The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Quite recovered from his fit, so I have heard, but he does have a most dreadful headache,” Lord Varden replied.

  Arabella could not help but giggle at this.

  There was a knock upon the door and Lona bustled in. “The duc is back,” she said, “and heading this way, I’ve not a doubt.”

  Lord Varden stood up. “I will return to my own rooms,” he said and hurried out.

  “Quickly,” Lona told her mistress, for she knew everything that had transpired the night before, “into your bed, my lady!” She took Arabella’s robe de chambre from her, laying it across a chair. “Will you see him?”

  “If I do not,” Arabella said, “there is the danger that someone will tell him that Lord Varden was here, and he will wonder why I would see Tony but not him.”

  “Lord Varden didn’t abuse you!” Lona said sharply.

  “Still,” Arabella told her, “it is best I face him now. Then perhaps he will leave me be for the rest of the day.”

  The knock upon the door sent Lona scurrying to answer it. She opened the door, and curtsying to the duc, admitted him before departing.

  “Ma Belle!” Adrian Morlaix said as he sat down upon the bed and took her hand in his.

  Arabella snatched her hand away as if it had been scalded. “I detest you!” she hissed at him. “How do you dare to face me after what you did to me last night?! I never want to see you again!”

  “Don’t be angry, ma Belle,” he pleaded with her. “What I did, I did for you. I could not bear seeing you so close to passion yet unable to attain it. I love you!”

  “Liar! You do not love me at all! If you loved me, you should not have treated me like a whore! Like some common trull, passing me about like a sweetmeat to be shared! Go away! I hate you!”

  “Non, ma Belle, you do not hate me. You are angry, and I understand your anger, but it will pass,” the duc answered her, and leaning over, he kissed her cheek.

  “I will never forgive you,” Arabella said honestly.

  “Of course you will, ma petite rose d’Anglaise. Of course you will,” he told her with perfect confidence. “Our adventures d’amour of last night were a shock to you, I understand that, but you will admit that you reached out for passion as you have never before reached out for it. You attained la grande petite morte, ma Belle! You were magnificent, and I adore you for it!”

  Arabella glowered at him stonily.

  The duc chuckled, convinced that she was just having a tantrum, a tantrum that she would soon get over. He caught up her hand again and kissed it. “If I promise you never to introduce another into our bed again, ma Belle, will you forgive me?”

  “Leave me!” she commanded him icily, ignoring his query.

  Rising from the bed, the duc departed her bedchamber, certain that in time his beautiful English mistress would forgive him, although he really did not understand her anger. There had been no real harm done. He and Alain had, indeed, been most tender and gentlemanly.

  Arabella kept to her apartments all day, refusing even to join the duc and his guests for dinner. When he entered her bedchamber late that evening, he found Lona sitting by her mistress’s bedside. The servant stood and curtsied.

  “My lady is not well, my lord, and has taken a sleeping draught,” she told him. “She begs that you make her excuses to the king tomorrow, but she says she will not be able to join the hunt.”

  “Is she truly ill?” he asked Lona. “Or is she simply being petulant?”

  “My lord!” Lona looked indignant at the suggestion that her mistress might be shamming.

  “That is no answer,” the duc persisted.

  “Last night was too much for her, my lord,” Lona said bluntly. “My lady is suffering from nerves, the headache, exhaustion, and the effects of too much weeping. She is a gentle soul and has been badly used, though I know you will not like to hear it.”

  The duc looked uncomfortable beneath Lona’s direct gaze. Finally he said, “When she awakens, Lona, tell her that I love her. Reassure her that the events of last night will never be repeated again, as I earlier promised her. I shall make her excuses to the king, and I shall make my own as well, for I will not leave her side in her illness.”

  “My lady will be pleased to know that you’ve repented of your wickedness, my lord, but she’ll have a fit if you don’t join the hunt,” Lona told him frankly. “She likes King Charles very much, and she wouldn’t want him worried needlessly. If you don’t go on the hunt tomorrow, the king will, indeed, fret that her ladyship was so poor that you stayed home as well. Someone like that new duchesse—who hates my lady, and would grasp any opportunity to do her a bad turn—is certain to start a rumor of plague then. The next thing you know, we’ll all be forced to pick up and settle somewhere else for the summer. Why, the king might even decide to go to Normandy for the waters, and my mistress could scarce be your guest in Normandy, my lord, could she?”

