Friarsgate Inheritance: Until You Part 20

"Do not look so serious, my lord," the artist said. "You have lost your happy expression. Think of the bella Rosamund, and be glad!"

Patrick laughed, his bleak mood dispelled.

"Ah, that is better!" Paolo Loredano cried.

San Lorenzo was abloom with spring now. Flowering vines climbed house walls, and the fields along the road were ablaze with color. The air was growing warmer each day. The sea was as warm as their bathwater. They rode out, pa.s.sing vineyards now green with new growth. They swam and made love whenever and wherever the mood took them. March was coming to a close, and their April departure loomed. Annie and Dermid in a euphoria of newly wedded bliss had to be prodded to complete their daily tasks. Rosamund finally threatened to separate them at night if they did not do their duty.

They would not travel incognito on their return. It was unnecessary. There would be horses for them to ride and a traveling coach when they did not choose to ride. Their route was set, and the duke sent a rider ahead of them to book accommodations at the best inns along their route. They would travel to Paris under the duke's protection, and from there to the coast to take pa.s.sage home to Scotland on a vessel that would be awaiting them.

Finally their trunks were packed, and they went to the palace for a farewell dinner with Duke Sebastian. And after the meal was over, Paolo Loredano and his servant brought three canvases into the hall.

"And now, Madonna," he said, looking directly at Rosamund, "your portrait." Slowly he drew the covering from the first canvas.

There was a delighted cry from the audience. There Rosamund stood, garbed as the G.o.ddess of love in her lavender draperies, her auburn hair blowing in the soft breeze, a single breast bared. She was surrounded by hills, and beyond her lay the blue sea.

"It is beautiful!" the painting's subject cried. "You have surely made me more than I am, maestro, and while I know you have painted this for yourself, I regret I cannot have it. I remember once telling Queen Margaret that country folk did not have their portraits painted, as did the n.o.ble folk. I never thought to see myself portrayed in a painting."

"Then," Paolo Loredano said with a delighted grin, "you will be happy with what else I have done, and your lover will pay well for it." He whipped the covering from the second canvas.

Rosamund gasped with surprise. The artist had done two paintings of her. In this one however, he portrayed her wearing her favorite green velvet gown. She stood proudly, holding a sword pointed downward, a stone edifice and a blazing sunset behind her. It was a truly magnificent portrait, and Rosamund was absolutely stunned.

"It is how I will always think of you, Madonna," the artist told her. "The mistress of your Friarsgate, defending your beloved home. I have heard your England is green, and you have said your land is surrounded by hills. It is how I have represented it. I hope it pleases you."

Rosamund rose from her place at the duke's table and walked over to Paolo Loredano to kiss him full upon his lips. "I have no words to thank you, maestro," she told him. "I could have never dreamed such a portrait of me. Grazia! Mille grazia!" Then she returned to her seat.

The Venetian put his fingers to his lips. "You have paid me more than my work is worth, Madonna," he told her gallantly. Then he moved to the third canvas and disclosed its subject, Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, standing tall and handsome as he stared from the painting. "And lastly, San Lorenzo's first amba.s.sador from Scotland. I hope it pleases you, my lord." He bowed in the earl's direction.

"It more than pleases me," the earl said. "You have certainly earned yourself an excellent commission, maestro, and I gladly pay it. You will see the paintings are made safe for shipping?"

"I will, my lord. Yours shall be sent to Glenkirk, and I shall have the lady's sent to England." He came back now to his place at the duke's table, saying to Rosamund as he did, "The miniature has been packed by your servant and is with your possessions, Madonna."

When the evening had finally concluded and most of the guests departed, the duke said to the artist, "You have not forgotten you promised me the portrait of the G.o.ddess of love, Paolo, have you?"

"I have not forgotten, signore," the Venetian replied. "And you have not forgotten the price agreed upon, have you?"

The duke reached into his embroidered satin doublet and drew out a bag of coins, which he handed to the artist. "Count it if you will, but it is all there," he said.

"There is no need, signore, for I accept your word. The painting will remain with you, but I should not hang it until I am certain your friend the Earl of Glenkirk is gone."

