The Spitfire (28 page)

“‘Twill nae happen again, Jemmie,” Tavis Stewart said quietly, and with a bow, escorted his wife from the Great Hall of Stirling Castle.

Outside a coach awaited them, for the weather had turned bitterly cold and the riding was harsh. They entered the coach and it moved off down the hill. Arabella sat silently, waiting for her husband to speak. She had not missed the edge in his voice when he had promised the king that she would not have another outburst. The wind blew through the joints of the coach and she shivered, drawing the fur-lined cloak about her.

“Angus is right,” Tavis Stewart said. “I ought to beat ye.”

“You would not!” she answered him, shocked.

“Nay, but I should,” he replied. “God’s bones, madame! Ye speak with fervor against violence upon the border, and then ye most violently assault poor Archibald Douglas wi’ yer fists!”

“He insulted the king!’’

“Jemmie is more than capable of handling Angus and his ilk, lovey. He hae spent his life wi’ men like that.”

“Archibald Douglas is the most arrogant man I have ever met!” Arabella fumed.

“Nay, lovey, he is not,” Tavis Stewart replied. “Oh, he is proud. All the Douglases are proud, but he loves Scotland, and he is loyal.”

“To whom, I wonder?” Arabella said.

“Dinna ever ‘wonder’ that aloud in public,” her husband warned her. “Angus wants what is best for Scotland, Arabella. Nothing more.”

“And what is best for Scotland, my lord? I am not a fool. I know there are those who would set the prince above his father. If civil war should come, Tavis Stewart, who will you support? Your half brother who is king? Or your nephew who will one day be king? What is actually best for Scotland? Another minority? Who will rule then?”

They were hard questions that his wife put to him, and the Earl of Dunmor did not have the answers. There were other considerations as well. England, always a thorn in the paw of the lion in the north, as Scotland was known, was currently undergoing serious dynastic changes. What it would all mean for Scotland was uncertain. Henry Tudor, despite his astounding victory over Richard III at Bosworth, was not yet entirely secure upon the throne he had usurped, despite his recent marriage to Elizabeth of York. The new queen’s brothers were presumed dead, and Henry claimed to have the last Plantagenet heir under lock and key within the Tower.

Still, there had been disquieting rumors from Ireland. It was being said that young Edward Neville, the boy Earl of Warwick, was safely in the custody of the great Earl of Kildare, that the boy in the Tower was an imposter. Gerald Fitzgerald, the eighth Earl of Kildare, was the Lord Deputy of Ireland. A member of the most powerful Anglo-Norman family in Ireland, he controlled more of that land than any other Irishman had controlled since the last great High King, Brian Boru. Would he back the boy in his charge against the new Tudor dynasty? Was that boy in fact the legitimate Earl of Warwick, or an imposter, as some were already claiming? No. England was not yet safe from civil strife.

The Earl of Dunmor could see his elder half brother’s point in the argument. England needed no outside troubles, and it was a good time to make a peace with the English. On the other hand, it could also be a good time to strike out at the English, who, busy with their other difficulties, would be helpless to defend themselves…or would they? Whatever else the English were, they were good fighters, Tavis Stewart allowed with a small grimace.

They remained at court, and Arabella managed not to engage the Earl of Angus in battle, although it was not easy. Archibald Douglas, recovered from his initial shock at being challenged by a woman, suddenly saw the humor in the whole situation and took great delight in teasing the Countess of Dunmor. The entire court watched, eagerly waiting for the next explosion.

“He will not leave me be,” Arabella said to the king one day. “I have promised Tavis that I will not again display my temper before you, Sire, and I am a woman of my word.”

“Ye must think of another way to stop him then, lassie,’’ the king told her. “I am certain if ye think on it, ye will find a way.”

“And your majesty would not object?” Arabella said. “I know that this earl is a powerful man and important to your majesty’s cause.”

The king chuckled. “Angus is loyal to Scotland first, lassie, but that doesna mean he is loyal to me.’’

“But you are Scotland, Sire!” Arabella cried.

James III smiled sadly. “I am Scotland’s king, lassie, and that doesna always mean the same thing, I fear, though it should.” Then he patted her little hand, which in her distress she had placed upon the arm of his robe. “If ye take yer revenge upon Archie, my dear, dinna tell me of it beforehand lest I feel guilty, and above all, be subtle. It is difficult to be angry at a jest well played, even if that jest is upon ye.”

