Jasper Keane nodded. “Call him Henry,” he said, handing the baby to Elsbeth.
“What, my lord?” Rowena struggled into a half-seated stance, and with the last of her strength, mocked her husband. “Not Richard, after he who gave you all of this good fortune? Where is your gratitude?”
Sir Jasper walked to his wife’s bedside and looked down at her. “Even with death beginning to lurk within your eyes, sweet Row, you are still a beauty,” he noted. “Nay, the boy will be called Henry that the king knows my loyalty. As for Richard, aye, I owe him a small debt for Greyfaire, but after I have properly mourned you and our Henry, sweet Row, I shall take another wife, and the Greys of Greyfaire will be but a memory, if indeed they are remembered, even as Duke Richard. I intend founding a dynasty. I shall build a large church here in my village upon the site of the church that now stands. You and our son shall have your part in my dynasty, for I shall see you eventually entombed in the family vault there. The first of many,” he finished with a chuckle.
Rowena gave a sharp bark of laughter at these words. “You will end your days…alone, Jasper,” she said, falling back upon her pillows. “All alone…and sooner than later.” Her eyes closed and her breathing grew labored for a time.
Fascinated, Jasper Keane watched his wife in her death throes. As death approached her, Rowena seemed to have more courage and strength than he had ever known her to have. She had always been so meek and pliant. She was certainly the loveliest woman he had ever possessed, and an excellent bed partner. He had to admit to himself that he would miss her, despite her inability to give him a healthy son. Then once again her blue eyes opened, and Jasper Keane felt the blood in his veins freeze and the hair upon the nape of his neck prickle with apprehension.
Rowena stared directly at Jasper Keane and in a hollow voice said, “You will never have Greyfaire, Jasper.” There was a long pause, and finally she continued, “You…are curst!” Then the life fled from her eyes.
He stood rooted to the spot where he was standing until finally the priest moved forward and gently closed Rowena’s sightless eyes. Behind him the infant whimpered weakly, and turning, Father Anselm signaled to Elsbeth to follow him with the child to the family chapel. “Will you come, my lord?” he asked the baby’s father.
Wordlessly he shook his head in the negative, and pushing past the priest, stamped back down to the hall, where he proceeded to get drunk, finally falling into a stupor in the hour before dawn, even as Henry Keane breathed his last, tortured breath. By the time Jasper Keane awoke in the midday, his head aching, his mouth foul, the grave for his wife and infant son had been dug and stood ready. In Greyfaire’s small church Rowena had been laid out in her coffin in her finest gown, her golden hair newly washed and braided into a single thick plait, her arms cradling her dead child.
The good folk of Greyfaire village had spent the morning in solemn procession past the bier, and now waited anxiously for Sir Jasper Keane that they might bury their poor lady. When he finally came, accompanied by his captain, Seger, it was midafternoon and close to sunset, for it was December first. Jasper Keane glanced briefly at the woman who had been his wife for such a short time, and then signaled the priest to begin.
The church was cold. The service brief. Jasper Keane lingered at the gravesite only long enough to shovel a clot of dirt upon his wife and son’s coffin. It was FitzWalter who lovingly completed the task of filling in the grave as the last red-orange rays of the sun sank behind the western hills. Rowena had been laid to rest beside her first husband, Henry Grey, even as all who knew her best realized she would want to be. His sad task done, FitzWalter returned to the keep and found Sir Jasper Keane and Seger in the hall with two pretty servant girls, already half drunk, and obviously preparing for a long night of wenching. They did not notice either his arrival or his departure from the hall, for with a scornful look at the pair, the keep’s captain had quickly taken his leave. It was unlikely that Sir Jasper would miss him this night.
FitzWalter was a man of unusual height, a height made even more unique by the fact he was also slender to the point of emaciation. His lack of girth was deceiving to those who did not know him, for though he was thin, he was strong and wiry. He had a long head and a sensitive, almost mournful face with intelligent, light-colored eyes and a high forehead. He kept his sandy-colored hair cropped short. His most distinctive feature, however, was his very deep voice.