  “You’re a clever girl, Lona,” the duc noted with a chuckle, having fully understood the servant’s not-so-veiled hints. “You can assure me, however, that your mistress is not seriously ill?”

  “Aye, my lord, I can.”

  “Then I shall spend the day hunting tomorrow with the king and his guests. Tell your mistress when she awakens that I will undoubtedly return home late from Amboise. I shall not see her until the day after tomorrow, at which time I shall expect her to have made a full recovery. Do you understand me, Lona?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Lona told him with a knowing grin and another pert curtsy.

  “Good night, then,” the duc said, and returned through the connecting door to his own rooms.

  When the door had clicked firmly shut and Lona could no longer hear the duc’s footsteps, she said softly, “He is gone, my lady.”

  Arabella rolled over and sat up. “‘Twas nicely done, Lona,” she said, “and ‘twas quick thinking on your part when he said he would stay home with me. Thank you.”

  “I’m as anxious to go home to England as you are, my lady, and so are the others too,” Lona told her.

  “The trip will not be easy,” Arabella said. “We will travel without ceasing, stopping only to change the horses and to eat.”

  “I’ll not be unhappy to see the back of France,” Lona said. “This life is too rich for me, my lady. I long for the simplicity of the borders. Besides, ‘tis past time Fergus and I were wed. What shall I pack for you?”

  “Only a few changes of clothing, Lona, for I’ll not need all these beautiful clothes at Greyfaire. You may pack the jewelry that the duc has given me, however, for God knows, I have earned it! I shall not wear any of it ever again, but it can be placed with a goldsmith in York and drawn upon for funds to help me keep the estate in the bad years.”

  In the early hours of the dawn, Arabella watched from the high windows of her rooms as the duc and Lord Varden rode out from Rossignol to join the royal hunt at Amboise. The chateau’s servants, a small staff, for the duc preferred it that way, were far too busy with their own tasks to notice the departure of their master’s leman. Besides, it was not their business to question Arabella. The coach had been quietly and carefully loaded in the dark hours before the dawn, when the chateau’s groomsmen had slept unawares in their loft above the stables. The mare that Arabella had brought from England was at her house outside of Paris, for the duc had given Arabella a new mare after their first night together, and she felt it unnecessary to bring both horses to Rossignol. They would retrieve Arabella’s English mare on their journey to Calais and leave behind the other beast. FitzWalter and the Greyfaire men escorted their mistress, drawing no attention at all, for such was their usual habit.

  Several hours later they reached the inn at Villeroyale where they stopped to await Lord Varden. He arrived shortly before noon. After eating, they set out once again, and for the next several days they traveled round-the-clock, stopping only to change the coach horses, relieve themselves, and eat. From their third day onward until they arrived at Calais, there was
the increased danger of pursuit. Arabella had left the duc a brief note saying that she could not forgive him for his conduct toward her and that she hoped he would accept her decision in this matter and not follow her. She had not wanted to do this, but Lord Varden had insisted that she could not simply disappear without causing an uproar. It was always possible that the duc would accept her judgment, but if he did not, perhaps his ego would allow him to believe she would return of her own accord in a few days after she had worked her temper off. These few days could give them the time they needed to reach Calais. Lord Varden had sent one of his own men ahead to arrange for their immediate passage across the channel to England. They must escape France without delay lest the Duchesse de St. Astier betray them.

  They reached the safety of Calais in five-and-a-half days’ time, even with a brief stop at Arabella’s small house outside of Paris to collect her mare. They had arrived at Maison Riviere in the middle of the night. Fergus MacMichael crept into the stable to retrieve the beast while the stableboy hired to care for it slept quite soundly during his foray. He left a silver piece by the lad’s head, knowing that when the boy discovered the coin and the missing horse, he himself would depart lest he be blamed for being negligent in his duties. The silver would give him a new start in life. They fled on through Paris, leaving the city well behind them even before the dawn.

