The Spitfire (14 page)

“You are fortunate to be a laird’s sister, Meg,” Arabella said sadly. “No king is concerned with you or your property. You may follow your heart. I thought the king had sent me a fine man to be my husband, but now I realize he cared naught for my happiness. I am chattel to the king, and I am chattel to any man who will wed me.” She made a small moue with her mouth. “I do not like being another person’s possession.”

“Nor should ye, child,” said Lady Fleming. “I am going to gie ye a wee bit of advice given me when I was a girl. Depend on no one but yerself in this life and ye’ll be happier. Trust only yer own instincts, that little voice we Celts call the ‘voice within’, and ye’ll nae go wrong. I have followed that advice for many years, and I have nae been disappointed.”

Arabella considered Lady Fleming’s words and then asked her, “Who gave you such good advice, madame?”

“Tavis’ father,” Lady Fleming replied. “He was called James of the Fiery Face, for he was born wi’ a great purplish splotch on his face. He was a good man, but he was a solder wi’ little liking for his own court. His father was murdered when he was six, and he spent his childhood as a pawn between our constantly warring nobility. When he was ten his governor, the Earl of Douglas, died. Douglas’ ambitious sons hoped to follow in their father’s footsteps and have charge of the king. They were murdered before the boy king’s eyes by other jealous nobles who wanted James’ custody. It was not an easy childhood, and my James learned early that he could only depend on himself, for those who did not seek his custody for their own gain were repelled by his face, half of which was the color of an amethyst. He was as handsome as any Stewart but for that. His mother was an Englishwoman, Lady Joan Beaufort. The Scots and the English like to fight wi’ one another. Yet they have a history of being friends and lovers.”

“I could never be your enemy, madame,” Arabella said.

Margery Fleming smiled warmly at the girl and then turned back to her husband and eldest son, thinking that perhaps this young Englishwoman would be a good match for her Tavis. There was no question of the girl marrying Sir Jasper Keane now. Of course the girl had nothing but Greyfaire, and the English were not going to let the Scots have even a small keep on their side of the border. Still, in the past Scots had held castles on the English side of the Cheviot, and the English had held Scots’ strongholds. Why, Berwick had belonged to Scotland until recently. Eufemia Hamilton was dead and gone, and Tavis had shown no interest in finding another wife. It was unthinkable that Dunmor should be lost to the Stewarts just because her stubborn eldest son could or would not settle down.

Arabella Grey was beautiful and obviously intelligent. She was not overawed by either Tavis’ face or rank. She was young enough to learn and change. She was just the sort of girl that the earl should have for a wife, Lady Fleming considered, for she had not liked Eufemia Hamilton at all, and thought her son’s hasty choice a very poor one indeed. Fate had given him a way out, and now once again fate was providing him with the perfect solution to his problem of a wife, if he could but see it. Why was it that men were so dense when it came to practical matters?

Arabella leaned over to once again talk with Meg Hamilton. “The earl is the most arrogant man I have ever met!” she said in an angry whisper.

“He’s a Stewart on both sides,” Meg said with a small smile. “They’re a proud family.”

“How did it happen that the king became his father?” Arabella was frankly curious, in spite of her dislike of her captor, and it was not a question she felt she should ask Lady Fleming.

Meg arose from her seat and beckoned to Arabella. “Let us walk about the hall,” she said, “and I will tell you.”

Arabella also stood, and after the two girls had curtsied to their host, they stepped down from the highboard and began their stroll arm in arm.

“The previous Earl of Dunmor was Tavis’ grandfather, Lady Fleming’s father,” began Meg. “He was Kenneth Stewart, called Kenneth Mor. Mor is the Celtic for large or big, and Lady Margery’s father was a big man who stood six feet, eight inches tall. They say he was the tallest man in Scotland in his time. Mor of Dunmor. He had a wife he loved dearly, and when she died, he would take no other despite the fact he had but two bairns, a son, Fergus, and a daughter, Margery. Fergus was killed at the battle of Arkinholm. Old Kenneth Mor had been very sick and could not answer the king’s summons, and so his son had gone. He died defending King James II from an enemy’s blow, a blow he took himself when he threw himself in front of the king, who had been momentarily disarmed, inorder to protect him. By the time the king rearmed himself, Fergus Stewart was mortally wounded. King James II killed his slayer.