“I’ll be at the cottage,” he told the watch, and then crossing over the keep’s drawbridge before it was raised for the night, he hurried down the hill to the small stone house Lord Grey had given him and his family years before. There was pale gray smoke rising from his chimney, visible even in the deepening twilight. A light shone warmly through the front window of the cottage. FitzWalter opened the door to his home and, ducking beneath the low lintel, entered within, where his wife Rosamund, his son Rowan, and four of his daughters were seated at the trestle table. His three eldest daughters were already married and gone to live with their husbands’ families.
“You’re not needed at the keep tonight?” his wife inquired.
“He’s got Seger with him,” FitzWalter said grimly. “They’ve Derward the huntsman’s daughters to keep them company, and both will be well fuddled by morning. They’re loose jades, the pair of them.”
“They’ve no mother to tell them better,” Rosamund said quietly.
“Thank God Wanetta, Scirleah, and Nellwyn are wed and away from Greyfaire,” FitzWalter said. “Sir Jasper will now have no restraints upon him with Lady Rowena dead. There won’t be a lass around who is safe from his roving eye.” He fixed his gaze on the youngest of his daughters. “You, Jane, what is your age?”
“Nine, Da,” the girl answered.
“And you, Eba?”
“Seven, Da.”
“And my wee Annie?”
“Five, Da,” the smallest child lisped.
FitzWalter nodded. “They should be safe, but you, Lona, you won’t be unless I marry you off. Rad’s grandson would be a good match for you, and you know it.”
Rosamund saw the mutinous look flash in Lona’s eyes and she quickly said, “Lady Arabella promised Lona that she should be her own personal maid, husband. Lona can look higher than Rad’s grandson, I think, and besides, Sir Jasper would be apt to take the droit du seigneur of our girl should she be a bride. ‘Tis just the sort of thing that would give him pleasure.”
FitzWalter nodded in agreement with his wife. “Aye, he would enjoy forcing a hapless virgin. I’d not wish that on our Lona.” He was silent a long moment, and then he said to his daughter, “Are you brave enough to ride over the Chevoits to tell Lady Arabella of her mother’s death and to ask that she take you into her service, Lona?”
Lona never hesitated. “Aye, Da!” she told him.
“Husband!” Rosamund spoke sharply, and her warning glance took in her younger daughters, who were wide-eyed and fascinated by this table conversation.
“You’ve heard nothing, my girls,” FitzWalter said quietly to Jane, Eba, and Annie. “If you should tell anyone of our words, we could lose our very lives. Do you understand?”
The three nodded solemnly and chorused in unison, “Aye, Da!”
“Then get to your pallets, my girls, say your prayers, remembering poor Lady Rowena’s sweet soul, and go to sleep,” their father told them.
The three arose from the table and scrambled obediently up the narrow staircase of the cottage to the loft above, where their childish voices were shortly heard droning their prayers.
FitzWalter smiled fondly after them, and then turning, said to his remaining daughter, “You’ll go before dawn, Lona, and your brother will accompany you. I’m giving you Lady Arabella’s mare to take to her. Rowan, you’ll have that black gelding, but you must be back by night. Neither Seger nor Sir Jasper know the number of horses in the stable, so they will not miss the mare. The sky tonight told me that there will be rain by morning, and so it’s unlikely either of those
two will venture forth from the keep tomorrow. Sir Jasper will want to enjoy his ‘inheritance’ for a bit, I’m certain. When Lona is missed, we’ll simply say she ran off because she didn’t want to marry Rad’s grandson. Everyone knows her feelings on that matter, don’t they, Lona?” her father finished with a small attempt at humor.
“You mustn’t hurt the boy’s feelings,” Rosamund said soft-heartedly.
“Don’t worry, Mother, it won’t,” Lona said, laughing. “Rad’s grandson doesn’t like me any better than I like him. Besides, he’s got his eye on our Jane, and she really likes him.”
“Does she, now?” their mother said, surprised. “Well now, that certainly puts a different light on matters, doesn’t it?”
Her family laughed at her, for Rosamund was a matchmaker at heart, and she was, in fact, such a good one that all of the village relied upon her in matters of the heart.
“Where am I to take Lona?” Rowan demanded. He was a practical young man, very much like his father.
