The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Madame.” The prince grinned mischievously, and bowing, departed.

  “He’s really quite harmless,” Tavis Stewart told his wife.

  “He’s a child,” Arabella said, “and far too knowing a child. Why, he told me he bedded a woman when he was ten.”

  The earl laughed. “He probably did,” he agreed. “He’s a Stewart, lovey, and Stewarts mature quickly, particularly Stewart princes. Besides, the rumor concerning Jamie’s father makes him more anxious than he might normally be to prove his own manhood.’’

  “What rumors?”

  “Such things need not concern ye, lovey. The rumors are nae true, and they are but the wicked ravings of jealous men. My brother has nae chosen his friends because of their pedigree, though there are those who think he should. The people he likes best are those who are interested in the arts and in the sciences. They are nae usually found amongst the nobility. Consequently, my brother’s earls and barons believe themselves slighted by their monarch. They are a contentious lot, particularly the wild highland lords. They seek to gie themselves reasons why Jemmie does nae pay them the due they believe is owed them.”

  “How easily ye explain it away,” came a soft voice.

  They turned and Tavis Stewart said, “Nae only did ye bell the cat, Angus, ye creep like one.”

  The Earl of Angus smiled, but it was a cold smile. “I’m nae afraid to speak my mind, even to the king,” he said. “Ye tread a very fine line like a rope dancer, Tavis Stewart, but ye will one day hae to make a choice like the rest of us.”

  “I’m a Stewart, Angus. My loyalty will always be to the Stewarts,” the Earl of Dunmor replied.

  “But which Stewart, my lord? The father or the son?”

  “I canna believe yer fool enough to dabble in treason, Angus, particularly in light of the fact ‘twas ye who hung Cochrane and his ilk.”

  “Ye liked that arrogant bastard no better than we did,” the Earl of Angus replied.

  “Nay, I dinna, but I dinna hang him either.”

  “Introduce me to yer wife,’’ the Earl of Angus said and turned his gray eyes on Arabella. “Jamie was correct when he said she was a rare beauty, for all she’s English.”

  “Many of Scotland’s queens have been English, my lord, and I do not think Scotland has suffered for it,’’ Arabella said pertly.

  The Earl of Angus laughed. “So the rumor is correct, and she’s a spitfire as well,” he said. “Is it true ye wed her after tearing the clothes from her fair form, Tavis?”

  “My wife, Arabella,” the Earl of Dunmor said through gritted teeth. “Arabella, this ‘gentleman’ is Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, whom we call ‘Bell the Cat.’ “

  “Why do they call you that, my lord?” Arabella demanded.

  “The summer we lost Berwick to England, madame, his nobles were, for the most part, in disagreement wi’ the king. We sat in the kirk at Lauder discussing what we would do,” the Earl of Angus began. “The king had—and here I believe even yer husband will agree wi’ me—put his favorites, all of them incompetent, in command of his armies, bypassing the logical choices. No one dared to confront him wi’ this until Lord Grey—perhaps a distant relation of yers, madame—said, ‘Will no one bell the cat?’ meaning speak wi’ the king. For a long time there was silence, and then I said that I would bell the cat. From that time on I hae been called ‘Bell the Cat Angus,’ and I am proud of it, madame, for on that day we rid Scotland of several men who took the king from his duties.”

  “Ye murdered wi’ out trial or just cause most of poor Jemmie’s only friends,” Tavis Stewart said. “I agree wi’ ye, Angus, that my brother was wrong to put these men in charge of the armies, but ye could hae solved the situation wi’ out murder. Jemmie is a good king who has kept peace for Scotland most of his reign. The arts have flourished under my half brother’s benevolent rule. Surely ye dinna want the chaos of constant war like the damn highland lords. Those uncivilized wild men live for strife to the detriment of their people, and ye know it.’’

  “The arts! Pah! Music, architecture, painting, and poetry! What twaddle, Dunmor! These things are best left to the French and Italian courts. Foreigners all! These things hae nothing to di wi’ the Scots, or wi’ Scotland!’’ the Earl of Angus said.

