“That was the summer my father was killed,” Arabella said. “I never really understood it. I remember the summons coming from the king and my mother begging him not to go. My father laughed and said ‘twas no more than a border skirmish, for all King Edward was involved. He said the Scots king would not allow himself to be so easily unseated by a younger brother, that King Edward supported the usurper merely to annoy Scotland, relations between our two countries had not been going well.”
“Nay, they hadna,” the earl replied. “Jemmie marched south to meet the challenge to his throne. Unfortunately he took with him a group of his favorites, none of whom excelled particularly in the warlike arts, some of whom did excel in the arts, and all of whom were most cordially disliked by the nobility. Robert Cochrane, who was the architect of the Great Hall at Stirling Castle, was my brother’s chief favorite. He was a pompous, overbearing man, lacking in humor and hated by most who knew him. Jemmie chose Cochrane to be his Master of the Artillery over a number of eminently well-qualified men. It was like putting a light to gunpowder.
“We were camped at Lauder when the Earl of Angus and his troop of other nobles seized Cochrane and five others and hung them over Lauder Bridge. The rumors of these creatures of Jemmie’s, and the king himself, had so revolted Angus and his party that, unaware of Albany’s full treason against James—for Alexander Stewart had secretly sworn his and Scotland’s fealty to England—they had decided to replace James wi’ his younger brother. They forced the king to witness the execution of his friends, and then escorted him back to Edinburgh.”
“Were you with him? Why did you not help him?” Arabella demanded.
“I did,” the earl told her. “When my half brother Alexander had gone to England, I sent one of my own Dunmor Stewart clansmen to join up with his party. While Angus was bringing Jemmie back to Edinburgh a prisoner, I rode for the borders and met up wi’ my clansman, who had stolen a document which clearly detailed Albany’s perfidy. We brought it to the capital, and when Albany arrived there at the reception that had originally been planned to welcome him as Scotland’s new king, he found a far different reception than he had anticipated.
“Angus, who is a basically decent man, was shocked that, in his passion to rule, Alexander Stewart would betray his country into England’s hands. Albany was forced to reconcile his differences with Jemmie, who remained king, and Duke Richard returned to England. Yer King Edward’s only gain was the town of Berwick, which Duke Richard had captured wi’ Albany’s assistance before they arrived in Edinburgh,” said Tavis Stewart.
“And where my father was killed,” Arabella answered quietly. “Where is the Duke of Albany today, my lord?”
“Dead, lass. Jemmie tried to win his brother’s loyalty by giving him a wee bit of power as Lieutenant of the Kingdom, but Albany was, the following year, discovered once again in treasonable intrigues. When he fled to England, he learned that his former sponsor, King Edward, was dead, and Duke Richard was now King Richard. Richard had no time for Albany, and so he moved on to France. Last year he invaded Scotland wi’ another long-exiled rebel, the Earl of Douglas. They were defeated at Lochmaben. Douglas was captured and imprisoned. Albany fled back to France, where he was killed in a tournament this spring.”
“And so your king is no longer threatened by his enemies,” Arabella said.
“Kings always hae enemies, lassie,” the earl remarked dryly. “Most kings are faulted for going to war, but my brother is faulted for working so assiduously to keep the peace between Scotland and England. His nobility do nae understand him, for they do nae wish to change, but the world around us is changing.”
“You love King James, I can see,” Arabella noted. “Are you alike at all? You must be, that you can understand him so well.”
Tavis Stewart laughed. “My love for Jemmie began when I was but a wee lad. As I hae told ye, his mother was most kind to my own mother despite the difficulty of their positions. Although my father was killed when I was three, Queen Marie nae forgot that I was his son. Jemmie was nine when our father died, and his mother brought him to Roxburgh, showing him to her late husband’s armies and exhorting them to victory that they would do honor to King James II’s memory. She had her way, for the Scots successfully stormed Roxburgh and took it. Several days later my brother Jemmie was crowned at Kelso Abbey.