“‘Twas the Earl of Dunmor who stole our lady away, and ‘tis said he wed her himself to replace the bride that Sir Jasper killed,” FitzWalter replied. “Take Lona to Dunmor Castle, for if Lady Arabella isn’t there, they will know where she is. Say Lona is her body servant, escaped Greyfaire with the news of Lady Arabella’s mother. It should be safe to leave your sister then and return home, but use your judgment, Rowan, in that matter.”
“How do we get the horses without being caught, Da?”
FitzWalter smiled. “I’ve taken horses from Greyfaire many a time, my lad. One wall of the stable is an outer wall of the keep, and there’s a small door in it just big enough to slip a horse through. It’s well hidden from the outside, and none has ever found it over the years, for if they did, Greyfaire would not be safe. John, the stableman, sleeps sound, and even if he did wake, he’d say nothing. He hopes to marry your aunt Elsbeth and won’t want to get in bad with me. I’ll take care of it, my bairns.” He chuckled at his children’s surprised faces. “There’s much you don’t know,” he told them. “Now, Lona, dress warm. As many petticoats as you’ve got, and stockings as well. ‘Twill be a cold, wet ride. Best you both seek your beds, for you’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”
His children gone, FitzWalter sat by the fire, accepting a wooden goblet of cider from his wife, who then sat by his knee.
“What will happen now, husband?” she asked him.
“I don’t know, though I expect Sir Jasper will sue the king for possession of Greyfaire and seek another wife as quickly as possible. That is why I’m sending Lona to Lady Arabella. She is the last of the Greys, and if I know her as I think I do, she will not easily relinquish her lands to Sir Jasper Keane. She will fight him for them.”
“But can she regain Greyfaire, husband? She has wed with a Scot,” Rosamund said.
“I do not know, wife, for I am not privy to such matters concerning the nobility, but I do not want Sir Jasper Keane as my master, and so I will do whatever I can in my own small way to oust him. If Lady Arabella is content to be only the Earl of Dunmor’s wife, then I can do nothing more, but I believe that if she knows her mother is dead in childbirth, Lady Arabella will seek to avenge her, even as her husband seeks to avenge his own honor in the matter of Eufemia Hamilton.”
“But what will happen to us, to our family,” fretted Rosamund, “if Sir Jasper learns that you seek to betray him?”
“I will do nothing more than I have told you, wife,” FitzWalter replied. “I will get word to Lady Arabella, no more. Who will know I have done it? Lona will be gone and Rowan safely back. Besides, does not Lady Arabella have the right to know of her mother’s death that she might pray for the poor lady’s soul?”
Rosamund nodded slowly. “You are right, husband,” she said, and believed the words even as she spoke them. FitzWalter had never done anything to endanger his family, and she knew he would not risk their safety even now.
“Come to bed,” FitzWalter told her, and when they were settled comfortably together, he calmed her fears while using her vigorously to their mutual satisfaction. He left her sleeping, a soft smile upon her face, an hour or more before the dawn. Slipping silently through the night, he climbed the hill to the keep, and using the only key to the secret stable door, FitzWalter let himself into the keep.
Once inside he stopped and listened. From the loft above came the lusty snores of John, the stableman, coupled with a more delicate wheeze that indicated to FitzWalter that John had a woman with him. Elsbeth, the captain considered, for the stableman loved her deeply. Hearing the whimper of a small baby, FitzWalter knew he was right, for Elsbeth would not leave her child, being a good mother. He had best hurry, for his nephew was beginning to awaken with hunger, and that meant Elsbeth would awaken also to feed her son. Best she know nothing.
He moved instinctively to the proper stalls, saddling first the gelding and then Lady Arabella’s little mare. The horses were alert to him, but still sleepy enough to be silent. Quickly he led them to the rear of the building and through the secret door. Holding the reins of both animals in one hand, he turned and relocked the door behind him. Then he led the horses quietly down the hill to his cottage, the darkness hiding them from the sleepy watch upon the walls.
