The Spitfire (43 page)

“The matter of the men is settled, my lady, but eight of the lads, including the young Scot, will go with us. I realize your funds are less than generous, but these men need little to survive. The others will leave at first light for Greyfaire.”

Arabella nodded and said sadly, “Would that we might go with them.”

“We must fetch little Lady Margaret,” Lona said. “You must prepare her for this separation. What we will do about her clothing I do not know, for we brought little, and she must remain with the court for many months.”

“There is an open market in the nearby village, and today is market day,” FitzWalter said to Arabella. “Give Lona some coins, and I will send her with one of the men to see if she can find any clothing for the child.”

“Make certain it is clean and free from vermin,” Arabella instructed her servant, giving her a silver piece and several coppers.

Lona hurried off, and FitzWalter, after appointing one of his men to accompany her, returned to Arabella’s side.

“You’re certain that you wish to do this,” he asked, and when she nodded, he said, “What of Sir Jasper?”

“The king will refuse his request for Greyfaire, tell him he is confiscating it, and send him packing back to Northby,” Arabella told her captain.

“What of our good Greyfaire lads?”

“The king will offer them the choice of returning home or remaining in Sir Jasper’s service. It is the same choice we would have offered them.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “‘tis fair.”

“Mama! Mama!” Lady Margaret Stewart came running through the orchard on fat little legs, her short skirts flying.

Arabella’s mouth trembled, but FitzWalter admonished her sharply.

“You must be brave for the wee lass’ sake, my lady.”

Arabella nodded, quickly brushing away an errant tear.

“Ahh, poppet,” she said, lifting her daughter up into her arms and kissing the child’s neck, “where have you been?”

“Cook gave me an apple,” replied Margaret, “and the old lady says I may have a kitten.” She then popped her thumb in her mouth, the effort of her vast communication having exhausted her. Her eyes were heavy with a sudden need for sleep.

“Stay here with her beneath the trees,” FitzWalter suggested. “There is time enough to tell her, my lady, when the queen’s woman arrives. The less time she has to ponder the situation, the better it will be.”

Taking his advice, Arabella laid her now half-sleeping daughter upon the sweet grass beneath the apple trees and sat next to her. Margaret was quickly asleep as her mother watched over her, memorizing every little nuance of her sweetly plump baby’s face. The child had hair like her father, and it curled damply over her head and at the nape of her neck. Soft, dark eyelashes spread themselves like small silken fans across her pink cheeks. Margaret’s eyes, when revealed, were the lovely blue of Arabella’s mother. She was altogether a most pleasing child to look upon, with plump and dimpled limbs and natural grace. The thought that she must leave this small creature behind was breaking her mother’s heart, but Arabella knew that the king was actually wise in his judgment that the little girl remain in England. Margaret made her vulnerable, and Arabella knew she could not be vulnerable in this dangerous game she was to play in France for England. Reason told her that Margaret would be safe and well cared for in the royal nurseries. Her mother’s heart resisted it all. She dozed, her hand protectively upon her daughter, only to be awakened by Lena’s voice calling her.

“My lady. My lady.”

Arabella’s eyes opened and focused slowly.

“I have found some suitable garments for Lady Margaret,” Lona said, “and I have packed everything in anticipation of her departure. The queen’s lady is here and awaits your pleasure.”

Arabella scrambled to her feet, careful not to awaken her sleeping child. “Give me a few minutes with the lady,” she instructed Lona, “and then bring Margaret to us.” She hurried away through the orchards and back to the convent guest house, where a cloaked woman awaited her in the dayroom. As the lady threw back the hood to her cape Arabella gasped and curtsied low. “Your grace!” she said, surprised.

