The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Madame Grey has taken a small house on the river just outside the city. She has little if any means, I understand. Eventually she will need either a husband or a noble protector, mon chere Adrian. Other than her beauty, she has nothing to recommend her on the marriage market, and marriage, as you well know, is not a matter of beauty. It is a matter of monies, lands, and advantageous alliances for people of our class. La petite rose d’Anglaise will not find a husband amongst the French nobility. Her beauty, however, might be used to entrap some wealthy merchant with a desire for a young and noble wife, but c’est damage! To waste such loveliness on some fat burgher.”

  “One might believe that you were encouraging me in my seductions, my liege,” the Duc de Lambour said mischievously.

  “Hah!” the king’s laughter sounded sharply. “You need no encouragement from me, mon ami. Hein?”

  “What kind of a man lets a woman like that get away?” the duc said. “I wonder if he misses her.”

  The king shrugged his shoulders. “It does not matter, mon ami. His loss may be your good fortune if the lady can be wooed.”

  In the weeks that followed, however, it appeared that Arabella could not be enticed from the path of virtue. With Lord Varden, who at first was believed to be her lover, a myth quickly disavowed by the Englishman himself, Arabella traveled to the Loire region, for the king had moved the court to Amboise, his favorite residence, for the summer months. It was Anthony Varden who arranged their shared accommodation, although it was Arabella who, in exchange, brought her servants to oversee the running of the household.

  Her association with the late Scots king, James III, and her short time at his court, had strangely, and to her very great surprise, been enough of an exposure to society to assure her success at the French court, where she quickly honed her social skills. She had a good intellect which, coupled with a sharp tongue and a keen eye for observation, soon brought her a reputation as a woman with a quick wit. This engendered her favor with the elders of the court and the women. It was her beauty, nonetheless, that lured the men. Madame Grey was a challenge that no French man could resist. Madame Grey was a virtuous woman.

  Wagers began to be placed as to when la petite rose d’Anglaise would succumb to passion, and who would be the fortunate man to overcome her charming, if silly, scruples. The Duc de Lambour was, of course, a heavy favorite, despite Madame Grey’s vehement refusals of his overtures d’amour. Adrian Morlaix had never been known before to fail in his objective, although even he could not yet claim having stolen a kiss from the lady in question. To date, no man had.

  The entire court watched with delight the whole summer long and into the warm days of early autumn. It was far more interesting than wondering what the English or those who ruled the duchy of Brittany would do next. Would Madame Grey be defeated in this guerre d’amour? Would the Duc de Lambour grow as tired of the chase as the lady’s many other suitors who had now fallen away? What was a poor harvest in several of the northern provinces compared to this? It was all so fascinating!

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What do ye mean she is gone!” The Earl of Dunmor’s eyes were steely. “Where is Arabella?”

  Margery Fleming felt tears beginning to well within her eyes. “She hae left ye, Tavis,” she said once again. “She hae divorced ye and returned to England.”

  “Divorced me?” His jaw dropped.

  “Wench was always more trouble than she was worth,” Donald Fleming said darkly.

  Tavis Stewart rounded on his brother and hit him a blow that sent him flying. “Shut up, Donald!” he snarled dangerously. “I want to know the entire truth of this matter.” He turned back to Lady Margery. “Mother?”

  “‘Tis yer own fault,” she began.

  “My fault?” The earl looked aggrieved.

  “Aye, yer fault!” Angry now, Lady Margery began to shout at her eldest son. “Ye would nae aid her in her attempts to regain her home, Tavis. How would ye feel if Dunmor had been taken from ye?”

  “The king wrote to the English,” he said defensively.

  “Aye, but only after Arabella herself went to Edinburgh to beg him for his help. She felt that ye dinna care, and I truly wonder if ye did. Everything else took precedence in yer life over helping Arabella win back Greyfaire.”

