The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Nonetheless, Jamie would hae ye come,” the earl told him, thinking that his nephew could use more honest men like this about him. “I am instructed to stay at Glenkirk until ye will agree. As I hae some rather pressing business in France, I hope ye’ll quickly change yer mind, my lord.”

  Patrick Leslie swung his golf club, hitting the ball down the misty greensward. He peered after it, and then apparently satisfied with his shot, said, “I am flattered that the king would do me honor, Tavis, but I’ll nae leave Glenkirk. I am nae unacquainted wi’ kings and their whims. If I go to court, the next thing ye know I’ll nae be able to get home, for the king will want some wee favor or other of me even as he does of ye. Surely ye miss Dunmor, man, but can ye get back? Nay, for yer here doing yer nephew a wee favor, and then yer off to France, ye tell me—on royal business, I’m quite certain, though ye hae not said it. Thank ye, but I hae no desire to leave Glenkirk.”

  “Then I must remain here until I can convince ye otherwise, Patrick,” the earl said pleasantly. “Is yer little lass betrothed?”

  “Nay, for I’m not of a mind to lose her yet,” the lord of Glenkirk answered.

  “The king could make a better match for the lass than ye could, I’ll wager,” Tavis Stewart told him. “Ye could bring her and that braw laddie of yers to court wi’ ye. They would enjoy it, I’ve nae a doubt.”

  “We hae a fine Christmas here at Glenkirk,” its lord replied calmly. “If yer determined to remain here, ye should know that. Perhaps ye would like to ask yer wife to join ye.”

  Tavis Stewart felt despair to the depths of his soul. Patrick Leslie was going to prove more than merely difficult in this matter, but the earl knew his nephew would not allow him to leave Glenkirk yet. He would have to remain a longer period of time before Jamie could be reasonably convinced that he must issue a royal summons to this highland chief. Patrick Leslie would not be able to avoid a royal summons.

  Christmas came and went, as did Twelfth Night. The Earl of Dunmor was finally ready to admit defeat. He had been at Glenkirk for six months and had been unable to move its lord one whit in his resolve to stay exactly where he was. He sent a message to the king, who finally responded with a royal summons for the Lord of Glenkirk. There could be no refusal now. Patrick Leslie must attend his king as quickly as possible, and he was to bring his two children. This last, Tavis Stewart knew, was so that Patrick would have no excuse for hurrying home before Jamie was quite finished with him.

  “After all my hospitality to ye,” Patrick Leslie said mournfully, “ye would do this to me?”

  “Jamie will hae his way, my friend,” the Earl of Dunmor said, “and ye hae best remember that. If ye’d gone when I first invited ye, there would nae hae been this need for a royal summons.”

  “But the bairns too?”

  “They’ll hae a good time, man, and ‘twill be good for them to see a bit of the world outside of Glenkirk. They’ll appreciate it far more when they return than if they knew nothing else.”

  “May I have a sword, Father?” little Adam Leslie asked his sire. “I would pledge my loyalty and my arms to the king!”

  “Silly puppy!” his sister Janet teased. “The king hae no need of a runny-nosed bairn, does he, Father? I, however, am almost of marriageable age. Perhaps Father will find a husband for me at court.” She tossed her red-gold curls.

  “Hah!” her younger brother mocked. “What man would look at a wench wi’ no titties, and ye, Mistress High and Mighty, are as flat as the drawbridge!”

  “Ohhhhh!” Janet Leslie looked outraged. She charged across the distance that separated her from her brother, a dangerous look in her eye. Adam Leslie, however, was practiced in the art of escaping his sister’s wrath, and scampered off, howling with mirth, turning about every few steps to make faces and stick his tongue out at Janet.

  The men chuckled at the antics of the two children, who in reality adored one another.

  “Well,” the earl said, “now that this matter between ye and the king is settled, I’ll hae a chance to see my own little lass soon enough.”

  “Aye,” the lord of Glenkirk said sadly, “but it will take us a week or so to prepare for the journey. Then we’ll be on our way. Ye’ll accompany us, my lord?”