"Were you able to seduce her?" the duke wondered.

"I am ashamed to admit I was not," the artist said. "She is an unusual woman." Then he bowed to the duke. "Good night, my lord," he said. He left the hall and returned to the villa he was renting.

A great grin suffused his features as he stood looking at the third portrait he had painted of Rosamund. It was somewhat similar to the one he had sold to the duke, but not quite. The beautiful G.o.ddess of love in this particular painting was entirely nude. Paolo Loredano chuckled to himself. The sheer draping he had chosen for her to wear had, in the proper lighting, provided him with an excellent view of her delicious body. He had sketched her first in charcoal, and once he returned to his studio he had copied the sketch onto the large canvas, completing this painting at his leisure in the evenings. Some nights he had slept as little as two hours, but it had been worth it. This G.o.ddess stood upon delicate gold-edged clouds, surrounded by small winged cupids, the deep blue sea below her, the paler blue sky above and around her. Her luxuriant auburn hair blew delicately about her lush body. Her head was topped by a wreath of spring flowers. He had perfectly captured her exquisite round b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the plump mound of her mons.

He sighed, regretting his inability to possess Rosamund Bolton. Her love for Patrick Leslie had rendered her impervious to Paolo Loredano. And that in itself made his loss all the worse, for he had never before failed to woo a woman he fixed his sights upon into his bed. Fortunately, they were far from Venice, and his reputation would be safe. Particularly when he returned with this magnificent rendition of love. It would be a.s.sumed that he had made this beauty his mistress during his winter sojourn in San Lorenzo. And when it was suggested he would neither confirm nor deny it. But this was a painting he would retain in his own possession for some time to come. He almost wished he might show her, and her alone, this secret rendition just to see her delightful outrage. But no. It was over, and Rosamund Bolton was now gone from his life.

Paolo Loredano sighed a final time before snuffing out the lamps in his studio and climbing the stairs to his empty bed. He slept well past the dawn, and when he finally awoke, Patrick Leslie and his beautiful mistress were many miles from Arcobaleno, on the road to Paris.

Lord Howard, the English amba.s.sador, had not been invited to the previous evening's farewell. He arrived at the duke's palace the following morning to discuss his master, King Henry's dissatisfaction with the current trade agreement between England and San Lorenzo. Ushered into the Great Hall where the duke was overseeing the hanging of his new portrait of the G.o.ddess of love, Lord Howard stared hard at the other two paintings that awaited the artist's supervision for their transport. He looked at the young woman in the green gown with her sword and her almost defiant look, and he suddenly knew where he had seen her before! It had been at his master's court several years ago. She was a friend of Queen Katherine's. Now, what was a friend of the queen's doing with a Scottish n.o.bleman? He was not certain the answer was of any import, but he would mention it in his next dispatch to his master, the king. He gazed again at the painting. She was very lovely. He wondered that his master had not been enchanted by her, but then, it was soon after that disgraceful episode with two of his female cousins who had been in the queen's service. The king would have been discreet in his wanderings at that point and would have looked farther afield for his amus.e.m.e.nt.

The duke turned to greet his visitor now. "Ah, Howard, what do you think of my painting? Does the Lady Rosamund not make a wonderful G.o.ddess of love?" He chuckled. "Of course, Lord Leslie believed the artist was keeping this painting for himself. I made a little arrangement with Loredano, for I found the lady quite lovely. What a pity she is so in love with her earl. I would have enjoyed having her in my own bed, and so would have the Venetian, I have not a doubt." He chuckled again.

"That is why there are two paintings?" Lord Howard thought he understood. "Was not Lord Leslie aware that his mistress was being painted with her breast bared?"

"He knew, but they both found it amusing for her to do so. She commissioned the portrait of him as a gift for her lover. Magnificent, isn't it?" The duke admired both paintings. "He is a great artist, Paolo Loredano. Every bit as worthy as t.i.tian."

"t.i.tian?" Lord Howard looked confused.

