The Spitfire (20 page)

Ian Fleming laughed. “It took Tavis long enough to come calling, my dear,” he noted.

“Aye, he’s proud,” she answered, the doting fondness in her tone evident. “Still, I knew he’d come eventually, and now that I’ve had time to cool Arabella’s ire at being stolen away, I can see she is more amenable to him. I like the lass, and she’ll be a good wife to him. Her mother has raised her well, for all her own loose behavior, which I am pleased she nae showed before her daughter.”

“Dinna be hard on Arabella’s mam, my dear,” Lord Fleming cautioned his spouse. “The lass loves her, and even I have heard of Sir Jasper’s reputation wi’ the ladies. He could be a Stewart for all his charm. That he seduced the poor woman is plain, for never hae I heard Arabella speak of her mother that she did nae speak of her wi’ love. I dinna think the little lass could love her mam were she a wicked woman.”

“Aye,” his wife agreed grudgingly. “Yer probably right, Ian. My tongue is ever getting ahead of my good sense.”

Lord Fleming gave his wife a little squeeze. “Yer anxious for Arabella to love Tavis, my dear, and jealous of anything that might make the lass long for her home. Dinna fear. She is his wife, and all will be well between them if we but gie them a chance. Turn yer thoughts to our Ailis’ wedding now, Margery.”

Lady Fleming nodded, but then her eyes strayed back to the garden and she smiled. “Look, Ian! He’s kissing her again!”

Ian Fleming shook his head with a grin. By now, he thought, he ought to be used to his wife’s interest in any and everything. “The lass looks as if she likes it,” he observed.

“Aye,” Margery Fleming said softly. “If he kisses her like his father used to kiss me…” She sighed gustily, her eyes overflowing with memories of a time past.

Lord Fleming had accepted long ago the fact that the father of his wife’s eldest child would always hold a special place in her heart. It was rare she even mentioned King James II. He felt no jealousy, for Margery had not even been his wife then, nor promised to him, and since their marriage she had been faithful and true. “However Tavis kisses, my dear,” he replied quietly, “it is obviously pleasing to Arabella, for she seems loath to cease their pleasant sport. I wonder if we should not emulate our children, Margery,” and Lord Fleming turned his wife about, giving her a warmly passionate kiss.

“Ohh, Ian!” she cried, blushing rosily with delight. “How naughty ye are!”

“Why should the young hae all the fun?” he demanded.

“I dinna ever say they should,” she replied coyly, and taking his hand in hers, Lady Fleming led her husband into her bedchamber, smiling.

Chapter Seven

Rowena Keane lay writhing with the agony of her birth pangs. She did not remember the process ever taking so long or being so painful. Her travail had begun two days ago, and now on the night of November thirtieth she knew that both her life and her labor were fast coming to an end. Father Anselm, bless him, had remained by her side for all these many hours. She had already made her full confession and received absolution. She had but two regrets. That she would not live to see her daughter again to tell her how much she loved her, and to beg Arabella’s forgiveness; and the fact that she would not live to raise this new child, if in fact the child should live.

Arabella.
Her beloved daughter. How angry Jasper had been when he learned that the girl was alive, and the wife of the Earl of Dunmor. It was said that the Scotsman had stolen Jasper Keane’s bride with the express purpose of replacing his own, who had been murdered by Sir Jasper himself. Rowena was no longer surprised by anything that was said about her husband, and gossip, if nothing else, had a way of finding its way to Greyfaire. She had wanted to communicate with Arabella, but Jasper had forbidden the priest to write to the girl. Scotland was the enemy, he said pompously. The wench had made her bed, and now must lie in it, and if she regretted it, which she certainly must, that was unfortunate. There would be no sympathy or succor for her at Greyfaire or from any of Greyfaire’s inhabitants. It astounded Rowena, simple as she was, that Jasper could so easily forget that poor Arabella was in Scotland because of his actions, and through no fault of her own. Still, now as she felt her life’s force ebbing away with her effort to birth her child, Rowena knew she could not leave this earth without warning Arabella of the danger involved in treating with Sir Jasper Keane. It was surely too late to ask for her daughter’s forgiveness.

“Tell…Arabella…” she ground out painfully, trying to form her thoughts, but distracted by another contraction. Still she would not be denied, for this was too important. “Tell Arabella…not to trust Jasper…for he is…evil!” she gasped, triumphant in her small success.

“Lady, there is nothing I shall withhold from Greyfaire’s rightful mistress,” the priest assured her, “and none here with us now will deny you your dying wishes either,” he concluded sternly, his glance taking in Elsbeth and the village midwife.

Elsbeth burst into tears and knelt by her mistress’s bedside, half sobbing. “I’ll be faithful, m’lady, I swear it!” she promised.

