The Spitfire (31 page)

“Birthing a bairn is nae easy, my lord,” she told him.

“I’m all right, my love,” Arabella assured him, and then groaned again with even more feeling than the last time.

The earl paled even as Flora said brightly, “That’s it, my lady! Aye, there’s the wee one’s head now. Look, my lord! Lona! Push now, my lamb. Push!”

Arabella groaned and bore down with all her strength. Now Flora was moving into position between the wooden runners and bending down to help her mistress. “Ohhhh, Flora!” Arabella shrieked. “I feel it coming! I feel it coming!”

“Aye, my lamb, here’s its little head and shoulders already born. Push but once more. Aye, here’s the bairn,’’ Flora crowed as the baby slipped from its mother’s womb and into her capable hands. Quickly Flora wiped the birthing blood from the baby with warm oil as it lay upon a mat upon the floor. Then she neatly clipped and knotted the cord, wrapping the baby tightly in its swaddling clothes as the infant scrunched up its little face and screamed with outrage.

“She’s her mother’s daughter,” said the earl, having astutely noted his child’s sex as Flora tended to her.

“You are not disappointed?” Arabella said quietly, another spasm passing over her face as she passed the afterbirth.

“Nay, lovey. Yer safe, wee Maggie is safe, and we’ll hae other bairns,” he told her, kissing her brow again.

“She’s a good breeder,” Flora said approvingly. “She nae be like her poor mother.’’

‘‘Give me my daughter,’’ Arabella demanded of her husband, who was now cradling the infant and making soft cooing noises, which had strangely quieted the baby. “Is everyone to see this miracle before I am?”

Flora smiled and Lona giggled as the earl handed his daughter to her mother. “Bid yer mother a good evening, wee Maggie,” Tavis Stewart said, bending to place the child in Arabella’s arms. Amazement and awe lit the Countess of Dunmor’s beautiful features as she gazed upon her offspring for the first time. The infant’s features were perfect, and although she did not have a great deal of hair upon her head, what hair she had was pale gold like her mother’s. Her skin was pink and healthy looking. Her eyes blue and alert. This was obviously a baby who would survive.

“Ohh, my little love,” Arabella said softly with delight as she gazed upon her daughter. Lady Margaret Stewart, however, opened up her rosebud mouth and howled loudly, her dainty miniature features growing scarlet with her indignation.

“What is the matter with her?” Arabella cried, frightened.

“She is her mother’s daughter,” the earl repeated over the din of his offspring’s cries. “A spitfire’s temper and a mind of her own. It will take a strong-willed Scotsman to tame her, lovey.”

“A strong-willed Englishman,” Arabella said.

He looked puzzled.

“This is Greyfaire’s heiress, my lord. You promised me. Now that Margaret has been born, you must go to the king and see that our daughter’s inheritance is restored to her,” Arabella said seriously.

“I will provide for my daughter,” the earl said as seriously. “And besides, Jemmie is worse than useless in his mourning. He’ll do naught for us, lovey.”

“You promised me, my lord!” There was an edge to her voice.

“My lady, gie me the bairn,” Flora said. “Lona will look after her tonight, and ye need yer rest.’’

She was tired. Suddenly and without warning, very tired. Arabella allowed her husband to put her to bed after Flora had sponged her down with perfumed water and placed a fresh chemisette of soft white silk upon her body. He laid her gently upon the fragrant lavender-scented sheets, settling her carefully upon her pillows. Then to everyone’s surprise, the earl kicked off his house slippers and climbed into bed with Arabella, drawing her tenderly into his arms protectively. “Leave us,” he told the two startled-looking women servants, and when they had gone, he spoke softly but firmly to his wife. “I hae given ye my word, Arabella, that I will try to regain Greyfaire for our eldest daughter, and I
will
keep my word to ye. Can ye nae understand that?”

“When?” Her voice, though weak, was implacable.

He nuzzled the top of her head. “When our wee Maggie is a month old, I will go to Jemmie and ask him to petition King Henry. It is all we can do, lovey. The Tudor may not choose to return yer precious Greyfaire to us. I hae told ye before that all we can do is try, but we will try. Ye must be patient, lassie.”

