The Spitfire (3 page)

“What will we do, my lord?” Robert Hamilton asked.

“Och, Rob, we must first find where this English fox has his den, and then we’ll burn it to the ground, even as he burned yer home. We’ll take back yer horses and cattle, and of course we’ll hae his horses and cattle as well in forfeit. That done, I expect the Englishman will think us finished wi’ him, but we will nae be, Rob. We will wait, and we will watch. Sir Jasper bragged to yer sister that King Richard would make him a fine match.”

“Perhaps ‘twas all it was,” the laird said, “idle boasting and nothing more. Why would the English king be bothered with a petty vassal? I dinna know a great deal about the man other than what Eufemia told me. I dinna even know if he has a house, but my sister never spoke of any important connections that this man might have.”

“Patience, lad,” the earl counseled. “In time we will learn everything we need to learn about Sir Jasper Keane. If indeed King Richard makes an advantageous match for this man, we will know it, and it may be we will make this unknown heiress a widow before she is a bride. The English will pay a heavy forfeit for this night’s work at Culcairn.”

“But how will we find Sir Jasper’s home?” the laird persisted.

“Think, Rob! The man canna keep his cock to himself, and has lasses, ye’ve said, on both sides of the border. God only knows we Scots hae our share of randy borderers, but last night this Englishman murdered a Scotswoman of good family. He did it deliberately, cruelly, and wi’ malice. We will find him, lad, for someone is certain to know the location of his lair, and they will talk. Either from their own outrage over this crime or from their own greed. I intend offering a reward for information that can lead us to the treacherous bastard. Gold is often a more powerful weapon than even the sword.”

The young laird thought a moment and then nodded his agreement at the earl’s words. An impatient tug upon his sleeve caught his sudden attention, and he looked down into the wizened features of a tiny woman who glowered balefully up at him.”What is it, Una?”

“What is it?”
the old woman repeated irritably. “I’ll tell ye what it is, Master Robert. Mistress Meg is near collapse, and Mistress Mary and wee Geordie chilled to the bone and hungry. I’ve already lost one of my precious bairns.” Tears ran down her cheeks, though her voice remained strong. “Am I to lose another while ye two plot a vengeance that could just as easily be plotted before a warm fire and a plate of hot food?”

The barest hint of a smile touched the corners of Tavis Stewart’s stern mouth as Una loudly scolded the laird. She was a tiny bit of a wiry woman, but it was pointedly obvious she feared little. “Can yer bairns sit a horse, old woman?” he demanded of her.

“Aye,” she answered him. “I’ll ride pillion wi’ Mistress Mary. Mistress Meg can ride wi’ Master Robert, but someone will have to take our Geordie. I would wish for a cart if I could, for I dinna like the four-legged beasties myself. And where are we to go, I should like to know?”

“Ye’ll be coming to Dunmor, good dame, and I’ll take yer littlest bairn wi’ me. My mother, Lady Fleming, will advise me in the matter of these little ones, and ye’ll stay at Dunmor until Culcairn House is rebuilt,” the earl told her.

Dame Una nodded. “‘Tis right ye gie us shelter,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she moved off to where her charges waited, seated upon large stones that had once been a part of their home.

“She was one of our great-grandsire’s bastards,” the laird explained. “Her mam nursed his legitimate bairns.”

“I understand,” the earl replied. “She is kin, and that is a good thing, for kin are usually loyal.”

The laird flushed as if the words had been meant as a rebuke. “I did nae know what to do about Eufemia,” he explained helplessly, as if the explanation were required of him. “She was my elder by three years. After our mother died birthing Geordie, our father gave in to her every whim. She was his eldest and always his favorite, though he never said it. Then father was killed last year, and I could nae more control her than he could. She had a way wi’ her, my lord,” Robert Hamilton finished simply.

“Eufemia cast no spell over me, Rob, though I should have probably beaten her if she had been my sister and behaved so. I hardly knew her, though I did hope in time we would come to like and respect one another. Ye know why I asked for her. It is time for me to wed, as my mother is ever preaching at me. I like the idea of having kin whose lands abut mine. Then, too, Eufemia was a pretty creature, and a man likes a pretty woman in his bed, for it makes his bedsport pleasant.”

“Aye,” the laird agreed cheerfully, “and ‘tis nice when they smell good too. Eufemia always smelt like wild roses.” Then remembering himself, Robert Hamilton said, “I do thank ye for coming to our aid, my lord, and for the shelter ye offer my family and servants.” The earl’s reasons for marriage did not surprise Robert Hamilton, for they were sound and practical reasons. Love was generally something that came later in a marriage, if it came at all. Love, more often than not, had little to do with a good match. He was flattered that the Earl of Dunmor had asked for his elder sister’s hand in marriage, for indeed, as King James’ half brother, Tavis Stewart might have sought far higher. Until this possibility of an alliance between their families had arisen, he had not known the earl, for Dunmor was often at court in his brother’s service. His reputation, however, was that of a fair, though hard man.