“After the battle had been finally won, the king himself came to Dunmor Castle, bringing with him the fallen hero’s body that it might be buried among its own. He praised Fergus’ bravery to the skies, but after that old Kenneth Mor was a broken man. It was here that the king saw Lady Margery for the first tune. She was fifteen, and they fell in love. After that, whenever the king was in the borders, he visited Margery Stewart, and soon it was known that she was his mistress. When Tavis was born of their union, the king decreed that he would be his grandfather’s heir, as there were no other near male relations.

“The king then permitted Kenneth Mor to arrange a match between Lady Margery and the laird of Glen Ailean, Lord Ian Fleming, who had been her childhood sweetheart. The old earl was dying, and the king knew he could not give his time to protecting the rights of his infant son. Ian Fleming, however, would. He was honored to be entrusted with the raising of the king’s son. It had always been thought that Lord Fleming would one day wed Margery Stewart, and it is said that she swore to him of her own free will on the day she agreed to wed with him that she would never again enter the king’s bed. She then affixed the date of their wedding vows for six months hence so that none could say that any child she bore her husband within the first year of the marriage was not Ian Fleming’s get.

“Ten months after her wedding, Gavin was born, his parentage undisputed and blemish-free, for Lady Margery had kept to Dunmor Castle during her betrothal period, and King James II had not once come to visit her. He did come, however, to congratulate the proud parents upon my Gavin’s birth. It was the last time they ever saw him, for he was killed at the siege of Roxburgh several months later when a cannon, whose firing he was supervising, exploded from an excess of gunpowder and killed him. In the next few years Lord and Lady Fleming added to their family. Donald came next, and then Colin, and finally Ailis, who is fifteen today.”

“I like Lady Margery,” Arabella said. “She is so kind.”

“She can be fierce too, Arabella,” Meg replied. “The men in her family all adore her and defer to her wisdom in most things. She can be most formidable.”

“My lady?” Flora was at her side.

“Aye?” Arabella responded.

“The earl thinks perhaps ye might wish to seek yer bed now. He believes ye must be tired after all the excitement this day had held for ye.”

Arabella’s first instinct was to deny her exhaustion, but she quickly decided against such a childish action in the face of the reality that she was indeed very tired. Then Meg spoke up, saying that she too was ready for her bed, and yawned as if to punctuate the point. Arabella grinned at her new friend, knowing full well that Meg had only feigned sleepiness so that Arabella would not feel singled out. She walked back to the highboard, and reaching up, helped herself to a slightly wizened apple from the silver bowl upon the table. Then turning, she followed Flora and Meg.

“I’m glad to see the distress of losing a possible husband has nae spoilt yer appetite, lassie,” the earl called mockingly after her.

Furious, Arabella whirled about and, with an unerring aim, threw the apple at the earl, hitting him mid-chest. The men in the hall burst into delighted guffaws of loud laughter, partly at her obvious outrage, partly at the earl’s surprised expression.

“Ah, laddie, if that had been an arrow, we’d all be mourning ye now,” his stepfather said with a chuckle.

“Sleep well, my lord,” Arabella said in sugared tones, curtsying, and then she turned on her heel and departed the hall.

“How did ye dare to do that?” Meg giggled. “Tavis can be so terrifying at times. I frankly admit to being a little afraid of him.”

“He is an odious bully!” Arabella fumed. “If I had had a sword, I should have run him through!”

Ahead of them Flora smiled to herself. The little English lassie was strong-willed, and Flora did not believe for a moment that given the chance, the girl wouldn’t do just what she threatened to do. They were not so unlike—the border Scots and the border English. Like Lady Fleming, she thought Arabella the earl’s match. She wondered if he would see it. Flora was relieved to have Eufemia Hamilton in Dunmor’s past, but she would not be unhappy if Arabella Grey was its future, even if she was English.

Outside the hall Meg left them for her own rooms, which were in another part of the castle. Arabella obediently followed the older woman as she hurried down a corridor and then began to climb a narrow flight of stone stairs at the end of the hallway. The steps twisted up and around. It was cold and dank within the tower. Flora moved so quickly that Arabella several times lost sight of the flickering torch she carried to light their way. Only by continuing to climb could she be certain of eventually reaching her own shelter atop the tower, and sure enough, as she moved around one more turn she saw Flora ahead of her, the torch already set in an iron holder attached to the wall, standing in the warm golden light of a doorway, beckoning to her.

