Rosamund by Bertrice Small Page B

irritably. “My bottom is already hurting from this beast, and we have not gone a step yet.”
    Edmund and Owein laughed.
    Rosamund reappeared. “Did you pack the embroidered ribbon,Maybel? I am certain I saw it on the floor of my bedchamber. I had best go back and see to it.”
    Edmund Bolton took his niece by the hand, quickly leading her to her mount. His fingers closed about her waist as he lifted her up into her saddle. “Everything is packed, Rosamund,” he said sternly. He handed the lead from his niece’s mare to Sir Owein. “Go now, lass, and Godspeed! We will all look forward to your return, which will come all the sooner if you will go now.” Then he smacked the horse upon its rump and watched as it moved off.
    “I want to hear no gossip when I return,” Maybel told her husband. “Take care of yourself, old man. Wear that flannel I sewed for you on your chest this winter or you’ll catch an ague for certain.”
    “And you, woman, don’t go flirting with all those handsome gentlemen at the court. Remember you are my dear wife,” he responded with a warm smile. “You’re a bit bossy, lass, but I’ll miss you.”
    “Humph!” she snorted, and then turned her horse away from him, following after Sir Owein and Rosamund.
    Rosamund had been off her lands but twice in her life, and both times no farther than a few miles from her home. Her husband and her uncle Edmund had taken her to a horse and cattle fair. Once she had gone to a wool market. She had never spent a night away from Friarsgate, nor from her own bed. Had Hugh known what he was doing when he had put her into the custody of a virtual stranger? She almost wished her uncle Henry had prevailed and she was still at Friarsgate. Almost.
    As her initial fears wore off Rosamund actually began to enjoy the ride. And mindful of the fact his charge had never spent an entire day on horseback, Sir Owein stopped in midmorning so they might stand and stretch, and eat the food that the Friarsgate cook had prepared and packed. And Rosamund found that her appetite had returned as she ate roasted capon and rabbit pastries still warm from the oven, bread and cheese and crisp pears from her own orchards. They rode on to stop again at a small convent in midafternoon. The rain had finally caught up with them. As they were expected they were welcomed, but Sir Owein was sent to the guesthouse for men, while Rosamund and Maybel remained with the nuns. They were, however, the only visitors that night.
    It was that first evening that Rosamund realized the truth in her guardian’s words. Their meal consisted of a thick pottage of root vegetables served them in a small trencher of brown bread and a narrow wedge of hard cheese. The ale was bitter, and they drank little. Their bedding was not much better. Two pallets, their straw mattresses flattened down with much use and somewhat bug ridden. In the morning they were served oat stirabout, which they ate with wooden spoons from a common pot. A single slice of bread was given them to share. When Sir Owein had offered the donation, they departed.
    The walled town of Carlisle was the first real town that Rosamund had ever seen. Her eyes grew wide as they passed through the Rickard’s Gate. Her heart beat faster as they traversed the narrow streets, its houses side by side with no gardens to be seen. They moved down the High Street, crossing south to the church of St. Cuthbert’s, which was allied with Richard Bolton’s monastery, and in whose guesthouses they would spend the night.
    “I don’t think I like towns,” Rosamund said. “Why does it stink so much, Owein?”
    “If you look carefully in the streets, lady, you will see the contents of the town’s night jars as they make their way in the gutters to the sewers,” he explained.
    “My cow byres smell better,” she responded.
    “Come, lady,” he teased her, “a country girl such as yourself shouldn’t mind a few odors.”
    Rosamund shook her head. “Do town