The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “No!” she cried. “You are the king. You cannot simply run off to hunt as you did when you were a prince. You will be missed! As king you cannot go alone, and even the loyalist servant will gossip. My identity will become known. Do not pretend you want anything else of me other than my body, my lord, and that being so, are not the nights enough? You must surely know—for the first day we came to Linlithgow, I discovered it—that there is a secret passage from this room leading to another room within the palace.”

  “Nay,” he said, surprised. “I didna know. Show me, madame!”

  Arabella moved across the bedchamber to the fireplace wall, and pressing a corner of the paneling, she stepped back as a small door swung open. Taking a candlestick from the table, the king stepped through into the passage and moved forward. Within a moment the flickering candle disappeared from sight. She stood awaiting his return, and for the first time since this encounter with James Stewart had begun, Arabella felt herself overwhelmed by a great sadness.

  What in the name of God was she doing? She loved her husband. Loved him with every fiber of her being. They had a child, but of course it was really Margaret for whom she was doing this, she told herself. Greyfaire would be inherited by Lady Margaret Stewart, for she would never marry again, Arabella decided. With FitzWalter’s help she would hold the keep for England until the day her daughter married. Then, as Rowena had once planned, she would go to the Dower House to live out her old age. A tear slipped down her face. What was she doing? Angrily she brushed it away, wishing at the same time that she could rid herself of her doubts as easily.

  The king popped back into her view and exited the passage saying, “It leads to a small library next to my apartments! I can go there to ‘read’, asking that I not be disturbed, and no one shall know that I am really wi’ ye. ‘Tis perfect!” He grinned, pleased. “I shall come to ye tonight, sweetheart!”

  “Nay, you will not, my lord!” she told him. “Not until the archbishop assures me that I have my divorce. I will not lie with you until I do, lest I compromise my honor.”

  He was disappointed, for the anticipation of possessing this lovely woman for whom he had hungered for so long was great, but he also knew how fragile her state of mind was. She could change that mind at any moment should he press her, and he did not want her to do so. If he felt any guilt at the wrong he was doing to his uncle, James Stewart had not yet begun to contemplate that, for he was driven by but one thing—his need for Arabella. “I understand, madame,” he said gravely, and then bowing formally to her, he left her chambers.

  When she was certain that he was gone, Arabella put her head in her hands and wept. Again she was assailed by doubts, by the wisdom, or lack of wisdom, of what she was doing. Was Greyfaire really that important to her? It was naught but a little stone keep on the English side of the border. Dunmor Castle was far grander, and she had grown to love it too. Yet Greyfaire was her ancestral home, and she had been a Grey far longer than she had been a Stewart. If it had been anyone other than Jasper Keane, she might have been able to let it go, but she could not relinquish her hold on Greyfaire that he might have it. He was not worthy of Greyfaire, that debaucher of women, that murderer of innocents. She had to regain her rights to Greyfaire. She had to regain it for Margaret.

  Tavis had sworn to help her, and yet he had not. There was always something that took precedence for him over her problems. It was not that he didn’t care, for Arabella was certain her husband did care, but like most men, he put his own concerns above those of his wife. She had waited four years for him to act in her behalf, and yet he had never been able to find the time to do so. She had gone to King James III herself, and even that had not stirred him to action on her part. She had no other choice. She needed the king’s help, and Jamie would not give it to her unless she gave him her body in return.

  Arabella sighed deeply. And when she had regained Greyfaire, what then? A life of loneliness lay before her, for Tavis would certainly never forgive her. He would remarry, and some other woman’s son would be Dunmor’s heir. She could never love another man. Arabella maintained no illusions about the king. James Stewart, as young as he was, had a great appetite for women. If the rumors were true, and she certainly had no reason to doubt them, he was a vigorous and tireless lover. He was, at this moment in time, actively seeking a mistress. She knew should she aspire to the position, it could be hers.