  “But why divorce me?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Without yer aid, or that of yer nephew, what other choice did she hae, ye damned fool? With Jemmie dead, and Jamie king, and ye not in the whit interested, she felt alone. How could she go to King Henry as yer wife, wi’ out yer support, and ask him to return her property? She hae to be totally free of ye. She hae nae other choice. Yer inaction forced her to it! Do ye think the English would return Greyfaire to an English woman with a Scots husband wi’ out royal intercession? She needed ye, and she needed yer help, but ye would not gie it to her.”

  “Yer nephew, however, helped her obtain the divorce,” Donald interjected slyly. “I never knew Jamie to be of a charitable nature, Tavis. Do ye nae wonder what she gave him in return for his ‘kindness’?” He snickered loudly.

  Tavis Stewart went white about the lips. “I’ll kill him,” he said slowly. “I’ll wring his bloody neck!”

  “Tavis!” His mother spoke sharply. “‘Tis treason ye mouth. He is yer blood relation, yer brother’s son.”

  “When did that ere stop one Stewart from murdering another?” the earl demanded fiercely.

  “‘Twill solve nothing, my lad,” Lady Margery said quietly. “Arabella is gone and taken Margaret wi’ her. That Jamie aided her is of nae importance, and I do not for one minute, Tavis, believe Donald’s inferences. Yer brother hae always been of a jealous nature. The question here is, what do ye want to do about it? Do ye want yer wife and child back?”

  “She hae made her choice, Mother. She hae chosen Greyfaire over me. I wish her happiness of it, but I will go over the border tomorrow and bring my daughter back. Margaret is mine!” Tavis Stewart said bitterly.

  His mother hit him a blow that staggered him. “Yer a great fool, Tavis Stewart! A great, prideful fool! Arabella rode out from Dunmor wi’ tears in her eyes. She loves ye!”

  “Not enough!”

  “Why do ye insist she choose, my son? Why can she nae hae both ye and Greyfaire? She but wanted it as a dowry for Margaret, and such a dowry would hae made the bairn a proper heiress.”

  “For an English husband,” he said.

  “The border English are nae different than we border Scots,” his mother reminded him, and then her voice softened. “Ye love her, Tavis Stewart. Dinna allow yer pride to overrule yer heart, lest ye regret it in the years to come. Remember, ye need a son.”

  “There are other women who would be happy to be my wife, Mother,” he said coldly. “Loyal women.”

  “Arabella was nae disloyal,” Lady Margery said, her voice rising again, and she smashed her fist into his shoulder once more. “This is yer own making, Tavis Stewart, and ye are too stubborn to admit to it. If ye hae one grain of sense in that head of yers, ye’ll go over the border tomorrow and fetch Arabella back. Then ye’ll remarry her and gie her yer undivided attention to helping her get Greyfaire back. ‘Tis nae so great a matter, and I dinna see why ye would allow this terrible thing to happen over something so small.” She punctuated her speech with a third blow to his arm.

  The earl began to laugh as he rubbed his shoulder, for his mother had not been gentle.

  “And what,” she demanded furiously, “is so damned funny, ye great oaf?”

  “I just now realized,” the earl said, “how very alike ye and Arabella are, Mother. She hae never been loath to use her fists, my wee spitfire.”

  “Then ye’ll go and fetch her home?” his mother said.

  “I dinna know, Mother. I must think on it. The lass hae hurt me greatly. Do ye think because I am a man I canna feel heart-sore? She and the bairn are safe at Greyfaire for now, and I must consider well whether I want this hotheaded English lassie back in my life,” t
he earl said.

  “And who would ye replace her wi’?” Lady Margery said scornfully. “There’s been nae who could please ye until Arabella Grey, but perhaps in yer highland travels for the king ye met some puling wench wi’ watered milk in her veins instead of a hot blood who would serve to get yer sons on. All cats, I am told, are gray in the dark. Well, did ye?”

  “Nay.”

  “I thought as much! Go and fetch yer wife, Tavis, lest ye live to regret yer folly. What of Sir Jasper Keane? What if he is at Greyfaire?”

  “God help him if he is,” the earl said with a small smile. “The man’s very life would be in mortal danger if Arabella catches him in her keep, Mother. The lass would disembowel him herself and relish every moment of it.”

  “Aye, she would,” Donald agreed, still rubbing his sore jaw.

