The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Aye,” the earl admitted, “but I intend remarrying her as soon as I find her. ‘Tis a foolish misunderstanding between us that I will correct.”

  “Lady Grey is in France, my lord, on my business,” the king told the earl. “That knowledge, of course, I must beg you to keep secret. I but tell you that you do not attempt to commit some foolish act based upon your passion for her.”

  “And Greyfaire?” the earl asked, knowing that somehow it was involved in this affair, else Arabella would have never left England.

  “Do I have your word as a gentleman, my lord, that our conversation today will go no further than this room?” the king demanded.

  The earl nodded reluctantly, for he needed to know Arabella’s fate.

  “The lady agreed to render England service in France in exchange for her keep’s return,” the king said coldly. “She must serve me a year, and then, only then, will I restore her rights to Greyfaire Keep. She is believed to be an exile, and it is thought that I have confiscated her property for myself because of her connection with my late predecessor.”

  “In other words,” Tavis Stewart said evenly, keeping his rising anger under strong control, “ye hae asked my wife to spy for ye?”

  Henry Tudor’s cold eyes met those of the earl’s. “Aye,” he said shortly.

  “Is my daughter wi’ her mother?”

  “Your daughter is safe in my nurseries, my lord, where she will remain, a bond for her mother’s good behavior and usefulness to the crown. When my lady Grey returns home to England,” the king replied, “I will release Lady Margaret Stewart into her custody.”

  The earl nodded slowly. The English king had thought of everything. “Yer a ruthless bastard,” he said frankly to Henry Tudor.

  “No more than your own king, my lord, but then we are both Celts, are we not? I am a Welshman, for all I wear England’s crown. Your king oversaw the patricide of his own father in order to rule, and I—well, there is much I have done to gain my throne that I should as lief forget.”

  “Jamie did nae kill his father!” Tavis Stewart defended his nephew. “His sorrow over Jemmie’s death was so great that he hae a belt of iron links made to wear about his waist that he nae ere forget the incident.”

  Henry Tudor laughed sharply.”My lord,” he said, “it makes no difference whether your king intended his father’s death or not. The man was murdered as a direct result of his son’s rebellion, and King James knows it. His is the responsibility, and that is why he wears a belt of iron about his middle. He has accepted that responsibility as a good king would. Now, you must emulate your own lord and accept the path Lady Grey has taken.”

  “It would seem, your majesty, that I hae no choice in the matter, but I would hae my bairn to carry home.”

  “You are correct, my lord. You have no choice in the matter at all. As for your child, as I have told you, she is safe and well cared for in my own nurseries. My son Arthur tags after her like a small puppy. He would be devastated to lose her company at this time. Your little one has her mother’s charm.” He smiled a brief, cold smile.

  “Ye hae nae right to keep Margaret,” the earl said, desperately attempting to keep a rein on his temper.

  “I have every right, my lord. If I allowed you to take her back to Scotland with you, you would then, I suspect, hurry off to France to fetch your wife back. Not that she would come, for she is most determined to regain her properties. You would, however, distress her needlessly and distract her from her goals. So, my lord, I shall keep your child safe. Lady Grey will remain in France, content in the knowledge that a good performance upon her part will bring her Greyfaire Keep and a reunion with her child in a year’s time. You are not a stupid man, and so I am content that you fully understand me and will argue no further with me on this matter,” the king concluded.

  Never had Tavis Stewart felt so close to violence in his entire life. His jaw ached with gritting his teeth, but with superb control he bowed to Henry Tudor, accepting the dismissal with as good a grace as he could. “I thank ye, yer majesty, for yer courtesy in seeing me,” he said.

  The king inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Do not go quite yet, my lord. I have several questions I would ask of you. You have, I assume, been to Greyfaire recently. In what condition did you find the keep? Is it in good repair?”

  “The keep itself, aye. The people, however, hae been much abused by Sir Jasper Keane. He took the able-bodied men, leaving the women, the children, and the aged folk to care for the land. The orchards suffered wi’ blight, and they dinna know what to do until my wife returned. There hae been starvation, and some families hae left. They are more heartened, nonetheless, wi’ my wife’s visit.”

