‘On the border, my lady.’
‘The Welsh border? Be more exact, if you will, Father.’
The chaplain cleared his throat again with a quick glance toward the new Earl, who nodded in agreement. ‘You have possession of the castles and lands of Clifford, Ewyas Harold and Wigmore in the Welsh Marches, my lady.’
‘As you say—along the very border with Wales.’ Rosamund looked down to where her hands had just re-clenched in her lap, face smoothly unreadable, but her mind clearly engaged. ‘And will these three fortresses attract a husband for me?’
There was a loud guffaw from Earl Gilbert, hastily smothered. Walter did not even bother to hide his grin.
‘There’s no need to concern yourself, Rose,’ Gilbert replied heartily. ‘You’ll not be left destitute and unwed.’ She saw something like naked cunning in her stepbrother’s broad face before he lumbered to his feet and walked across the room to her, to take and pat her hand consolingly. ‘My father was remiss in this. Never fear. I am in the process of arranging all to your comfort, with three such valuable fortresses to attract attention from a suitable husband.’ He chuckled unnervingly. ‘No one will ever say that a de Longspey was left unprovided for.’
Behind Rosamund’s grateful smile, anger simmered. By the time she was alone with her mother in the privacy of the solar, it had become a surge of pure passion.
‘So I am now an heiress! With three castles to my name in the depths of the Welsh Marches, any one of them to be my home! It would be,’ stated Rosamund, green eyes flashing, all attempts to govern her temper abandoned, ‘like being buried alive. I have decided. Nothing will persuade me to go there.’
Rosamund’s decision did not outlive the day. Barely had the mid-day meal been cleared than she was summoned to the new Earl’s private chamber. She eyed him warily. Gilbert, in the magnificence of his father’s accommodation, looked even more pleased with himself if that were possible, and addressed her with obnoxious good humour as soon as she appeared in the doorway.
‘Rose. Some excellent news, as I promised you. This is a day for developments, it seems. Did I not tell you to leave everything in my care? The messenger has arrived.’ He flapped a travel-worn document in her direction. ‘Your marriage. I have in mind a knight who will take you for the castles you hold. It will be a most advantageous match.’ Sure of his argument, he held her gaze at last. ‘You’ve remained unwed far too long.’
Rosamund took a breath, a premonition heavy in her belly. So that was it. Set a trap to catch a prize on the Welsh border as she had suspected. And she was the bait in the trap. Now she knew the reason for Clifford and Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. She breathed out slowly.
‘Who is it?’
‘Ralph de Morgan of Builth. Quite a landowner in that area.’
‘Ralph de Morgan?’ He was a not infrequent visitor to the de Longspey household. The name instantly conjured up an image of the knight. Rosamund’s palms grew damp against the skirts of her robe as that image became a weight on her heart. ‘But he’s older than Lord William was!’ Possibly an exaggeration, she admitted, but not by much.
‘He’s an important man, Rosamund.’ Gilbert leaned forward to make his point, preserving his smile. ‘And newly widowed. He wants a bride who will increase his holdings within England. And for my benefit, he’ll help to hold the March secure. I doubt you’ll do better. He offers a substantial settlement.’
‘I can imagine!’ Who would not to wish to consolidate a connection with the powerful de Longspeys?
‘You have no choice in the matter, dear sister,’ stated the Earl as if he could read the rejection in her mind. ‘It’s arranged. Ralph has agreed and the terms are acceptable. He’ll come next week to renew your acquaintance, as a suitor for a bride.’
Rosamund controlled her reply magnificently. ‘Very well, Gilbert.’
Gilbert eyed the quiescent lady doubtfully. ‘Hear me, Rosamund. You’ll not antagonise him.’
‘No, Gilbert. How could you think it?’ She smiled serenely.
But I would not wager my new jewelled girdle on it!
Escape to Clifford suddenly seemed an object of desire.
One meeting with Ralph de Morgan was enough to convince her of all her fears and to drive Rosamund into open rebellion. In a cloud of resentment she burst into the widowed Countess’s bedchamber, where that lady was supervising her maid Edith in the packing of her possessions for the journey to Lower Broadheath.
‘That’s settled it. I can’t do it.’
Lady Petronilla abandoned the silk mass of the rich green over-gown she was folding. She eyed her daughter with a painful mixture of sympathy and resignation. ‘So I thought when I was presented with marriage, but sometimes, dear child, there’s simply no choice.’ The widow smoothed her dark skirts, her hands quick and restless, then stepped to the chest, which held cups and a flagon of ale. Not over-tall, her figure was well proportioned, her eyes grey-green and aware, her hair fair, untouched by grey, worn in a neat plaited coronet. She moved with capable, energetic movements as she poured and returned to hand a cup to her daughter.
‘No choice? How can there be no choice! Ralph de Morgan,’ Rosamund announced, not mincing her words, ‘is gross and balding. His clothes are rank with heaven only knows what! Did you see? He wiped the sauce from his fingers on his tunic. When his hands last came into contact with warm water I know not. And as for his breath when he kissed my cheek …’ She whirled in a circle, her hair within its ribbon confines flying, and punched the bed hangings with her fist. ‘He’s disgusting!’
‘Ralph is not a pleasant prospect, I agree—but your brothers are determined—’
‘Brothers? They are no blood of mine! I’ve had enough of self-opinionated men telling me what to do and what not to do. What will be good for me and what I would be unwise to consider. I will not do it!’
‘No. Ralph is not an attractive man. So … portly!’
‘Portly? He is fat! I would rather wed the poor ragged creature, filthy and scabbed, who sits daily outside the Cathedral and begs for alms.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. And I don’t think the beggar would actually want you!’ The two ladies considered the dubious prospect for a short moment. ‘But, dearest Rose, you need a husband,’ Petronilla advised. ‘You should have been married years ago.’
‘I know. I agree that there could be advantages. But I want …’ In her mind’s eye Rosamund saw the man of her childhood dreams, lingered over the much-loved image. ‘He must be young. Handsome, of course, fair haired. Gentle and courteous, who will treat me with honour and consideration. A knight who is civilised and cultured, can read and write, and will not harry me into actions I have no wish to take.’ For a moment she lost herself in another improbable outcome. ‘And he must at least have an affection for me,’ she added finally. ‘I do not ask for love, but I have no desire to simply be a hapless pawn in a power struggle.’
‘Hmm. Now there’s a list.’ Lady Petronilla arched her brows, returning to the silk gown that slithered unmanageably under her hands. ‘But does such a paragon exist? A man who would let you have entirely your own way …? Well, I don’t know … And would you be happy if he did?’
Rosamund considered the matter. Marriage had not brought her mother much contentment. Why should her own experience be any different? Of course, there had been that one man … Now there was a memory to stir her to her very soul. Rosamund turned away so that her mother should not read the sudden sharp desire that closed like a hand around her throat.
Her Wild Hawk. Her Fierce Lord.
Gervase Fitz Osbern.