she and her husband will leave for Spain soon, ostensibly to visit her elderly parents. And a few weeks of the court’s amusements will not harm Philippa. She can make some valuable connections, Rosamund. Just recall your own stay as a girl. There are few who can claim a friendship with two queens.”
“But I have no friends at the court,” Rosamund said.
“It is time, then, that you made some,” he said.
“I don’t intend returning if I can possibly help it,” she told him.
“But Philippa will return, and it is probably from those who people the court that we will choose Philippa’s husband, Rosamund. It cannot hurt you to make friends,” he explained patiently. His cousin had always preferred her own company and that of a few relations over strangers, but that needed to change.
“I suppose you mean to introduce me to some people,” she grumbled at him.
Tom grinned at her. “My habits, dear girl, may not conform to most, but I assure you I know many people of the right sort. I am considered witty and amusing, you know,” he said mischievously. “Now that you have concluded this business with both of our dear monarchs and you have been commanded to Windsor, it is time for you to meet others of your own kind, cousin. How do you expect to find the right husband for our Philippa if you do not mingle among the nobility?”
She laughed. “That is the difficulty, Tom. I think Philippa too young for a proposed marriage.”
“Of course she is,” he agreed. “But it will take us two or three years to find the right connections, and then another year for Philippa to decide which among her suitors will please her. These things must be done delicately and with finesse, my dear girl. One does not purchase a pig in a poke, Rosamund.”
“You make it sound so calculated, Tom,” she told him.
“It is,” he agreed.
“But I want Philippa to fall in love and be in love forever,” Rosamund said.
“If only life were that simple, my dear girl. With luck, she will indeed love the man she marries before they wed-if they have the time to know each other. But more than likely, that love will come afterwards. Your marriage to your cousin was arranged to keep Friarsgate in the family. Your marriage to Hugh Cabot was for the same reason. You were too young to know of love then, but when you were wed to Owein Meredith, you did not love him, did you?”
Rosamund shook her head.
“But you came to love him because he was a good man and he respected your position as the lady of Friarsgate. With careful planning, dear girl, we shall gain the same good fortune for Philippa. But unless we begin our search now, what chance have we? And do not, I pray you, bring up the love that you and Lord Leslie shared, cousin. It was unique and rare. Few in this world have such love.”
“I know,” she whispered to him, feeling the tears coming again.
“Dear cousin,” Tom said, and he brushed the tears from her cheek, “be grateful that you knew such love, but also be sensible where your child is concerned.”
Rosamund nodded. “I will meet these people you seek to introduce me to,” she said with a small smile. “But can I meet them another day? I have had all I can bear today, cousin. I want to go home and sit out in your garden to watch the river.”
“And think, mayhap, of your brazen Scot?” he teased her.
“Aye,” she said, surprising him.
“Take your own barge, dear girl. I will return later with Lucy and Philippa,” he told her.
Rosamund leaned over and kissed her cousin on his smooth cheek. “What, dear Tom,” she said, “should I ever do without you?”
“If the truth be known, dear girl,” he responded, “I shudder to even contemplate it.” And he grinned.
Rosamund arose. “Do not remain too late,” she said. “It is Philippa’s first day, and we will be leaving shortly for Windsor.”
He nodded, then watched as she departed the Great Hall.
Rosamund’s little vessel was brought to her, and after entering it, she sat down on the blue velvet bench and closed her eyes. “Take me home,” she told her rowers.
The air was warm as they rowed, but some of the smells in the air were distinctly unpleasant as the barge moved along. Her servants rowed in midriver, as the tide was low now, and the mudflats along the bank were visible to the eye and discernible to the nose. Rosamund sighed to herself. The worst was certainly over now, she thought, and having thought it found herself longing for Friarsgate. But Tom was right. If she was to one day see her daughters matched with men of eminent families, she must socialize and make contacts now. A smile touched her lips as she considered that just a few short years back she had been considered a girl. Now she was a woman of twenty-five, widowed thrice and looking for husbands not for herself but for her three daughters. Yet the need for love had not deserted her. Surely not.
Rosamund knew she was lonely. But did she want to marry again? Did she want Logan Hepburn? It seemed she had been running away from him her whole life. Or he had been running after her. She hadn’t, of course; nor had she even known of the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn until… God’s wounds! Was it that long ago that he had sat his horse atop a hill overlooking Friarsgate and told her he wanted her for his wife? Eleven years. Nay! It could not be eleven years ago! It had been just before she married Owein, and Philippa was now ten years of age. The realization dawned upon her. It was indeed eleven years ago that she had sparred indignantly with him and forbade him to come to her wedding. But he had, of course, with his brothers in tow. They had brought whiskey and salmon, and they had played their pipes for the bride and groom. Eleven years!
Yet she did not know him. Not really. She knew he was determined and that he was stubborn. She knew he had been willing to let his lands go to his brothers’ sons rather than marry another. For her. For Rosamund Bolton. Never before had she considered Logan Hepburn in any other way but an annoyance. She had called him a crude borderer, a Scots scoundrel. And she had meant it.