“Jemmie, however, was still a child, and child kings can be dangerous, for many wish to rule through them. Yer King Edward formed an alliance wi’ the Earl of Douglas and the Lord of the Isles that would hae partitioned Scotland between them. They intended to rule as vassals of England. My brother’s government avoided that danger by refuting their Lancastrian interests and signing a truce wi’ yer king. For a time we hae peace here in Scotland.
“When Jemmie was twelve his mother died. It was a great loss for us all, for the queen’s loyalty to her son and to Scotland could not be circumvented. Still, Jemmie had Bishop Kennedy of St. Andrew’s to advise him, and the bishop, too, was loyal as the queen had been, but he died two years after the queen. I was only eight years old then, but I remember my mother and stepfather speaking of the dangers involved, for Jemmie was only fourteen.”
“Were they afraid that you might lose Dunmor?” Arabella asked.
“Nay, I think not, for Dunmor has always been a Stewart stronghold, and Ian Fleming was holding it in my name at the time, and he was loyal beyond question. I think they simply feared a civil war which might hae encouraged England to invade us despite the truce between us. The Boyd family, however, settled everything for us all. They seized the young king at Linlithgow and brought him to Edinburgh. Sir Alexander Boyd was Jemmie’s military tutor and the governor of Edinburgh Castle, where Jemmie was now housed. God, how he hates the place, even today!
“Lord Boyd of Kilmarnock, the other conspirator, sent to my stepfather, Lord Fleming, saying that I was to be brought up to Edinburgh to keep my elder sibling company. By that time the Boyds had supreme power and there was nae refusing them. Lord Boyd had married his son to Jemmie’s sister, Princess Mary. I stayed wi’ my brother for several years until the Boyds made a match for him wi’ Princess Margaret of Denmark. After the wedding, Jemmie sent me home to Dunmor, saying that he now intended to assert his own royal authority over those who had ruled in his name.
“I was very angry wi’ him when he told me, for I wanted to stay and fight the Boyds wi’ him, but he would nae let me. ‘Ye’ve kept me company, laddie, these past few years,’ he told me, ‘and good company ye hae been, for all yer still a child. I couldna live wi’ such grand memories as we hae if I let anything happen to ye.’ So I went home to Dunmor wi’ my memories of a kindly elder brother who taught me that a man need nae be cruel in order to be a real man. I returned to Dunmor wi’ an appreciation of music and the arts, for Jemmie loves these things best. I learned that a man may esteem and value beauty wi’ out losing his manhood.”
“And what happened to the Boyds?” Arabella was enjoying her husband’s tale.
“Sir Alexander was executed, and Lord Boyd fled Scotland wi’ his son to live in exile. They were presumptuous to have seized the king in his youth. When they did they took the chance that they would pay such a penalty for their audaciousness, as indeed they did pay.”
“So there has been a happily ever after for your brother, my lord, hasn’t there?” Arabella said.
“Lassie,” the earl said, lifting his wife up to set her upon a low wall, that he might look at her, “until the Royal Stewarts totally control their nobility, no Scots king will ever hae a happy reign. My brother’s greatest loves, after his children, are music and architecture. He is well-informed regarding European painting, and even commissioned Master Hugo van der Goes to make an altarpiece for him which contains portraits of himself and Queen Margaret upon several of the panels. He collects classical manuscripts, and has encouraged our poets to their finest works. The beautiful coinage we hae here in Scotland is a result of Jemmie’s influence and patronage.” Th
e earl grinned ruefully. “He’s nae a man easily understood by his earls and clansmen. They find it easier to dislike him because he is different than they are. They will nae take the time to know or understand him, and since Cochrane and his ilk were hung, Jemmie will make no concessions to them or to his public in the matter of favorites. The current favorite is young John Ramsay of Balmain.”
“What does the queen think of all of this?” Arabella was curious, for she had never heard that King James’ marriage was not a happy one.
“Queen Margaret is the kindest, gentlest woman I have ever known,” Tavis Stewart said feelingly. “She has loved and supported Jemmie from the first moment she laid eyes upon him, and he, in turn, has loved and respected her as well. Whatever limits or weaknesses my brother may hae, his wife hae stood by him through it all. She is goodness beyond belief, lassie. Jemmie knows this and hae never abused her in any way for it, nor taken advantage of her sweetness.”
