Now Princess Margaret, in answer to her kingly nephew’s plea, came to Linlithgow, riding upon her white mare and followed by several ox-drawn carts containing her belongings, as well as her train of personal servants. If there was anxiety at her coming amongst the young noblewomen, Margaret Stewart soon dispelled it, for she was a woman of great wit and originality. She might expect proper behavior of the women at court, but she was certainly not a prude. Although she had enjoyed independence and solitude for most of her life, the king’s aunt found she was ready for a change. The young people of the court were fascinated by her, for Margaret Stewart was unique amongst her sex. She was a free woman, and she answered to none regarding her behavior. Still, she was devout and mannerly, for all her intellect.
Her apartments became a gathering place for young and old alike, and her rooms were as interesting as the princess herself was, for they were crammed with all manner of things that she had collected over the years, and many other things which had simply taken her fancy. The “Royal Aunt”, as she was fondly called, seemed not to mind that her quarters were as cluttered and as messy as a magpie’s nest with all her possessions. They were warm, inviting rooms whose very disorder seemed to encourage everyone who entered them to discussion.
Arabella particularly enjoyed being a part of the Royal Aunt’s group, for women were encouraged to speak their minds before her. One afternoon they were discussing a particular point regarding morality when the young Countess of Dunmor spoke up, saying to the gentleman who had been expounding his view, “You infer, sir, that only men need be concerned with honor. Women, also, have honor.”
“I think ye confuse honor wi’ virtue, madame,” came the reply.
“And I think you, sir, are a pompous ass!” Arabella retorted as the room erupted into giggles.
“Gie us an example of a woman’s honor as opposed to virtue, my dear,” said the Princess Margaret.
“Of course, madame,” Arabella said. “My own circumstances are a perfect case in point. I came to Scotland due to an affair of honor between the gentleman King Richard had chosen for me to wed and the Earl of Dunmor. Their quarrel had nothing to do with me, and yet the honor of my family, my honor, was compromised when Tavis Stewart stole me away and wed me. Now my home, Greyfaire, which I inherited upon my father’s death, is in the hands of my enemy. The honor of the Greys of Greyfaire, of whom I am the last surviving member, will continue to have a stain upon it until my home is restored to me. My husband has promised to do this for me.”
“Hah!” scoffed the gentleman Arabella had mocked. “How can a Scotsman reclaim an English border keep? He canna, madame, and what will ye do when he finally admits to ye that he canna?”
“Why, to satisfy honor,” Princess Margaret teased, “the Countess of Dunmor would hae nae choice but to divorce her husband.”
There was more laughter at this solution, and one pretty young woman said pertly, “If ye decide to divorce him, madame, I would be the first to know.”
“Nay,” said another woman. “Tell me! Tavis Stewart is the bonniest gentleman I’ve ever seen.”
“And, I’ve heard,” spoke up a third lady, “a magnificent lover. Is that true, my lady of Dunmor?”
Arabella blushed prettily, but before she could extricate herself from the situation, the princess said with mock severity, “Ladies, ladies! These discussions are meant to be intellectually elevating,” and then she adroitly changed the subject, to Arabella’s great relief.
The Earl and Countess of Dunmor entered into the frivolity of the court. Arabella possessed her soul of patience regarding Greyfaire until the month of April had begun. Neither Tavis nor the king had said anything to her regarding the matter, and it was now close to four years since she had left her home. Rowan FitzWalter had only recently contacted his sister Lona, and Lona had passed on to Arabella the news that Greyfaire was in a sorry state. Sir Jasper had taken all the able-bodied young men with him to court, impressing boys as young as twelve into his military troop, that he might influence the king. Rowan had only escaped because his father, forewarned, had sent him out hunting that day. Half the trees in the orchards had come down with acanker, and if not already dead, were dying. The village and the keep had both suffered from epidemics of white throat, the spotting sickness, and the sweating sickness. There wasn’t a family that had not lost either a child, an elder, or a parent.