  “What if Arabella goes south to see King Henry, Tavis? Hae ye considered that?” his mother goaded him.

  “To London?” the earl said.

  “Wherever the court is, and ‘tis south, as ye know,” Lady Margery said. “Her English king could order her marriage to another in return for Greyfaire. Then where will our Margaret be?”

  “How long hae she been gone?” the earl asked his mother.

  “Almost three weeks now,” came the answer.

  “Why did no one inform me?”

  “We didna know where ye were, Tavis.”

  “And as I think on it, Mother, how is it that ye know where my wife went and are privy to her very thoughts?” he wanted to know.

  “I probably should nae hae known at all, Tavis, but for chance. I came to Dunmor the day before Arabella’s departure to fetch an old cradle that lay in the attics. It was my mother’s, and I wanted it for Ailis’ new baby. I could see how nervous Arabella was to see me, and then Flora told me that she was planning to leave for England on the morrow, taking wee Margaret wi’ her. I went to Arabella’s apartments and begged her to confide in me, which she finally did. She didna really wish to go, but she did nae know what else to do.”

  “She might hae waited for me to come home,” the earl said.

  “Aye!” Donald agreed.

  “Shut up, Donald!” his mother snapped, and then turned her full attention again to her eldest offspring. “And what would ye hae done when ye came home, Tavis? Ye dinna need to tell me, for I know and so did Arabella. Ye would hae put her off once again, wheedling and cajoling her and trying to get a son on her in an effort to make her forget Greyfaire.”

  “But why can she nae forget it?” the earl cried. “From the moment we met, that damned pile of English stones hae come between us! Another man I could contend wi’, but Greyfaire is worse than any lover! She is bewitched by it!”

  “Why should she forget Greyfaire?” Lady Margery demanded. “Could ye forget Dunmor were it taken from ye, Tavis? Should Arabella have numbered her days only from your meeting and put aside her life before then?”

  “But I am a man,” he said. “I am the Earl of Dunmor and lord of the castle.”

  “Why should it be any different for Arabella, my son? She was Greyfaire’s heiress and lady of the keep. It is a part of her very soul. If ye canna understand that, then ye will never understand her and ye dinna deserve her. Besides, as the last of the Greys, she takes her obligations most seriously. The Greys have been at Greyfaire for several centuries, even as the Stewarts hae been here at Dunmor. Ye could nae expect her to simply desert Greyfaire and leave her people to the tender mercies of Sir Jasper Keane, could ye? A woman who would do such a thing would nae be worthy to be Dunmor’s Countess.” Lady Margery put her hand upon her son’s arm. “Go and fetch her home, Tavis,” she finished.

  “And if she is nae at Greyfaire?” he asked.

  “Then go south and find her,” his mother counseled wisely.

  “I must go back to Edinburgh, Mother. Jamie only let me come home to oversee my estates before I return north again,” the earl told her.

  “If yer going after that wench, then do it, damnit!” Donald said irritably. “Ye dinna owe Jamie Stewart for anything, Tavis. He didna bother to tell ye that yer wife hae divorced ye wi’ his complicity and returned to England, did he? He can send someone else north. The highland chiefs will gie him difficulties no matter what he does. ‘Tis their nature to quarrel wi’ one another and wi’ anyone else who crosses their path. They hae always been more trouble to the Stewarts than they were worth, in my opinion. Find yer wife and bring her back, though why ye want the troublesome wench I dinna know. Ye’ll nae be content or happy unless ye do. Even I can see it, though it pains me to admit it.”

  Lady Margery nodded her agreement. “Donald is right,” she said, and her eyes twinkled as she continued, “though it surprises me to hear myself say such a thing, for when do we ever agree, Donald, my son, except perhaps in yer choice of a wife? I do approve the Hepburn lass, for she is a good lass and loves ye. I canna understand why, for yer a prickly bear of a man, a surly sort, and that’s the truth, but perhaps she sees a different side of ye than the rest of us.”