  “Who defends the keep?”

  “Rowen FitzWalter, the captain’s son, for FitzWalter himself is wi’ Arabella,” the earl said.

  “Would you advise that I send someone to oversee Greyfaire?” the king said. Then he chuckled. “But asking you that, my lord, is like asking the wolf to shepherd the lambs, isn’t it?”

  “The English and the Scots are nae at war, yer majesty, and ‘tis my nephew’s most earnest wish that ye nae be. Ye hae asked me a fair question, Sire, and ‘twould go against my honor were I to gie ye a less than honest answer,” Tavis Stewart said. “Rowen FitzWalter is as capable as any to defend Greyfaire Keep. He was born and raised there. He takes his responsibilities most seriously, for it is hoped that one day when his father is too old to carry out his duties, Rowan will succeed him. If ye would help, though, the people of Greyfaire could use a donation of grain for both themselves and their livestock to get them safely through the winter months. My wife hae given them her permission to take small game, and in the autumn, one deer per family.”

  “She is a good chatelaine,” the king said, his voice brimming with approval. “By addressing what problems she could immediately, she raised their spirits, thereby encouraging them to even greater efforts on her behalf. Greyfaire Keep will soon again be prosperous under her guidance. ‘Tis good.”

  “I do not think that Greyfaire hae ever been really prosperous, yer majesty,” the earl told the king. “‘Tis a small estate wi’ a bleak outlook.”

  “Then why does she desire it so greatly?” the king wondered aloud.

  “‘Tis her home, Sire,” the earl said simply. “Her heart seems to be there.”

  “Women are foolish, if necessary, creatures,” Henry Tudor said, “but it is fortunate for us that they are, eh, my lord?” He smiled his brief, wintery smile. “You can do me a small service, Tavis Stewart. I would send a clerk north to Greyfaire Keep to evaluate its condition and its needs. I should appreciate it if you would escort him for me. I shall not keep you. You may leave this afternoon.”

  “As yer majesty wishes,” the earl replied. He could hardly refuse England’s king so small a favor, particularly as this same king held Lady Margaret Stewart in his keeping. It was also quite obvious that Henry Tudor did not want Tavis Stewart remaining at his court or in England any longer than necessary. By sending this clerk with the Scots, he guaranteed their swift departure.

  “We will not keep you any longer,” the king said, reverting to a more formal tone.

  “Sire.” The earl bowed politely a final time and backed from the audience chamber.

  He waited in the courtyard at Sheen for less than an hour before a young, tonsured priest joined him, saying that he was the clerk sent by the king.

  “I ride well, my lord, and I will not keep you,” the priest said.

  Resigned to the fact that he would not even be allowed a small glimpse of his daughter, the Earl of Dunmor mounted his stallion, and signaling to his small party, rode from the English court. He had spoken to no one but the king and the king’s secretary. He had seen no one, for Henry Tudor had given him an early audience, and few if any courtiers were about. Had they been, they would not have recognized him, although they might have been curious. Now, however, it was as if he had not existed at all for the
English court.

  If Henry Tudor was foolish enough to believe that he would be satisfied to simply sit back and wait for Arabella to return to England from France, the earl reflected, then he would find he was sadly mistaken. He would not ever endanger their daughter, but Scotland and France were old and strong allies. England and France were not. He had to respect Arabella’s duty to Henry Tudor. She had done what any man would have done, he was surprised to realize, to regain her property. She was playing at the game of politics and power, but he wondered if perhaps she was not out of her depth. What could she possibly learn for Henry Tudor that would be of value to him?

  More importantly, he suddenly perceived, was how she would go about gathering that information. She had neither wealth nor a powerful family or friends helping her. She had but two assets in her favor. Her intelligence, and her beauty. It was the latter that concerned him. Did the English king actually expect Arabella to barter herself in her effort to gain information? The dawning realization that that was exactly what Henry Tudor expected sickened him. Arabella was no wanton, but he knew she would do whatever she had to do to regain her property.