  Before Tavis Stewart might speak up again in his brother’s defense, Arabella said spiritedly, “Just what does this have to do with Scotland and the Scots, my lord? Have you any idea of how you look to the rest of the world? A land where men run about in skirts, their lower limbs bare to the elements? A gray land where many of the peasants still live in turf houses because they have no strong claim to the land they work and cannot, or will not, build warmer, safer stone houses for fear of being evicted. A land that makes music by blowing through a sheep’s innards! Though I wear silks, velvets, and damasks, my lord, and there are figs, almonds, raisins, and dates in my kitchens and fine wines in my cellar, these things, as well as most of our furniture, come from England, France, Spain, and Italy. The Scots export little save animal skins, wool, and fish. Their reputation abroad is for brawling and bold women. King James attempts but to bring some of the beauty of Europe to this northern land. What is wrong with that, my lord? The king’s own grandfather, James the First, was a poet of some renown.”

  “A man who spent eighteen years as a captive in England, and then came home wi’ an English wife,” Angus said sharply. “He was a good king though, madame. A real man who rode, and wrestled, and was bloody skilled wi’ both the bow and the spear. He had great strength, and he loved the machinery of war. He knew how to govern!”

  “He was a poet and a musician as well as a soldier, my lord,’’ Arabella told the Earl of Angus.

  “Perhaps, but he was a soldier first, madame, and this James who rules us now is nae. Why, the poor bairn can barely sit a horse,” Angus said scornfully.

  “He does not need to in order to keep the peace between England and Scotland, sir!”

  Archibald Douglas looked down from his great height into the blazing green eyes of the Countess of Dunmor, and he began to chuckle. She was a wee bit of a lass, but she was not in the least afraid of him, or even slightly intimidated by him. “Tavis Stewart,” he said, “are ye certain this wife of yers is English? She sounds more Scot to me, and she’s surely as brave as a Scot.”

  “I was not aware, my lord, that the Scots had a priority on bravery,” Arabella snapped, and turning on her heel, stalked off back toward the queen.

  The Earl of Angus broke into guffaws of laughter. “She’ll breed ye up a feisty quiverful of bairns, Tavis, but God bless me, she’s got the sting of a dozen wasps in that tongue of hers.’’

  “Arrogant, pompous ass!” Arabella muttered to herself as she stamped across the room, not particularly watching where she was going until she bumped into another person. “Ohh, Sire,” she gasped, mortified, and her eyes focused themselves. “I do beg your pardon!” Blushing, she curtsied quickly.

  “Nae fault, lassie,” the king said in kindly tones, “but yer pretty face tells me yer angered. What has distressed ye?”

  “The Earl of Angus is a damned fool, Sire!’’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  The king nodded sagely. “There are times, madame, when I would agree wi’ yer astute judgment. What hae he said that hae distressed ye so?”

  “Sire,” Arabella said, “I am only a woman, and I have not had the advantages of a great education, but common sense tells me that peace is better than war. War destroys lives and property. Progress cannot be made in times of strife. I know that there are times when men have no other alternatives than to fight, but it seems to me, Sire, that the Scots prefer to fight first and find the cause for their war after the fact.’’

  James Stewart chuckled, vastly amused by his petite sister-in-law’s clever judgment of his race. “Why, lassie, ye hae lived but a short time amongst us, yet ye know us well,” he said.

  “Sire, I have had the Scots at my bac
k door my whole life. How could I not know them well?” Arabella said.

  “Angus hae always been critical of me, lassie,’’ the king said. “He hae ever been a hothead. He does nae understand that a king must rule wi’ his head as well as his sword.’’

  “He does not understand the arts, Sire,” Arabella said earnestly. “While all about us in Europe and England there has been a great flowering of music and poetry and painting, here in Scotland all that is encouraged is to grow cabbages and carrots!”

  Now the king laughed openly. He had not enjoyed a conversation so very much in months. His half brother’s lovely bride was a delight. “Which of the arts di ye prefer, Arabella Stewart?” he asked her.

  “Music, I think, Sire. Mind you, I am not a musician myself, but my mother and I loved to sing together in the hall at Greyfaire. My father always said ‘twas a waste to give shelter to a roving Irish minstrel, for we two sang the songs better. Mother and I, however, insisted that the minstrels be invited in, for how else could we have learned new songs? Ohh, Sire, there is so much to know, and I know so very little!” the young Countess of Dunmor declared passionately.