"Another Venetian artist," the duke said. "Now, let us get down to business, my lord. The day is warm, and there is a pretty flower seller in the market square I wish to visit this afternoon. She shows much promise," and he chortled wickedly, winking broadly at the English amba.s.sador. "I remember Patrick Leslie in his younger days. He would have vied openly with me for such a lovely prize."

"Then, perhaps it is better he is now gone," Lord Howard replied dryly, and as he said it he wondered just where the Earl of Glenkirk and his mistress had gone. To France? To Venice or Rome? Back to Scotland? He could not ask the duke without seeming overly interested. Besides, did it really matter? Patrick Leslie was not important. He was a man in the twilight of his years, having a final fling with a beautiful young woman. He had no power or influence. He had obviously come to San Lorenzo for no other reason than to escape the Scots winter and impress his mistress with a minor accomplishment that he had held in his younger days. Still, Lord Howard considered, it would not harm him to err on the side of caution and put this in his next report to King Henry. Everything, even the most seemingly minor detail, was important to the king.

The two subjects of Lord Howard's interest now cantered along the coast road towards Toulouse. They stopped the first night in a town called Villerose, in another little duchy, Beaumont de Jaspre. The weather was fair and warm. And, as they gradually began to travel in a more northerly direction towards Paris, the sunny skies remained with them. They followed a road along the Rhne River as far as Lyon, turning west then to ride cross-country to Roanne on the Loire. The vineyards in the Loire Valley were green with new growth, but several weeks behind those of San Lorenzo. Their road led to Nevers and from there to Chateauneuf, where they picked up the main road to Paris. There was more traffic as they moved towards the capital. They saw more soldiers than they had previously seen. It was obvious that France was on a war footing and already fighting with the pope's league.

They finally reached Paris in late April. Rosamund was exhausted and glad for this respite from their travels. Annie was obviously already with child and equally relieved to stop. The duke had arranged for them to break their long journey at a small house he owned just outside the city. The concierge had been alerted to their coming. The house was freshly cleaned and aired. Two servants, a maid, and a stableman had been brought in for their visit. The morning after their arrival, Patrick left to seek out an audience with King Louis, if indeed the king was in Paris.

He was, and after waiting almost the entire day, he was finally admitted to King Louis XII's august presence. He bowed low and said quietly so that only the king might hear, "I come from James Stewart, but I must speak with you privately, monseigneur."

The king's eyes flickered, curious. He was a tall, handsome man with a warm smile. "Leave us!" he said to his attendants, and they immediately vacated the chamber. "Sit down, my lord," he invited the earl, "and tell me why you have come."

"Merci," the earl replied, and he seated himself opposite the king. "I was called by my king several months ago to come from my northern home to Stirling, where he was holding his Christmas court. I had not been in his presence for eighteen years. Long ago I was King James' first amba.s.sador to the duchy of San Lorenzo. The king wished me to return there, traveling secretly, although once I arrived it was no longer a secret." He smiled at King Louis. "Though my king held out little hope of his plan succeeding, he still believed it necessary to try. I was to treat with representatives from the Emperor Maximilian and the doge in an effort to weaken the alliance they had made with Pope Julius, Spain, and Henry of England. As you know, the English king has been pressing my king to join with them. But James Stewart will not betray his alliance with France, my lord. I am here to rea.s.sure you he will keep his faith with you."

"I had no doubt he would," the French king responded. "Your mission, of course, failed."

"It did. However, I was able to plant within the minds of both emissaries a suspicion of King Henry," Patrick said.

"And how did you do that?" King Louis asked, smiling.

"I told them the truth of his personality and his ambitions," the Earl of Glenkirk replied with an answering smile. "You know, of course, the story of the Venerable Margaret's jewels."

"I do," King Louis said. " 'Twas shocking and most meanly done. I do not believe I should like this Henry Tudor if indeed I ever met him. I doubt I shall, but my son-in-law, Francois, will have to deal with him one day. I think, perhaps, they might get along, for they have similar characters. Francois, like Henry Tudor, is a large man with a large appet.i.te and a great l.u.s.t for all that life has to offer. Still, he is a good husband to my daughter Claude." Then King Louis arose from his chair, signaling that the interview was over. "Tell James Stewart that I thank him for his efforts on France's behalf. And I particularly thank him for his honorable stance. I know it will not be easy. His brother-in-law's reputation already grows."