The priest nodded, satisfied. The midwife, he knew, would say nothing, for like others who belonged to Greyfaire, she was unhappy with Sir Jasper Keane’s tenure but helpless to do anything about it. Her silence was a small blow against this false lord. Elsbeth, however, was a different matter. Three months earlier she had delivered a healthy son whose father would not marry her in order to give the boy a name. Elsbeth had been devastated, for she had firmly believed that Seger would wed with her. Her devastation turned to anger when she learned that her lover had a wife, or so he claimed, in the vicinity of Northby. He also had several other children, Elsbeth consequently learned to her mortification, by several other women. She believed him when he told her these things, for already he had turned his attentions to another of Greyfaire’s gullible young girls. Still, there was always the chance, the priest thought, that in order to curry favor with her former lover, Elsbeth might reveal the secrets of the birthing chamber.

“If you betray the Lady Rowena, girl,” he warned Elsbeth, “I’ll deny you the sacraments, and your family as well. Remember what misery and shame your illicit passion has brought you…and brought this poor lady as well,” he finished, lowering his voice at his last thought.

“The child is being born now,” the midwife said dourly.

A feeble cry sounded, and the priest crossed himself in thanksgiving for the birth.

“’Tis a wee boy,” the midwife said, “but he’ll not live long, for he already has the look of death about him.”

“Thank…God!” Rowena Keane whispered, and they all understood her meaning.

“Go and fetch Sir Jasper, girl,” Father Anselm ordered Elsbeth. “Say nothing more than his wife has been delivered of a son.”

Elsbeth nodded and fled the room. “Give…him to…me,” Rowena said weakly. The midwife had finished cleaning the baby of the evidence of his hard birth, and now she wrapped the child in swaddling clothes and gave him to his mother.

Rowena weakly cradled her son, her soft blue eyes filling with tears. “Poor baby,” she said low.

The door to the bedchamber was flung rudely open and Jasper Keane strode into the room. “Where is my son?” he demanded loudly. “Give me the boy!” He was half drunk, and stumbled as he came across the room.

Rowena nodded to the midwife, who took the baby from her and handed him to his father.

Jasper Keane looked down at his son’s wizened features for a long moment and then, staring directly at the priest, he asked, “Will he live?”

“I think not, my lord,” Father Anselm replied. “He should be baptized immediately.”

Jasper Keane nodded. “Call him Henry,” he said, handing the baby to Elsbeth.

“What, my lord?” Rowena struggled into a half-seated stance, and with the last of her strength, mocked her husband. “Not
Richard,
after he who gave you all of this good fortune? Where is your gratitude?”

Sir Jasper walked to his wife’s bedside and looked down at her. “Even with death beginning to lurk within your eyes, sweet Row, you are still a beauty,” he noted. “Nay, the boy will be called Henry that the king knows my loyalty. As for Richard, aye, I owe him a small debt for Greyfaire, but after I have properly mourned you and our Henry, sweet Row, I shall take another wife, and the Greys of Greyfaire will be but a memory, if indeed they are remembered, even as Duke Richard. I intend founding a dynasty. I shall build a large church here in my village upon the site of the church that now stands. You and our son shall have your part in my dynasty, for I shall see you eventually entombed in the family vault there. The first of many,” he finished with a chuckle.

Rowena gave a sharp bark of laughter at these words. “You will end your days…alone, Jasper,” she said, falling back upon her pillows. “All alone…and sooner than later.” Her eyes closed and her breathing grew labored for a time.

Fascinated, Jasper Keane watched his wife in her death throes. As death approached her, Rowena seemed to have more courage and strength than he had ever known her to have. She had always been so meek and pliant. She was certainly the loveliest woman he had ever possessed, and an excellent bed partner. He had to admit to himself that he would miss her, despite her inability to give him a healthy son. Then once again her blue eyes opened, and Jasper Keane felt the blood in his veins freeze and the hair upon the nape of his neck prickle with apprehension.

Rowena stared directly at Jasper Keane and in a hollow voice said, “You will never have Greyfaire, Jasper.” There was a long pause, and finally she continued, “You…are curst!” Then the life fled from her eyes.

He stood rooted to the spot where he was standing until finally the priest moved forward and gently closed Rowena’s sightless eyes. Behind him the infant whimpered weakly, and turning, Father Anselm signaled to Elsbeth to follow him with the child to the family chapel. “Will you come, my lord?” he asked the baby’s father.

Wordlessly he shook his head in the negative, and pushing past the priest, stamped back down to the hall, where he proceeded to get drunk, finally falling into a stupor in the hour before dawn, even as Henry Keane breathed his last, tortured breath. By the time Jasper Keane awoke in the midday, his head aching, his mouth foul, the grave for his wife and infant son had been dug and stood ready. In Greyfaire’s small church Rowena had been laid out in her coffin in her finest gown, her golden hair newly washed and braided into a single thick plait, her arms cradling her dead child.

The good folk of Greyfaire village had spent the morning in solemn procession past the bier, and now waited anxiously for Sir Jasper Keane that they might bury their poor lady. When he finally came, accompanied by his captain, Seger, it was midafternoon and close to sunset, for it was December first. Jasper Keane glanced briefly at the woman who had been his wife for such a short time, and then signaled the priest to begin.