The queen laughed softly. “The king explained to me that you have volunteered to go to France and aid our friend Lord Varden in return for his majesty’s kindness to you. I think you wonderfully brave, Lady Grey! I should not have the courage for such a venture. When he told me that you feared to take your little girl along, and asked that we look after her, I knew you to be a good and caring mother. He asked that I send one of my women to fetch the child, but I could not allow that, Lady Grey. I knew that you would rest more easily if we spoke together as one mother to another. I give you my word that Lady Margaret Stewart will be cared for even as my own son, Arthur, and this new child I will birth before year’s end. I am the eldest of my siblings, and like my mother I involve myself in the daily running of my nursery. I will see Margaret almost every day, and I promise to love and cuddle her even as you would. I will not let her forget her brave mama, I promise you.”

“Madame…” Arabella was rendered almost speechless, and she burst into tears.

“Oh dear!” the queen said nervously. “I did not mean to distress you, Lady Grey. I only meant to help.”

Arabella quickly regained control of her emotions, for she did not wish to offend the young Elizabeth of York. “Madame, I am indeed overwhelmed by your kindness! If I weep, it is because it is so hard to leave my little one.”

“Oh, of course,” the queen said earnestly, her own lovely blue eyes filling with sympathetic tears. “I hate it when we travel from place to place in the warm seasons and my son must be left behind.”

“My lady.” Lona was entering the dayroom carrying Margaret, who now rested, was bright-eyed and alert.

“Oh, what a beautiful little girl!” the queen cried. Her hand went to her belly. “Though I know I must give England more sons, I do hope this babe is a daughter.”

Lona’s eyes grew round with recognition, but she wisely remained silent.

“Margaret,” Arabella said, taking her child from her servant,

“I must go away for a little while, and you are to stay with this kind lady. She has a little boy your age, and a new baby to come.”

Margaret looked at the queen, who smiled at her. “Pretty lady,” Margaret said. “I take my kitten!”

“Oh, Margaret, I do not know,” Arabella said.

“Of course she may take her kitten,” the queen agreed, smiling again at Margaret.

“We go now,” Margaret said. “Lona, get Mittens!”

Arabella nodded, and Lona ran to fetch the little gray cat with the two white front paws that Mother Mary Bede had given to Margaret.

“Get down,” Margaret said, squirming impatiently.

“Can I not give you a farewell hug and a kiss?” Arabella laughed, squeezing her daughter lovingly and kissing her pink cheek.

“Down!”
Margaret demanded.

The queen chuckled. “She is like her mother, I think.”

“And her father too,” Arabella admitted. “There is much that is Scot in Margaret, I believe,” she said, reluctantly placing her daughter upon the floor even as Lona returned to put Mittens in the little girl’s arms.

Margaret slipped a trusting hand into the queen’s hand, and looking up at her, said, “We go now!”

“Bid your mother a sweet farewell, Lady Margaret Stewart,” the queen said in kindly, but firm tones.

Margaret half turned and curtsied to her mother. “Farewell, Mama,” she said brightly. “I go now with pretty lady.”

Arabella knelt before her daughter. “You must call the pretty lady, ‘your grace,’ Margaret.”

“Your grace,” Margaret parroted.

“Very good,” Arabella said, and then she took the little girl’s face in her two hands. “I love you, my child. Do not forget that, and do not forget me. I will come back to fetch you, and we will go home to Greyfaire soon. God protect you, my Margaret, and keep you safe until we meet again.” Arabella kissed her daughter a final time.

Margaret smiled. “Farewell, Mama,” she said again, and then turning, trotted off with the queen without a backward glance.

Arabella remained kneeling, feeling the very heart drain out of her, but Lona said in practical tones, “‘Tis always that way with little ones who know they are loved. They are never afraid to do something new. She’ll be safe, ‘Bella. Imagine the queen herself coming to fetch our Margaret! She’s a great lady, our young queen.”

Chapter Seventeen

France.
Its coastline glowed distinct through the pearlescent haze of dawn. Arabella gazed upon it with a sense of disbelief. Only yesterday she had been in England, but fair skies, a brisk wind, and swift seas had transported her from Dover to Calais in less than a day. Calais, of course, had been in English hands since the Battle of Crécy in 1346. It had been captured by the third King Edward after a siege that had lasted almost a year. It was from here she would set off for Paris, and although they had brought their own horses, Arabella intended purchasing a small carriage and animals to draw it. Even if she must play the poor exile, she would do it with the kind of elegance she knew the French would appreciate. Though she spoke excellent French, and she knew FitzWalter had a knowledge of the language, it would not do for her to bargain for her vehicle and the horses. Better they land at Calais where they could do business with their own kind.

