The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Lady Rowena fluttered nervously.

  Jasper Keane forced down a chuckle. Aye, Arabella was indeed becoming more interesting as each minute passed. “Why, sweet Row,” he murmured, “it would seem you have birthed a spitfire in this child of yours. I do not know that I should not be taken aback by this turn.”

  “Would you have me be weak as water, my lord?” Arabella snapped. “What kind of children should I give you then? I have ever been accustomed to speaking my mind, and I shall not change.”

  He laughed aloud and nodded his handsome blond head. “Aye, a hot-tempered spitfire. I think I shall enjoy taming you, Arabella Grey.”

  The priest was too innocent of matters between men and women to hear the implied threat in his voice, but Rowena heard it. Arabella, however, also innocent, looked at her future husband and said boldly, “And just how shall you tame me, my lord?”

  “Why, with sweet songs, and soft words, and pretty gifts,” he said with a charming smile, for it amused him at the moment to play the gallant.

  “Indeed, sir?”‘ Arabella’s young heart fluttered at this sudden attention, for until this moment he had treated her as he might have treated a child.

  Sir Jasper saw her confusion and the softening of her attitude. Reaching over, he took her hand in his and kissed it lingeringly. “I shall never be able to repay the king for the great kindness he has done me by bestowing upon me such an exquisite bride…even if she is a spitfire who shall undoubtedly give me a great deal of trouble.”

  Unaware of how to respond to his wooing, Arabella giggled girlishly, and Rowena felt the worm of jealousy turn sharply in her heart.

  “You are too extravagant with your compliments to my daughter, my lord,” she said sharply. “I would not have her over-proud.”

  “Pretty words do not fool me, Mama,” Arabella said, aggravated that her mother had spoiled such a lovely moment, “but those same words are still pleasant to hear.”

  The girl was not stupid, Sir Jasper considered again, as he had in the past. Innocent, yes, but not stupid. He had seen her green eyes widen at his compliment, seen the blush that stained her pale cheeks pink. “A man is bound to spoil a beautiful wife,” he said simply.

  Afterward, in her own chamber, Arabella considered Sir Jasper once again as she had considered him in the past. He was handsome, he was kind to both her and her mother, FitzWalter respected him, and he certainly knew how to speak prettily to a woman. What more was there to a man than that? In many ways he appeared to be like her own late father, and yet…there was something that she could not quite put her finger upon that niggled at her. Some unknown voice that seemed to shriek a warning, but what was it warning her of, or of whom was it warning her? Or was it merely her overstimulated imagination? In a sense she was resentful of Sir Jasper’s coming, for once he became her husband and her lord, it would be he who became the possessor of Greyfaire, not she.

  It was difficult to think of Greyfaire belonging to anyone else but her. She had grown up knowing that it would one day be hers, and she was certain that if her father had lived, he would have seen it remained hers no matter her husband. Greyfaire was all she had in the world. It was as much a part of her as she was of it. Without it she was valueless. In a way, she resented losing it to another. To a man.

  Sometimes she wished she had been born a boy, and this was one of those times. Men certainly had all the fun, and if she had been her father’s son rather than his daughter, then no one could have taken Greyfaire from her! Perhaps if she loved Sir Jasper, she would not have minded, but having observed her parents all her life, she thought it must have something to do with a deep sharing of not simply one’s body and emotions, but one’s possessions as well. For now she did not feel that way about Sir Jasper. Perhaps in time she would.

  Chapter Three

  In the previous autumn of 1483 there had been three areas of anti-Richard activity. Kent and the southeast section of England, the south-central counties, and the West Country of Cornwall and Devon. The rebels in the Home Counties about the capital planned to secure London and to also free the dowager queen, Elizabeth Woodville, and her daughters from their sanctuary. The Duke of Buckingham—once Richard’s staunch ally, but now suddenly his enemy—along with the Earl of Dorset, intended raising armies in Wales and the West Country to support a prearranged invasion by Henry Tudor from Brittany.

