“Oh, what a beautiful little girl!” the queen cried. Her hand went to her belly. “Though I know I must give England more sons, I do hope this babe is a daughter.”
Lona’s eyes grew round with recognition, but she wisely remained silent.
“Margaret,” Arabella said, taking her child from her servant,
“I must go away for a little while, and you are to stay with this kind lady. She has a little boy your age, and a new baby to come.”
Margaret looked at the queen, who smiled at her. “Pretty lady,” Margaret said. “I take my kitten!”
“Oh, Margaret, I do not know,” Arabella said.
“Of course she may take her kitten,” the queen agreed, smiling again at Margaret.
“We go now,” Margaret said. “Lona, get Mittens!”
Arabella nodded, and Lona ran to fetch the little gray cat with the two white front paws that Mother Mary Bede had given to Margaret.
“Get down,” Margaret said, squirming impatiently.
“Can I not give you a farewell hug and a kiss?” Arabella laughed, squeezing her daughter lovingly and kissing her pink cheek.
“Down!” Margaret demanded.
The queen chuckled. “She is like her mother, I think.”
“And her father too,” Arabella admitted. “There is much that is Scot in Margaret, I believe,” she said, reluctantly placing her daughter upon the floor even as Lona returned to put Mittens in the little girl’s arms.
Margaret slipped a trusting hand into the queen’s hand, and looking up at her, said, “We go now!”
“Bid your mother a sweet farewell, Lady Margaret Stewart,” the queen said in kindly, but firm tones.
Margaret half turned and curtsied to her mother. “Farewell, Mama,” she said brightly. “I go now with pretty lady.”
Arabella knelt before her daughter. “You must call the pretty lady, ‘your grace,’ Margaret.”
“Your grace,” Margaret parroted.
“Very good,” Arabella said, and then she took the little girl’s face in her two hands. “I love you, my child. Do not forget that, and do not forget me. I will come back to fetch you, and we will go home to Greyfaire soon. God protect you, my Margaret, and keep you safe until we meet again.” Arabella kissed her daughter a final time.
Margaret smiled. “Farewell, Mama,” she said again, and then turning, trotted off with the queen without a backward glance.
Arabella remained kneeling, feeling the very heart drain out of her, but Lona said in practical tones, “‘Tis always that way with little ones who know they are loved. They are never afraid to do something new. She’ll be safe, ‘Bella. Imagine the queen herself coming to fetch our Margaret! She’s a great lady, our young queen.”
Chapter Seventeen
France. Its coastline glowed distinct through the pearlescent haze of dawn. Arabella gazed upon it with a sense of disbelief. Only yesterday she had been in England, but fair skies, a brisk wind, and swift seas had transported her from Dover to Calais in less than a day. Calais, of course, had been in English hands since the Battle of Crécy in 1346. It had been captured by the third King Edward after a siege that had lasted almost a year. It was from here she would set off for Paris, and although they had brought their own horses, Arabella intended purchasing a small carriage and animals to draw it. Even if she must play the poor exile, she would do it with the kind of elegance she knew the French would appreciate. Though she spoke excellent French, and she knew FitzWalter had a knowledge of the language, it would not do for her to bargain for her vehicle and the horses. Better they land at Calais where they could do business with their own kind.
By coincidence the captain of their vessel had a brother-in-law who, he said, could help them, and upon landing they were directed to the inn of the Six Burghers, which was owned by that worthy gentleman. FitzWalter had polished his cuirass until it shone brightly and he wore a helmet of the same metal upon his head. His men were equally impressive, despite their simple breastplates of leather. Riding up to the inn with their lady, they were immediately recognized for gentry, and several stablemen hurried out to help with the horses.
“Where is your master?” FitzWalter demanded of one of the grooms. “Fetch him at once!”
As the man hurried off, FitzWalter winked at Arabella in conspiratorial fashion.
The innkeeper, a large, tall man with a distinct limp, came forth to greet them. “My lady, welcome, and how may I be of service to you?” he said.
“I wish to purchase a coach and horses,” Arabella said. “I have been told by Master Dennis of the Mermaid that you have such equipages for sale.”