By coincidence the captain of their vessel had a brother-in-law who, he said, could help them, and upon landing they were directed to the inn of the Six Burghers, which was owned by that worthy gentleman. FitzWalter had polished his cuirass until it shone brightly and he wore a helmet of the same metal upon his head. His men were equally impressive, despite their simple breastplates of leather. Riding up to the inn with their lady, they were immediately recognized for gentry, and several stablemen hurried out to help with the horses.

“Where is your master?” FitzWalter demanded of one of the grooms. “Fetch him at once!”

As the man hurried off, FitzWalter winked at Arabella in conspiratorial fashion.

The innkeeper, a large, tall man with a distinct limp, came forth to greet them. “My lady, welcome, and how may I be of service to you?” he said.

“I wish to purchase a coach and horses,” Arabella said. “I have been told by Master Dennis of the
Mermaid
that you have such equipages for sale.”

“Aye, my lady, I do,” the innkeeper said politely. “They are not new vehicles, of course, but serviceable.” As he spoke he was mentally assessing the worth of this young noblewoman. A rich woman would have traveled with her own carriage and horses. A poor woman would not even be speaking with him. The only question remaining was how much he might squeeze from this lady.

“You will have my mistress and her maid escorted to a private room where they may refresh themselves in peace,” FitzWalter said sternly, guessing the innkeeper’s thoughts. “You and I will conclude this business between us.”

“Certainly, Captain,” the innkeeper said, bowing just slightly. “Marie!” he shouted at a serving wench. “Take m’lady and her servant to the Rose Room at once.”

The buxom serving girl hurried over and, with a bow, invited Arabella and Lona to follow her into the busy inn. Several of the men leered invitingly in her direction and were not discouraged, to their delight. The two Englishwomen were taken to a small, pretty room, and upon entering, Arabella was hard pressed to decide why it was called the Rose Room. Then she looked through one of the chamber’s windows and saw a rose garden beyond. Marie brought them a basin of scented warm water and linen towels with which to dry themselves, and then scampered out, to return a few moments later with a tureen of rabbit stew, a newly baked cottage loaf, a crock of sweet butter, a wedge of Brie, a bowl of lovely red-black cherries, and a pitcher of sweet white wine.

“Allow me to serve you, m’lady,” she said. “You must be ravenous. The sea air can make one hungry when you are not used to it.”

“Sit down, Lona,” Arabella instructed her servant. “There is no need for us to stand on ceremony here. Marie, we will serve ourselves. Please see that my captain and my men are fed and the horses watered.”

The serving girl curtsied and skipped off.

They were hungry, but still they ate slowly, savoring the well-prepared meal. The stew was rich with small onions and carrots that swam in a tasty, herb-flavored gravy, the bread was crusty on the outside, but soft and chewy in its interior. When they had almost finished, FitzWalter joined them.

“I’ve concluded the bargain with our innkeeper friend, Master Bartholomew,” he said. “‘Tis a small coach that should attract neither robbers nor attention. Just the sort of vehicle a poor but proud young noblewoman would have. The innkeeper was eager to part with it, for ‘tis not large enough to suit most people, and he’s had it hanging about for some time now, I gather. The interior is surprisingly luxurious, if a trifle worn.”

“How many horses did you buy?” Arabella asked.

“Three,” FitzWalter said. “Lona’s gelding will make the fourth. Since she’ll not be riding him if she’s riding in the coach, it seemed a pity to waste the coin. Your mare can be tied behind to follow, m’lady.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Aye.” He nodded.

“Then give us but a few minutes to attend to ourselves, and we shall be on our way,” Arabella said.