  Arriving in Calais, however, they met with a serious delay. A severe summer storm was rolling in from the channel, and no ships, their own included, would put out to sea before it had run its course. Lord Varden’s agent had arranged for their accommodations in a neat little inn near the harbor called The Wild Rose. Since there were but three guest rooms available at the inn, there would be no others but themselves. The Wild Rose was too small a place to encourage neighborhood traffic, and an extra coin to the landlord ensured their complete privacy. Although Calais was technically an English possession, Arabella knew that she would not be entirely comfortable until they were safely on English soil once more.

  After two days the storm had dissipated and the captain of their vessel, The Maid of Dover, told them that they would be departing on the next tide early the following morning. With luck they would be in England by the late afternoon. It was at the very moment that the vessel’s captain left them that Adrian Morlaix chose to make his entrance. Anthony Varden drew a sharp breath even as Arabella paled visibly. Both FitzWalter’s and Fergus MacMichael’s hands moved to their swords, but awaiting Lord Varden’s command.

  “So, ma Belle, I have caught up with you at last,” he said quietly, and he kissed her hand.

  “To what purpose, my lord?” Arabella responded coldly, snatching the hand back. “Did I not make myself quite clear in the message that I left behind for you?”

  “I would speak with you alone, ma Belle,” he told her softly, meaningfully.

  “There is nothing you have to say to me, my lord, that Lord Varden cannot hear,” she answered firmly.

  “Must our passion be a public thing, then?” he asked her.

  “‘Twas you who made it so, my lord, not I,” came the cutting reply.

  The Duc de Lambour smiled ruefully. “Touché, ma Belle,” he said.

  “You have wasted your time, my lord, in following after me,” Arabella said.

  “Nay, ma Belle, I have not. I would have caught up with you earlier, but that a messenger arrived at Amboise from Normandy for me. My wife has died. She choked upon a fishbone,” the duc said simply and without emotion.

  “May God and His blessed Mother Mary assoil her soul, my lord,” Arabella said piously. “I am truly sorry, Adrian.”

  “I want you to marry me, Arabella,” was his startling reply.

  She was stunned. Never before had he used her Christian name. He had always called her his Belle. Never Arabella! Belle.

  “We can be married secretly, here in Calais, with Tony as our witness. I cannot let you go from me, but I must formally mourn Claude-Marie for a full year. It is her due, as she was the mother of my children,” the duc continued in a matter-of-fact tone.

  He had asked her to marry him! For a moment Arabella thought that she would weep. Had she misjudged Adrian Morlaix? “I cannot marry you, Adrian,” she said finally.

  “Then it is true,” was his answer.

  “What is true?” she demanded, but in her heart she knew to what he would refer.

  “The Duchesse de St. Astier told me in deepest confidence that you and Tony are spies in the pay of England,” Adrian Morlaix said sorrowfully.

  Lord Varden laughed heartily. “What a tale,” he said mockingly. “What on earth could that Scots whore possibly think to gain by such a tale? Poor Billancourt! Did you know, Adrian, that our new duchesse is rumored to have serviced every man in King James’ court? A most amazing feat if it is true, and it does appear to be. When she became too troublesome, the king sent her to France. So much for the Old Alliance! Let us hope that the St. Astiers’ heirs are indeed of their blood.”

  The duc ignored Lord Varden; his blue eyes looked directly at Arabella. “Are you?” he said quietly.

  Arabella hesitated a moment, and then she said in as quiet a tone, “Aye.” No more. Whatever Adrian Morlaix had done to her, she felt his proposal of marriage entitled him to the truth.

  “Why?”

  “For Greyfaire,” she said simply.

  “For Greyfaire? You betrayed me for a piece of land?” he demanded.

  “Oh, Adrian,” Arabella said gently, and she was unable to restrain a small laugh, “I did not betray you. King Henry simply placed me in the French court to watch and to listen. He fears that your King Charles will betray him as the French, indeed, betrayed King Richard several years ago. Did you know that that poor king was of my family? Henry Tudor merely seeks to solidify his place upon his throne. I have not betrayed you.”

  “You will tell your king what I told you regarding King Charles’ possible marriage plans, however, won’t you?” The Duc de Lambour looked somewhat aggrieved.