Arabella considered for several weeks just how she would get back her own upon Angus, and then she knew. Archibald Douglas had one weakness. He loved fruit. Fruit was a rare commodity in Scotland in the dead of winter, and to make matters worse, it was Lent. Almost every day was a fast day but for Sunday, which, because it had been set aside as the Lord’s Day, was considered, even in this season of penance, a feast day. Through Flora, whose elder sister was the housekeeper in the Stirling town house, Arabella managed to obtain a supply of fresh green figs. With Lona at her side, the Countess of Dunmor ventured into the kitchens of the town house and personally prepared the figs in a sweet syrup. Draining the fruit, she stuffed each one with an almond and rolled it in pulverized sugar. Then lining a small Florentine basket of filigreed silver with a bright scrap of silk, she filled it with the figs.

Lona could scarcely contain herself. “He’ll get one surprise, he will, m’lady, when he eats them figs,” she said, giggling.

“I think after this,” Arabella said, “Archibald Douglas will leave me be. I do not know how much longer I can restrain my temper, for he has tried me sorely these last few weeks.”

“I can only hope,” Flora fretted, “that yer husband will nae be too angry wi’ ye, m’lady.”

“I think Tavis will be relieved,” Arabella laughed. “No one is more aware than he of my great restraint toward Lord Douglas.”

That Sunday evening at the Great Hall of Stirling Castle, the Earl of Angus once again attempted to bait the Countess of Dunmor into a show of her fiery temper, but Arabella merely laughed.

“My lord,” she said, “I do not wish to quarrel with you. Really I do not. To show my good faith, I have made for you, with my own two hands, a small gift. Knowing your love for fruit, I managed to obtain some fine green figs and prepared them as my mother taught me.” She turned. “Lona, bring the basket for Lord Douglas.”

“Why, madame,” the Earl of Angus said, caught completely off guard. “This is most surprising.” He looked down at her and thought again, as he had been thinking of late, that she was really a most beautiful girl. Unlike the wonderfully statuesque Scots women to whom he was used, there was something exciting about her petiteness. She was wearing a gown of scarlet velvet tonight which made her fair skin seem even fairer by contrast. Her pale gold hair was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and those light green eyes she possessed were almost mysterious.

“Sir,” Arabella said sweetly, “we are not children, and we should both know better than to quarrel before their majesties. Having begun this matter between us so publicly, I feel it is my duty to end it as publicly.”

Archibald Douglas wondered if that pretty rosebud mouth of hers would be sweet to kiss, and in his heart he knew the answer. “Then ye are capitulating to me, madame?” he said, unable to restrain himself from just a tiny prick.

“I did not think to exhibit good manners, my lord, was to acknowledge defeat,” Arabella answered calmly, while those about her were amazed that she had not shown her anger toward Angus. “Ahh, here is my Lona with the basket, my lord.” The Countess of Dunmor took the pretty silver piece from her servant and, smiling, handed it to Lord Douglas.

For a moment he hesitated, and then said, “How do I know, madame, that ye dinna seek to poison me?”

Arabella rolled her eyes comically, inferring to all about her that dealing with this earl was like dealing with a silly child. She took two plump fruits from the basket, and popping one into her mouth, offered the other to the queen, who accepted it without hesitation. When she had finished the sweet she smiled up innocently at Lord Douglas and said, “There, my lord! I have eaten the fruit myself and given one to the queen. Certainly you cannot believe I would harm either myself or her majesty? Will you not now accept my gift, that we may make a good end to this affair between us?”

The Earl of Angus smiled down, pleased, upon the Countess of Dunmor. “Very well, madame,” he said expansively and popped one of the fruits into his own mouth. His eyes lit up, even as he quickly chewed and swallowed the fig. “By God, madame! These are delicious! I’ll nae share a one!” and he began eating the fruits as quickly as he could stuff them into his mouth and swallow them down.

Arabella curtsied to the Earl of Angus and moved off, suddenly finding her husband at her side.

Tavis Stewart took his wife’s arm and murmured into her ear, “Ye didna tell me ye intended suing for peace wi’ Angus, lovey. Why do I wonder what ye hae done?”

“You need not fret, my lord. I have not poisoned him, though it was tempting,” she answered him mischievously.

“What hae ye done?’’

“I have purged him, my lord.’’

“What!”
The Earl of Dunmor stopped in his tracks.

“I have purged him,” Arabella repeated, “but do not fret, my lord. The fruit I ate and the one I gave the queen were untreated.”

