The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  The king nodded his agreement. “An allowance, clothing, and your own people about you,” he said. “That should suffice you, should it not?”

  “I must have money to transport my horses as well, your grace,” Arabella told him. “Do not forget that my people and I will have to travel from the French coast to Paris. I could, of course, send my beasts home, but would it not seem strange that in my mad flight I took the time to act in a logical manner? Besides, I imagine transporting my own horses is probably less expensive than buying new ones in France.” Arabella was more than well aware of the king’s penchant for economy.

  “Indeed, yes,” Henry Tudor agreed. “You will have an allowance for the horses as well, madame. Is there anything else?”

  “There remains but the matter of my funds, Sire,” Arabella said sweetly.

  “They will be delivered to you by my wife’s waiting woman when she comes to fetch your daughter,” the king said.

  Arabella shook her head. “Nay, your grace, I would have the monies now. If you do not give me enough, I am unable to argue with you, for I have no further excuse for an audience.” She did not trust the king’s generosity.

  “What, madame? Would you haggle with me as with a fish monger?” he demanded, outraged.

  “I must be certain that what you give me is sufficient, your grace,” Arabella said stubbornly. “I am not only responsible for myself in this matter, but for Lona and my men as well. I cannot ask them to come with me into another country unless I know that I have the means by which I may at least feed and shelter them. Remember that once I get to Paris I must find a place for us all to live. It may be some time before I can attract the proper suitor. If his nature is not a munificent one, I may still be forced to pay for my own shelter.” She smiled mischievously at the king. “Wealthy and powerful men are not always of an extravagant and philanthropic nature. The Scots do not have a monopoly on that sort of behavior, do they now, your grace?”

  Henry Tudor looked sharply at the beautiful young woman standing before him. Was she mocking him? Until this moment he had not believed her capable of such real cleverness, but as it was beneath him to argue with her, he walked across the room to an oak cabinet, and pulling open a drawer, pulled out a velvet pouch of coins. Thoughtfully he weighed the bag in his palm for a moment, and then he handed it to her.

  Arabella hefted the pouch and then handed it back to the king. “‘Tis not enough,” she said bluntly.

  Henry Tudor glowered at her. “Madame, your extravagance will beggar me,” he snapped.

  “Would you have me starve to death before I am able to be of service to you, Sire? A bony woman will offer no attractions to a lusty man, and Frenchmen, I am told, like their women pleasing to the eye,” she told him boldly.

  He reached again into the open drawer of the oak chest, this time drawing out a larger bag, which jingled appreciably with its weight of coins.

  Arabella took the pouch from him, and opening it, spilled the gold coins out upon the table, swiftly counting them. “I will also need a bag of silver, and one of coppers as well,” she told the king. She scooped the gold back into its velvet container even as the king, past arguing with her, drew forth two other bags and handed them to her.

  “Are you now satisfied, madame?” he asked her sharply.

  Arabella carefully secreted all three pouches upon her person, and looking up at the king, said with a small grin, “I must be certain not to jingle as I hurry through your antechamber cursing you, your grace.”

  “Why do I entertain the notion, madame, that that is the part of our little charade that you will enjoy the best?” he said.

  “How astute of your grace,” Arabella told him in even tones.

  “Our business is concluded, madame,” the king said.

  Arabella curtsied at his dismissal and then inquired, “Shall I begin to weep and howl now, Sire?”

  Henry Tudor nodded, and then started at the piercing shriek she emitted.

  “Ohhhhhh! ‘Tis not fair, your grace! Ohhhhhh! Where shall I go? What shall I do? How shall I feed my poor daughter?” Arabella howled.

  “You should have thought of that before you left your husband to come on this fool’s errand, madame. If you are wise, you will return to Scotland and beg your husband to take you back. If he will not, at least if you are fortunate he may care for the child you have in common,” the king said in a loud voice. “You have made your own bed, and now you must lie in it.”

  “Never!” Arabella sobbed. “Never will I return to that Scots barbarian! Have mercy, your grace! Have mercy! Give me back Greyfaire!”