“There’s serious rain threatening, Rob,” the Earl said, breaking into his thoughts. “Spring is early this year. Yer sisters and little brother dinna look to me as if they’ll last much longer. We hae best be going.”

The laird cast a worried glance at his younger siblings.”Aye,” he said, and suddenly he felt exhausted again.

The earl saw the look upon the young man’s face, and he said, “The sooner we get to Dunmor, laddie, the sooner we may begin to plan a fine revenge upon Sir Jasper Keane and his ilk. Neither my honor nor yers will be satisfied until the Englishman has paid for Eufemia’s life wi’ his own, but first we’ll hae a bit of fun wi’ him.” He waved his hand and the horses were brought. Mounting his stallion, he took little George Hamilton from old Una and placed the sniveling child on the saddle before him. “Dinna greet, Geordie,” he warned the boy sternly, “else ye frighten the horses. Yer a Hamilton, and Hamiltons are nae afeared of anything save God himself, eh?”

The little lad turned large blue eyes upon the earl and nodded solemnly at the fierce-browed man who held him and whose words were strangely comforting. Then he looked about him for a brief moment and felt proud. No one else had so fine a horse as this one. Old Una and his sister Mary were pillion upon a small gelding, and Rob was forced to ride wi’ Meg. “I’ll nae greet,” he lisped up at the earl.

“Good lad!” came the reply as their party began to move off.

Robert Hamilton, his sister slumped half conscious behind him, glanced back for just a moment at his family’s home as they rode away. Culcairn House stood bleak against the lowering skies. Its blackened stones and charred timbers, still smoking, seemed to cry out to him for vengeance. In the rising wind he would have sworn that he could yet hear Eufemia’s screams.
Aye!
The earl was right, and he, too, wanted his revenge. Only when he had taken that revenge would Eufemia be put truly to rest. Whatever her behavior, she had been his sister. When he thought of her in the future he would remember the happy times. Remember her last words to him,
Save the bairns!

In the end, the goodness that Robert Hamilton believed in all women had overcome everything else wicked that had festered in his elder sister’s soul, and for the first and only time in her life, she had thought of the rest of them. She would be revenged.
Aye! She would be revenged!
The laird of Culcairn turned his face from the tragic ruins of his ancestral home and, digging his heels into his horse, rode off into the rising storm.

PART ONE

The Border Bride

Chapter One

Middleham Castle sat firmly upon the southern hills, its great gray walls and towers looming over the village of Wensleydale. The king was in residence on this fine late September day, for his banner with its white boar flew from the topmost turret. His coronation was almost three months past, and his entry into his city of York several weeks ago had been in incredible triumph. How they loved him, his beloved northerners, and how warmly they had taken Anne and little Edward to their hearts as well. It had been such a triumph that he had stayed longer than he had anticipated, allowing the investiture of Edward as Prince of Wales to take place in York Minster. Now, when he should be on his way south, he had escorted his son and his queen here to Middleham, his favorite home, that he might have a few days’ respite before picking up his duties again. Neddie, as the little prince was fondly called by his intimates, would, of course, remain here when his father, the king, departed.

Richard, King of England, reached for his goblet and gazed with a beneficent look about the family solar. His wife’s widowed cousin, Lady Rowena Grey, and her little daughter had come to stay these few precious days with them. Sweet Row, born into a lesser branch of the Neville family, had been orphaned young and raised by his father-in-law, the Earl of Warwick, with his own dear wife. She was, in fact, the best friend that Anne had, although the two women had been separated for many years.

Anne Neville’s first husband had been a Prince of Wales, the son of King Henry VI and his queen, Margaret of Anjou. Rowena, on the other hand, had been married on her thirteenth birthday to Henry Grey, Baron Greyfaire, an unimportant border lord who possessed a small but strategic keep. Sir Henry, as Richard remembered him, was a loyal and kindly man, some years his wife’s senior. He had died the previous year, another victim to the incessant undeclared war between England and Scotland that had raged for centuries along the border between the two kingdoms. Sir Henry had left but one living child, Arabella, who was a year older than the king’s own son, her cousin.