“I am not very good at being patient,” she said low.

“Then ‘tis a habit ye hae best learn if ye are to deal wi’ the powerful, lovey. Those in positions of authority are effective precisely because they are in positions of control over the impuissant and defenseless. Their power grows wi’ the vulnerability of others.”

“When I was Greyfaire’s heiress,” Arabella said slowly, “I possessed the power of my station, but I no longer have that power, and I hate it! At least then I was in a position to take charge of my own life. I no longer am.’’

“Oh, lovey,” the earl replied, “dinna let life chafe ye so, for ye will nae be happy if ye do. I would hae ye happy and content. We hae a beautiful daughter, my love, and I thank ye for her. Now try and sleep, for even an easy birth is an exhausting one.’’ He cuddled her in his embrace and kissed her fair head.

Arabella sighed and closed her eyes, yet she could not stop the thoughts that raced through her mind. She wanted Greyfaire back, but it was not merely whim on her part. The thought of Sir Jasper Keane swaggering with pride of ownership about the keep that had been her family’s heritage for several hundred years was galling beyond all. He had no right to Greyfaire. He had stolen it, plain and simple. If he wanted a home, let him go back to his own Northby Hall. Surely, using his false charm and his handsome face as he had done with her and her mother, he could find himself another silly, innocent virgin heiress, or some hapless and equally silly rich widow to wed. Then let him rebuild his own ancestral home in which to live, but she would have Greyfaire back for her daughter!

Her daughter.
The words echoed strangely in her head. She had a daughter, and by virtue of that very fact she was now a mother herself.
A mother!
She was a mother. In the months she had carried her child it had not seemed real, until now. How could she deny the reality of the infant murmuring in its sleep in the cradle by her bedside? The Countess of Dunmor felt her first strong surge of maternal concern. Greyfaire now belonged to Lady Margaret Stewart, and no one, Arabella decided, was going to deny her daughter her rightful inheritance!

Margaret must have brothers, she thought fuzzily as sleep began to overcome her. At least six strong brothers who would be just like their father. Someday, Arabella decided, someday when her as yet unborn sons were grown, they would go over the border with their clansmen, and their Fleming and Hamilton cousins, and they would burn Sir Jasper Keane’s fine new Northby Hall to the ground as their fathers had once done. Arabella smiled with satisfaction even as sleep reached up to claim her for its own.

Realizing that his wife was now deep in the arms of Morpheus, the earl arose carefully from the bed and drew the coverlet over her. Stopping a moment to gaze down at his new daughter, he smiled and then tiptoed from the room. “She’s asleep,” he told Lona, who was waiting patiently outside the door. “Ye may go in now. Watch over my wee Maggie carefully, lassie.”

“I will, my lord. Ohh, ‘tis so exciting! I only wish poor Lady Rowena were here to see her grandchild, but yer babe will have Lady Margery.”

“Aye,” the earl agreed, “and my mother will spoil my wee Maggie fiercely, I’ve nae doubt.”

Lona giggled and nodded vigorously. Lady Margery Fleming had shown serious signs of doting with regard to her two grandsons. This first granddaughter would undoubtedly be a favorite. The earl returned to his hall to find his mother had just arrived. A servant was even now taking Lady Fleming’s cloak, and both his sister Ailis and his sister-in-law Meg were with her.

“Well?” she demanded, hurrying forward. “How is Arabella? How far along is she? Is she comfortable? Is she haeing a hard time of it? I didna want to say anything before now, but I pray she will nae be like her poor mother.’’

“We hae a daughter,” Tavis Stewart said, laughing. “A fine, healthy bairn, Mother. She hae golden hair like my wee spitfire, and her mam’s hot temper to boot.”

“What?
Why was I nae called sooner?” Lady Margery said.

“Ye were nae called sooner because there was nae time. Flora tells me that my wife is a natural breeder. Arabella had little warning of the birth and delivered quickly, wi’ little fuss that I could see.”