  He was touched. Learning was not a virtue well appreciated by the Scots at this point in time, although Scotland possessed two fine universities, one at Edinburgh and another at Glasgow. There were no laws requiring education of even the gentry’s sons. It was not thought that a good Scotsman needed to learn how to read, or write, or do simple sums so that his bailiff would not cheat him. A good Scotsman needed to know how to fight well, die well, and futter a woman well enough that he might be reasonably certain that his sons were his own. As for Scotswomen, if a man did not need to know how to read or write, certainly a woman didn’t.

  “What is it ye would learn, lassie?” the king asked her.

  “Everything!” Arabella replied.

  Again James laughed. “What would ye begin wi’?” he demanded.

  She thought a moment and then said, “History, Sire. The history of Scotland. I do not know if I shall ever be considered a Scot by those about me, but my husband is a Scot, and my children will certainly be, but for one, and I would know the history of their native land that I may better understand it.”

  The king was pleased by her desire, but he was also intrigued by part of her statement, but for one. “What do ye mean, my dear, that all yer bairns but for one will be Scots?”

  Arabella suddenly realized what she had said and clapped her hand to her mouth. “I have spoken out of turn, Sire, for ‘tis a matter best discussed with you by Tavis. He would be angry, I fear, should I bring it to your majesty’s attention before he did.’’

  “And yer of a mind to obey him?’’ the king teased her gently, still curious. “Why, lassie, ye must love him to be so biddable, for I suspect ye could hold Dunmor Castle by yerself if called upon to do so, yet in this secret matter yer all meek and mild.’’

  Arabella blushed, unable to think of a single way in which she might defend herself.

  James Stewart patted her shoulder. “Dinna fret, lassie, I’ll nae press the matter, for my brother’s hot Stewart temper is every bit as peppery as yer own. Yer well matched, and right glad I am for it!”

  Tavis Stewart had managed to disengage himself from the Earl of Angus and moved across the room to join his wife and brother. A beautiful woman unexpectedly blocked his passage.

  “Tavis Stewart, it is good to see ye once again. I hae missed ye, my lord,” she murmured into his face.

  “Lady Morton,” he responded coolly.

  “What, my lord? I hae never known ye to greet me in such cold fashion,” the beauty declared, her amber eyes growing dark with her annoyance. “Ye hae always been a most passionate lover,’’ she said softly.

  Tavis Stewart, to his irritation, found himself leaning forward to hear her words. Lady Morton’s décolletage left little to the imagination. A whiff of her favorite perfume, heavy with musk, assailed his nostrils. It was a little trick of hers, the earl knew, to lower her voice so that a man found himself leaning forward to hear what she had to say. “Madame, I am a married man now,” he told her.

  Sorcha Morton laughed, tossing back her bright red hair in another familiar gesture. “I am aware of it, my lord. ‘Twas the scandal of the court last summer. Did ye really tear the clothes from the poor wee creature’s back before ye wed her?’’ Lady Morton shivered. “Aye, I’m certain ye did! How absolutely delicious, Tavis. Yer poor little English bride must hae been terrified of such savagery.’’

  Across the king’s chamber the Countess of Dunmor saw the beauty in animated conversation with her husband and said to the king, “Who is that woman, Sire, who makes so free with my husband?”

  The king hid a smile. “‘Tis Lady Sorcha Morton, my dear. She is a widow several years, for old Lord Morton died leaving her little.”

  “She dresses well for a lady with little,’’ Arabella noted tartly. Lady Morton’s dark green velvet gown was lavishly trimmed in rich brown marten. “How is it that she can afford to come to court?”

  “‘Tis nothing ye should worry about, my dear,” the queen said as she joined them. She had observed her husband in conversation with Arabella and was frankly curious to learn what was making him smile so much, for the king was not a man who smiled easily under any circumstances. She slipped her arm through Arabella’s. “Lady Morton, my dear, is a woman who seems to attract wandering gentlemen. She lives, I suspect, off their foolish generosity. She is not the sort of woman ye should know, though she does frequent the court. Since she has broken no laws, I cannot forbid it in good conscience. It is best to ignore her.”

  “Is my husband one of those ‘gentlemen’?” Arabella asked softly.