“Aye, my lady, I do,” the innkeeper said politely. “They are not new vehicles, of course, but serviceable.” As he spoke he was mentally assessing the worth of this young noblewoman. A rich woman would have traveled with her own carriage and horses. A poor woman would not even be speaking with him. The only question remaining was how much he might squeeze from this lady.
“You will have my mistress and her maid escorted to a private room where they may refresh themselves in peace,” FitzWalter said sternly, guessing the innkeeper’s thoughts. “You and I will conclude this business between us.”
“Certainly, Captain,” the innkeeper said, bowing just slightly. “Marie!” he shouted at a serving wench. “Take m’lady and her servant to the Rose Room at once.”
The buxom serving girl hurried over and, with a bow, invited Arabella and Lona to follow her into the busy inn. Several of the men leered invitingly in her direction and were not discouraged, to their delight. The two Englishwomen were taken to a small, pretty room, and upon entering, Arabella was hard pressed to decide why it was called the Rose Room. Then she looked through one of the chamber’s windows and saw a rose garden beyond. Marie brought them a basin of scented warm water and linen towels with which to dry themselves, and then scampered out, to return a few moments later with a tureen of rabbit stew, a newly baked cottage loaf, a crock of sweet butter, a wedge of Brie, a bowl of lovely red-black cherries, and a pitcher of sweet white wine.
“Allow me to serve you, m’lady,” she said. “You must be ravenous. The sea air can make one hungry when you are not used to it.”
“Sit down, Lona,” Arabella instructed her servant. “There is no need for us to stand on ceremony here. Marie, we will serve ourselves. Please see that my captain and my men are fed and the horses watered.”
The serving girl curtsied and skipped off.
They were hungry, but still they ate slowly, savoring the well-prepared meal. The stew was rich with small onions and carrots that swam in a tasty, herb-flavored gravy, the bread was crusty on the outside, but soft and chewy in its interior. When they had almost finished, FitzWalter joined them.
“I’ve concluded the bargain with our innkeeper friend, Master Bartholomew,” he said. “‘Tis a small coach that should attract neither robbers nor attention. Just the sort of vehicle a poor but proud young noblewoman would have. The innkeeper was eager to part with it, for ‘tis not large enough to suit most people, and he’s had it hanging about for some time now, I gather. The interior is surprisingly luxurious, if a trifle worn.”
“How many horses did you buy?” Arabella asked.
“Three,” FitzWalter said. “Lona’s gelding will make the fourth. Since she’ll not be riding him if she’s riding in the coach, it seemed a pity to waste the coin. Your mare can be tied behind to follow, m’lady.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Aye.” He nodded.
“Then give us but a few minutes to attend to ourselves, and we shall be on our way,” Arabella said.
“I’ve hired a young man to drive us to Paris,” FitzWalter told her.
“Was that wise?”
“Master Bartholomew tells me the roads in France are as safe as any,” FitzWalter said dryly, “which means we should get through to Paris without losing our possessions or being murdered, if we are lucky, my lady. I’d rather have all our men
free to concentrate upon defense. The lad I’ve hired knows the roads well and is going up to Paris to see his married sister, who has just had her first child. The innkeeper assures me he can handle the carriage and is trustworthy. If he is not, I have promised Master Bartholomew that I will return to Calais to wreak a wee bit of havoc upon his corpulent person.”
Arabella laughed. “I trust he took you seriously,” she teased.
“You have five minutes, my lady,” FitzWalter told her.
It took them over a week to reach Paris, rising early, traveling the entire day long with brief stops to rest the horses. As it was June, the sun did not set until late, and until the twilight faded, it was still possible to navigate the coach along the bumpy, dusty roads. The inns in which they stayed were barely habitable places, several of which did not even have suitable accommodations for a lady of rank, and so Arabella was forced to sleep in the hayloft of the inn’s stables, for FitzWalter would not allow his mistress to associate with common travelers.