The difference in age between the two children was not readily apparent, for although Neddie was ten to her eleven, and frail of body, Arabella Grey was still petite, not having attained her maturity yet. She had a quick mind, though, the king noted, for she not only held her own at the chessboard with Neddie, she had already beaten him once this afternoon. The girl, Richard mused with a small smile, had obviously inherited her father’s intellect, for sweet Row had never been able to play chess or concentrate on anything more complicated than an embroidery pattern. The child had looks too, not that her mother was lacking there, but Rowena Neville Grey, with her light blue eyes and thick wheaten-colored hair, appeared almost plain next to her daughter, for Arabella, with that odd, pale gold, almost silver-gilt hair, and those light green eyes that slanted up slightly at the corners and which were overshadowed by dark brows and lashes, was a rare beauty. The king chuckled softly to himself. Why was it, he considered, that the heiresses from great families were more often than not horse-faced, while the daughters of the less distinguished were usually the beauties? It was obvious that God had a great sense of fair play.

“Is she promised?” he asked aloud, nodding his head toward Arabella, even as he directed the question to her mother.

“Henry and I had planned to match her with a cousin, but the boy died of a spotting sickness last autumn, my lord,” Rowena Grey replied. “Ohh, Dickon!” Her pretty face grew hopeful. “Would you make a match for her? I am so helpless when it comes to things like this, and who else can I turn to? Oh, I know how busy you are now that you are king, but could you not take but a moment of your time to find Arabella a husband? We desperately need a man at Greyfaire. I live in terror lest the Scots come over the border. I would not even know how to defend the keep.”

“Why do you not remarry, Row? Arabella is young yet, but it would be easy to find you a new husband,” the king said.

“Nay! I have naught to offer a man but the little dowry my Lord of Warwick gave me when I was wed to my Henry. I fear a suitor might cast covetous eyes upon Greyfaire, and find a way to do my daughter a harm in order that he might gain her inheritance. If once Arabella is married there is one who would have me, then so be it, but I shall not take another husband until my child’s future is safe,” Rowena Grey said firmly.

“I think you show surprising good sense, cousin,” Queen Anne remarked. Then she turned a melting glance upon her husband. “Come, Dickon, find a husband from amongst your retainers for little Arabella. You would have Greyfaire in safe hands, would you not? Remember that Arabella’s father was a cousin to Lord John Grey, he who was the first husband of your late brother’s wife.”

“Henry was ever loyal to your grace, however,” Lady Rowena quickly interjected, for although King Richard had loved his elder brother, Edward IV, and had always been his most loyal liegeman, he detested his brother’s queen.

Elizabeth Woodville, several years King Edward’s senior, had, it was believed by many, entrapped her king into marriage. She had—in fairness, Richard thought—been a good wife to her husband, and given him a large family of children, including two sons, but she had used her position to enrich and ennoble her family excessively. Few called themselves her friends, and consequently, after his brother’s death last April, there were few to take up her cause when the church declared her marriage to Edward IV invalid, and her children bastards unable to inherit their father’s throne. Edward IV, the church declared, had had a previous marriage contract with Lady Eleanor Butler, who was yet living when Edward IV had eloped with the widowed Lady Elizabeth Grey and secretly married her. England’s powerful had not wanted a minority rule, for even though Edward IV had made his brother his sons’ protector, the queen’s relations were immediately maneuvering to gain control of the government. Declaring little Edward V ineligible to rule and passing the crown to his uncle, Richard III, had solved the problem.

Richard had placed his two little nephews in protective custody so that they could not be used by others to foment rebellion. Already the rumors abounded that he had harmed them, but the king loved all children and was incapable of such violence. Besides, trueborn or not, they were his brother’s sons, and Richard had loved Edward with all his being. But from her sanctuary at Westminster, the former queen screeched and howled her outrage over her double loss, that of her prestige, and the custody of her sons, even as she dealt, not so secretly, in an attempt to match her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, with the Lancaster heir, Henry Tudor, Richard’s sworn enemy.

Queen Anne had made a small miscalculation in reminding her husband of Arabella Grey’s distant connection with his sister-in-law’s family. The north of England—York, Northumberland, and Cumbria—had always been loyal to her husband, yet even now Richard had begun to see enemies where none existed. He considered Greyfaire Keep. It was small, but it was strategic to the defense of the border, being so close to it. Greyfaire Keep was always the first to raise the alarm when the Scots came swarming over the Cheviot hills, and the Scots were always treating with the king of England’s enemies. It could be dangerous for little Greyfaire Keep to fall into unfriendly, unloyal, or opportunistic hands. He would not be ill-advised to find a husband for the little heiress. A man who was unquestioningly loyal to Richard of England and no other master.

“I think you are correct, sweeting,” he said to his spouse. “We must find our little cousin Arabella a husband,
and
before we leave Middleham.”

“She is far too young to wed,” Rowena said with obvious emphasis.

“Yet the bridegroom can be chosen now,” the king said. “Your fears for Greyfaire are realistic, Row. I need a strong man in charge there, that I may be reassured of the continued safety of my northern borders. I will think on it, Row. You may rest assured that I shall not allow you to remain unprotected any longer. Indeed, you should have come to me sooner about this.”