“Aye, my lady, ‘tis true,” Flora said as she joined them. “She popped the wee bairn out like I’d pop a grape from its skin, and wi’ as little trouble too. Once she’s had time to heal, his lordship can get another bairn on her, and the next one will be a boy, I vow!” Flora grinned broadly.

“I want to see my granddaughter immediately,” Lady Margery said firmly.

“I’ll take ye up, yer ladyship,” Flora volunteered. “Lona is wi’ them, watching.”

Lady Margery nodded her approval. “We’ll be staying the night, Tavis,” she said. “I didna come at a gallop from Glen Ailean to turn myself about to go home as quickly. I’ll want to speak wi’ Arabella in the morning about my granddaughter’s care. Come along, Ailis! Meg!” She strode from the hall, every inch the matriarch, the two younger women hurrying behind in her wake.

“So ye’ve a lass, hae ye?” The Earl of Angus arose from his place by the fire and came over to Tavis Stewart, holding out his big hand that he might congratulate him.

A servant came forward bearing a tray with two small silver dram cups upon it, which he offered to his master and his master’s guest.

The two men accepted the drams, and Archibald Douglas raised up his cup saying, “Long life, good health, and good fortune to Lady Margaret Stewart!”

The Earl of Dunmor raised his own cup in return. “God willing!” he answered, and together the two gentlemen drank down the potent whiskey which came from Dunmor’s own still. The smiling servant took the empty dram cups away as the two earls returned to seat themselves by the fire. “Is she bonnie, Tavis?”

“Aye, Archie, she’s very bonnie,” came the reply.

“I might take her for one of my boys then, if ye’ll consider it,” the Earl of Angus said.

“I canna, though I thank ye for the compliment. Margaret is already promised.”

“To whom?” Archibald Douglas was astounded. The newborn was not even an hour old yet and she was betrothed?

“I dinna know,” Tavis Stewart said with a smile, “but he must be an Englishman.” Then the earl went on to explain the situation.

“Ye think ye’ll get yer wife’s inheritance back?” Angus said.

“Perhaps under the circumstances, aye. At the moment the English are more favorably disposed to the Scots than they hae been in years, Archie.”

“But I wonder if they are foolish enough to gie a border keep to the daughter of a Stewart earl?” Angus answered slowly, considering the situation. “Still, even if the lass is raised in England after her sixth year, in those six years ye can make her a Scot for life. It canna hurt to hae a friendly refuge on the English side of the border, Tavis. Yer a clever bastard, by God! But what if ye canna regain yer wife’s Greyfaire?”

“If the matter is aired publicly between the two kings, then King Henry will hae to pay Arabella a forfeit in exchange for Greyfaire, although I know that will make her very angry. She will hae her home back and nothing less.’’

“Ye must kill Sir Jasper Keane, of course,’’ Archibald Douglas said.

“I hae intended doing that in any event,” Tavis Stewart replied. “There is still that matter of my honor between us, and although it matters to no one else, it does matter to me. I will hae my revenge upon him.”

“They say he hae gone south to serve King Henry. He must still fear yer wife that he would try so hard to solidify his position wi’ the Tudor.”

“He needs a new wife too,” Tavis Stewart noted. “He hae neither gold nor sons to recommend him, yet ‘twill take time for that lickspittle to worm his way into King Henry’s favor. Particularly now wi’ all the Tudor’s troubles yet wi’ the Yorkists, but should, by chance, Sir Jasper Keane gain the king’s promise of confirmation to Greyfaire, he will nae live long enough to enjoy the fruits of his dishonorable conduct. That I can promise any who ask,” the Earl of Dunmor said grimly.

Chapter Twelve

Henry Tudor looked curiously upon the man before him. His name was Jasper Keane, and he was a knight from the north. The king had a certain instinct where men were concerned, and that instinct was now warning him to be cautious with Sir Jasper Keane.