  “Give a border keep to a woman?” the king’s voice boomed scathingly through the door into the antechamber. “Madame, surely you jest with me. Ah-hah! Hah! Hah! A woman defending a border keep in England’s name? What nonsense! Begone, madame! Begone from me this instant!” The king strode over to his door and flung it wide, sending the several courtiers who had been listening at it scattering across the room. Henry Tudor was hard put not to laugh, which would have undoubtedly caused even more gossip amongst his court, for he was not a man easily given to mirth. “Go back to Scotland where you belong now, madame, and take your brat with you! Greyfaire Keep is no longer yours! Begone!”

  Arabella paused long enough in the doorway to allow the roomful of people a good look at the tragic figure she wished to portray. Her pale gold hair glistened in the afternoon light coming through the windows. She looked particularly beautiful, very fragile and painfully vulnerable. Turning once more to look at the king, she shouted willfully, “I will not go back to Scotland! I won’t! You cannot make me!” Then bursting into fulsome tears, she pushed right through the astounded crowd of gentlemen in the king’s antechamber, sobbing piteously and bitterly as she went.

  She had to hurry, Arabella thought as she went. She was going to begin laughing if she did not make her exit quickly. Her keen eye had already spotted Sir Jasper Keane across the room, a smug smile of triumph upon his handsome face. She suddenly realized that Jasper Keane was becoming jowly with too-good living. His handsome visage had begun to coarsen, and he would definitely run to fat with age. What had she ever seen in him? What had Rowena ever seen in him?

  She was almost to the door on the far side of the room when she remembered, and turning a final time, she half sobbed, half shouted at the king, “Damn you, Henry Tudor! Damn you for the usurping devil you are, and damn you as well, Jasper Keane!” Then she fixed her gaze upon the rest of the chamber and said in clear and poignant tones, “What help is there for any of you here, my lords, when this king whom you have taken to yourselves would rob a helpless woman of her patrimony?” More tears filled her eyes and spilled down her beautiful face, drawing sympathetic signs from several. “What am I to do?” she whispered pathetically. Then turning, she was gone from them.

  There! she thought, as she hurried out into the courtyard to find her horse. That would certainly set tongues to wagging! Particularly as she knew Sir Jasper Keane would, in an effort to appear even more important than he actually was, add to the story his own version of the events that brought them to today’s little drama. What a shame women did not go on the stage. She had been quite convincing, she believed. She had even seen a few looks of pity cast her way.

  Arabella mounted her horse and rode away from Sheen at a brisk trot, returning to St. Mary’s-in-the-Fields convent, where she gathered her people together. Shepherding them out into the orchards where they would not be overheard, she told them of her interview with the king. FitzWalter was angry.

  “King or no, Henry Tudor is wrong to ask such a thing of you, my lady!”

  Her men-at-arms murmured their assent, but Arabella held up her hand to still their complaints.

  “What other choice have I, FitzWalter? You know there is none if Greyfaire is to be saved from strangers,” she told him.

  “What could the king do if we merely returned home and held the keep against him?” FitzWalter demanded.

&nb
sp; Arabella shook her head. “I am no traitor, old friend, and neither are any of you. To defy the king would be to commit treason. There is no choice but to do the king’s will. Lona, FitzWalter, I will want you and six of the men to accompany me to France. The rest of you will go home and reassure our people that I have not truly deserted them. You cannot, however, tell them the truth of the matter lest you compromise my value to the king, and he, in a fit of pique, deny me Greyfaire after all. Rowan FitzWalter will continue to be in charge of the defense of Greyfaire. The king, I imagine, will see to the rest, as he is pretending to confiscate the keep from the Greys. Decide among yourselves who is to go, but I will take none who has a wife, save FitzWalter, for we are likely to be gone a full year.”