  The rebels, however, had no central authority to coordinate this rebellion. The rising in Kent broke out too early and failed. Buckingham could not even raise his own tenantry, let alone a real army. Dorset found that he was unable to guarantee a safe landfall for the Tudor claimant, who, caught by the autumn gales mid-channel, was finally forced to return to the continent.

  The rebellion was a total failure, but not simply because of the rebels’ lack of organization. Richard had his support. At the first sign of trouble the Duke of Norfolk moved to defend London, and that done, destroyed the rebellion in the southeast. Humphrey Stafford of Grafton contained Buckingham by gaining control of all the bridges along the river Severn. As the long’s army moved southwest, the rebels lost heart. Buckingham, who himself had a tenuous claim on the throne through his ancestor, Edward III, was captured, brought to Richard in chains, judged guilty, and executed on November second, All Souls Day. The king’s army mopped up the last vestige of resistance and settled down for the winter.

  The new year, however, brought disquieting news. While the men had fought each other upon the battlefields of England, Henry Tudor’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, who was now Lady Stanley, had been in negotiation with Elizabeth Woodville for the hand of her daughter, Elizabeth of York. On Christmas Day 1483, Henry Tudor, from his exile in Brittany, solemnly promised before God and man in the cathedral at Rennes to marry Elizabeth of York, thereby laying formal and unmistakable claim to England’s throne. It was a clever ploy, but at the time no one in either England or Europe took this betrothal seriously.

  In the summer of 1484 the Breton government, for so long the Tudor refuge, agreed to allow extradition of Henry Tudor of England. Warned by his friends, Henry escaped into France, to be followed by his own adherents. He was warmly greeted by the French king, Charles VIII, who was unable to resist the opportunity to irritate France’s age-old enemy, England. For several months Tudor and his people followed the French court. Word came that little Prince Edward had died and that the queen would bear no other children.

  There was further word. Richard had designated his nephew, John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln, his heir-presumptive. Queen Anne was ill. The dowager queen, Elizabeth Woodville, had supposedly made her peace with Richard. And the nastiest of all possible rumors—the king was casting incestuous eyes upon his niece, Elizabeth of York, intending to replace his old and fruitless queen with a young and fruitful one.

  Richard was himself horrified by the rumor, particularly as he could not find its source. Neither could he quench it. Each time he believed the vile rumor had finally disappeared from whence it came, it would spring to life anew. It was frustrating and embarrassing to a king who was not only a strictly moral man, but a deeply religious one as well. Worse, it hurt the woman he so deeply loved and who could not seem to recover from her little son’s death. And it made impossible his future relationship with his nieces, which had always been a good one. But for now that seemed to be the worst of Richard’s troubles, and for a time, the threat of Henry Tudor banished, he attempted to rule his kingdom.

  At Greyfaire it was the happiest summer of Arabella Grey’s young life, for she believed herself to be in love for the very first time. How could she have been so childishly blind, she asked herself over and over again, growing up with her wonderful parents and their deep love of each other as an example? But then how could she have really known what love was until she found it for herself? She sighed happily. Jasper was so very handsome to the eye with his rich, wavy gold hair, and eyes that seemed to be the color of Spanish wine. When he looked at her wit
h those marvelous eyes, the effect was just as intoxicating, she decided. He had good teeth too. Even and white, and his breath when he whispered to her was always sweet, always fresh.

  She could not forget the queen’s warning that beauty to the eyes was not always true beauty, yet Jasper was charming and very witty. He told her his amusing tales of court life in the days of the late King Edward IV, and those tales were just a trifle bawdy, for King Edward was a naughty man, Jasper said, where the ladies were concerned; Arabella could not help but giggle at the humor Jasper imparted in his stories. Sometimes when Rowena was near enough to hear, she would scold him for telling her daughter these stories.

  “She does not understand half of what you say, my lord,” Rowena would scold. “She is my innocent little country child.”

