The Spitfire (11 page)

Her hands were free of rings, as she would receive her wedding band, but she had worn Jasper’s lovely chain, and a small jeweled rosary also hung from her girdle. Her elderly nurse had brushed her beautiful hair out so that it hung to her ankles, a gossamer cloud of pale-golden silver gilt. She looked very grown up, she thought, and yet at the same time she looked so very young. Suddenly she was afraid. What was she doing? She was about to marry a man she wasn’t even certain she wanted to marry.

“Come, dearie,” the old nurse said, breaking into her thoughts. “‘Tis time to go to the church. Yer fine laddie will be awaiting ye.”

Arabella swallowed back her nerves. It was all right. Everything was perfectly all right. She was going to marry Sir Jasper Keane, a man she could certainly learn to love. They would live a happy life together. They would have many children. Oh, yes! She wanted children. Jasper was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man. It would be a good life.

The keep seemed empty as they passed out into the courtyard. It was only a short walk over the drawbridge, down the hill to the church. Arabella found herself relieved to see Jasper waiting to escort her. His eyes widened with approval as he saw her, and a small sigh of relief escaped her lips. The servants and all of her people were lining their path. They called out their good wishes as she passed with Jasper. They were not invited into the small church, for it would not have been able to contain them all, but having seen the bride in her wedding finery and the groom in his scarlet robes, they were content to return to their tasks until the feasting began, for Lady Rowena had promised there would be cakes and ale for all.

It was a strange sort of day, for the mists had still not lifted by the time they arrived at the church where the invited guests had assembled. Inside the stone structure the air was damp, but the flickering candles upon the altar threw a hazy golden light over all. The stone altar was laid with a fine embroidered linen cloth upon which sat a beautiful jeweled cross and a pair of golden candlesticks. As they neared the altar where Father Anselm stood arrayed in his finest gold and white robes, Arabella could suddenly smell the white roses that had been brought in to decorate the church.
The white roses of York.
In the oaken pews that flanked the church’s single aisle were some Grey relations of her father’s—elderly souls, for the most part—a few male friends of SirJasper’s, and the castle servants who were the most privileged of Greyfaire folk. Arabella and her bridegroom knelt before the priest upon a velvet-cushioned double
prie-dieu
. Behind them Arabella could hear Rowena softly sobbing.

For a moment all was silence, and then raising his hand to bless all, Father Anselm intoned, “
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

“Amen,”
echoed the congregation, but some, sharper-eared than others, thought they heard the sound of horses’ hooves beneath the sound of their own voices.

Father Anselm placed his hands upon the bowed heads of the kneeling couple, and suddenly there was no mistaking the tramp of uninvited booted feet upon the stone porch outside. As the male guests arose to their feet in alarm, the double doors to the church were burst asunder by armed and kilted clansmen who poured into the holy place, blocking all possible routes of escape, successfully imprisoning the wedding guests, none of whom were armed. To have come armed to a wedding would have been considered an offense to the laws of hospitality. The men in the wedding party remained silent, but there were small cries of alarm from the women. Then all was silent. This was, after all, the border, and they were used to such raids.

“My sons! My sons!” Father Anselm spoke up. “Why have you come armed into God’s house, and on this particularly joyous occasion?” The priest was a small man, but he had a commanding voice when he chose to use it. He had spent his life on this border, and he recognized the plaid that most of these borderers were wearing as Ancient Stewart, although there were several men in the Murray tartan. It did not bode well, for the Stewarts were the royal family, and he could not possibly think what they wanted with unimportant little Greyfaire unless an invasion was imminent. The keep and its people were relatively safe from everyday raiding.

The clansmen filling the aisle parted as if in response to a silent command. A tall gentleman wearing the crest badge of a chieftain came forward to face the priest. “I am Tavis Stewart, the Earl of Dunmor,” he said in a strong voice heard by all in the church. “I have come for only one thing, holy father.
That man!”
A long, elegant finger pointed at Sir Jasper Keane. “That cowardly dog who now stands before ye in his wedding finery is mine! I thank God that I have at least saved yon innocent maid from the terrible fate of being his wife. Gie me Jasper Keane, and I will leave Greyfaire in peace.”