“Rowan says our two youngest sisters, Eba and Annie, have died,” Lona said sadly. “‘Twas the spotting sickness.”
“I must do something,” Arabella said desperately.
“M’lady, you could do nothing about the spotting sickness,” Lona said with perfect logic. “That was God’s will, and as for the canker in the orchard, no one can prevent canker in the fruit trees.”
“Without a Grey,” Arabella said solemnly, “Greyfaire has lost its luck. I must get it back!”
“What must ye get back, sweetheart?” the king demanded, entering Arabella’s bedchamber unannounced.
Lona’s eyes widened with surprise, but she kept her wits about her and curtsied prettily to the king. He grinned mischievously, and taking a small gold ring from his pinkie, dropped it down Lona’s bodice. Lona gave a little shriek of surprise and then blushed scarlet.
The king chuckled and said, “Yer dismissed, lassie,” and gently shoved her out the door, closing it firmly behind Lona before Arabella might protest.
The Countess of Dunmor eyed her sovereign warily. “My lord,” she said coolly, nodding her head in greeting.
“Madame,” he replied, eyeing her dishabille, for Arabella was attired in her petticoats and underbodice. Her beautiful pale gold hair was unbound and spread across the floor by her feet.
There was a long silence between them as Arabella waited for the king to state the purpose of his visit, and finally when he did not, she said, “Why are you here, my lord? You know that my husband is in the north treating with the Gordons on your behalf.”
“Aye, but I have had news from England in response to the request my late father made to King Henry for ye,” James Stewart said. “Henry Tudor is reluctant to return Greyfaire Keep to ye in light of yer marriage to my uncle. Sir Jasper Keane has entreated him for the property, but the English king has not yet made a decision in that direction either. He writes to us that he will consider the possibility of assigning Greyfaire Keep over to Lady Margaret Stewart, daughter of Arabella Grey and Tavis Stewart, provided that he has the final say in a choice of a husband for your daughter. He then goes on to say that though he hae made no decision in the matter, the thought of a minority heiress possessing such a strategic piece of land disturbs him, and he wonders if Sir Jasper might not be a better choice.”
“No.” Arabella’s voice was strangled. “Not Jasper Keane! Never! I will kill him myself before I allow that man to possess Greyfaire!”
“What choice hae ye in the matter, Arabella?” the king said.
“I can go to England!” she cried. “I must!” The Countess of Dunmor began to pace her bedchamber. “If I could but speak with King Henry, I could make him understand the situation. I could tell him of Jasper Keane’s perfidy toward me and toward my poor mother, may God assoil her sweet soul. Surely Henry Tudor is an honorable man, and if I can but gain an audience with him, I can explain it all to him far better than anyone can explain it in a letter.”
“How will ye gain an audience with him?” James Stewart asked, fascinated by her determination. Until this minute he had only seen Arabella in terms of an adorable young woman whom he wished to possess. He was intrigued by this new side of her.
“You will write to King Henry, my lord,” she answered him, “and I will carry the message to him personally.”
“And what will I say, sweetheart?” he asked her, amused.
“You will ask your fellow king to give me an audience,” Arabella said with great simplicity. “He will hardly refuse me when the request comes from his fellow monarch, and I am standing there before him.”
James Stewart burst out laughing. He did not know which amused him more. Her audaciousness or the indignant expression she was now wearing upon her beautiful face.
“Do not dare to laugh at me!” Arabella said angrily, stamping her foot at him. “There is absolutely nothing funny or foolish about my plan.”
“Nay, sweetheart,” the king said, putting his own emotions firmly under control, “there is, indeed, nothing funny or foolish about ye, but what makes ye think I will help ye?”
“But why, my lord, would you refuse me? My daughter is your own cousin, Sire. Having Margaret the heiress of such a strategic place on the English side of the border could hardly be detrimental to Scotland.”