  She moved away, walking through the orchard in an effort to calm her distress over her daughter’s imminent departure. Perhaps she had been wrong to bring Margaret with her to England. Perhaps she should have regained her family’s rights to Greyfaire first, and then returned to Scotland for Margaret. She had stolen Margaret from her father, from her grandparents, from her native land. Now England’s king was taking Margaret’s mother from her. She would be placed in a strange nursery, alone, with people she did not know. What if she cried in the night? Would someone hurry to comfort her, or would they leave Margaret to weep alone and frightened in the dark? Arabella suddenly realized that she was crying, the tears slipping hot and fast down her face. “Oh, Holy Mother,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

  “‘Tis a fine time to be asking that, my lady,” Lona said, joining her. “Margaret will be all right. She’s healthy, and like her parents, adventurous. Mark my words, m’lady, she’ll enjoy her time in the royal nursery, and the queen will see there is no unkindness done to her.”

  “How do you know it is Margaret I weep for?” Arabella demanded, not a little aggravated to be so transparent.

  “Greyfaire is yours again, ‘Bella, so you cannot weep for it, and you only weep for the earl in the night when you think I’m asleep and can’t hear you,” Lona said matter-of-factly. “So ‘tis your child you break your heart over, for you are a good mother, even if you were not the best of wives.”

  “What do you mean I was not a good wife?” Arabella demanded, outraged by Lena’s searing honesty. “How dare you speak to me so!”

  “‘Tis true you are the Lady of Greyfaire, and I but one of FitzWalter’s lasses,” Lona said quietly, “but the difference in our births has never before lessened our friendship, ‘Bella. I have always spoken plainly to you, and I always will. The earl loves you with his whole heart despite your odd beginnings, but you always put Greyfaire ahead of everything else, including your own heart. I think you a fool for it, and I think even you have begun to question the wisdom of your actions. Your arrogant pride will drive you to France, and God only knows what fate awaits us there. If you could but swallow that pride and return to Scotland, the earl would, I know, pardon you and take you back. Forgive me if I offend you, my lady. You may send me home if you so choose, but I cannot keep silent any longer.”

  Arabella stood stock-still as Lena’s words assaulted her. In one sense Lona was right, and Arabella knew it, but on the other hand she was wrong. Lona could not possibly understand the ties that bound her to Greyfaire Keep. “I will not send you home, Lona,” she told her servant and friend quietly. “Though your words wound me, I would not have you mouth lies in an effort to please me. I value your friendship far too much, even if we cannot agree on this matter.”

  “Do you love the earl?” Lona said.

  “Aye, I think I do, though I try to deny it to myself, but there is no going back, Lona. Disabuse yourself of any such notion. If you think my pride great, the Stewart pride is greater yet. I have dealt Tavis Stewart’s dignity a mortal blow, and he will never forgive me.” Her light green eyes filled with tears and she turned away from Lona in an effort to hide her sadness.

  Lena’s own eyes grew moist with sympathy, but before either of them might indulge themselves in a good cry, FitzWalter joined them.

  “The matter of the men is settled, my lady, but eight of the lads, including the young Scot, will go with us. I realize your funds are less than generous, but these men need little to survive. The others will leave at first light for Greyfaire.”

  Arabella nodded and said sadly, “Would that we might go with them.”

  “We must fetch little Lady Margaret,” Lona said. “You must prepare her for this separation. What we will do about her clothing I do not know, for we brought little, and she must remain with the court for many months.”

  “There is an open market in the nearby village, and today is market day,” FitzWalter said to Arabella. “Give Lona some coins, and I will send her with one of the men to see if she can find any clothing for the child.”

  “Make certain it is clean and free from vermin,” Arabella instructed her servant, giving her a silver piece and several coppers.

  Lona hurried off, and FitzWalter, after appointing one of his men to accompany her, returned to Arabella’s side.

  “You’re certain that you wish to do this,” he asked, and when she nodded, he said, “What of Sir Jasper?”

  “The king will refuse his request for Greyfaire, tell him he is confiscating it, and send him packing back to Northby,” Arabella told her captain.

  “What of our good Greyfaire lads?”