  “Aye, lassie, in the past he was,” the king replied, and then said to his wife, “Now, Maggie, dinna look daggers at me. ‘Tis best the lassie know. She can hardly believe that Tavis was celibate until he set eyes upon her, and besides, ‘twas but a brief fling. Sorcha Morton is too predatory and obvious a female for my brother. Frankly, I think ‘twas curiosity on Tavis’ part.”

  “Curiosity?” said the queen. “I have never seen anything interesting about that woman, Jemmie. Have ye?”

  The king laughed. “I hae nae found any woman interesting but ye, my Maggie,” he answered smoothly.

  Now it was the queen who laughed, shaking her head at him. “Ye are too clever by far, Sire,” she said, and then turning to Arabella, told her, “Go and fetch yer husband, my dear. Tavis looks extremely uncomfortable to me, and ‘tis yer duty as a good wife to rescue him from that female dragon.”

  Arabella curtsied to their majesties and then made her way the rest of the distance separating her from her husband. Reaching him, she took a leaf from the queen’s book and slipped her arm through his. “My lord,’’ she pouted at him, “I have missed your company these past few minutes.’’ Her face was tipped up to his, her light green eyes wide with ingenuousness. She pointedly ignored Lady Morton.

  The Earl of Dunmor grinned down at his beautiful wife. He could hear the faint edge behind her honeyed tones, and he was extremely amused by her pretense that he was alone. “Well, lovey, then I suspect I shall hae to take ye home and prove my devotion to ye.”

  Arabella smiled brilliantly. “Ohh, my lord, how wicked you are! Come along now, naughty man! You have made me most eager to depart.” Then pulling at his arm in a most playful fashion, the Countess of Dunmor drew her husband away from where he had been standing with Lady Morton.

  Sorcha Morton was mortified to find herself both so blatantly ignored and so obviously deserted. Tavis Stewart had made no attempt to even introduce her to his wife, and worse, had not bid her farewell. “Ye’ll pay for that slight, my lord!” she murmured softly after them. “And ye also, ye simpering bitch!”

  “Madame, madame, dinna look so openly angered. It does nae become ye,” the prince said softly as he joined her. He slipped his arm about her waist and dropped a kiss upon her shoulder.

  “He
hae insulted me, yer highness,” she replied in as soft a tone. “I will nae forgie him!”

  “Is he a good lover, my uncle?” the prince demanded.

  “Aye,” she replied, her eyes going smoky with the memory.

  “I am better,” Jamie said quietly.

  Sorcha Morton turned and looked into the prince’s eye. “Are ye, my wee princeling? Are ye indeed?”

  “Aye,” he drawled, “I am. I can easily make ye forget my uncle, madame.”

  “His passion, perhaps,” she said, “but the insult he and his milk-faced wife hae done me, never!”

  “Where do ye lodge, madame?” Prince James inquired.

  “At my cousin Angus’ house,” she said.

  “Yer a Douglas, madame? I was nae aware of it.”

  “I was born a Douglas, yer highness,” Lady Morton replied.

  “Albeit an unimportant one,’’ the Earl of Angus said, joining them.

  “So ye wish to futter Sorcha, do ye, Jamie? She’s a hot piece, I can assure ye, for I broke her in myself many years ago,’’ the earl said.

  “Nae that many years ago!” the lady snapped at him.

  “I dinna say ye were too old for him, Sorcha,” Angus replied. “Indeed, I think yer just right, for he’s a lusty young fellow. Are ye nae that, Prince Jamie? I’ve wenched wi’ the royal laddie myself on several occasions, eh my lord?”

  The prince laughed heartily even as his eyes strayed across the room to where his uncle and beautiful new aunt were now bidding his parents a good evening. Arabella Stewart was the loveliest woman he had ever encountered, and he was frank in admitting to himself that he wanted her, but for now he would assuage his passions on Sorcha Morton, who was, if her legend was even half true, a born and extremely skilled whore. Who knew what she could teach him?

  The Earl and Countess of Dunmor departed Stirling Castle for their own house outside the town. They were escorted by their own men-at-arms, for no one of any consequence traveled without protection. It was late afternoon, and although Arabella was hungry, for they had not eaten since morning, she was equally curious about her husband’s old paramour.