“So you see, my liege, with my wife dead in childbed, there are no longer any Greys left at Greyfaire Keep. I have been master there for almost three years, and I would beg your majesty’s leave to continue on in my duties with the hope that someday I might be considered worthy to be confirmed in my wife’s inheritance.” Sir Jasper smiled toothily, bowing obsequiously.

“I am not quite certain of the recent history of Greyfaire, Sir Jasper. You must refresh my memory. Your wife was the heiress of Greyfaire? She was born a Grey?”

Jasper Keane considered lying, but then thought better of it. There were too many alive and even now in the king’s favor who could tell Henry Tudor the truth. “Rowena, may God assoil her sweet soul,” he began piously, “was married to Henry Grey, the last Grey Lord of Greyfaire, Sire. When she was widowed, I wed her.”

“There were no offspring of her first marriage?” the king queried.

“A daughter,” Sir Jasper said shortly.

“She is dead?” the king pressed gently.

“The wench was carried off in a border raid by the Scots,” he said.

“She is dead?” the king repeated.

Again Sir Jasper considered lying. When several days after Arabella’s abduction the word had come that the Earl of Dunmor had married her, Jasper Keane had been made a laughingstock in the district. There had already been a great deal of nasty talk about his hasty marriage as it was. Yet, here again, he dare not lie. “I understand the girl was married off to some nobly born bastard, Sire, but I could not say for certain. She has not communicated with me, even when her mother died. She is a feckless, spoilt wench who cares for naught but herself, I fear.”

“Still,” the king considered aloud, “she is Greyfaire’s rightful heiress.” Seeing the play of emotions cross Sir Jasper’s face, Henry Tudor knew he was wise not to promise the man anything concrete. There had been fury in the man’s eyes for a brief moment before he had quickly masked his emotions. “Have you land of your own, Sir Jasper?” the king asked in pleasant tones, not quite ready to shut the door upon this man.

“My home was destroyed by the Scots,” Sir Jasper Keane said tightly.

The king nodded. “So Greyfaire Keep is now your home?”

“Aye, my liege.”

Sir Jasper Keane obviously did not have the wherewithal to rebuild his own house, the king thought. He was hungry for legal possession of Greyfaire Keep. With it he might attract a wife with some substance of her own. He motioned to his secretary, who bent down to hear his master’s words. “This Greyfaire. Is it important? Rich? Large? In other words, is it worth having?” he demanded in low tones.

“It is a small border keep, majesty, and virtually impregnable. There is no real wealth attached to it. One village and some acreage. Its only real value is in its location. The Scots usually invade from that direction, and it has always served as the first warning outpost for England in the north.”

The king considered, and then said to his secretary, “You have heard. If you were me, would you give this keep over to Sir Jasper, or would you seek the heiress in Scotland?”

“I think, Sire, that I would consider long on it before making
any
decision. It is not that I question this knight’s word, but we really know naught of this matter but what he has told us. I think I would investigate it further, for your majesty would not willingly do Greyfaire’s heiress an injustice. Let this knight prove his loyalty to you first before you reward him. He was, I have heard, a staunch Yorkist.”

The point was well taken by Henry Tudor. “I think, Sir Jasper, that I am not in a position to grant you Greyfaire Keep at this time,” the king began. “England has, as you well know, been but recently invaded by one Lambert Simnel, masquerading as the boy Earl of Warwick, the last of the royal Plantagenets, and an army of diehard Yorkists, Irish rabble, and German mercenaries. It is to be hoped that this is the last challenge made to my throne, but until I defeat this challenge, I cannot possibly consider your request. You were a trustworthy Yorkist yourself, I understand, Sir Jasper. Do you not desire to help those who would usurp my throne?”

Jasper Keane felt panic welling up. Damn Rowena’s treasonous connections! Thank God she was dead. If he were clever he just might salvage his hopes. “It is true, Sire, that I supported Richard of Gloucester during his reign, and his brother King Edward before him. It is true that my late wife was Queen Anne Neville’s favorite cousin, but I have sworn my oath to uphold your rights, Sire, and I will not break that oath. There are none who can say that I ever broke my sacred oath. Let me prove my loyalty to you. I have knowledge of a great and secret nature that might be of importance to your majesty.”