  “Aye, ‘tis my nephew’s wish. I think he fears ye’ll nae come, royal summons or nay, if I dinna personally escort ye. So I will. I must get to Leeds anyway if I am to embark to France.”

  “‘Tis dangerous to cross the waters in the winter,” Patrick Leslie noted.

  “Aye, but I must go,” the earl told him. “I should hae gone months ago, but that ye are a hard man to convince. Still, a few days more or less at this point canna matter, can it?”

  But the day before their departure, a fierce winter storm struck Scotland, howling through the highlands with determined and icy ferocity. The snowdrifts were blown high in its wake. It was several weeks before the inhabitants of Glenkirk Castle could possibly leave, for the tracks that passed for roads were blocked with several feet of snow. Only when the first mild winds of March came with their accompanying rains could they finally depart.

  Patrick Leslie gazed back at his castle with a look of proprietary pride, but his daughter wept sudden tears. The Earl of Dunmor, seeing her sorrow, said, “What is it, lassie? Dinna be sad, for ye’ll enjoy the court, and soon ye’ll be safely home again.”

  Janet Leslie wiped her eyes vigorously with her sleeve and then said low, “I suddenly had the strangest feeling, my lord, that ‘twould be a very long time before I see Glenkirk again. But surely that is nonsense!”

  “Indeed, lass, it must be. Dinna look back. I never do, for there is nae point in it, ye know. Always look forward, Janet Leslie, for I promise ye the world is a wonderful adventure just awaiting ye!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Duc de Lambour said something quite interesting today, Tony.” Arabella Grey sipped her sweet pale wine from a slender silver goblet. She and Lord Varden had just finished the fine supper that Barbe had prepared, a game pie in a flaky crust, with large pieces of nutty truffles and delicate oniony shallots in a rich wine-flavored gravy.

  “What?” Lord Varden, manners aside, dipped a crusty chunk of bread into the remaining gravy, and sopping it up, popped it into his mouth.

  “He has been importuning me again to become his mistress,” Arabella replied, “and so I reminded him of his poor wife in Normandy. I said he should accept the example of the king’s fidelity to the Lady Margaret of Austria. The duc laughed and told me that betrothals are made to be broken. When I asked him what he meant by such a thing, he changed the subject. Do you think that important?”

  “It could be,” Lord Varden said slowly, suddenly interested. “You see, Arabella, part of Lady Margaret’s dowry from her father, Maximilian of Hapsburg, are the provinces of Franche Comté and Artois, which the French very much want back. There is only one thing that could tempt Charles from this match. Brittany. You will have to find out for us, Arabella, if the king’s betrothal is about to be broken. King Henry would very much like that information. It is extremely valuable. Princess Anne of Brittany is to wed with Maximilian himself, now that he is widowed. Should that match be broken for France, then France would have a strong hand in European politics, which should not suit England at all.”

  Arabella sighed. “There is only one way I am going to pry such information from the duc,” she said, and from the resigned tone in her voice, Lord Varden knew what would come next. “I must finally succumb to his advances. There seems to be no other choice in the matter.”

  He took her hand. “We are friends, Arabella, are we not?” She nodded. “You are young and beautiful, and I believe of a passionate nature. What you must do, you do for England, and you must not feel guilt over it.”

  She laughed, for his kindness was touching. “Tony,” she replied honestly, “what I do, I do in order that I may regain my lands. What kind of a woman does it make me, I wonder, that I would barter my virtue for land?
Still, if I had it to do again, I should make my bargain with the devil himself if in the end I could get Greyfaire back for my daughter. Do men not often make such difficult decisions and bargains to obtain whatever it is they would have? You fight with swords, and knives, and artillery. A woman’s weapon is her intellect, though many would not credit such a thing. When intellect fails, however, a woman has her soft white body with which to fight, and if men have but one universal weakness, it is their lust.”

  He stared at her, astounded. Until this moment he had thought of Arabella Grey as an innocent young woman, caught in a web of power and unable to free herself. He suddenly knew better. “You frighten me, Arabella,” he said.