  God, what a fool he had been! Tavis Stewart thought helplessly. If he had only supported his wife’s efforts to regain her birthright, instead of treating her needs as those of a willful child. That had been his problem from the start. He had seen Arabella as a stubborn child, and she was not. She was a strong woman who would not be gainsaid in a matter in which she believed herself to be in the right, and who was to say she was not?

  The French were a hot-blooded race. Arabella would be but helpless prey to some lustful monseigneur. She was alone and unfamiliar with the ways of the world. No matter Henry Tudor! He must go to France to protect his wife. His wife. She was no longer his wife in the eyes of the church. She was a free woman. Free to do as she pleased. Free to remarry, if some gentleman should take her fancy. Remarry. She could not! Yet what if it suited the English king’s plans that she marry some French monseigneur? Tavis Stewart bared his teeth in a grimace. He’d kill any man who would attempt to marry Arabella!

  Tavis Stewart arrived home at Dunmor to find his nephew’s personal messenger awaiting him. He was to join the king at Falklands Palace immediately upon his return. The messenger had been at Dunmor for over two weeks. With a sigh of resignation, the earl spent one night in his own bed before heading north. He could not ignore his own king’s direct summons.

  “Ye took yer damned time,” Jamie said in aggrieved tones when they finally met.

  “I only arrived back at Dunmor four days ago, Sire,” the earl said.

  “Ye were in England.” The king’s tone was accusatory.

  “Aye. I saw King Henry himself,” Tavis Stewart replied.

  “Did ye now? And who else did ye see? Were any of those Scots traitors who fled my justice there fawning over the Tudor and plotting my demise?”

  “I saw no one but the king and his secretary,” the earl replied. “I went for one reason, and one alone. Arabella. I want my wife back.”

  “Yer wife divorced ye, Uncle. Accept it and leave it be. ‘Tis time ye choose another wife.”

  “Jamie,” the earl said quietly, “if ye were nae my king, I should thrash ye wi’in an inch of yer young life. Why did ye allow Arabella to divorce me? Nay, ye dinna answer, for I already know.”

  “Ye do?” James Stewart shifted his feet nervously.

  “Aye, I do. The little wench felt wi’ out yer aid or mine she could nae go to King Henry as a Scots earl’s wife requesting the return of her property. So she convinced ye to help her gain a divorce that she might return to England a free woman wi’ no divided loyalties. Yer a romantic young fool, Jamie, to hae let her cajole ye into such an action, but I forgie ye, nephew. At least ye understood Arabella’s distress better than I. I could only see that she was being stubborn.”

  James Stewart felt a trickle of sweat roll icily down his back in his relief. When his uncle had said “he knew”, the king expected that possibly he might end up like several of his kingly ancestors, dead before his time at the hand of a family member. Obviously Tavis knew nothing of his brief idyll with Arabella. The king felt uncomfortably guilty over the incident. His uncle had always been loyal, and more than that, he had worked unceasingly to help quiet the highland lords that Scotland’s wounds might be healed, that their country emerge from the medieval mindset that held it back from the progress being made in other lands.

  He was king, James Stewart thought ruefully, and yet he had used his power childishly, wielding it to compromise a virtuous woman who needed his help. He felt not just guilty. James Stewart felt ashamed that he had permitted his lust to overrule his kingly honor. He was a man who loved women, but in loving Arabella he had hurt her. He had allowed her to destroy her marriage to his uncle, a man she loved so deeply that she would leave him rather than bring discredit to his name. Would that his moral principles had been as high.

  “I want to go to France,” his uncle was saying. “Arabella is there.”

  “What is she doing in France?” the king demanded, astounded.

  “Henry Tudor confiscated her property because of her family’s relationship with King Richard,” the Earl of Dunmor said carefully, remembering his promise to the English king, but regretting that he must dissemble with his own liege. “Having no place in England, and feeling she could not return to Scotland, Arabella fled to France. She is living at the French court, I am told, on what little she has. It cannot be easy for her.”

  James Stewart nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, “I could see that she was sent a small income, Uncle, until you can get to France.”

  “‘Tis kind of ye, Jamie, but wi’ yer permission I intend leaving almost immediately. There’s always a vessel at Leeds sailing for France,” the earl said.