So, his late wife had been Anne Neville’s cousin, Henry Tudor thought. He had not known this, but obviously Sir Jasper thought he did. What else was this man not telling him? “What knowledge?” the king demanded.

Sir Jasper looked nervously at the king’s personal secretary, but when the king made no move to send the man away, he spoke anyway. “Your queen’s young brothers live, Sire. They were hidden at Middleham Castle by their uncle Richard for safety’s sake.”

“And they are still there?” Henry Tudor’s voice was almost afire in his excitement.

“Nay, they were moved immediately after your majesty’s victory at Bosworth Field to the Tower, I am told. One of the two knights assigned to personally guard the princes is my relation. For obvious reasons, the princes were moved in secret with no fanfare. My late wife knew of this, and it was through her I first learned of it. That is how I was able to place my cousin in the prince’s train.”

The king’s mind was reeling with the serious implications that Sir Jasper’s words intimated. Worse, how could his wife’s two young brothers be incarcerated in the Tower and he not know about it? One surviving York prince was bad enough, but three could bring the whole kingdom down around his ears. He chose his words carefully. “This is an interesting tale you tell me, Sir Jasper, but of course it is not possible that my wife’s brothers survived their uncle’s ill intent. It is equally impossible that Edward and Richard Plantagenet are currently imprisoned within the Tower without my knowledge. Nevertheless, I will investigate what you have told me, for I know you would not fabricate such a tale simply to curry my favor. You have divulged this in order to prove your loyalty to me, and I am pleased by your display of faithfulness. Go now and join with my army as we prepare to meet the invader. If we both survive this assault upon England, we will talk again on this matter regarding Greyfaire Keep.”

Sir Jasper Keane bowed ingratiatingly several times as he backed from the room, thinking that all was not lost, even if he was not yet Greyfaire’s legal lord.

When the door had closed behind him, the king turned to his secretary.
“Find out!”
was all he said.

“And if it is true?” his secretary asked. “Is it not your purpose in life to solve such problems for me?” the king said coldly. “You will take care of the matter for me, but I do not ever again want to have it mentioned in my presence.”

“Of course, your majesty,” the king’s secretary said tonelessly.

“It is
my
son, Arthur, who will one day be England’s king,” Henry Tudor replied. “I will defeat these rebels and bring a lasting peace to England. There have been too many years of strife.”

“God is surely on your majesty’s side,” his secretary answered.

“Aye,” the king said with a smile. “I believe he truly is!” And all of Europe believed, when on the sixteenth day of June in that year of our Lord, 1487, Henry Tudor defeated the diehard Yorkists and the boy they called Edward, Earl of Warwick, but whom the king called Lambert Simnel. The boy, who was ten years of age, was taken into the royal household. Some of the rebels were punished and forfeited their lives. Others were forgiven and paid large fines. A three-year peace treaty was signed between Scotland and England, hopefully guaranteeing the safety of the north. It seemed that God did, indeed, approve of Henry Tudor and the dynasty he was founding.

Scotland, however, did not benefit from God’s goodwill in that same year. Plague had broken out throughout the countryside. It appeared that another bad harvest was fated, portending another hungry winter. The highland earls and chieftains fought with one another for lack of a common enemy, and grumbled incessantly about the many weaknesses of James III. The weather was horrendous, and the Countess of Dunmor was feuding publicly with the Earl of Dunmor.

“A month!” Arabella shouted at her husband. “You promised me that when Maggie was a month old you would go to your brother so that he might treat with his fellow king over my daughter’s rights to Greyfaire. She is nine and a half months old, Tavis, and you have not done it! You gave me your word and I accepted it, for you are an honorable man.”

“Damnit, Arabella,” he roared back at her, “hae ye no concept of anything but yer own desires? Ye know the difficulties that Jemmie faces right now.”