  And Arabella would more often than not explode with anger at these maternal sallies, furious that her mother continued to treat her like the baby she no longer was. Lately she would remind Rowena that she was twelve and a half. That it was she, and not her mother, who was Greyfaire’s mistress. That in less than two years’ time she would be Sir Jasper’s wife, and hopefully, pray God, a mother herself soon after.

  The day she had said that, her mother had gone white with her own distress, and Jasper had taken Arabella onto his lap, an arm about her slim waist. “Mignon,” he said softly, kissing her cheek lingeringly, “no one can long for that day more than I do,” and when she nestled her head against his shoulder, his other hand brushed with seeming carelessness across her young breasts, sending a shiver down her spine.

  “My lord!” Rowena’s voice was tight.

  “What is it, sweet Row?” His tones were dulcet.

  “I do not think you should treat Arabella in that fashion,” she said.

  Arabella slid her arms about Jasper Keane’s neck and, turning her head, stared boldly at her mother. “We are to be married soon,” she said coolly. “Is it not right that lovers court, Mama? Jasper is hardly a stranger to me, having been at Greyfaire this past year. Would you have me go to my marriage totally ignorant?”

  “Arabella! You will not speak to me that way,” her mother cried.

  “I think you are jealous of me, Mama,” the girl said heedlessly. “I think you are jealous that the king has given me such a fine man to be my husband. You are still young and pretty. Perhaps you should find yourself a new husband too.”

  “Ohhhhh!” Rowena gasped with outrage.

  “Ah, mignon,” Jasper Keane said quietly, “that is very wicked of you. I will not have you speaking to your mother like that.” He gently tipped her from his lap and turned her about so she faced him. “You are to go out of the keep and onto the hillside, Arabella. You will bring me back a fine switch of this thickness.” He held up a single finger.

  “You would beat me?” Arabella’s young voice was filled with disillusionment.

  “Until we are wed, mignon, your mother is your governor. Afterward I will assume that position,” Sir Jasper explained patiently. “If you are disobedient to your mother now, does it not follow that you will attempt that same disobedience with me?”

  “I would never be disobedient to you, my lord,” Arabella whispered.

  “Good,” he said with a broad smile. “Then you will seek the switch as I have ordered you, mignon, will you not?”

  Her eyes filling with tears, Arabella nodded mutely, and curtsying to him, ran from the hall. Jasper Keane chuckled softly.

  “Do not beat her, I beg you, my lord,” Rowena half moaned, kneeling before him and clutching his hand.

  “I will not harm her, Row. Six strokes and that is all. I would just test her mettle. Now get up. You look positively tragic there at my feet.”

  They sat in silence for some time, until at last Arabella returned carrying a stout hazel switch which, with downcast eyes, she brought over to him. He took it and waved it several times as if testing it, and then with a smile of satisfaction he said to her, “You will lay yourself across my lap, Arabella.”

  She complied immediately, not even casting a look at Rowena, who sat weeping softly, wringing her hands, nor did she even wince when he lifted her skirts up and drew aside her undergarments so that her posteriors were bared to his gaze. She started slightly when she felt his hand smooth lingering over her skin, squeezing it slightly, and she distinctly heard a sound very much like a hum of approval. But before she might consider it, the first blow fell with a stinging pain and she shrieked, although she had not meant to and, helpless, tried to wiggle away from the hurt.

  “That was one,” he said dispassionately. “There will be five more strokes, mignon, and then having kissed the rod, you will kneel to your mother and beg her pardon. Is that understood, Arabella?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said tightly, determined not to cry out again, if she died in the attempt. To her great satisfaction she did not, although she would have sworn the last two blows were the hardest of all, almost as if he were trying to make her scream. The last blow completed, Arabella squirmed off Sir Jasper’s lap to quickly kiss the outstretched hazel switch. Then turning, she knelt before her mother.

  “I ask your pardon for my wayward tongue, madame,” she said coldly, and when Rowena murmured a loving reply, Arabella stood up, straightened her skirts and walked from the hall.

  When she had gone, Rowena said softly, and there was a sound of pleasure in her voice, “You have made an error, my lord. Arabella will accept almost anything but an affront to her dignity. She will not forgive you easily, if she forgives you at all.”