“How complex a man your brother sounds,” Arabella said. “I have known few people outside of Greyfaire, except for cousin Richard and Sir Jasper Keane, but then neither of them was what they seemed.”
He nodded and was pleased by her words, for it indicated to him that although Arabella might not be very educated—though few women really were—at least she had a good intellect and could learn. He had married her in haste in an effort to gain revenge upon another, and in doing so, he realized now that he had to accept her for what she was. It was a relief to know she was capable of change. Then Tavis Stewart considered the uncomfortable possibility that his young wife most certainly had similar thoughts about him. He wondered what her conclusions were as he lifted her from the garden wall to continue their stroll.
From the windows of her private apartments Lady Margery Heming watched her eldest son and his wife as they walked and talked amongst her flowers. She smiled, well-pleased, and her husband—who had many times seen that smile—chuckled as, coming to her side, he slipped an arm about her comfortable waist. She looked up at him, her eyes bright with satisfaction. “I’ll hae a grandchild from those two by this time next year,” she said with certainty.
Ian Fleming laughed. “It took Tavis long enough to come calling, my dear,” he noted.
“Aye, he’s proud,” she answered, the doting fondness in her tone evident. “Still, I knew he’d come eventually, and now that I’ve had time to cool Arabella’s ire at being stolen away, I can see she is more amenable to him. I like the lass, and she’ll be a good wife to him. Her mother has raised her well, for all her own loose behavior, which I am pleased she nae showed before her daughter.”
“Dinna be hard on Arabella’s mam, my dear,” Lord Fleming cautioned his spouse. “The lass loves her, and even I have heard of Sir Jasper’s reputation wi’ the ladies. He could be a Stewart for all his charm. That he seduced the poor woman is plain, for never hae I heard Arabella speak of her mother that she did nae speak of her wi’ love. I dinna think the little lass could love her mam were she a wicked woman.”
“Aye,” his wife agreed grudgingly. “Yer probably right, Ian. My tongue is ever getting ahead of my good sense.”
Lord Fleming gave his wife a little squeeze. “Yer anxious for Arabella to love Tavis, my dear, and jealous of anything that might make the lass long for her home. Dinna fear. She is his wife, and all will be well between them if we but gie them a chance. Turn yer thoughts to our Ailis’ wedding now, Margery.”
Lady Fleming nodded, but then her eyes strayed back to the garden and she smiled. “Look, Ian! He’s kissing her again!”
Ian Fleming shook his head with a grin. By now, he thought, he ought to be used to his wife’s interest in any and everything. “The lass looks as if she likes it,” he observed.
“Aye,” Margery Fleming said softly. “If he kisses her like his father used to kiss me…” She sighed gustily, her eyes overflowing with memories of a time past.
Lord Fleming had accepted long ago the fact that the father of his wife’s eldest child would always hold a special place in her heart. It was rare she even mentioned King James II. He felt no jealousy, for Margery had not even been his wife then, nor promised to him, and since their marriage she had been faithful and true. “However Tavis kisses, my dear,” he replied quietly, “it is obviously pleasing to Arabella, for she seems loath to cease their pleasant sport. I wonder if we should not emulate our children, Margery,” and Lord Fleming turned his wife about, giving her a warmly passionate kiss.
“Ohh, Ian!” she cried, blushing rosily with delight. “How naughty ye are!”
“Why should the young hae all the fun?” he demanded.
“I dinna ever say they should,” she replied coyly, and taking his hand in hers, Lady Fleming led her husband into her bedchamber, smiling.
Chapter Seven
Rowena Keane lay writhing with the agony of her birth pangs. She did not remember the process ever taking so long or being so painful. Her travail had begun two days ago, and now on the night of November thirtieth she knew that both her life and her labor were fast coming to an end. Father Anselm, bless him, had remained by her side for all these many hours. She had already made her full confession and received absolution. She had but two regrets. That she would not live to see her daughter again to tell her how much she loved her, and to beg Arabella’s forgiveness; and the fact that she would not live to raise this new child, if in fact the child should live.
