his teasing.
“Nay, darling girl. ’Tis only a short walk down the hill. The house is but a few yards from the castle gates. The old woman used to cook for the royal nursery when it was at Stirling. Your little friend, the queen, however, objected to the king housing his bastards in a castle she had a particular fondness for, and she threw such a tantrum when she first discovered the little by-blows there that the king moved his nursery to a more discreet location out of his queen’s sight. The king wanted to make his eldest son, Alexander, his heir, you know, and the queen still fears he might if she doesn’t give him a nice healthy babe.”
“Alexander Stewart is the bishop of St. Andrew’s,” Rosamund said.
“Aye, he is, and he is amazingly well suited to the task despite his youth. He and the king have a great bond of love between them. The queen is jealous. She knows that even if she gives her husband a healthy son and heir, Alexander will always be his favorite. But then, of course, he is the firstborn.”
“How do you learn all this gossip, and in such detail?” Rosamund demanded of her cousin. “We have been here scarce a week,” she laughed.
They had exited the castle, walked across the great courtyard, and were now passing through Stirling’s open gates into the street beyond. It was a cobbled byway lined in well-kept stone houses with dark slate roofs. Three houses down on the left Lord Cambridge stopped and turned to enter the building, calling as he did, “Mistress MacHugh, I have brought my cousin home, and we are hungry, having just come from the mass.”
A tall, thin woman appeared from the depths of the darkened hallway. “Yer cousin, is it, my lord?”
“Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate and the queen’s good friend, Mistress MacHugh. I’ve spoken of her,” Lord Cambridge said. He divested himself of his cloak and took Rosamund’s from her.
“Ye’ve done naught but chatter away since ye rented my dwelling from me,” Mistress MacHugh replied sharply. She looked directly at Rosamund. “Does he ever stop speaking, my lady?” But her gray eyes were twinkling.
“Not often, I fear, Mistress MacHugh,” Rosamund answered with a smile. Then she shivered involuntarily.
The lady saw it and she tch ed. “Come into the parlor, my lady. I have a good fire going there. It’s the coziest room in the house. I’ll bring yer meal there.” Then she bustled off.
The parlor of the cottage was indeed warm with the blazing fire. Rosamund sat down in a tapestried chair next to the warmth. Tom placed a small goblet of wine in her hand, advising her to drink it to restore the heat to her slender frame.
“I’ll not press you until the meal is served,” he said. “I don’t want to be interrupted, and you, I am certain, don’t wish to share your news with the entire world.”
She nodded and slowly sipped at the sweet wine.
“You are wearing one of my favorite gowns,” he noted. “The fur-trimmed sleeves make it a whole other garment, I vow. It complements your lovely hair, cousin.”
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Rosamund agreed. “And I thank you for the new sleeves. The marten is just wonderful in both texture and color.”
The door to the parlor opened, and Mistress MacHugh came in carrying a large tray. She set it on a sideboard, then said, “My lord, help me with this table.” And together the landlady and Lord Cambridge set a sturdy oak table before the fire. Rosamund immediately drew her chair up. Their hostess filled two pewter plates with small trenchers of oat stirabout, fluffy eggs, ham, and individual cottage loaves that were hot from her ovens. She placed a stone crock of fresh butter, another of cherry preserves, and a generous wedge of cheese between them. Then, with a small curtsy, she departed the chamber.
They ate in silence until both plates were empty and half the cheese was devoured between them. The wine, Rosamund thought, was really quite good.
“Nay, darling girl. ’Tis only a short walk down the hill. The house is but a few yards from the castle gates. The old woman used to cook for the royal nursery when it was at Stirling. Your little friend, the queen, however, objected to the king housing his bastards in a castle she had a particular fondness for, and she threw such a tantrum when she first discovered the little by-blows there that the king moved his nursery to a more discreet location out of his queen’s sight. The king wanted to make his eldest son, Alexander, his heir, you know, and the queen still fears he might if she doesn’t give him a nice healthy babe.”
“Alexander Stewart is the bishop of St. Andrew’s,” Rosamund said.
“Aye, he is, and he is amazingly well suited to the task despite his youth. He and the king have a great bond of love between them. The queen is jealous. She knows that even if she gives her husband a healthy son and heir, Alexander will always be his favorite. But then, of course, he is the firstborn.”
“How do you learn all this gossip, and in such detail?” Rosamund demanded of her cousin. “We have been here scarce a week,” she laughed.
They had exited the castle, walked across the great courtyard, and were now passing through Stirling’s open gates into the street beyond. It was a cobbled byway lined in well-kept stone houses with dark slate roofs. Three houses down on the left Lord Cambridge stopped and turned to enter the building, calling as he did, “Mistress MacHugh, I have brought my cousin home, and we are hungry, having just come from the mass.”
A tall, thin woman appeared from the depths of the darkened hallway. “Yer cousin, is it, my lord?”
“Rosamund Bolton, the lady of Friarsgate and the queen’s good friend, Mistress MacHugh. I’ve spoken of her,” Lord Cambridge said. He divested himself of his cloak and took Rosamund’s from her.
“Ye’ve done naught but chatter away since ye rented my dwelling from me,” Mistress MacHugh replied sharply. She looked directly at Rosamund. “Does he ever stop speaking, my lady?” But her gray eyes were twinkling.
“Not often, I fear, Mistress MacHugh,” Rosamund answered with a smile. Then she shivered involuntarily.
The lady saw it and she tch ed. “Come into the parlor, my lady. I have a good fire going there. It’s the coziest room in the house. I’ll bring yer meal there.” Then she bustled off.
The parlor of the cottage was indeed warm with the blazing fire. Rosamund sat down in a tapestried chair next to the warmth. Tom placed a small goblet of wine in her hand, advising her to drink it to restore the heat to her slender frame.
“I’ll not press you until the meal is served,” he said. “I don’t want to be interrupted, and you, I am certain, don’t wish to share your news with the entire world.”
She nodded and slowly sipped at the sweet wine.
“You are wearing one of my favorite gowns,” he noted. “The fur-trimmed sleeves make it a whole other garment, I vow. It complements your lovely hair, cousin.”
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Rosamund agreed. “And I thank you for the new sleeves. The marten is just wonderful in both texture and color.”
The door to the parlor opened, and Mistress MacHugh came in carrying a large tray. She set it on a sideboard, then said, “My lord, help me with this table.” And together the landlady and Lord Cambridge set a sturdy oak table before the fire. Rosamund immediately drew her chair up. Their hostess filled two pewter plates with small trenchers of oat stirabout, fluffy eggs, ham, and individual cottage loaves that were hot from her ovens. She placed a stone crock of fresh butter, another of cherry preserves, and a generous wedge of cheese between them. Then, with a small curtsy, she departed the chamber.
They ate in silence until both plates were empty and half the cheese was devoured between them. The wine, Rosamund thought, was really quite good.
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