“They are difficulties of his own making this time, Tavis. You know it as well as I do. Seeking to divert the Earl of Home’s revenues from Coldingham Priory into his own pocket is certainly provocative, my lord, and your brother well knows it! The queen’s death has changed him, Tavis. He is not the man we once knew. In the first months after Queen Margaret’s death he cloistered himself within his own apartments, ignoring the business of his government. Now, suddenly, he has decided he needs another choir, but he does not want to pay for that choir out of his own pocket, so he has reached into Lord Home’s pocket in an act of petty revenge, for Lord Home has spoken out against an English match for Scotland’s royal house.”

“An English match?
‘Tis nae one wedding Jemmie speaks of, Arabella. ‘Tis three! Himself, Jamie and Ormond, the other James. Three English women wi’ all their servants and personal attendants overrunning the Scots court. One we might accept, but three makes it seem like a conquering invasion of Scotland by England. Can ye nae see that?”

“All of which has nothing to do with our daughter’s rights to Greyfaire,” snapped Arabella.

“‘Tis nae a good time to reason wi’ Jemmie, lovey,” the earl said stubbornly.

“And when will be a good time, Tavis? All hell is about to break loose here in Scotland over your brother’s highhandedness. I know you love him. I do too, but as a king he is not well liked. There are many who would overthrow him given the provocation. His whole life Jemmie Stewart has been indecisive, yet suddenly he has roused himself from his languor and is inviting civil war in the process. Are you aware, my lord, that the king has petitioned Pope Innocent to close Coldingham and divert its revenues to the Chapel Royal at Stirling?”

“He is the king, Arabella. It is his right,” her husband replied.

“Lord Home does not think so. God’s foot, my lord, those members of the Home family with a bent to religious orders have always taken those orders at Coldingham Priory. They consider it
their
priory. For how many generations has a Home sat in the prior’s chair in that religious house? Lord Home himself is the priory’s hereditary bailiff.”

“The Homes have always been the one great border family who hae given my brother trouble,” Tavis Stewart said. “He and Lord Home are mortal enemies. They always hae been.”

“And so the king has taken it upon himself to come out of his stupor and bait them? ‘Tis madness, and again I say it has nothing to do with our daughter’s rights over Greyfaire Keep. You must go to Jemmie and ask him to speak with King Henry. Perhaps this matter will divert him from his path of self-destruction.”

“It is nae the proper time, lovey.”

“It is nae the proper time, my lord? There will never be a better time than now for King James to ask King Henry. There is peace between our two countries at this moment. You know as well as I do that if a civil war breaks out, England is apt to break that peace even as Scotland would have broken it had the Yorkists prevailed at Stokefield last June and caused a civil war in England. You cannot be so blind that you do not see that!”

He was amazed by her grasp of the political situation. How his wee English wife had grown in intellect in the almost three years since he had stolen her from Greyfaire church and married her. It was, of course, his brother’s tutoring. Jemmie had opened the door to Arabella’s mind, and in doing so had lit a fire for learning in her that could not seem to be quenched. She read any and everything she could get her hands on, though God only knew his library was not a large one. While they had been in Edinburgh she had found a stall in the marketplace that sold volumes brought from France and Italy. She was correct in her assessment of the situation, and yet he believed that he was equally correct in his handling of the matter.

“I cannot go to Jemmie now, lovey,” he said in a tone he hoped conveyed to her that the matter was closed for the time being.

“If you will not protect our daughter’s rights, my lord, then I must, of necessity, do so myself,” Arabella told him in equally implacable tones.

The Earl of Dunmor departed his castle to hunt down a wolf that had been terrorizing his villages. He had learned that when his wife was in one of her moods it was best to allow her the space of several days’ time to calm her temper. When he returned home four days later with the wolfskin as a gift which she might use to trim a gown and a cloak, he discovered to his shock that his countess had set forth for Edinburgh almost immediately after he had left Dunmor. The message she had left him was curt and to the point.

I have gone to the king.

With a smothered curse the Earl of Dunmor threw the parchment into the fire and glowered at Flora, who had been his wife’s messenger. “Did she take the coach?” he demanded.

“She rode,” said Flora, “and she would nae hae gone had ye done yer duty by Lady Maggie, my lord.”