  “I’ll send a messenger to Jamie on the morrow before I head south,” the earl told them. “I’ll be long gone before Jamie can tell me nay. He’ll nae dare, however, to come between Arabella and me again. Yer right, Mother, when ye complain that I hae nae considered Arabella’s feelings in this matter. I see now that if I am to defeat this wee stone keep that my wife loves above all else, then I must help her to regain it. Only then, when it is safe and once more in her firm possession, will it cease to be a rival to me. Only then may we get on wi’ our lives.”

  And in the morning, as the Earl of Dunmor’s clansman rode north to Edinburgh to seek the king, the earl himself and an armed party of men turned south toward England. At Greyfaire they found Rowan FitzWalter, who, after ascertaining their identity, opened the keep to them, welcoming the Earl of Dunmor with courtesy. Meat and drink were set out in the little hall for them.

  “Her ladyship has gone south to seek King Henry,” Rowan FitzWalter told the earl before he might even ask. “Wee Maggie is, of course, with her mother. My father and fifteen of our best lads escorted them, and my sister Lona has gone to serve my lady.”

  The earl had already noted the shabby condition of the keep and of its lands. “What hae happened here, laddie?” he asked Rowan.

  “Sir Jasper Keane,” Rowan replied bitterly. “The harvests have been poor the last few years, my lord, but Sir Jasper took what little we had without a care for Greyfaire’s people. There has been starvation, and several families, on the land for many generations, departed it to seek a better life elsewhere. Sir Jasper stole our strongest and finest men and boys to make up a troop of soldiers that he might impress King Henry. Then blight struck the orchards, killing off most of the older fruit-bearing trees. He did not care. He took what he could, while leaving us to sicken and starve.

  “When our lady returned home she filled us with hope, and she set us to repairing the damage Sir Jasper Keane had inflicted upon Greyfaire. She showed us how to cleanse the earth in the orchards of the canker that had killed the trees, and she had us replant seedlings that in several years will bear fruit again. There is no luck for us without a Grey on the land, my lord. The old women said it in the first months that Lady Arabella was gone, and though many scoffed at first, we came to realize that it was true,” Rowan finished.

  Tavis Stewart nodded at the conclusion of Rowan’s tale and felt a bit guilty. Had he not ignored Arabella’s pleas, perhaps none of this would have happened. Oh, the orchards would still have gotten canker, for such was a whim of nature, but as for the rest of it…together, he and his wife could have prevented much suffering. It was unlikely that Greyfaire would ever recover, but that thought he kept to himself.

  God only knew he had been wrong enough times in his life, but looking about him, Tavis Stewart realized that Greyfaire had never been either a rich or a prosperous place. At best they had survived, perhaps more comfortably than other places, but no more than that. What
had held it all together was a series of good masters that the Grey lords had been, but the Greys were no more, excepting his wee spitfire. She was going to need his help whether she realized it or not. Arabella was fighting a losing battle with Greyfaire even if she was not quite ready to face the truth, but when she did face it, he wanted to be the one to comfort her. Whatever had happened between them, he loved her. He knew now that his mother had been right when she had told him that he would not want any woman less than Arabella Grey to bear his name or his sons.

  The earl chose two of his men to accompany him south, and then instructing his captain to render the keep any help necessary, he told his clansmen to return to Dunmor as soon as possible. Tavis Stewart departed Greyfaire wiser, yet sadder. It pained him to realize now how his wife had suffered the knowledge of Sir Jasper Keane’s neglect of Greyfaire, of how she had so desperately tried to help these people she considered her responsibility, and all without his assistance, because he had been too busy going about his own affairs to take but a moment to hear her concerns and to render her his aid. Then he smiled to himself. She was a strong woman for all her small size.

  He found the king at his favorite residence of Sheen, and although Henry Tudor was surprised, he granted the Earl of Dunmor an audience. “Do you come on your nephew’s business, then, my lord?” he asked even before the earl had straightened himself up from his bow.

  “Nay, yer majesty. I seek my wife, whom I am told came south seeking yer aid.”

  So, Henry Tudor considered, he loves her despite everything. “Lady Grey informed me, my lord, that she had been granted a divorce from you,” the king said.