Inside the house he found Rosamund already awake, ladling oat porridge into trenchers of yesterday’s bread for her son and daughter. The siblings ate quickly, washing down their meal with a shared wooden goblet of brown ale. Both understood the need for haste, for they must be away from Greyfaire long before first light, lest anyone see them. When they had finished, Rosamund pressed a small basket into her son’s hand. “For the journey,” she said, and then turned to Lona. “I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again, daughter,” she began seriously, “but remember all I have taught you, trust in God, and be loyal to Lady Arabella.” She then hugged Lona awkwardly, finishing, “Christ and His blessed Mother watch over you, my child. Get word to me whenever you can.”
It was in that instant that Lona realized precisely what was happening, and for a brief moment tears threatened to overflow her bright eyes. Then, however, she considered the wonderful adventure she was about to begin, and the fact that if Lady Arabella took her into her service, she would be a servant to a countess. None of her family had ever risen that high! Giving her mother a quick kiss, she said, “And God keep you safe too, Mother. Farewell!”
“’Twill rain within the hour,” FitzWalter warned his son, and Rosamund took her own fine heavy wool shawl and put it over her daughter’s head. Then together she and her husband escorted their children outside and watched as they rode away.
“Will they be safe?” she asked her husband.
“Aye, they’ve nothing to steal but the horses, and Rowan is quick-witted enough if stopped to claim protection of the Earl of Dunmor’s wife. Besides, the wild weather we’ll soon have will keep most all to their shelters this day.”
They stood watching as the darkness swallowed up both horses, and soon they could not even hear the gentle clop of the animals’ hooves. FitzWalter smiled, satisfied. Dawn would not break for more than an hour yet, and it would be a dark dawn this day. He felt the first splash of rain upon his grizzled cheek, and taking his wife’s hand, led her back into the cottage. He pushed her down upon their bed and loosened his clothing. The small danger of removing the two horses from the keep’s stable was beginning to drain from him, and this relaxation of tension always made him as randy as a young billy goat. Rosamund smiled into his face and raised her chemise for him. FitzWalter chuckled, for he knew that they were both thinking the same thing. That there was time for a little more pleasure before the day’s duties began. Age, he decided, had its compensations.
Outside the cottage the rain had begun to fall in earnest, and reaching the crest of the first hill beyond Greyfaire, Lona pulled her mother’s shawl tightly about her, softly cursing the weather. Just ahead of her Rowan grinned, hearing his sister’s words. He hadn’t known she was familiar
with such colorful phrases. After all, she was a girl. He pulled his own rough wool cape about him and hunched his head into his shoulders. It wasn’t going to be an easy day, and he had a long way to go before he’d see his home and a warm bed again.
They rode on, and night became day. The rain fell in silvery sheets out of a gray sky, never lessening in its intensity as the hours crawled by. They rode without speaking, Lona following behind her brother, who prayed silently to himself that his father’s directions were accurate. Although there were no signs or other indications, Rowan knew suddenly, as if there had been, exactly when they crossed over into Scotland.
“We’re on t’other side, Lona,” he told her. “Shouldn’t be too much farther,” and, indeed, in less than two hours’ time the walls of Dunmor Castle rose up before them.
Wearily they trotted over the open drawbridge, the horses sensing the possibility of a dry shelter. They were not stopped until they had passed through the portcullis into the castle courtyard. Rowan slid easily from the gelding to meet the curious gaze of the man-at-arms who came forth to greet him.
“Well, well, what hae we here?” the clansman demanded.
“I’m Rowan, FitzWalter’s son, come from Greyfaire with Lady Arabella’s body servant and word of my lady’s mother.”
“The earl and his wife are at Glen Ailean for the wedding of his lordship’s sister in three days’ time,” came the reply.
“Is it far?” Rowan asked. “And can you direct me?”
“Three miles, nae more,” the clansman said. “Let me get my captain’s permission and I’d take ye myself.”
Lona sneezed, and then she sneezed several times again.
“Why, the lassie is soaked clean through,” the man-at-arms said, looking closely at the girl. “Would ye nae like to take her inside the castle for some broth before I take ye on?”
“No,” Lona said, settling the matter herself, “but I thank you, sir. I must get to my mistress as quickly as possible, for the news I carry is of great importance.”
The Spitfire Page 18