James Stewart crossed the room to where Arabella stood and drew her tightly to his side. Her fragrance assailed his nostrils, making him almost dizzy with his rising desire. “Once, Arabella Stewart, I told ye there would come a day when ye wanted a favor from me. Do ye remember that?”
“A-Aye,” she said softly.
“And do ye remember also the price for that favor, sweetheart?” The king’s hand crept up her torso to cup a small, perfect breast.
Arabella resisted the urge to pull away from him and slap his face. Instead she stood very still and said, “I remember, my lord.”
“And are ye willing to pay the price for my aid, ‘Bella,” he murmured, his lips moving down the side of her neck to her shoulder.
“Please, my lord,” Arabella said. “You are my husband’s nephew, and he is your friend. Surely you would not extract such a price from me.”
“Indeed, madame, I would, for like ye, I am determined to have what I desire, and as ye desire the return of yer home, I desire ye.”
“Is there no other way, my lord?” she pleaded with him. “Is there nothing else I might give you that would satisfy such a debt between us? I love Tavis Stewart.”
“But ye love yer Greyfaire more, I think,” James Stewart said. He turned her so that she was forced to look up at him, and bending, he brushed her mouth lightly with his. “Yer such a wee bit of a creature, sweetheart.” His voice was tender, but then it hardened. “What can ye possibly gie me, Arabella Stewart, that I dinna already hae? I am an anointed king, and though my earls are no less fractious now than they were in my father’s time, I am able, for all my youth, or perhaps because of it, to rule them well. I am nae a rich man, but then neither am I a poor one. My country, though it has suffered with several bad harvests, has survived, and we are nae threatened by any of our enemies at this time. Indeed, both France and England seek to court Scotland. And, sweetheart, I hae the most beautiful women in the land seeking my bed. I lack for nothing but my heart’s desire, and that is ye. So if ye would hae me intercede for ye wi’ King Henry, ye must yield yerself to my wishes.”
“I do not need your help,” Arabella said proudly. “I will go to England without it.”
“I will nae let ye go,” he told her calmly.
“You cannot stop me!” she cried, attempting to pull away from him, but he would not release her.
“I can,” he said. “Do ye think my uncle, when informed of yer plans, will concur wi’ them? Ye know he will nae.”
“I do not need his permission,” Arabella said, and the king laughed with genuine amusement.
“I dinna know how ye and my uncle hae managed to remain wed wi’ out killing each other,” he said. “Do ye ever agree on anything, ‘Bella?”
“Of course!” she said irritably. “Whatever our differences, my lord, we love one another.”
The king grew serious once more. “I will nae let ye leave here wi’ out yer husband’s permission, madame, and if ye defy me in this matter, I will tell him of yer plans. Wi’ out me, ye will nae go to England, nor will ye succeed wi’ out my aid.”
“I cannot put the horns of a cuckold on my husband’s head,” Arabella told the king firmly.
“He need nae know, sweetheart,” James said. “I am nae a man who must boast amongst his friends in the hall of his conquests.”
“I cannot,” Arabella said.
“Then ye will hae to resign yerself to losing yer beloved Greyfaire, madame. Are ye prepared to do that?”
Tears welled up in the Countess of Dunmor’s eyes. For the last several years she had dreamed of regaining her childhood home. She might have been able to let that dream go had it not been for Sir Jasper Keane. The thought of him possessing Greyfaire was more than she was able to bear. “I must think on it,” she said low.
Dear God! What was she to do? How could she betray Tavis Stewart when she loved him so very much? And yet…and yet had he not promised to regain Greyfaire for her? But he had not, and she sensed that having made the effort, he would accept the English king’s judgment in the matter. But she could not! She could not leave Greyfaire to the tender mercies of Sir Jasper Keane, and she could not betray her husband by giving herself to Jamie Stewart’s lust.