  “The king will offer them the choice of returning home or remaining in Sir Jasper’s service. It is the same choice we would have offered them.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “‘tis fair.”

  “Mama! Mama!” Lady Margaret Stewart came running through the orchard on fat little legs, her short skirts flying.

  Arabella’s mouth trembled, but FitzWalter admonished her sharply.

  “You must be brave for the wee lass’ sake, my lady.”

  Arabella nodded, quickly brushing away an errant tear.

  “Ahh, poppet,” she said, lifting her daughter up into her arms and kissing the child’s neck, “where have you been?”

  “Cook gave me an apple,” replied Margaret, “and the old lady says I may have a kitten.” She then popped her thumb in her mouth, the effort of her vast communication having exhausted her. Her eyes were heavy with a sudden need for sleep.

  “Stay here with her beneath the trees,” FitzWalter suggested. “There is time enough to tell her, my lady, when the queen’s woman arrives. The less time she has to ponder the situation, the better it will be.”

  Taking his advice, Arabella laid her now half-sleeping daughter upon the sweet grass beneath the apple trees and sat next to her. Margaret was quickly asleep as her mother watched over her, memorizing every little nuance of her sweetly plump baby’s face. The child had hair like her father, and it curled damply over her head and at the nape of her neck. Soft, dark eyelashes spread themselves like small silken fans across her pink cheeks. Margaret’s eyes, when revealed, were the lovely blue of Arabella’s mother. She was altogether a most pleasing child to look upon, with plump and dimpled limbs and natural grace. The thought that she must leave this small creature behind was breaking her mother’s heart, but Arabella knew that the king was actually wise in his judgment that the little girl remain in England. Margaret made her vulnerable, and Arabella knew she could not be vulnerable in this dangerous game she was to play in France for England. Reason told her that Margaret would be safe and well cared for in the royal nurseries. Her mother’s heart resisted it all. She dozed, her hand protectively upon her daughter, only to be awakened by Lena’s voice calling her.

  “My lady. My lady.”

  Arabella’s eyes opened and focused slowly.

  “I have found some suitable garments for Lady Margaret,” Lona said, “and I have packed everything in anticipation of her departure. The queen’s lady is here and awaits your pleasure.”

  Arabella scrambled to her feet, careful not to awaken her sleeping child. “Give me a few minutes with the lady,” she instructed Lona, “and then br
ing Margaret to us.” She hurried away through the orchards and back to the convent guest house, where a cloaked woman awaited her in the dayroom. As the lady threw back the hood to her cape Arabella gasped and curtsied low. “Your grace!” she said, surprised.

  The queen laughed softly. “The king explained to me that you have volunteered to go to France and aid our friend Lord Varden in return for his majesty’s kindness to you. I think you wonderfully brave, Lady Grey! I should not have the courage for such a venture. When he told me that you feared to take your little girl along, and asked that we look after her, I knew you to be a good and caring mother. He asked that I send one of my women to fetch the child, but I could not allow that, Lady Grey. I knew that you would rest more easily if we spoke together as one mother to another. I give you my word that Lady Margaret Stewart will be cared for even as my own son, Arthur, and this new child I will birth before year’s end. I am the eldest of my siblings, and like my mother I involve myself in the daily running of my nursery. I will see Margaret almost every day, and I promise to love and cuddle her even as you would. I will not let her forget her brave mama, I promise you.”

  “Madame…” Arabella was rendered almost speechless, and she burst into tears.

  “Oh dear!” the queen said nervously. “I did not mean to distress you, Lady Grey. I only meant to help.”

  Arabella quickly regained control of her emotions, for she did not wish to offend the young Elizabeth of York. “Madame, I am indeed overwhelmed by your kindness! If I weep, it is because it is so hard to leave my little one.”

  “Oh, of course,” the queen said earnestly, her own lovely blue eyes filling with sympathetic tears. “I hate it when we travel from place to place in the warm seasons and my son must be left behind.”

  “My lady.” Lona was entering the dayroom carrying Margaret, who now rested, was bright-eyed and alert.