“I’ve hired a young man to drive us to Paris,” FitzWalter told her.

“Was that wise?”

“Master Bartholomew tells me the roads in France are as safe as any,” FitzWalter said dryly, “which means we should get through to Paris without losing our possessions or being murdered, if we are lucky, my lady. I’d rather have all our men free to concentrate upon defense. The lad I’ve hired knows the roads well and is going up to Paris to see his married sister, who has just had her first child. The innkeeper assures me he can handle the carriage and is trustworthy. If he is not, I have promised Master Bartholomew that I will return to Calais to wreak a wee bit of havoc upon his corpulent person.”

Arabella laughed. “I trust he took you seriously,” she teased.

“You have five minutes, my lady,” FitzWalter told her.

It took them over a week to reach Paris, rising early, traveling the entire day long with brief stops to rest the horses. As it was June, the sun did not set until late, and until the twilight faded, it was still possible to navigate the coach along the bumpy, dusty roads. The inns in which they stayed were barely habitable places, several of which did not even have suitable accommodations for a lady of rank, and so Arabella was forced to sleep in the hayloft of the inn’s stables, for FitzWalter would not allow his mistress to associate with common travelers.

When at last they reached Paris, they put up at an inn recommended by their host in Calais, Les Deux Reines, whose owner, Monsieur Reynaud, welcomed them warmly. Upon learning that the English lady would need a house, the French innkeeper happily informed them that, by chance, he owned a charming small stone house on the Seine, just south of the city, that he believed madame would adore.

“I can see,” he said, “that madame is not used to living in a city, and frankly, madame, city living is not healthy. One must be born and bred to it in order to properly survive. This petite
maison
will be just to madame’s taste, I assure you. It is well-furnished, and the rent is most reasonable.”

“We will talk,” FitzWalter growled, but Monsieur Reynaud was not in the least intimidated by the big Englishman.

The two men argued back and forth for over an hour, and finally the bargain was struck. Arabella would take possession of the house on the morrow. FitzWalter refused to pay Monsieur Reynaud his year’s rent, however, until they had seen the house.

“I will send my serving wenches to make certain that the house is aired and dusted,” Monsieur Reynaud purred charmingly. “Madame will be most happy at Maison Riviere, I promise it.”

On the following morning they rode to Maison Riviere and discovered to their surprise that Monsieur Reynaud had not exaggerated in the least the virtues of his property. The small stone house had two stories and an attic, as well as a cellar which was fairly dry despite the house’s proximity to the river Seine. Mounting the steps to the house, they entered into a small hallway. The main floor of the building consisted of four rooms. The cellar beneath, which was high, contained the kitchens, a buttery, a scullery, and a room for storing wines. The second floor of the building held the sleeping chambers, and the attics above would house several men-at-arms.

Maison Riviere was well-aired and clean. It was furnished in worn, but nicely polished oak furniture. There was not a great deal of it, but enough to give the impression that Arabella was struggling to keep up appearances. There was even a small, if overgrown, garden facing the riverside, and someone had gone to the trouble of gathering a bunch of flowers which they had placed in an earthenware pitcher with a slightly cracked lip. A scrawny white cat marked with several black patches was in firm possession of the kitchen stoop.

“Feed him,” Arabella ordered. “He will keep the mice away.”

“Madame is pleased, then?” Monsieur Reynaud inquired solicitously.

“‘Twill do,” she answered him shortly.

“Madame will need servants,” the innkeeper said.

“Madame has little with which to pay servants,
monsieur
,” Arabella said with a small smile that set the innkeeper’s heart to racing.

“A woman to cook, a girl or two to clean from the village nearby, madame. Give them a few coppers a month, a place to sleep, their food, and they will be happy,” he told her. “I must assume a lady of madame’s rank will go to court. Soon she will find new friends. She will want to entertain,” he added slyly.

“He’s right,” FitzWalter said softly at her shoulder.

“I know,” Arabella replied in English, “but I must first count our funds to see what we can afford.”