“‘Tis a long climb the first time, m’lady,” Flora said, ushering her charge into a small, windowless room. A little fireplace blazed merrily, and next to it was a small wooden settle with a woven cushion. Beyond, through a second open door, was another room. Flora closed the door to the stairs firmly and said, “Ye’ll be snug as a wee bug up here.” She escorted Arabella into the next room. “I took the liberty of having a bath brought up for ye. I thought ye might feel the need of one. Let me help ye wi’ yer gown, m’lady,” and without waiting for an answer, Flora began the task of assisting the girl.

Arabella looked about the little room, which was a bedchamber. Both the walls and the floor were of gray stone. A fireplace without a mantelpiece was set into a section of the outside wall, and upon the floor was a large, woolly sheepskin. There were only three pieces of furniture in the room. The bed with its heavy hangings was large and looked big enough for two. A small, square table was set on one side of it, and at its foot was an iron-bound chest for storage. Without the small, round oak tub before the blazing fireplace, which crowded it badly, the room would just be passable, but it was certainly not a spacious chamber.

There was but one narrow window, a casement, which to Arabella’s relief was glassed. It was not an unpleasant place, but Arabella hoped she would not have to spend a great deal of time living in it. One thing she had already decided. There was no escape from this tower other than the door to the stairs. The single window was far too attenuated to allow passage of even her slender, small frame, and she suspected that the drop, now obscured by the night, was much too steep for safety’s sake. Tavis Stewart had obviously meant it when he said that he would not allow her the chance to escape. Arabella smiled grimly. She might be but a woman, but she was clever nonetheless. Cleverer than any female he had ever met, she would wager.

“I will have to sleep in my chemise,” Arabella said when she finally stood unclothed and ready for her bath.

“Nay, m’lady, I’ve a fresh one for ye,” Flora told her. “I’ll launder the other, and when I’ve brushed the dirt of the borders from yer beautiful gown, I’ll store it all safely away. I’ve already raised the hem on one of Mistress Meg’s chemises for ye, for she said I might. Using yer own gown for measure, we’ll hae a new wardrobe for ye in a few days’ time, one far more suitable than this delicate garment of fairy dust ye wore today.”

Arabella was forced to laugh at the woman’s words, for it was obvious that Flora was torn between admiration and disapproval of Arabella’s wedding gown. “Thank you, Flora,” she said. “You are most kind. Will you help me with my hair? I must pin it all up if I am to bathe, and it is difficult to manage by myself.”

Flora was a plain, big-boned woman, perhaps six inches taller than her new mistress. Wisps of graying auburn hair were visible beneath her white linen wimple. Her eyes, however, were as lively and brown as a thrush’s; they looked with frank admiration upon Arabella’s long hair. “I’ve nae seen hair so beautiful, lassie,” she said softly. Then wrapping the hair in two thick hanks about her hand, she carefully pinned it atop Arabella’s head and helped the girl into her tub.

Arabella sat down in the warm water and a beatific smile lit her features. The soreness immediately began to ease in her posterior and her legs. She had not realized until this very minute how very much she ached, but now the warmth began to soothe her muscles. “Ohhh, Flora,” she said with heartfelt gratitude in her voice, “thank you! I can but imagine the trouble you had to go to just to bring me this lovely water up to my little tower.”

“Bosh, lassie, just a few stout lads wi’ buckets at me beck and call,” Flora replied with a chuckle. “I’ve taken many a long ride along this border meself, and I know the toll a prancing horse can take. Now ye just rest in yer tub while I take yer gown downstairs to brush it. There’s a towel warming on the stones by the fire, should ye want to get out afore I’m back. Yer clean chemise is upon the bed. I’ll nae be long.” Then she was gone.

Arabella closed her eyes and began to relax for the first time this day. The tub was pleasant and there was, she thought, just the faintest scent of heather in the air. Opening her eyes, she saw a tiny cake of hard soap on the stone floor next to the tub. Reaching out and picking it up, she sniffed at it. Aye! Heather. Her favorite fragrance. Dipping the soap in the water, she washed herself most thoroughly and rinsed the lather from her skin. Tiredness was beginning to seep into her bones again. Reaching out once more, she drew the towel to her, and standing up, she began to dry herself off, even as behind her she heard the door to the little apartment opening again.