  Poor James, Arabella thought. He was not a bad man, but he was certainly a thoughtless one. He had not, she was certain, considered for even the briefest moment Tavis’ feelings should he learn that his nephew had seduced her. Yet he would be a good king, for unlike his late father, James IV was a decisive young man. He saw what he wanted and he took it, as she certainly could attest. The court poet, William Dunbar, had recently written an amusing satire regarding one of the king’s amorous seductions. Jamie was pictured as a fox, while Master Dunbar had portrayed the lady as a lamb.

  The fox was neither ragged nor lean,

  A lustier reynard was never seen:

  He was long tailed and large withal.

  The silly ewe-lamb was much too small

  to answer “nay” when he said “yea.”

  Good luck to her, whatever befall!

  She didn’t flee him, strange to say.

  The court had laughed for several weeks over the poem, and even the lady involved was able to see the good-natured humor in her predicament. At least there would be no poetry about the king’s seduction of the Countess of Dunmor. With God’s good luck, no one would know.

  “M’lady?” Lona was standing by her side. “The king said I might come in, m’lady.” The girl shifted nervously, suddenly more aware than she had ever before been in her life of the differences between herself and her childhood friend.

  “Oh, Lona,” Arabella said, looking up, the evidence of tears quite plain upon her face, “do not look so frightened. It’s all right.”

  Lona hesitated, and then bravely she said, slipping back into the familiar address of their childhood, “No, it ain’t, ‘Bella. You’ve been crying, and you aren’t one for easy tears. We’ve been friends since the cradle, and I know I’m just your servant, and you’re a fine lady and all, but I know you better than any living, and it ain’t all right. If you don’t want to tell me, then that’s another matter, but don’t tell me it’s all right when I can see it ain’t!”

  It was probably the longest speech Lona had made in her entire life. It came from her heart, and Arabella knew that she could confide in Lona without fear. “No, it really isn’t all right, Lona,” she told her servant. “I am going to divorce the earl.”

  “What?” Lena’s face registered her total astonishment. “‘Bella, you can’t!”

  “I must,” Arabella answered, and then she went on to explain the situation to Lona.

  “That’s just plain daft,” Lona said matter-of-factly when her mistress had finished with her explanations. “Listen, m’lady, we’ll just sneak out of Linlithgow tonight, and no one, especially the king, will be the wiser. He don’t dare to pursue you openly.”

  “Go to the door, Lona, and open it,” Arabella instructed her servant, and when Lona obeyed, flinging the door wide, she found her way firmly blocked by two guardsmen.

  “Well!” Lona said, closing the door with a bang. “If that don’t beat all! How did you know, ‘Bella?”

  “I didn’t, really, but the king said he would not let me go, and so I suspected I would find myself under guard sooner or later,” Arabella told her friend.

  “What about the secret passage?” Lona said craftily.

  “I imagine we will now find it locked from the other side should we check,” Arabella replied, “but go through and see, Lona. Perhaps there is a chance.”

  Taking the candle the king had so recently set down, Lona popped into the passageway, disappearing quickly, only to return as quickly. “Locked!” she told Arabella.

  “Jamie is no fool,” the Countess of Dunmor said.
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  “He has no right to do this to you, m’lady, even if he is a king,” Lona said indignantly. “What will the earl say when he finds out? He’ll come after you for certain!”

  “No, Lona, he will not. With luck, Tavis will never know of my liaison with the king. He will assume I have been my usual willful self, and he will be very angry with me. Angry enough that I believe he will seek elsewhere for another wife. I could not remarry him under the circumstances, knowing that I had lain with his nephew. He would feel dishonored, though I divorce him in order not to dishonor him. He would feel betrayed by Jamie, and I cannot do that to him, for Tavis has always held the Stewarts above all. He is a man who prizes loyalty. Let him think it is I who have been disloyal to him, not the king. Dunmor is not important like Angus, or Argyll, or Huntley, but Tavis is a Royal Stewart, and I will not be responsible for causing a rift within the clan.”

  “Give Greyfaire up, ‘Bella!” Lona cried. “Tis not worth your unhappiness.”