“Tell our new landlord to send the women around this afternoon, my lady. We must have a cook at least.”

“You will send me several women from which I may choose my servants this afternoon,
Monsieur
Reynaud,” Arabella instructed him.

The innkeeper bowed and departed.

FitzWalter assigned the eight men-at-arms to their new duties. Two would serve in the house and share a room in the attic. Two others would reside in a single-room cottage at the back of the garden by the river. FitzWalter would make his bed in a small chamber on the second floor of the house with Fergus MacMichael, the rest of the men would bed down in the little stable belonging to the house and Lona would sleep on a trundle in her mistress’s room.

Monsieur
Reynaud had left a basket of food for them so they would not go hungry until the cook was chosen from the candidates he was sending. Shortly after the noon hour, however, a great, gaunt woman, accompanied by two younger versions of herself, arrived at the door of Maison Riviere and announced, “I am Barbe, and these are my daughters, Avice and Lanette, madame.
Monsieur
Reynaud has sent us to serve you. Whatever wages you would pay us we will accept gladly, for I am widowed, and my daughters and I must support ourselves.
Monsieur
Reynaud says you would not be unfair.”

Then before Arabella might protest, Barbe, her daughters following in her wake, moved past her and, without another word, found their way to the kitchens. Within minutes they had the fires going and Barbe was directing the two men-at-arms assigned to the house by FitzWalter to fetch her water from the house’s well and bring her more firewood. As the big woman spoke no English and the Greyfaire men no French, her methods of communication were somewhat comical, though successful. To Arabella’s amazement, the cook also set about to teach them two simple words.

“C’est l’eau!”
she told them when they had brought her water, and she plunged her big reddened hand into the bucket, bringing it up and drizzling the liquid through her sausagelike fingers. “
L’eau!”
she said a second time for emphasis, and then cocked her head at them.

The two young men looked at her, puzzled, and then Lona, catching on, said, “It must be the French word for water. Repeat her words, you two dimwits! She’s trying to teach you.” Lona swished her own hand about in the bucket.
“L’eau,”
she said, and the men echoed her.

Barbe grinned broadly.
“Bon!”
she said, obviously pleased, and pointed to the firewood they had also brought.
“Bois de chauffage,”
she pronounced slowly.

“Firewood!” Lona said excitedly.
“Bois de chauffage
is firewood!”

“Bon!”
came the reply.
“Barbe.”
The cook pointed to herself and looked to the others.

“Lona,” Lona said, her fingers touching her own chest, and then she pointed to her two companions in turn. “Will. John,” she told the cook.

“Weel. Jean,” Barbe said, grinning broadly at the two.

“I am obviously not going to be given a choice in the matter,” Arabella said laughingly. “I only hope she can cook as well as she can teach you all the French tongue.”

“She probably can,” FitzWalter said. “Our wily landlord has so far been honest with us.”

“What am I to pay her?” Arabella wondered aloud.

“I’ll take care of it,” FitzWalter said. “I’ll see if they plan on living here, in which case they can sleep in the room off the kitchen. The fireplace backs up to it, and it should be warm in winter.”

Arabella nodded and left everything to FitzWalter, realizing even as she returned to the small salon on the main floor of the house how fortunate she was to have this man in her service. Without him, she would have faltered a hundred times, for FitzWalter obviously knew the world beyond Greyfaire, and she, but for her time in Scotland, did not.

In a day or two she would have to consider how she might go about joining the French court. The French king, Charles VIII, was just nineteen years old and had been king since his father’s death six years before. Intellectually, he was considered backward and slow, and so his father had given him a regent in the person of his brilliant eldest sister, Anne of Beaujeu, who was married to Pierre de Bourbon. Charles VIII’s first cousin and heir-presumptive, Louis, the Duc d’Orleans, was furious. Wed to another of Charles’ elder sisters, Jeanne de Valois, he feared that the Bourbons would usurp his position as lieutenant general of the kingdom. He was also in love with his sister-in-law Anne, an open secret known to everyone in France.