It was generously said, for everyone within the sound of Tavis Stewart’s voice knew he might take Sir Jasper, slay all within the church, and pull Greyfaire to bits, stone by stone, if he so chose. The guests were frankly curious as to what Sir Jasper had done to bring down the wrath of the Royal Stewarts.

“My son,” Father Anselm replied. “Ye seek to do murder, for I see it in your eyes. I cannot turn this man over to you under such circumstances. ‘Twould make me every bit as guilty as you will be should I allow you to commit such a folly. Whatever ill will may be between you two gentlemen, can we not reason together?”

“This devil is guilty of murder himself, holy father,” the earl replied. “Does not the Bible say that they who live by the sword are fated to die by the sword? I would meet Sir Jasper in single combat.”

“Tell me what he had done, my son, that has earned him such a fierce enmity on your part,” the priest said quietly.

“He has wantonly murdered the Lady Eufemia Hamilton, my betrothed wife, holy father. For that act I will have his miserable life!” The earl looked hard-eyed at Jasper Keane, who now stood, dragging Arabella to her feet with him. “He came over the border fifteen months ago to Culcairn House, where he foully murdered Lady Hamilton. Then he fired Culcairn and drove off the young laird’s livestock. The lad managed to escape and take his two younger sisters and little brother to safety.”

“Sanctuary!”
The strangled cry rang throughout the small church. “I beg sanctuary of the church, Father Anselm!” cried Sir Jasper Keane.

Rowena pushed forward through the kilted men to put comforting arms about her daughter. Arabella, however, shook her mother off. Rowena paled with fear as her only child placed herself squarely before the Earl of Dunmor and, looking up at him, shouted angrily.

“How dare you, sir! How dare you break into
my
home, and interrupt
my
wedding?! You are naught but a filthy Scots liar! A low border bandit! Begone this instant! I am the king’s cousin, and I will have royal justice from Richard if you trifle with me further!”

For a moment no one even dared to breathe, and then the Earl of Dunmor said in an icy voice, “Madame, I have killed men for fewer words than ye have just now uttered. Did ye not hear what I said, or are ye too daft to comprehend my tale?” He looked down on her and thought she was a pretty wench, even if she was stupid enough to be besotted by his enemy.

“I do not believe you,” Arabella answered him rudely. “Sir Jasper is every bit the
parfait
and gentle knight. He would not murder a woman, my lord.” Then her voice softened. “You are but grief-stricken for your lady, I can see.”

“Grief has nothing to do with it, madame,” the earl answered coldly. “Yon coward has besmirched the honor of the Stewarts of Dunmor by his cruel act. My betrothed, I have learned, was his most willing mistress. This
gentle
knight of yours refused to wed wi’ her, but he wanted her to come wi’ him to England. When she refused, yer
parfait
knight raided her home, and when he had finished amusing himself wi’ Eufemia, madame, he gave her to his men for their sport. When all had been taken from her that could be taken, Sir Jasper’s men threw her battered and ravished body into the fire of Culcairn House, where she perished, if she was not already dead, which I pray she was.”

Several of the women in the church fainted with the recitation of the earl’s tale, and Rowena herself felt bile pushing up into her throat. This, then, was the woman Jasper had bragged to her about killing. It had been no idle boast, as she had fervently prayed it was. Arabella, however, reached up and slapped the earl with all her strength.

As the stain made by her little palm print spread across Tavis Stewart’s face, the earl looked away from Arabella and said scathingly to Jasper Keane, “Will ye let a wench do yer fighting for ye, then, coward?”

An air of expectation hovered over them all as everyone waited to see if Sir Jasper Keane would rise to the earl’s blunt challenge and come out from behind the sanctuary of the church.

Father Anselm spoke once more. “I will not dispute the truth of your words, my son, but Sir Jasper has asked for sanctuary from the church. I cannot, as you well know, refuse him, despite the vileness of the charges you have made against him. I grant that sanctuary, and having granted it, you cannot touch him while he remains within this church, to the peril of your immortal soul.”

Jasper Keane felt the blood flowing within his veins once again now that his safety had been insured. He almost laughed aloud as the earl’s hand worked itself, frustrated, upon the hilt of his sword.

“Tavis!”
A sandy-haired young man in the red Murray plaid spoke warningly. “Dinna do it, laddie!”