When at last they reached Paris, they put up at an inn recommended by their host in Calais, Les Deux Reines, whose owner, Monsieur Reynaud, welcomed them warmly. Upon learning that the English lady would need a house, the French innkeeper happily informed them that, by chance, he owned a charming small stone house on the Seine, just south of the city, that he believed madame would adore.
“I can see,” he said, “that madame is not used to living in a city, and frankly, madame, city living is not healthy. One must be born and bred to it in order to properly survive. This petite maison will be just to madame’s taste, I assure you. It is well-furnished, and the rent is most reasonable.”
“We will talk,” FitzWalter growled, but Monsieur Reynaud was not in the least intimidated by the big Englishman.
The two men argued back and forth for over an hour, and finally the bargain was struck. Arabella would take possession of the house on the morrow. FitzWalter refused to pay Monsieur Reynaud his year’s rent, however, until they had seen the house.
“I will send my serving wenches to make certain that the house is aired and dusted,” Monsieur Reynaud purred charmingly. “Madame will be most happy at Maison Riviere, I promise it.”
On the following morning they rode to Maison Riviere and discovered to their surprise that Monsieur Reynaud had not exaggerated in the least the virtues of his property. The small stone house had two stories and an attic, as well as a cellar which was fairly dry despite the house’s proximity to the river Seine. Mounting the steps to the house, they entered into a small hallway. The main floor of the building consisted of four rooms. The cellar beneath, which was high, contained the kitchens, a buttery, a scullery, and a room for storing wines. The second floor of the building held the sleeping chambers, and the attics above would house several men-at-arms.
Maison Riviere was well-aired and clean. It was furnished in worn, but nicely polished oak furniture. There was not a great deal of it, but enough to give the impression that Arabella was struggling to keep up appearances. There was even a small, if overgrown, garden facing the riverside, and someone had gone to the trouble of gathering a bunch of flowers which they had placed in an earthenware pitcher with a slightly cracked lip. A scrawny white cat marked with several black patches was in firm possession of the kitchen stoop.
“Feed him,” Arabella ordered. “He will keep the mice away.”
“Madame is pleased, then?” Monsieur Reynaud inquired solicitously.
“‘Twill do,” she answered him shortly.
“Madame will need servants,” the innkeeper said.
“Madame has little with which to pay servants, monsieur,” Arabella said with a small smile that set the innkeeper’s heart to racing.
“A woman to cook, a girl or two to clean from the village nearby, madame. Give them a few coppers a month, a place to sleep, their food, and they will be happy,” he told her. “I must assume a lady of madame’s rank will go to court. Soon she will find new friends. She will want to entertain,” he added slyly.
“He’s right,” FitzWalter said softly at her shoulder.
“I know,” Arabella replied in English, “but I must first count our funds to see what we can afford.”
“Tell our new landlord to send the women around this afternoon, my lady. We must have a cook at least.”
“You will send me several women from which I may choose my servants this afternoon, Monsieur Reynaud,” Arabella instructed him.
The innkeeper bowed and departed.
FitzWalter assigned the eight men-at-arms to their new duties. Two would serve in the house and share a room in the attic. Two others would reside in a single-room cottage at the back of the garden by the river. FitzWalter would make his bed in a small chamber on the second floor of the house with Fergus MacMichael, the rest of the men would bed down in the little stable belonging to the house and Lona would sleep on a trundle in her mistress’s room.
Monsieur Reynaud had left a basket of food for them so they would not go hungry until the cook was chosen from the candidates he was sending. Shortly after the noon hour, however, a great, gaunt woman, accompanied by two younger versions of herself, arrived at the door of Maison Riviere and announced, “I am Barbe, and these are my daughters, Avice and Lanette, madame. Monsieur Reynaud has sent us to serve you. Whatever wages you would pay us we will accept gladly, for I am widowed, and my daughters and I must support ourselves. Monsieur Reynaud says you would not be unfair.”
Then before Arabella might protest, Barbe, her daughters following in her wake, moved past her and, without another word, found their way to the kitchens. Within minutes they had the fires going and Barbe was directing the two men-at-arms assigned to the house by FitzWalter to fetch her water from the house’s well and bring her more firewood. As the big woman spoke no English and the Greyfaire men no French, her methods of communication were somewhat comical, though successful. To Arabella’s amazement, the cook also set about to teach them two simple words.