  “I canna gie ye my permission, Uncle. Not right now. I need ye to go into the highlands once again. I need ye to go to Glenkirk Castle. I hae decided to send out ambassadors to several European nations, even as the English are doing. The Lord of Glenkirk is the man I want as Scotland’s ambassador to a small duchy on the Mediterranean called San Lorenzo. If Scotland is to prosper, we must expand its trade with other lands. I am determined that we will. We will need a haven of safety in the Mediterranean where our ships can replenish their supplies and their water on long voyages. Though the French be our allies, I do not want to be entirely dependent on them. We will also be in competition with them, for I intend that our trade be more than just furs, hides, and salted fish. These we will sell in exchange for luxury goods to be either resold in European markets or here at home.

  “Patrick Leslie is a man of great culture, for all he is a highland lord. He is widowed and shows no signs of remarrying at this time. Other than his two children, he has no obligations but to his lands. I shall arrange for his cousin to manage them while he serves me,” the king said.

  “Is he aware that he is to ‘serve’ you, nephew?” the earl asked dryly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from Jamie.

  “‘Twill be yer job, Uncle, to convince him that he should,” the king told Tavis Stewart. “Did ye know he was one of the few highland chiefs to support me against my late father? I know not why, but I shall certainly ask him when we meet. I require that ye bring Patrick Leslie to me, and ‘twill nae be easy, I know. He will take some convincing, for he will be loath to leave his lands. I dinna want to order him to me, but I will if I hae nae other choice.

  “Go to Glenkirk and try and convince Patrick Leslie to come to me willingly. Take whatever time ye need, wi’in reason, of course. When ye hae been successful, I will send ye to France on royal business that ye may attempt to woo yer wife back. In the meantime, I will see that Arabella does nae lack for anything.”

  “She’ll nae take so much as a groat from us, Jamie, for she is a proud creature, as ye well know,” the earl replied.

  The king chuckled. “She will game, Uncle, as they all do at the French court. When she does
, she will win, I promise ye. Yer lady is also of a practical nature. If she needs funds and wins, she will nae lose her gold in further gaming, but she will put it aside for a rainy day. Ye need hae no fear that Arabella will starve.”

  “I am nae worried about Arabella starving, Jamie,” Tavis Stewart said. “I fear that loneliness may drive her into another man’s arms. That is my greatest fear, nephew.”

  “Then put that fear aside, Uncle,” the king told him. “Arabella Grey loves ye above all men. Of that I am more certain than any.”

  “I pray ye be right, Jamie.”

  So the Earl of Dunmor rode into the highlands to Glenkirk on king’s business. He was warmly welcomed by Patrick Leslie, the lord of the castle. For the long weeks of late summer and into the fall, Tavis Stewart remained at Glenkirk, stalking deer in the hills surrounding the castle, fishing for trout and salmon in the icy streams that abounded on the estate, lingering over generous drams of Patrick Leslie’s peat-smoked whiskey from the Glenkirk stills during long autumn evenings in the castle’s Great Hall, where the Leslies’ personal piper played movingly, seeming to know every tune ever composed for the pipes. It was very much a comfortable, bachelor-like existence despite the lord of Glenkirk’s two children, a red-haired little girl of ten, named Janet, and a sturdy six-year-old boy who was called Adam. Broaching the king’s business was a tricky matter, but finally one day as they played at golf on Patrick Leslie’s small course, Tavis Stewart felt he could wait no longer. The days were growing visibly shorter as winter approached. “Patrick,” he began, “my nephew, the king, tells me that ye supported him against his father.”

  “Aye,” Patrick Leslie said shortly. “I felt Jamie hae the right on his side in the matter.”

  “The king wishes to reward ye for yer loyalty and hae asked me to bring ye to him,” the earl told him.

  Patrick Leslie shook his dark auburn head. His green-gold eyes were serious when he finally spoke. “I’m nae a man for the court, Tavis, as ye are. I’m a simple highland chief, as my father was before me, and my grandfather before him, and on back into the mists of time. I did what I believed right in the matter between the king and his father. I do not believe I should be rewarded for merely doing my duty.”