Free Rosamund by Bertrice Small

fallen asleep by her chair beneath the table. She looked at Sir Owein and asked in a softvoice, “Am I really safe from him?” nodding to Henry Bolton. “He cannot force me to wed his odious little son?”
    “Nay, lady, he cannot,” the king’s man said softly. “It is my understanding that your late husband wished otherwise. Normally I should not be privy to a communiqué between the king and a correspondent, but his majesty wanted me to have a clear understanding of the situation here at Friarsgate so I would not unwittingly or unknowingly circumvent your husband’s wishes.”
    Tears sprang to Rosamund’s amber eyes. “He was such a good man, my Hugh,” she said. “My uncle never considered that when he married me to him. His only interest was to protect Friarsgate until he had a son he might foist on me. My first husband was also his son, you know. I hardly remember John. Do you think there are many widows of thirteen, for I shall be thirteen in a few weeks, who have outlived two husbands and are still virgins?”
    Owein Meredith choked upon his wine at this revelation. He struggled to regain his breath as a fit of coughing overtook him. Then he burst out laughing, and he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. About him those seated at the high board stared, surprised. When he finally regained control over himself he managed to say, “The wine went down the wrong way.”
    “But your laughter?” Richard Bolton inquired, curious.
    “Something the Lady Rosamund said. I doubt anyone else should be amused, but her words struck me humorously,” he explained, not wanting to repeat what his young and ingenuous hostess had just said. Her uncles might not find it amusing at all. He looked closely at Rosamund. She was hardly a woman, but then neither was she a child. Her skin was like cream, smooth and fair, with no blemish, the faintest touch of rose in her cheeks. Her amber eyes were fringed with dark lashes. Her hair was a rich auburn in color, parted in the center, a rather flat coiffure with a braid down the back. She had a straight little nose within her oval face, and a mouth that was inclined to be generous, the lower lip fuller than the upper.
    “Why do you stare at me so?” Rosamund asked him.
    “Because I find you very pretty, my lady,” he answered her frankly.
    Rosamund colored. She had never received a compliment from a handsome man. Oh, Hugh had always told her she would be a beauty one day, but Hugh loved her. She was like his child. “Thank you,” she replied shyly. “Should a lady at court express gratitude for a compliment, sir?” she next inquired of him, curious.
    “A lady at court would acknowledge such acclaim with a gracious nod of her head, but say naught,” he told her with a small smile. She was a very charming girl, he thought, and quite unaffected. Then he continued, “But if the praise were from someone the lady did not favor she would ignore it and turn away.”
    “Will they understand me at court, Sir Owein?”
    “I understand you,” he said.
    “But certainly my Cumbrian accent will not be comprehended by some,” Rosamund fretted.
    “While I am with you,” he said, “I will help you to smooth the north from your speech, lady.”
    “And you will correct my manners if I do what would not be done at court?” She eyed him anxiously. “I do not want to disgrace myself or my family’s good name.”
    “I will gladly tutor you, lady, in all you need to know,” he promised her. “And will you trust me when I tell you we must leave Friarsgate and go south? I will give you time, lady, but I realize it will be difficult for you to leave. Will you trust me to know the right time?” He gave her an encouraging smile.
    “We will not go too soon?” she queried him nervously.
    “I think September is a good month in which to travel south,” he replied, again smiling. She was afraid. Of course she was, having never been more than a few miles from her home. It would