  “We will see,” he said, and then he thought it made little difference if Arabella forgave him or not. He had entrenched himself here at Greyfaire now, and he did not intend to give up possession of this keep to anyone, let alone a silly chit of a girl. His own home, Northby Hall, had been burned to ashes. Nothing remained of the two-hundred-year-old house his family had built in the reign of Edward I, who had been known as “Long-shanks”. His livestock had disappeared over the Cheviot Hills with the Scots who had destroyed his house. Retaliation, he had no doubt, for his destruction of Eufemia Hamilton’s home.

  If the truth be known, all he possessed was the land, what small income he could wring out of his few tenant farmers, his horse, and his arms. He liked Greyfaire. It might be small, but it was well-built, and could, he was more than certain, withstand a serious siege should anyone ever decide to pen him within the keep. Greyfaire would not be easily demolished by an enemy. The land about it was good, for a little valley surrounded the castle’s hill. There were several fine farmsteads, rich fields, and even an apple orchard. The king was paying him a small subsistence to husband the keep, which allowed him to retain his own men, but allowed for precious few luxuries. There was trouble coming, he knew, for he could smell it in the air as one could smell a city in a downwind. King Richard. Henry Tudor. He would have to make a choice eventually. Not too soon, but not too late, lest he lose out on all the favors the victor would grant those who had the good sense to support him. It was a good time for an ambitious man to be living, and he already had his toehold on the future.

  Arabella Grey was a strong, healthy girl, for all her pale coloring. She should give him healthy children and live to raise them. He had had two previous wives. The first he had wed the year he was sixteen. She had been his orphaned cousin and only ten years of age. They had never cohabited, and his mother had hoped to raise Beth to be the kind of wife she thought her only son should have. Unfortunately, both his mother and his child-wife had died in the early spring of 1470 of some pestilence that was scourging the surrounding countryside. His father survived long enough to arrange a second marriage for him, which was celebrated that same December at his dying parent’s bedside. His second wife, Anne Smale, had died less than three years later, having never conceived despite his unrelenting attentions to her.

  Sir Jasper Keane had found himself at twenty-one answerable to no one, and so he had pledged his fealty not to the most powerful nobleman in the north, th
e Earl of Northumberland, but to King Edward himself. He was loyal and self-effacing and served the king in a number of discreet matters. Though he was a lascivious man by nature, he hid that part of himself from the licentious king lest his baser nature be considered a weakness to be used against him. It was this seeming morality in the face of immorality that brought him to the attention of the king’s brother, Richard, the Duke of Gloucester. He was quick to pledge his service to Richard upon the king’s death, for Sir Jasper Keane was no fool, and he could see more advantage in allying himself to a grown man than kneeling at the feet of a child monarch.

  His instincts had proven sound, although he had never expected the turn of events that followed. Jasper Keane knew he was of very little import in the world of English politics. He could only hope that eventually his dedicated service would be taken note of and rewarded. He sought but two things: gold and a healthy, hopefully well-connected wife. Some high lord’s bastard by a daughter of the merchant class perhaps. A daughter who was loved, or at least remembered with fondness. Greyfaire and Arabella Grey were far more than even he had dared to hope. Jasper Keane knew that his luck was riding high. He had been in the right place at the right time, and to add a sugared topping to it all, there were two pretty birds in the nest, not one.

  He would have to take Rowena in hand, however. She was showing distinct signs of jealousy with regard to his courtship of her daughter. He had allowed Arabella several days to regain her equilibrium and was concerned when she did not come around, for women always did. A morning did not pass that he hadn’t had a small gift or trinket delivered to the girl who would be his wife. He picked these small treasures carefully from the loot of his border raids. Two gifts were of particular value, garnet ear bobs, and a beautiful pair of red Florentine leather riding gloves with tiny pearls sewn upon the turned-back cuffs. Other gifts were as simple as two cream-colored silk ribbons tied about a posy from the garden. More experienced women had melted before such wooing, so he was surprised when Arabella did not.