Arabella rounded fiercely on her bridegroom, unbridled rage pounding in her veins. Her wedding was ruined!
And Jasper!
The man she was about to give her heart to did nothing except cower behind the priest’s robes. She glared furiously at him. “Surely you will not let this Scots savage insult and slander you, my lord? Accept his challenge, and let us have this matter over and done with, I beg you! I will not have Greyfaire and her people endangered by this man. We want no breach of peace with the Scots, especially on this, our wedding day.”

A small light of admiration lit the earl’s eyes for a brief moment. The girl was loyal, he’d give her that, though it was plain she knew little of the truth of Sir Jasper Keane. She knew her duty to her people, however, and put it above all else. Obviously she was a good chatelaine. He turned his gaze to Sir Jasper. “Well, coward?” he demanded mockingly. “Will ye do battle wi’ me or continue to hide behind yon cleric’s skirts?”

“And when I destroyed you, my lord,” Sir Jasper answered, bold in the security of the church’s protection, “your men would tear me apart. I should be a fool to accept such an offer. Nay, I refuse ye.”

“If
you can beat me fairly, sir, I gie ye my word that my clansmen will depart peacefully,” the earl replied.

“I do not believe you, my lord. Who would trust the word of a thieving Scot?” Sir Jasper said insultingly. Then he turned to Father Anselm. “Perform the marriage ceremony, Father. I have kept this lady waiting too long as it is, and would have her for my wife.”

The Earl of Dunmor stepped between the bride and groom with a suddenness that sent the color draining from Jasper Keane’s face, for he thought the Scotsman, ignoring the church, was about to do him a harm. Brief amusement lit the earl’s dark eyes, though his face was grim and his voice icy once more. “I think ye will nae wed wi’ this lass today, coward,” he said quietly. “Ye hae taken my betrothed wife from me, and so I will now take yers from ye!” He put a hard arm about Arabella’s waist and pulled the startled girl to his side. “The bride goes wi’ me, and when ye see fit to accept my challenge, coward,
and if ye overcome me in fair battle,
then, and only then, may ye hae her back!”

“Nooo!”
Rowena cried in a gasping and terrified voice.

“Savage!” Arabella shrieked, and twisting from the earl’s grasp, she kicked him in the shins. “I will not go with you!” Whirling about, she grabbed up a sword from one of the startled clansmen and attacked Tavis Stewart with it.

Surprised, the earl nonetheless managed to defend himself long enough to disarm the girl, who kicked and screamed vigorously, all the while hurling pithy epithets at him. He tossed the short sword back at his embarrassed clansman and ordered the others, “Take this damned spitfire outside and put her on my horse.” He was suddenly overwhelmed by a great desire to laugh, for there certainly was humor in the situation. “Methinks the bride is far more of a man than yon cowering groom,” he mocked Jasper Keane. “Dinna fear, Englishman. I will keep yer hot-tempered little lass safe for ye—if yer brave enough to come after her. I will treat her wi’ far more kindness and respect than ye showed to poor Eufemia Hamilton.”

“My lord! My lord!” Rowena Grey fell to her knees before the earl. “Do not, I beg ye, take my child away! She is all I have left since my husband fell in battle after Berwick.”

Tavis Stewart gently raised Rowena to her feet, thinking that she was a very pretty woman, even with the tears running down her cheeks. “I must take her, madame, and ye well know it. Yer brave husband, may God assoil his soul, would understand that, and so, I suspect, do ye deep in yer heart. I will nae harm yer little lass. She is but my hostage, and will be returned to ye unscathed when honor has been satisfied.” The earl then kissed Lady Grey’s hand and turned to depart the church.

“Do you not want the gold candlesticks or the jeweled cross upon the altar, my lord?” Jasper Keane said insultingly, but Tavis Stewart never even paused in his stride as he passed from the church followed by his men.

Within moments the sounds of horses’ hooves rang out, but no one amongst the guests moved until all was finally silent. Then Rowena spoke.

“You will go after Arabella immediately, will you not, Jasper?”

“Why?” he demanded. “I do not need your daughter to have Greyfaire. The king wants it in a man’s hands. Besides, do you think I want the Scotsman’s leavings, my pet? He will have your daughter in his bed and squirming on his lance before the sun sets this day. Tavis Stewart is the finest soldier in Scotland, and although I am good, I could not possibly beat him. To accept his challenge is to seek my own demise. Do you think I am mad? I will not go willingly to my death for the sake of a mere wench.”