Then she heard a voice in her mind, and she remembered the discussion on honor that she had partaken in but a short while ago in the Royal Aunt’s chambers. She remembered the gentleman who had asked her what she would do when Tavis finally admitted to her that he could not regain Greyfaire for her. She recalled the princess’s quick retort:
“Why, to satisfy honor, the Countess of Dunmor would hae nae choice but to divorce her husband.”
For a moment she felt as if her heart had stopped in her chest. Was there no other choice? She wanted Greyfaire, and obviously only she could regain it. The honor of her family demanded it, and if she had to sacrifice her own happiness…
He saw the indecision and all the other emotions churning inside her, welling up in her eyes, playing across her beautiful face. He could almost taste his victory, and the taste was sweet.
Finally Arabella spoke, and what she said could not have surprised him more than if she had hurled a thunderbolt at him. “If I agree to your terms,” she said slowly, “then you must do one thing for me first. Men, my husband in particular, are most fond of speaking about their honor. ‘Twas an affair of honor that brought me to Scotland, as you well know. Were it not for honor, I should be in possession of Greyfaire now, and not here before your majesty. Well, women are possessed of honor too, my lord, and if I must compromise my own honor in order to regain what is rightfully mine, I will not discredit my husband’s name in the process. You are Scotland’s king, and whatever you desire is done. Obtain for me a divorce from the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s. When you have done that, I will grace your bed, and afterward you will let me return to England that I may regain what is mine. Our liaison must be a secret one, however, for whatever Tavis may think of me, I would not have him shamed publicly, for I love him. Sadly, I love Greyfaire too. You Stewarts are wrong to attempt to make me choose between you and my home, for I cannot.”
“But ye hae,” the king said.
“Nay, I have but done what I must do to restore my family’s honor,” Arabella said quietly. “I have done no more than my husband or any other man would have done in a similar situation. Why should it be different simply because I am a woman?”
“Yer certain ye wish to do this?” the king said, feeling just the faintest twinge of guilt.
“As certain as your majesty is that he desires to bed me,” Arabella said quietly. There was an elegant dignity about her that made James Stewart uncomfortable.
The young king flushed, and was irritated that she made him feel so guilty. “Ye dinna hae to divorce my uncle,” he said, his tone just short of surly.
“Ye dinna hae to futter me either, my lord,” she mocked him in his own Scots-English, “but you desire to possess me more than you love your uncle. I, however, love Tavis Stewart, and I will not allow either of us to bring dishonor to his name or to the Stewarts of Dunmor! If you will help me without extracting this terrible price from me, I will be your majesty’s grateful servant forever, but if you will not, then I must do what is right even if you will not.”
“Dinna seek to instru
ct me, madame,” the king said angrily. “I am long past lessons.”
“Your father, may God assoil his good soul, once told me that no one is past learning. A man who ceases to learn becomes valueless to those about him, for he can offer them nothing new,” Arabella retorted sharply.
James Stewart yanked her hard against him and ground his mouth down upon hers in a punishing kiss. Furiously, Arabella pulled her head away from him, but the king took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her fast. “When ye speak to me in future, madame, I want to hear words of love and cries of sweet passion only issuing forth from between your delectable lips. Nothing else!” He kissed her fiercely once again, leaving Arabella somewhat breathless. “Yer husband will nae be back for several weeks, madame, for his mission to the Gordons at Hunfley and the Leslie laird at Glenkirk is delicate and will take time. Ye will hae yer divorce before the week is out, ‘Bella, and ye will be in my bed not long afterward.”
“One night,” she said.
“A week,” he told her.
“You cannot keep such a secret for a week,” she said, tears springing into her light green eyes.
He considered her words and realized that she was correct, though the knowledge annoyed him. It was not a secret that could be long kept. “Three days, then,” he said grudgingly, “but nae here at Linlithgow. I’ve a small hunting lodge in the borders. We’ll go there.”
The Spitfire Page 33