The Earl of Glenkirk bowed politely. "I shall take your good wishes to my king, my lord, and I thank you for seeing me." Then Patrick backed from the French king's presence. He returned to the little house outside of Paris on the Seine.

Rosamund was awaiting him. "I began to fear for you when it grew dark," she told him. "You will not have eaten, I expect. Come. Dermid brought us a good supper from the nearby inn." He looked tired, she thought, leading him to the table and seating him. "Annie is not feeling particularly well, and so I insisted she rest. It is often this way with a first bairn." She lifted the cover from a tureen and ladled a good-smelling stew onto his plate. "These French know how to cook," she told him, setting the plate before him and tearing a hunk of bread off the loaf for him. "Eat, Patrick, and then tell me what transpired this day." She poured a dark red wine into his goblet and then waited while he ate. He was obviously hungry, she noted, as he quickly cleared his plate of food, mopping every bit of the gravy up with his bread. "More?" she asked, and he nodded. "You did not eat all day, did you, my lord? That is not good for a man of your years."

Patrick swallowed down a portion of his wine. "I had to wait for King Louis to see me," he said. "Or at least for one of his pompous secretaries to make an appointment for me. I was so persistent, they let me in at the last moment." He spooned the stew on his plate into his mouth, eating vigorously until he finally seemed satisfied. His wine cup was refilled twice. Now the Earl of Glenkirk sat back and took Rosamund's hand up to kiss it. "Thank you for taking such good care of me, sweetheart."

"We cannot always be roiling with pa.s.sion, Patrick." She smiled back at him. "Now, tell me what King Louis said."

"He said he expected no less of Jamie Stewart than he had gotten in the past. That he knew Scotland would adhere to our auld alliance. He sends King James his good wishes. 'Twas a courtesy the king sought of me, and King Louis knows it. There is little need now for us to remain here."

"But I have never been to Paris," Rosamund said. "And when shall this country girl have the opportunity to come again, my lord? Can we not spend just a few days here? I should very much like to see the cathedral, and besides, Annie really could use a respite before we begin the last of our journey. A sea voyage is apt to play havoc with her belly."

"Two days," he said, "and we depart on the third. Will that satisfy you, madame?"

"It is more than generous, my lord," she a.s.sured him.

"I'll send one of the duke's men to Calais to see if our ship is awaiting us. He'll not have time to return to Paris, but he can meet us on the road. The English will be on the lookout for vessels sailing beneath the French or Scots flags."

The following day Patrick and Rosamund visited the great Cathedral of Notre Dame on the Ile de la Cite. Paris itself was a bustling and noisy city, and to Rosamund's surprise it was quite different from London, despite the similarity of having a river running through it. The French were colorful and vibrant. They saw gypsy performers in the streets. The taverns overflowed with revelers. No matter the war, Paris was always vibrant and alive.

"It is exhausting," Rosamund laughed as they returned home the evening before they were to finally depart. "I do not think I could live here. Did you see the fabrics in some of the shops? They are marvelous, but they do not have a wool as fine as we raise at Friarsgate. The wools I saw were heavy and coa.r.s.e. They were Scots, or Irish, or mayhap even English, some of them. But they were not of the quality of Friarsgate wool. I must speak with my agent in Carlisle and see what can be done about that. The French appreciate quality, and I can offer them that."

"I have never before seen this side of you," he marveled. "You are suddenly a woman of commerce."

"I have not the advantage of your birth, my lord. Friarsgate folk have always been simple people, but we are industrious. I see profit here, and to overlook it would be foolish," Rosamund told him.

"You are growing restless with this life you have been leading, aren't you?" he said, reaching out to tip her face up to him.