  She laughed again. “It is my curse that I am petite and delicate of form and coloring. Men think me helpless, Tony, but in this instance, isn’t that what we want? I am a virtuous woman, and it pains me that I must give up that virtue to gain my goals, but as God is my witness, I will! I have held the duc off as long as I dared, but he will shortly lose his interest if I do not yield myself to his passion. If this tiny scrap of information that I have provided you with can possibly lead to something that will help King Henry, and thus expedite my debt to him, then I will become the duc’s mistress.”

  Lord Varden found himself admiring her determination. Her analysis of the situation was absolutely correct, though why he was surprised, he could not determine, for Arabella had never made any effort to hide her intelligence. “You will surrender gracefully, of course, my dear,” he said wryly.

  “I shall acquiesce with such delicacy of feeling and innocent distress that he will believe himself to have won a mighty victory. I can only hope he finds me worth all the wooing,” Arabella teased her friend mischievously.

  Now it was Lord Varden who laughed. “Never doubt yourself, my dear.” He chuckled. “You must consider too that the duc must also prove himself in the lists of love if you are to enjoy yourself as well.”

  “I am not certain, Tony, that I should enjoy myself,” Arabella told him, but her green eyes were twinkling. “Somehow it does not seem right that having gone against all I was taught to believe, I enjoy myself.”

  “If you cannot,” he told her, “you could displease the duc. Remember, my dear, that once you have committed yourself to an action, you must fully follow through. Have no regrets. Regrets are such a waste of time. To err is human, but to regret erring is to regret being human. It is a warm, flesh and blood woman the duc desires.

  “Since you must compromise yourself, at least enjoy it. You do not intend making such behavior a habit, Arabella, and besides, I will wager that you have never known any man but your former husband. Men have more advantage over women in passion, for they are allowed to digress from the straight and chaste path without fear of condemnation, unless, of course, they make a spectacle of themselves. It is your duty to be naughty, my dear. Take advantage of it!”

  “My lord, you are totally incorrigible!” Arabella told him, laughing. “I will admit to being curious, however, about other men.” She felt no guilt in not discussing her adventure with James Stewart. That was an entirely different thing, and it was not Lord Varden’s business.

  “Then this, my dear, will offer you an opportunity to indulge your curiosity,” he answered her. “I have but one question. When?”

  “The duc has asked me to celebrate Twelfth Night with him,” Arabella told Anthony Varden. “He is having a small fete, and has invited me to be his guest. The opportunity is perfect, for he will undoubtedly attempt to seduce me once again that evening.”

  “Aye,” her companion agreed. “I suspect he will.” Anthony Varden did not tell Arabella that until she had spoken of it, he was totally unaware that the Duc de Lambour was giving a Twelfth Night fete. He would wager that no one else at court knew either. The duc was obviously making a last attempt to cajole Arabella to his bed. He considered whether he should tell her, and decided he must. He did not want her suddenly deciding to change her mind.

  “I think, my dear, that you may be the duc’s only guest on Twelfth Night,” he said. “I have not been invited, and the duc always includes me when he invites you.”

  “Indeed?” Arabella noted, her delicate eyebrows arching in surprise.

  “This may be your last opportunity with him,” Lord Varden warned her.

  “It would appear so, Tony. I thank you for your warning. I am indeed committed to my course now, aren’t I?”

  He nodded, and then he said gallantly, “I envy the duc his ‘conquest’, Arabella.”

  She colored, and men she asked him the question that she had wanted to ask him since they had met. “Why are you not married, Tony?”

  “I was,” he said. “She was a Breton lady. We met at the Duke of Brittany’s court when I was with King Henry in his youth. We were wed but a few months when she sickened and died of a fever. Few remember her, or that I was ever wed. Since then there has been no one. As I serve the king in this rather odd manner, I dare not take a wife, for it would make me vulnerable. In a service such as this, Arabella, one cannot be vulnerable, as you well know. A wife would complicate my life, for living in France as I do, she would probably be French. How could I keep the life she could not share with me secret from her? It would be nearly impossible. I am safer without a wife and children to fret me.

