Rosamund by Bertrice Small Page A

at Lammastide had embroidered it with a bit of gold thread she had obtained from heaven only knew where. She now returned it to her mistress saying, “It’s beautiful, my little lady, but ’tis more suited to yerself than to an old shepherd’s wife. See, I’ve made it with stars so you will remember the night sky over Friarsgate when you are among the high and mighty. You will come back to us, lady?” Her worn face was anxious.
    “As quickly as they will let me, Mary, I swear it!” Rosamund said with fervor. “I would as soon not go, but I fear my uncle would attempt to gain my custody and my lands again. This would seem to be the only way that I will be safe.”
    Mary nodded. “ ’Twould seem the gentry has their problems too, my lady,” she observed.
    Rosamund laughed. “Aye,” she agreed. “Nothing, it seems, is simple in this life.”
    Several days before she was to go her uncle Richard came from St. Cuthbert’s, bringing with him the young priest, Father Mata. Rosamund liked the young man immediately, as did Edmund. He was of medium height and a bit plump. His blue eyes danced below his bushy eyebrows. He had rosy cheeks in a baby face. The hair around his tonsure was a bright red, and his skin was very pale.
    He bowed to her, saying, “I am grateful, my lady, for the living that you have offered me.”
    “It is not great,” Rosamund told him, “and you will always be busy. But you will be well-fed, and the roof of your house does not leak, nor is the chimney drafty.”
    “I shall say the mass daily,” he promised her, “and celebrate All Saints’ Day, but first the unchurched must be properly wed and the bairns baptized.”
    “Aye,” Rosamund agreed. “We are all glad you are here.”
    “And when will you return, my lady?” the young priest inquired.
    “When I am permitted,” Rosamund replied.
    “Come,” Edmund said, seeing his niece beginning to lose heart again, “let us take the good father to his house, Rosamund. I have an old woman, Nona, who will keep it swept. You will take your meals in thehall with me, Father Mata. I will welcome the company.” He moved off in the direction of the priest’s cottage next to the little church.

    The morning of September first dawned cloudy and windy with the rain obviously imminent before the noon hour. Nonetheless Sir Owein insisted that they keep to their schedule. He knew that another day would make it no easier for Rosamund, whose fears were now threatening to overwhelm her despite their best efforts. Father Mata said an early mass even before the sunrise, had they even been able to see the sun. The fast was broken in the hall, fresh trenchers of bread, still warm from the ovens and hollowed out for the oat stirabout were set at each place. Rosamund could not eat. Her stomach rolled nervously.
    “You cannot go the day without a good meal,” the king’s man told her firmly. “This will be the best meal you have for many a day, my lady. The guesthouses of the church are hardly noted for their food or the quality of their drink. You will be sick the day long if you do not eat now.”
    Rosamund dutifully shoveled the hot cereal into her unwilling mouth. It lay in her stomach like a stone. She sipped her goblet of watered wine. It lay sour atop the oat stirabout. She nibbled at some cheese, but it tasted salty and was dry. Finally she arose, reluctantly. “We had best start,” she said.
    Her house servants lined up to wish her Godspeed. She bid them good-bye with tears in her eyes, and the women among them began to weep. She walked through the door of the manor house. There outside her mare awaited. Rosamund turned suddenly. “I have forgotten to say farewell to my dogs!” She ran back inside.
    They waited patiently for her return, but when she did she said, “I wonder if Pusskin has had her litter yet. I must look in the stable before we go.” And again she disappeared.
    “Put her on the horse, Edmund, when she returns,” Maybel said