"Aye," she admitted, "I am. You have been busy, Patrick, on your mission of diplomacy for your king. I have been an ornament for your pleasure. And mine," she amended with a small smile. "But I am not used to being so idle."

"I will have you home by midsummer," he promised her, and he smiled back. She almost broke his heart with her loveliness, he thought to himself.

They departed Paris the following morning just before dawn. It was Rosamund's twenty-third birthday, and quite forgotten even by her. They met the duke's man along their path. A ship was awaiting them. It was a Scots vessel, but it would fly the flag of a Flemish merchant prince. At Calais they boarded their transport in a falling rain, but the seas were relatively calm. Two days out, as they made their way up the North Sea towards Leith, the weather cleared, giving them a brisk and unusual southeast wind. They saw other sails on the sea, but no one challenged them even as they neared the border between England and Scotland. They sailed closer to land now, and the captain pointed out the opening to the river Tyne.

"We're almost home, my lord," the captain said. "We'll be entering the Fifth of Forth shortly. We dock at Leith in the early morning."

It was early May, and the mists partially obscured the land as they reached their destination. Their luggage was off-loaded and taken to the inn from where they had departed almost six months before. They were settled in a comfortable apartment with several fireplaces all now blazing warmth and taking the chill off the early morning.

"I will have to arrange for transport to Edinburgh, or wherever the king is now," Patrick told Rosamund.

"Inquire if the queen has been safely delivered," Rosamund said, and he nodded.

"Aye," the innkeeper replied to the question asked by the Earl of Glenkirk. "The wee queen did give birth to a fine healthy bairn on the tenth day of April. They say the king does wrap the laddie in a blanket and ride through Edinburgh town wi him so the people may see this next Jamie Stewart."

"And the queen is well?" the earl inquired.

"Och, aye, she is, my lord," the innkeeper answered with a smile. "She but needed a bit of seasoning to do it well."

"The king is in Edinburgh yet?" the earl queried.

"Aye, he be in the town," the innkeeper said.

"I'll ride in today," the earl said.

"I'll go with you," Rosamund responded. "I must see Meg, and I did promise to return. The sooner I see her, the sooner I can confess my deception, and then perhaps she will let me go home. It has been nearly five months since I've seen my la.s.ses, Patrick."

"I'll send a message to Glenkirk," he said. "Adam will not be unhappy to remain master there for a while longer. I am anxious to see your Friarsgate, lovey."

"Annie and Dermid can follow tomorrow," she decided. "We can do without our servants for a night, and heaven only knows if there will even be room for us. Court life is not the most gracious for ordinary folk."

They rode the few miles between the port of Leith and the capital city of Edinburgh. Once at the castle, the Earl of Glenkirk sought out the king to give him his final report. Rosamund, however, went immediately to the queen's apartments. Margaret Tudor spied her friend immediately and shrieked a greeting.

"Rosamund! Oh, come and see my beautiful boy, Rosamund! I am so glad that you are back! How are your girls? Come! Come!"

Rosamund laughed and crossed the room to peer into the ornate cradle by the queen's side. The month-old boy stared up at her. He was plump and alert. Waving his little fists at her, he made small noises, and Rosamund laughed again. "Oh, Meg, he is a fine laddie! The king must be so pleased!" She curtsied and blushed slightly, realizing that she had slipped back into a familiarity she should not, but the queen waved her hand, dismissing the breach.

"Come and sit with me, and tell me all about Friarsgate," the queen said.

"We must speak privily about that," Rosamund said quietly.

Immediately the queen's curiosity was piqued. "Get out! All of you! I would speak confidentially with the lady of Friarsgate. You, also," she said to the cradle rocker. "My son will survive without being in constant motion." And when the queen's chamber had been emptied, she turned again to her childhood friend and said, "Tell me."

"I have not been at Friarsgate, Meg. I have been with the Earl of Glenkirk in the duchy of San Lorenzo." Then she went on to explain the mission the king had sent Patrick on, and of how he would not go without her, and of how she loved him so desperately that she had lied to Margaret Tudor and gone. "Will you forgive me?" she asked the queen as she concluded her tale.