  “To Sir Jasper Keane? Never! Not while there is breath in my body, Lona! What of your family? Already that bastard has drained off our youth, leaving the keep to be defended by old men, women and children. The orchards are dying for lack of care, and half the fields lie fallow for want of young men to work them. Greyfaire’s people will go half hungry this winter despite the good growing year, thanks to Sir Jasper Keane, who makes merry at King Henry’s court while my people starve! No, Lona! I will not let Greyfaire go.”

  “What of wee Mistress Maggie?” Lona demanded.

  “I intend taking Margaret with us,” Arabella said. “I cannot leave my daughter behind.”

  Lona shook her head. “The earl is going to kill you for certain, m’lady,” she told her mistress gravely. “That little lass is the light of his life.”

  “If he cared so very much about Margaret,” Arabella said tartly, “he would have seen to her inheritance instead of avoiding the issue.”

  Lona clamped her lips shut at that, for she knew there was no arguing with Arabella when she set her mind to something. She wished she could speak with her father, who was the wisest person she had ever personally known. She did not think FitzWalter would approve of Arabella divorcing her husband in order to gain King James’ help so that she might recover the rights to Greyfaire for her daughter’s dowry. Was Greyfaire really worth all the misery that Arabella was going to cause both herself and the man she loved? Lona somehow did not think it was, but then she had not been the heiress to Greyfaire Keep. She was only one of FitzWalter’s girls. The nobility thought differently than just plain folks did.

  Lona sighed gustily. Fergus MacMichael had been courting her for some months now. She had held him off, encouraging him one moment, flirting with other men the next, to poor Fergus’ distress. Still the young clansman had not given up on her, Lona thought with a small smile. “Get it all out of yerself, lassie,” he had told her patiently before she had left Dunmor to come to court with Arabella. “When we wed I’ll nae put up wi’ yer casting eyes on other men.”

  “Indeed,” she had answered him pertly. “You’ve not asked me to marry you, Fergus MacMichael, and I’m not sure I would if you did!”

  He had chuckled, a rich, knowing sound that had sent little shivers up and down her backbone. “The day I first laid eyes on ye, Lona, as bedraggled as a wet sparrow ye were too, I knew ye were mine,” he said.

  Lona sighed again. He was a man, was Fergus MacMichael! For a minute she closed her eyes and remembered his arms about her, his warm lips upon hers. She wanted to be his wife, and now that she was in danger of losing him, she realized it plainly. Damn ‘Bella, and her pigheaded passion for that mouldering heap of stones called Greyfaire! Could she not see that Dunmor was better? She didn’t have to do this! She could refuse the king and go home. Why did she persist in her stubbornness? Still, she loved Arabella Grey, and she would remain loyal to her even at the cost of her own happiness, Lona told herself. At least she would see Fergus a final time when they went to Dunmor to fetch wee Maggie.

  For the next few days they were kept busy packing, for Arabella had decided she would leave for Dunmor Castle as soon as her divorce from Tavis Stewart was granted and her debt to the king paid. The court need only know that Arabella longed for her child, and as her husband was away, had decided to return home. There would be no gossip about a divorce because no one would know about it until the Earl of Dunmor told them himself. She would leave it to Tavis to say what he pleased about the matter. She would not even mind if he intimated that it was he who instigated the proceedings.

  Arabella returned from the Great Hall one evening to be greeted by a grim-faced Lona who handed her a rolled parchment. With suddenly shaking fingers she undid the dark purple ribbon holding the tightly bound parchment closed and spread it open upon the table. The written words formally dissolving her marriage to Tavis Stewart swam before her eyes. Several quick tears splashed down upon the parchment before she could catch them, and she wiped at them with her sleeve, smearing the ink in several places.

  “Send it back to the bishop, m’lady,” Lona begged her. “Tell him ‘twas all a mistake and that you don’t want a divorce from his lordship!”

