Rosamund by Bertrice Small

Author:Bertrice Small [Small, Bertrice]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2015-11-27T16:00:00+00:00

Look on this rose, O Rose,

And looking laugh on me,

And in thy laughter’s ring

The nightingale shall sing.

Take thou this rose, O Rose,

Since Love’s own flower it is,

And by that rose,

Thy lover captive is.

The music died, leaving her quite breathless. He took her small hand in his as he lay the lute aside and kissed it tenderly. Their eyes met, and Rosamund felt a strange stirring within her heart.

“I have never been serenaded before,” she said softly. “Did you write the song?”

“Nay,” he admitted, realizing that he might have lied to her, and she would have never known. “The poem is said to have been written by Abelard, a French philosopher and sometime poet. The tune, however, is mine. Like most Welshmen I have a knack for music. I am glad that I have pleased you with my small effort, lovey.”

“My uncle Henry did not come. I thought surely he would,” Rosamund said after a small silence.

“He knows there is nothing he can do now,” Owein replied. “He has had a year to grow used to the idea that Friarsgate will belong to your children and not to his grandchildren.”

“But I thought surely he would come, if only to complain at us for stealing the manor from him,” she said with a small smile.

Owein laughed. “He will be here eventually, and before the winter I am certain,” her bridegroom assured her. “Are you tired, Rosamund? It has been a very long day for you, and neither of us is quite recovered from our journey with the Queen of the Scots.”

“I will call Maybel to help me,” Rosamund answered him, and she stood up. She was relieved that their guests had departed and forgone the traditional putting to bed of the bride and the groom. I am brave, but if they had made a fuss I should have grown quite embarrassed. I am not certain that I am not frightened. She turned to her husband. “I will send Maybel to fetch you when I am ready,” she told him.

He stood, and kissing her hand, said, “I will wait here.” He watched her hurry from the hall, and he sat back down before the fire. She was nervous. Of course she was. She was a well-brought-up virgin, and he was a man of experience. But I have never made love to a virgin, he thought. He struggled to recall what he could about virgins. They must be treated gently and not hurried. That much he knew. But he would be firm with her, for the marriage must be consummated in order to be completely legal. He heard a discreet cough and looked up.

“The Hepburn brought us a small keg of whiskey, my lord,” Edmund Bolton said. “I suspect you could use a dram or two now, eh?”

Owein Meredith nodded and gratefully accepted the cup. He swallowed down a great gulp, savoring the smoky taste and the heat that suffused him from throat to belly. “I love her,” he said, almost despairingly.

“I know,” Edmund answered him.

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