  “Aye, ‘tis a very sensitive piece of information,” Arabella replied reasonably. “You could hardly expect me to withhold such a trump card from my king? ‘Tis the only really interesting bit of knowledge I have obtained during my stay in France. It will, nonetheless, regain me my home and the custody of my child, who has languished this past year in the royal nurseries. I would do anything that I had to do for my wee Margaret, and for Greyfaire. Indeed, my lord, I have, haven’t I?” Arabella’s light green eyes never left his gaze as she spoke.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “No,” she replied, “you do not, though I think you believe that you do. Had you really loved me, you could never have shared me with your half brother. You claim you wanted me to feel perfect passion, but had you loved me, Adrian, you would have sought yourself to find a means by which I might have shared that passion with you. You would not have treated me like a whore, but then I cannot really blame you entirely for that, can I, my lord? By becoming your mistress, I played the whore, and obviously I played it quite well. ‘Tis a rather startling side to my character I think I should rather have not known about, but ‘tis over now.

  “I intend returning to England, to my home in the north, and neither you or anyone else will stop me! I shall never again venture far from Greyfaire, I assure you. I shall live a quiet, indeed, a most circumspect life, raising my child to be the new mistress of Greyfaire, and raising her little betrothed husband to both respect and husband not only my daughter, but her estate as well.”

  The Duc de Lambour looked grieved. “Will you not be lonely, ma Belle?” he asked her sadly. “You speak of your child and of your Greyfaire, but you say nothing of love.”

  Arabella laughed bitterly “Love?” she said scornfully. “By love, my lord, I assume you mean that illusion that is alleged to exist between men and women. There is no such thing except in children’s tales, and in the overly romantic songs that are sung by minstrels who wish to please their masters, and the gull
ible women whom those masters desire to seduce. I have been the recipient of men’s love in the past, my lord duc, and I far prefer the solitary life to such a life.”

  “Let me prove you wrong, Arabella,” he begged her. “I know that my conduct several days ago was inexcusable, but if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, ma Belle, I will devote the rest of my life to expiating my sins against you. I love you as I have never before loved any woman!”

  “Did you tell your poor Claude-Marie that, Adrian, before you incarcerated her at your chateau in Normandy? That you loved her as no other? Before you cut her off from your life, using her only as a brood mare to sire your heirs upon? Good manners bids me thank you for your proposal of marriage, and indeed I do, for I know you mean that proposal to be an honorable one. Common sense and hard experience tells me that my answer to you now is as it was before. No! Do not waste your time appealing to my heart, Adrian. I do not have one.”

  “Mon Dieu!” he groaned. “You are cruel, chérie!”

  “And you are kind, monseigneur?” she asked him. “When I bid you adieu in my letter several days ago, Adrian, I was kind. As kind as I dare be, for men are never really kind to the women they profess to care for, I have found.”

  “Then there is no hope for us at all, ma Belle?”

  “None,” she answered him firmly.

  “Come, Adrian, mon ami,” Lord Varden said kindly. He wished to draw the duc’s attention away from Arabella before the duc’s disappointment turned to anger and thoughts of revenge. Adrian Morlaix was a most proud man. “Come and share a carafe of wine with me. You have ridden hard and far, I know. You will need strong evidence to refute the Duchesse de St. Astier’s charges against us, should she speak publicly and indiscreetly. You certainly want to retain your friendship with the king.”

  “I will not be guilty of treason,” the duc said stubbornly, but he allowed Lord Varden to lead him to a table in the inn’s taproom in whose entry they had been standing.

  “There is no treason involved, mon ami,” Anthony Varden said soothingly. “A bit of pillow talk that may or may not come to anything; and no one knows that it was said. Certainly you may easily silence the viperous tongue of Madame Marie-Claire by an intimate knowledge of her past, which I am certain Arabella will be pleased to pass on to you. As for Lady Grey’s and my disappearance, you can simply say we returned to Paris. That you were able to trace us that far, but after that you lost our trail, that Barbe, Lady Grey’s cook, told you we might be going to Hainault or Cleves, she wasn’t certain. Say that Arabella fought over what you considered a trifle, and then she left you in a pique. Say I accompanied her because I am her friend and was bored. That because she amused you better than any other mistress you have ever had, you sought to bring her back, but alas, you could not find her. Ho hum, mes amis! Soon, another delectable creature will come along to keep you happy, and in the meantime you must go into mourning for Claude-Marie. In a year you will seek a new wife, n’est-ce pas?”