Arabella. Her beloved daughter. How angry Jasper had been when he learned that the girl was alive, and the wife of the Earl of Dunmor. It was said that the Scotsman had stolen Jasper Keane’s bride with the express purpose of replacing his own, who had been murdered by Sir Jasper himself. Rowena was no longer surprised by anything that was said about her husband, and gossip, if nothing else, had a way of finding its way to Greyfaire. She had wanted to communicate with Arabella, but Jasper had forbidden the priest to write to the girl. Scotland was the enemy, he said pompously. The wench had made her bed, and now must lie in it, and if she regretted it, which she certainly must, that was unfortunate. There would be no sympathy or succor for her at Greyfaire or from any of Greyfaire’s inhabitants. It astounded Rowena, simple as she was, that Jasper could so easily forget that poor Arabella was in Scotland because of his actions, and through no fault of her own. Still, now as she felt her life’s force ebbing away with her effort to birth her child, Rowena knew she could not leave this earth without warning Arabella of the danger involved in treating with Sir Jasper Keane. It was surely too late to ask for her daughter’s forgiveness.
“Tell…Arabella…” she ground out painfully, trying to form her thoughts, but distracted by another contraction. Still she would not be denied, for this was too important. “Tell Arabella…not to trust Jasper…for he is…evil!” she gasped, triumphant in her small success.
“Lady, there is nothing I shall withhold from Greyfaire’s rightful mistress,” the priest assured her, “and none here with us now will deny you your dying wishes either,” he concluded sternly, his glance taking in Elsbeth and the village midwife.
Elsbeth burst into tears and knelt by her mistress’s bedside, half sobbing. “I’ll be faithful, m’lady, I swear it!” she promised.
The priest nodded, satisfied. The midwife, he knew, would say nothing, for like others who belonged to Greyfaire, she was unhappy with Sir Jasper Keane’s tenure but helpless to do anything about it. Her silence was a small blow against this false lord. Elsbeth, however, was a different matter. Three months earlier she had delivered a healthy son whose father would not marry her in order to give the boy a name. Elsbeth had been devastated, for she had firmly believed that Seger would wed with her. Her devastation turned to anger when she learned that her lover had a wife, or so he claimed, in the vicinity of Northby. He also had several other children, Elsbeth consequently learned to her mortification, by several other women. She believed him when he told her these things, for already he had turned his attentions to another of Greyfaire’s gullible young girls
. Still, there was always the chance, the priest thought, that in order to curry favor with her former lover, Elsbeth might reveal the secrets of the birthing chamber.
“If you betray the Lady Rowena, girl,” he warned Elsbeth, “I’ll deny you the sacraments, and your family as well. Remember what misery and shame your illicit passion has brought you…and brought this poor lady as well,” he finished, lowering his voice at his last thought.
“The child is being born now,” the midwife said dourly.
A feeble cry sounded, and the priest crossed himself in thanksgiving for the birth.
“’Tis a wee boy,” the midwife said, “but he’ll not live long, for he already has the look of death about him.”
“Thank…God!” Rowena Keane whispered, and they all understood her meaning.
“Go and fetch Sir Jasper, girl,” Father Anselm ordered Elsbeth. “Say nothing more than his wife has been delivered of a son.”
Elsbeth nodded and fled the room. “Give…him to…me,” Rowena said weakly. The midwife had finished cleaning the baby of the evidence of his hard birth, and now she wrapped the child in swaddling clothes and gave him to his mother.
Rowena weakly cradled her son, her soft blue eyes filling with tears. “Poor baby,” she said low.
The door to the bedchamber was flung rudely open and Jasper Keane strode into the room. “Where is my son?” he demanded loudly. “Give me the boy!” He was half drunk, and stumbled as he came across the room.
Rowena nodded to the midwife, who took the baby from her and handed him to his father.
Jasper Keane looked down at his son’s wizened features for a long moment and then, staring directly at the priest, he asked, “Will he live?”
“I think not, my lord,” Father Anselm replied. “He should be baptized immediately.”
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