Until You (30 page)

“I wish we never had to go home,” she suddenly burst out.

Patrick took her into his arms. “But we do. Not for a while, but eventually, my darling. I know you want to be at Friarsgate again, and I promise I will take you there myself and remain with you for as long as I can. Now, be happy, my love, for we are together now, and no matter what happens we shall always love each other, Rosamund. Always!”

A
nnie and Dermid were married on a warm and sunny March day. It was a tale, they both agreed, that they would one day tell their children, of how they were wed by a bishop in a great stone cathedral with stained-glass windows before the Lady’s altar. It was an auspicious occasion for such a humble pair. And afterwards the Earl of Glenkirk and Rosamund escorted them to a small inn, where they shared wine with the newly wed couple. And when the toast had been made and the sweet vintage drunk, the earl told them that he had asked the innkeeper for his finest room. Dermid and Annie would remain the night. The innkeeper was paid for the room and for a good supper to be served in a private salon. Then Patrick and Rosamund left their two servants to enjoy their first day of married life together—alone.

When they returned to the villa, Lord MacDuff was waiting for them. “I have a message from his majesty, just arrived within the hour,” he said. “You are instructed to leave San Lorenzo on the first of April, but you are to travel overland again to Paris, where you will have an audience with King Louis and reassure him in the strongest terms that Scotland will not break the auld alliance.” He handed Patrick a sealed packet. “For you,” he told the earl.

“Thank you,” Patrick said, opening the message.

“So, your servants are successfully wed,” MacDuff said to Rosamund.

“By the bishop himself,” she replied with a smile. “And not a moment too soon, I suspect. They are both very young and filled with the juices of their youth.”

“You are a very kind mistress,” MacDuff said. “Many a woman would have beaten her servant for such behavior and sent her away.”

“Annie and Dermid are both good servants, my lord,” Rosamund responded. “They simply needed to be guided into the proper path.”

“Will you go back to court?” the ambassador asked her candidly.

“I promised the queen I would,” Rosamund said. “I do not break my word once given, my lord. While I miss Friarsgate and my daughters, I owe Margaret Tudor that small allegiance. She was a good friend to me when I was at her father’s court as a young girl. She was responsible for my happy marriage. She is so desperate to give her husband a healthy son, and while I expect the child will be born by the time we return, I would congratulate her and encourage her in her motherhood. The king’s
lang eey
saw that she would indeed have a healthy son, but until that wee laddie rests safely in his mother’s arms, and she is certain of his health, she will fret. Queens have few friends, my lord, but I am Queen Margaret’s true friend.”

Ian MacDuff nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “Friendship is a rare commodity for those who rule, lassie. I admire your ethics as well as your good sense. They are not qualities a man usually admires in a woman.” He grinned at her. “I also admire your beauty, however, and knowing you these past few weeks, I think I am now envious of my old friend Patrick Leslie.”

“My lord, are you flirting with me?” Rosamund gently teased him.

“It has been a long time, lassie, but I believe I am,” he admitted.

“Well, cease, you old dog,” the earl said, slipping an arm about Rosamund’s waist. “The lady is mine, and I will cede her to no one.”

“What does the king say to you, or should you not share it?” Ian MacDuff asked.

“ ’Tis little more than what you have told me,” Patrick replied. “He wants me to tell King Louis of my attempts here in San Lorenzo. Is the messenger still here? I would send a communiqué with him. He is one of our people?”

“Aye, he’s a Scot. He purports to be a factotum for an Edinburgh guild of merchants, but of course he is not. ’Tis just a pose he affects to divert attention from his travels. He’s come here before,” Ian MacDuff said. “He’ll remain the night, as he usually does. Then we’ll send him back mounted on a fresh horse.”

The earl nodded. “Send him to my apartment and I will give him his instructions.”

Patrick wrote to James Stewart in detail of what had transpired between him, Venice, and the Holy Roman Empire. He had previously sent pigeons with the simple words, Venice, nay. Max, nay. Now he filled in the details of his conversations with Paolo Loredano, the doge’s representative, and Baroness Von Kreutzenkampe, who was Emperor Maximilian’s emissary. The earl’s memory was a flawless one, and always had been. He recalled his conversations with both the artist and the baroness. The king would see it all as if he had been there himself. The earl apologized for his inability to change what was happening, but at least, he wrote the king, he had put a strong suspicion of Henry Tudor in both Venice and the Holy Roman Empire’s consciousness. They would now be suspicious of England, and act accordingly.

“You are to go directly to the king, wherever he may be when you arrive in Scotland,” Patrick instructed the messenger. “And you are to deliver this message only into his hands. No secretary or page. The king’s hands. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said.

“And you will tell his majesty that we will follow his instructions regarding our return. We should reach him by early June.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Patrick handed the messenger a second packet, along with a small bag of jingling coins. “And when you have seen the king, I would have you ride to Glenkirk for me and give my son, Adam Leslie, this. Tell him I am well.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you. Glenkirk is in the northeast, is it not?”

“It is. You will find it,” Patrick told the man. “And I thank you for your service.”

“What did you write to Adam?” Rosamund asked her lover when the messenger had departed.

“That Glenkirk was to remain in his care for a while longer, for I choose to visit a friend in England before I return home,” the earl said.

“San Lorenzo has been like a marvelous dream, and now to know I am to see Paris,” Rosamund replied. Then she laughed. “I have never before enjoyed travel or being away from Friarsgate, but when I am with you, my darling, I do not care.”

He smiled down at her and bent his lips to brush hers. “The artist will be waiting for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Your portrait is almost finished, but mine is not, and I would have it done before we leave so I may make arrangements to ship the paintings back to Scotland.”

“The maestro will not give you my painting,” Rosamund said. “He paints it for himself. I have told you before that he does.”

“We will see,” the earl said with a smile, and then he left her. He told the artist what Rosamund had said, and Paolo Loredano smiled.

“She is correct, and she is not,” he told the Earl of Glenkirk. “Wait, my lord, and you will see. You will not be disappointed, and you will pay me well, I guarantee it.” Then he laughed. “You are an excellent subject, my lord. Where will this painting hang when it is yours?” He peered around the large canvas.

“Over a fireplace in the Great Hall of Glenkirk Castle, opposite a painting done of my daughter. Rosamund has commissioned this portrait, but she has given it to me.”

“
Sì,
she told me that was what she wanted. I have done for her, however, a miniature of your head, my lord. She requested it.”

He had not known that, and he was touched. A shadow passed over his face. How long? he wondered. How long until the fates would part them again?

“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, passing 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 passage 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 goddess 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 noble 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 ambassador 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 goddess 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 goddess 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 goddess 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 breasts and the plump mound of her mons.