The Earl of Dunmor burst out laughing. He simply could not help it. “Lassie,” he managed to wheeze, “I hae best get ye out of here, for Angus will kill ye for certain.’’

“He will not be in any condition to,” Arabella answered her husband. “Besides, I have not yet paid my respects to their majesties this evening, and I would not miss what is to come for anything, Tavis. Surely you will grant me my small victory?”

“I shall probably hae to defend yer small life.” He chuckled, escorting her over to the royal couple upon their dais, bowing to his brother as his wife curtsied.

“Those figs are delicious,” the queen said. “Will ye not gie me the recipe, my dear?”

“Certainly, your majesty, but those we ate are just the tiniest bit different than those the Earl of Angus is now so greedily cramming into his mouth. I fear he will be slightly ill,” Arabella said.

The king chuckled even as a roar was emitted from the Earl of Angus’ mouth. The Great Hall of Stirling Castle grew suddenly silent and the crowd of courtiers parted as Archibald Douglas doubled up, stumbling his way across the floor toward the Earl and Countess of Dunmor.

“Ye hae poisoned me!” he howled, clutching at his middle.

“Nay, sir, I have not!” Arabella said with as much outrage as she dared to muster. “Do you see either the queen or myself in your condition?’’

The Earl of Angus felt another strong cramp gripping his bowels and groaned piteously. “Ye hae poisoned me,” he repeated.

“And again, my lord, I tell you nay,” Arabella replied. “I have merely purged you,” she finished sweetly.

“Purged
me?” In the interval between his belly grips her words penetrated his brain.
“Ye purged me?”
His words rang with indignation.

“Aye, my lord, I purged ye,” Arabella said. “My mother, may God assoil her sweet soul, taught me that when a man is filled with an unhealthy choler, it is best to purge him of it. You, my lord, needed purging, and so I have done just that. I would suggest, however, my lord, that you make your excuses to their majesties, for you will shortly need the necessary.”

A spasm attesting to the truth of her words passed over the Earl of Angus’ handsome face, which was now dappled with beads of sweat. “Madame,” he gasped, “I would offer ye my sword but that I do nae wear it in the royal presence. I surrender to ye, Arabella Stewart, for I would rather hae ye as a friend than an enemy.” His face grew almost green then, and with a hasty bow to the king and queen, the Earl of Angus fled the room even as it erupted with laughter over his unfortunate plight.

“I dinna think Archie will trouble ye any longer,” the king remarked wryly.

“Nor do I, Sire,” Arabella answered him.

“‘Twas really very naughty of ye, my dear,” the queen chided the Countess of Dunmor mildly.

“It shall not happen again, your majesty,’’ Arabella promised Queen Margaret solemnly.

The queen burst into a fit of the giggles.

“Ahh, Uncle, what fun it must be to be married to my aunt,’’ Prince James said, joining them. “‘Twas a splendid trick, madame!”

“I thought you liked the Earl of Angus,” Arabella remarked to the prince.

“I do,” came the reply, “which is why I know that when he has recovered from the gripes to his bowels, no one will appreciate this jest more than Archibald Douglas himself.”

“‘Tis nae the proper behavior for a Countess of Dunmor,’’ Tavis Stewart grumbled.

“I did not ask to be your wife, my lord,” Arabella said sharply. “‘Twas you, if you will remember, who stole me away from my home and forced me to the altar.”

“Thereby saving ye from Sir Jasper Keane,” Tavis Stewart said, for lack of anything better to say, for he could not deny her words. “Perhaps I should hae left ye to wed wi’ him, for my revenge would hae been complete by now. Ye would hae killed the bastard before a year of wedded bliss had run its course.”

“Then you had best beware, sir, had you not? We have not been wed a year yet,” Arabella mocked him, her eyes narrowing catlike.

He grinned suddenly, feeling the excitement rising between them. “Perhaps I shall kill ye first, lovey,” and his voice became almost a whisper, “for I surely know how.”

She laughed softly, and it was as if they were completely alone. “Aye, my lord,” she agreed with him, “you know well how to bring me
a petite morte.”

The passion between them now was almost visible, and the prince felt a stab of serious envy. Though Arabella had made it quite plain she would not betray her husband’s honor, Jamie Stewart’s desire for the Countess of Dunmor had not lessened a whit. He would have her one day, he vowed. He did not know how, but he would have her. Queen Margaret, though she remained silent, was more than aware of her son’s reputation. She saw the lust in her eldest child’s face and was concerned.