"Of course I forgive you!" the queen said sincerely. "So, you love him. But does he love you? And if he does, why does he not offer marriage?"

"He does love me, but I choose not to marry again, Meg. At least not now. I have a duty to Friarsgate, and Patrick has his duty to Glenkirk, although his son is able to carry on in his absence. With your permission I am now going to go home to Friarsgate, and Patrick will come with me for a time."

"You must bide with me for a brief while," the queen pleaded prettily.

"Agreed," Rosamund said, laughing once more, "though you really do not need me. You have all your women to keep you company."

"They are not my friends," the queen replied. "You know that queens have few friends, Rosamund." Then a sly smile touched her lips, and she asked, "Is he a very good lover? My Jamie certainly is, despite the years that separate us, but the Earl of Glenkirk is really old. Can he still make love? Or is this the kind of love you bore for your second husband, Hugh Cabot?"

"He is a magnificent lover and frequently exhausts me, Meg," Rosamund replied candidly. "I love him, you know, and my pa.s.sion for him is not in the least as it was for Hugh, who was more father to me than any."

"How strange that this love should come to you at this time and in this place," the queen noted. "I love the king, you know. And he is very good to me, although I suspect he believes I am not the cleverest of women. He often treats me as he would a favored animal. So he sent your earl to try to weaken this alliance the pope has now formed. He knew it would not work, of course." The queen's foot was absently rocking her son's cradle as she spoke, and the baby was now falling asleep.

"King James is an honorable man. He will not betray this old alliance that Scotland has with France. There is no need for him to do so," Rosamund said. "I think we both know that your brother, King Henry, seeks an excuse to make war on Scotland. He cannot be pleased that you have given your husband a son when poor Kate cannot give him one. It must frustrate him that Scotland holds the balance of power here. England cannot invade France with France's ally on his northern border. So he seeks to isolate Scotland from the rest of Europe. Your husband, Meg, is a man of peace. He sees what peace has brought Scotland. This country is prosperous and content, no matter your easily insulted earls and lairds." She smiled. "Now Scotland has an heir. There is even more at stake."

"Yet Jamie builds a navy," the queen noted.

"To protect Scotland, Meg. He seeks to defend his sea borders. His navy is a bulwark against foreigners," Rosamund explained. It had always been difficult for Meg to see the large picture.

"Henry is jealous of Jamie's ships. He is now building a navy, too, Kate writes me," the queen responded.

"Kate is well?" It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her of Katherine of Aragon, now England's queen.

"But that she cannot seem to give my brother a living heir," Meg said. "Henry will be patient just so long, and then who knows what he will do. The fault lies with Kate, I fear, for my brother has his share of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and he has impregnated her several times. But her children die. I wonder if it is not G.o.d's judgment. Perhaps my father should have sent her back to Spain. Perhaps she should not have wed Arthur's younger brother. But, then, what is done is done. Have they found you a place to rest your head?"

"We arrived early this morning, and after settling at an inn in Leith we came directly here. Annie and Dermid will follow tomorrow. They are wed, and Annie is already expecting a bairn," Rosamund replied.

"It is always inconvenient when one's tiring woman finds herself with child. At least they are wed."

"They might not have been but for Paolo Loredano," and Rosamund went on to tell the story of how the artist had sketched Annie with Dermid in a most compromising position.

The queen laughed. "I'll wager the naughty girl was surprised when you faced her with your knowledge."

"I said nothing. I just left the sketch for them to see. They came then and asked our permission to wed," Rosamund chuckled.

"Oh, I have gossip about your old suitor, Logan Hepburn," the queen said. "His little wife is big with child. It will be born sometime in October. They say he mounted her again and again until she proved fecund. Since then he has not been near her, although he treats her with kindness. They say he has a mistress somewhere in the borders. You are well rid of the fellow."

"Logan is not a bad man, Meg. I was simply not ready to marry again, and he needed a legitimate heir. I am relieved his family prevailed. Besides, Friarsgate is my home, and I could live nowhere else," Rosamund told the queen.

"So your earl will go with you over the border?"