“C’est l’eau!” she told them when they had brought her water, and she plunged her big reddened hand into the bucket, bringing it up and drizzling the liquid through her sausagelike fingers. “L’eau!” she said a second time for emphasis, and then cocked her head at them.
The two young men looked at her, puzzled, and then Lona, catching on, said, “It must be the French word for water. Repeat her words, you two dimwits! She’s trying to teach you.” Lona swished her own hand about in the bucket. “L’eau,” she said, and the men echoed her.
Barbe grinned broadly. “Bon!” she said, obviously pleased, and pointed to the firewood they had also brought. “Bois de chauffage,” she pronounced slowly.
“Firewood!” Lona said excitedly. “Bois de chauffage is firewood!”
“Bon!” came the reply. “Barbe.” The cook pointed to herself and looked to the others.
“Lona,” Lona said, her fingers touching her own chest, and then she pointed to her two companions in turn. “Will. John,” she told the cook.
“Weel. Jean,” Barbe said, grinning broadly at the two.
“I am obviously not going to be given a choice in the matter,” Arabella said laughingly. “I only hope she can cook as well as she can teach you all the French tongue.”
“She probably can,” FitzWalter said. “Our wily landlord has so far been honest with us.”
“What am I to pay her?” Arabella wondered aloud.
“I’ll take care of it,” FitzWalter said. “I’ll see if they plan on living here, in which case they can sleep in the room off the kitchen. The fireplace backs up to it, and it should be warm in winter.”
Arabella nodded and left everything to FitzWalter, realizing even as she returned to the small salon on the main floor of the house how fortunate she was to have this man in her service. Without him, she would have faltered a hundred times, for FitzWalter obviously knew the world beyond Greyfaire, and she, but for her time in Scotland, did not.
In a day or two she would have to con
sider how she might go about joining the French court. The French king, Charles VIII, was just nineteen years old and had been king since his father’s death six years before. Intellectually, he was considered backward and slow, and so his father had given him a regent in the person of his brilliant eldest sister, Anne of Beaujeu, who was married to Pierre de Bourbon. Charles VIII’s first cousin and heir-presumptive, Louis, the Duc d’Orleans, was furious. Wed to another of Charles’ elder sisters, Jeanne de Valois, he feared that the Bourbons would usurp his position as lieutenant general of the kingdom. He was also in love with his sister-in-law Anne, an open secret known to everyone in France.
Louis rashly tried to have his marriage to Jeanne de Valois put aside, citing his wife’s physical imperfections. Jeanne, a charming and intelligent woman, was a hunchback with a pronounced limp. Foolishly, he spoke publicly of his love for Anne of Beaujeu, and that lady, to whom duty and honor meant more than passion, ordered her bold brother-in-law’s arrest. Warned, Louis fled to Brittany, a grave error inFrench eyes, as Brittany’s duke was a thorn in France’s side.
A number of noblemen of consequence allied themselves to the Duc d’Orleans, but Anne of Beaujeu would not yield an inch. Indeed, she raised an army of twelve thousand men under the leadership of Louis de la Tremoille and defeated the rebels in July of 1488. Duc Louis was taken prisoner and incarcerated in the chateau at Lusignan. At first he was kept alive on only bread and water, his captors disregarding his high rank. His wife, the good Jeanne, intervened on his behalf, but although his diet was changed to a more humane one, he remained imprisoned. Anne continued to rule France in her brother’s name, for he, it was thought, was not yet ready to rule alone.
Charles VIII was briefly in residence in Paris at his Hotel de Valois. With the summer upon them he would soon be returning to his favorite home, the chateau at Amboise. Unversed in the protocol of court life, Arabella silently cursed Henry Tudor. How in the name of heaven was she supposed to join the French court? If she could not decide on some clever scheme to accomplish this feat, she would be useless to the English king and would lose Greyfaire. Her dilemma was solved for her with the arrival of a letter.
The Spitfire Page 40