  “I have the right to use my maiden name again,” Arabella said tonelessly, and then rolling the parchment back up and tying it, she handed it to Lona. “Put this in a safe place, Lona, and see to my bath. I expect the king will be visiting me tonight. In just a few more days we will begin our journey home to Greyfaire. Won’t you be glad to see your father, and mother, and Rowan and your sisters again?”

  Lona almost wept with frustration. It was so obvious that Arabella was miserable. She was ruining her whole life, and Lona suspected that she knew it. Why was she deliberately and heedlessly pushing forward with her own destruction when she could, with just a word, save herself?

  “Don’t dally, Lona,” Arabella scolded her servant, and then she shivered. “God’s bones, I’m cold!”

  Lona moved silently about the room. There was nothing that she could say that would make any difference now. Hurrying to the door, she called the page who was at their disposal these days and sent him off to arrange for bathwater. Within a short period of time, footmen were trekking into the apartments with buckets of hot water run up from the kitchens for her ladyship, the Countess of Dunmor. Since the trip was not a short one, Lona poured several of the buckets into the black iron cauldron she kept over the fire in the dayroom in order to have boiling water with which to reheat the tub when necessary.

  Arabella wandered aimlessly from room to room as the work was being done, and when the last footman had departed the apartments, Lona helped her mistress to disrobe, and pinning up her long, glorious hair, settled her in the tub, which was fragrant with the scent of heather.

  “All right,” said Lona, sounding more like her own mother than like herself. “What’s done is done, ‘Bella! If you’re determined to go through with this folly, then you had best put a smile on your face, for no man likes a sour woman.”

  The sharp words had a steadying influence on Arabella. Lona was right. No one had forced her into this position. She had had the option of giving Greyfaire up. It was she who had decided not to do so. Nothing, she knew, was free in this life, even for Arabella Grey. If the king kept his part of the bargain—and certainly obtaining her a divorce was included in that agreement—then she would keep her part of the bargain.

  A knock sounded upon the door, and Lona scurried to answer it. She returned bearing a carved wooden box. “The page wore no badge, or insignia or service, but I think I’ve seen him with the king’s people,” Lona said.

  “Open the box,” Arabella commanded her servant.

  The girl complied and then said, “There’s another parchment, and…ohhh! Oh, ‘Bella! ‘Tis the most beautiful strand of pearls I’ve ever seen!” She held up a long rope of luminescent pearls, just faintly tinged with pink, from which hung a carved heart of red-gold studded with smaller pearls.

  “Oh my!
” Arabella exclaimed, surprised. She had hardly expected such a gift. Then her common sense took over. “Open the parchment,” she instructed Lona, “and let me see it.”

  When Lona held out the parchment, Arabella scanned it carefully. Jamie Stewart had more than kept his bargain. Not only had he written to King Henry regarding her plight and requesting the return of Greyfaire for his young kinswoman, Lady Margaret Stewart, as the copy Lona was holding attested to, he had enclosed a second message to Henry Tudor introducing his fellow monarch to Lady Arabella Grey. There was no way the English king could avoid seeing Arabella without giving offense to his fellow ruler in the north.

  “I am now deeply in the king’s debt, Lona,” Arabella told her serving woman with a gusty sigh. “Put these away, for they are important, and then scrub me well. The king, I am told, is offended by those who do not bathe.”

  “Perhaps, then,” Lona replied with a giggle, “you shouldn’t, m’lady.” She replaced the parchments in the box and set them aside before taking up a cloth to soap it.

  Arabella could not refrain from chuckling, but then she grew serious again. “Oh, Lona! I am so confused, for I know not if what I do is right, and yet I cannot help myself! It is as if the very stones of Greyfaire cry out to me.”

  “‘Tis done now, ‘Bella, and it seems to me you have little choice left. I suppose you could tell the king that you had changed your mind, but I suspect that it would anger him greatly. We both know that you must keep your bargain, and that being your father’s daughter, you will. Best to put a good face on it. My father always said that those who show weakness will be to those who don’t. You’ve been strong all along, m’lady. This is not the time to grow weak.”

  Arabella nodded. “Aye,” she said quietly, and then standing up, she stepped from her tub.