  “As a younger son, I have nothing in England. No lands, no monies. The king has promised me, however, that when my effectiveness here in France comes to an end, he will see that I have an estate on which to retire. Only then will I remarry and have children.”

  She understood. Had not Henry Tudor used her little Margaret against her? “I pray I can gain valuable information from the duc, Tony. I so long to go home again! My wee Margaret will have grown greatly these past months. I miss her so much!”

  “What if you fall in love with the duc, my dear?” he asked her. “It is possible that it could happen, you know. I believe that even now you like him, although perhaps you have not considered it. When passion becomes an added ingredient to your relationship, who knows what will happen?”

  “I do not believe that love will ever enter into my association with Adrian Morlaix,” Arabella told Tony. “He simply desires me—my body, really. I, in turn, desire information from him that he might not otherwise divulge except in pillow talk.”

  “But he does not know that, my dear,” Lord Varden said.

  “I, however, do,” Arabella responded wisely. “I dare not allow myself to love again, Tony. Love, I have found, makes one heart-sore.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “it does, but to be without love, my dear, gives far greater pain, I believe. When my Jeanne-Marie was alive, I ached in the hours that we were apart. My life, it seemed, was only full and perfect when we were together. Her love encased me with a warmth of feeling the like of which I have not known since. When she first died, I felt as if I had died, and when I realized I had not, I cursed the fates that had left me to walk this earth without her. To be forced to live when Jeanne-Marie was not here to share my life gave me more anguish than the pain of a few hours separation, for in those few hours there was always the knowledge that I would see her again. I no longer have that certainty, and, naturally, the pain has dulled over the years. It has never left me, mind you, and, of course, I have my many happy memories. Ahh, Arabella, I would be in love again, but alas I dare not at this time either! If your heart responds to Adrian Morlaix’s heart, do not deny yourself that joy! Is not life, my dear, for living to the fullest?”

  Joy? Love, a joy? Love had always been more sorrow than joy, Arabella thought to herself. Her mother had loved Jasper Keane, and having suffered bitterly for it, was finally forced to give her life up in a final tribute to love. She herself had loved Tavis Stewart, and though he claimed to love her, he had treated her like a child rather than as a wife. A toy to be cuddled and kissed, but certainly not taken seriously. The only good thing to have come of such a love was her wee Margaret, from whom she was now separated. No, she
was never going to allow herself to be taken in by love again!

  She would think on her rendezvous at Twelfth Night with Adrian Morlaix. What would she wear? Her costume must be a mixture of demureness and seduction, and she would wear nothing beneath it but a sheer, silk camisia. Ivory velvet! Her gown would be of ivory velvet to complement her pale gold hair, to hint at virtue, a virtue he would enjoy despoiling, and which she would allow him to despoil before the night was out. Arabella shook her head at her thoughts. How hard and calculating she had become, she considered, but were she not, she realized, this could all destroy her.

  Ivory velvet. Trimmed in gold threads and seed pearls. An underskirt of gold brocade. And her hair. She would not wear it as she usually did, in a crown of braids atop her head which gave her added height. Her hair on Twelfth Night would be dressed with silk ribbons and seed pearls which would be intertwined into one long and large fat braid. He would, like all men, seek to undo her hair, and she should make it as easy for him as possible. And she would wear no jewelry. That would give a further impression of simplicity, as would her plain burgundy-colored velvet cloak with its hood trimmed in rich marten.

  She bathed carefully on Twelfth Night, instructing Lona to perfume the warm water with her favorite white heather fragrance. Her long hair had earlier been washed.

  “‘Tis a wonder you don’t catch your death of cold with all the bathing you do,” grumbled Lona. “So much water can’t be healthy, my lady, but then I suppose I should be used to your little crochets by now, shouldn’t I?”

  “And I used to your constant chattering,” teased her mistress.

  “Chattering?” Lona’s tone was suddenly aggrieved. “Just because I worry aloud over your eccentric ways is no cause to say I chatter, my lady!”