The church was cold. The service brief. Jasper Keane lingered at the gravesite only long enough to shovel a clot of dirt upon his wife and son’s coffin. It was FitzWalter who lovingly completed the task of filling in the grave as the last red-orange rays of the sun sank behind the western hills. Rowena had been laid to rest beside her first husband, Henry Grey, even as all who knew her best realized she would want to be. His sad task done, FitzWalter returned to the keep and found Sir Jasper Keane and Seger in the hall with two pretty servant girls, already half drunk, and obviously preparing for a long night of wenching. They did not notice either his arrival or his departure from the hall, for with a scornful look at the pair, the keep’s captain had quickly taken his leave. It was unlikely that Sir Jasper would miss him this night.

FitzWalter was a man of unusual height, a height made even more unique by the fact he was also slender to the point of emaciation. His lack of girth was deceiving to those who did not know him, for though he was thin, he was strong and wiry. He had a long head and a sensitive, almost mournful face with intelligent, light-colored eyes and a high forehead. He kept his sandy-colored hair cropped short. His most distinctive feature, however, was his very deep voice.

“I’ll be at the cottage,” he told the watch, and then crossing over the keep’s drawbridge before it was raised for the night, he hurried down the hill to the small stone house Lord Grey had given him and his family years before. There was pale gray smoke rising from his chimney, visible even in the deepening twilight. A light shone warmly through the front window of the cottage. FitzWalter opened the door to his home and, ducking beneath the low lintel, entered within, where his wife Rosamund, his son Rowan, and four of his daughters were seated at the trestle table. His three eldest daughters were already married and gone to live with their husbands’ families.

“You’re not needed at the keep tonight?” his wife inquired.

“He’s got Seger with him,” FitzWalter said grimly. “They’ve Derward the huntsman’s daughters to keep them company, and both will be well fuddled by morning. They’re loose jades, the pair of them.”

“They’ve no mother to tell them better,” Rosamund said quietly.

“Thank God Wanetta, Scirleah, and Nellwyn are wed and away from Greyfaire,” FitzWalter said. “Sir Jasper will now have no restraints upon him with Lady Rowena dead. There won’t be a lass around who is safe from his roving eye.” He fixed his gaze on the youngest of his daughters. “You, Jane, what is your age?”

“Nine, Da,” the girl answered.

“And you, Eba?”

“Seven, Da.”

“And my wee Annie?”

“Five, Da,” the smallest child lisped.

FitzWalter nodded. “They should be safe, but you, Lona, you won’t be unless I marry you off. Rad’s grandson would be a good match for you, and you know it.”

Rosamund saw the mutinous look flash in Lona’s eyes and she quickly said, “Lady Arabella promised Lona that she should be her own personal maid, husband. Lona can look higher than Rad’s grandson, I think, and besides, Sir Jasper would be apt to take the
droit du seigneur
of our girl should she be a bride. ‘Tis just the sort of thing that would give him pleasure.”

FitzWalter nodded in agreement with his wife. “Aye, he would enjoy forcing a hapless virgin. I’d not wish that on our Lona.” He was silent a long moment, and then he said to his daughter, “Are you brave enough to ride over the Chevoits to tell Lady Arabella of her mother’s death and to ask that she take you into her service, Lona?”

Lona never hesitated. “Aye, Da!” she told him.

“Husband!”
Rosamund spoke sharply, and her warning glance took in her younger daughters, who were wide-eyed and fascinated by this table conversation.

“You’ve heard nothing, my girls,” FitzWalter said quietly to Jane, Eba, and Annie. “If you should tell anyone of our words, we could lose our very lives. Do you understand?”

The three nodded solemnly and chorused in unison, “Aye, Da!”

“Then get to your pallets, my girls, say your prayers, remembering poor Lady Rowena’s sweet soul, and go to sleep,” their father told them.

The three arose from the table and scrambled obediently up the narrow staircase of the cottage to the loft above, where their childish voices were shortly heard droning their prayers.

FitzWalter smiled fondly after them, and then turning, said to his remaining daughter, “You’ll go before dawn, Lona, and your brother will accompany you. I’m giving you Lady Arabella’s mare to take to her. Rowan, you’ll have that black gelding, but you must be back by night. Neither Seger nor Sir Jasper know the number of horses in the stable, so they will not miss the mare. The sky tonight told me that there will be rain by morning, and so it’s unlikely either of those two will venture forth from the keep tomorrow. Sir Jasper will want to enjoy his ‘inheritance’ for a bit, I’m certain. When Lona is missed, we’ll simply say she ran off because she didn’t want to marry Rad’s grandson. Everyone knows her feelings on that matter, don’t they, Lona?” her father finished with a small attempt at humor.

“You mustn’t hurt the boy’s feelings,” Rosamund said soft-heartedly.

“Don’t worry, Mother, it won’t,” Lona said, laughing. “Rad’s grandson doesn’t like me any better than I like him. Besides, he’s got his eye on our Jane, and she really likes him.”

“Does she, now?” their mother said, surprised. “Well now, that certainly puts a different light on matters, doesn’t it?”

Her family laughed at her, for Rosamund was a matchmaker at heart, and she was, in fact, such a good one that all of the village relied upon her in matters of the heart.

“Where am I to take Lona?” Rowan demanded. He was a practical young man, very much like his father.