“Dickon,” she began out of habit, and then amended, “Sire, my child and I are the least among your subjects. Had not my dearest Anne sent for us to come to Middleham, we would not be here at all and I should have never presumed upon your kindness in finding my daughter a husband.”

The king took Lady Grey’s hand in his and patted the plump flesh. “Rowena, you are family. My sweet Anne’s most favorite companion from her childhood, and her cousin. Had you not been matched to Sir Henry and wed upon your thirteenth birthday, you would have remained with her, and thus now been a part of our court. That your life took a different path makes you no less beloved of us.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before releasing it.

“Sire…” Her blue eyes filled with tears.

“Dickon, Row. As ever, Dickon,” the king replied.

“Dickon, you are so kind. You have always been kind to me. I remember when we were children and Anne’s elder sister, Isabel, was always so cruel to me, except that you would not allow it when you saw it. You have always cared for those weaker than you. England is fortunate to have you as its king, but one favor I beg of you.”

“Whatever you desire, Row.”

Rowena Neville Grey was forced to smile. “You speak too quickly, and are too generous as always, Dickon, but I shall not take advantage of you, my lord. My request is simple. Though I loved my Henry, I was too young for marriage when my Lord of Warwick sent me off to Greyfaire. I lost two sons before Arabella was born, and miscarried of another daughter afterward. Make the match that Greyfaire may have a master again, but let there be no formal ceremony until my daughter is old enough to be a wife in the fullest sense.”

Richard looked to his wife, and the queen nodded her agreement with her cousin. “Pick the man,” she told him, “but there should be no formal betrothal or marriage until little Arabella is older. Greyfaire will have its protector, its king’s man, but should my little cousin grow up to love another as I have always loved you, my lord, at least she will not be forced to the altar with other than her true love. If we formally betroth her, she will be formally bound. Should the day come that she desires a husband other than the one you have chosen, Greyfaire’s protector can be offered a suitable compensation for his loss, can he not?”

“You have a tender heart, my love,” the king replied, “but it will be even as you have suggested. Will that suit you as well, Row?”

“Aye, Dickon, it will!” Lady Grey said, smiling. She was very relieved that the king had taken a hand in this matter. It was unlikely that Arabella would marry any other but he whom the king chose, and there would once again be a master at Greyfaire. It had been so frightening these last months since her husband’s death. He had died in the late summer a year ago, and she truly believed that it was only through the personal intervention of the blessed Mother herself that the Scots had not raided in the vicinity since Sir Henry’s demise, but how much longer could she count upon divine protection? Greyfaire needed a new lord.

She had not been entirely helpless, however. There was her husband’s faithful captain, FitzWalter, and he had remained in his position after Henry’s death, but FitzWalter was not Greyfaire’s lord. He had appeared at Greyfaire in Henry’s youth, offering his fealty and service. No one knew from whence he had come, and FitzWalter never bothered to divulge that information to any, even the wife he took after several years in residence. He had begun as a simple man-at-arms upon the walls, working his way through the ranks until one day he became Greyfaire’s captain. His wife served as the keep’s laundress, even as she produced a bevy of healthy daughters and one fine son for her husband. The boy, Rowan FitzWalter, was a year older than Arabella, and along with a younger sister, Lona, was the little heiress’s closest companion. FitzWalter would be as relieved as she was, Rowena thought, to have a master once more. He had done his duty, but she knew that the full responsibility had fretted him. He was not a man to overstep his position. The king had given her his word, and she would not discuss it with him again unless Dickon broached the subject first.

Prince Edward and Arabella, their game of chess completed, wandered over to their parents. The boy’s color was high with his excitement, and the queen reached out to feel his forehead. Edward pulled away irritably, but Queen Anne drew him back into her embrace, saying, “Your father has promised to find a fine husband for your cousin Arabella, Neddie. Is that not nice?”

“I wish to marry my cousin,” the boy said imperiously. “I like her. She makes me work to win at chess.”

“You cannot marry me, Neddie,” Arabella said. “It would not be right.”

“Why not?” the lad demanded.

“Because, silly, you are a prince. Princes marry princesses. One day you will be king,” Arabella said, sounding just a trifle annoyed that he should not have known this himself.

“If I am to be king,” the boy replied with perfect logic, “then why can I not make you a princess so that we may marry? Kings are allowed to do anything they want.”

“Not always,” said his father, and though his tone was serious, his eyes bespoke his amusement. “What your cousin Arabella means is that boys who are to be kings must make very advantageous marriages in order to help their countries. Your bride will come from a country that can be of help to England against her enemies. Perhaps she will even be the daughter of an enemy, and your marriage will end a dispute. She will have a good dowry, not just gold, but lands as well.”

“Arabella has Greyfaire,” the prince said.

“Greyfaire,” Arabella told him, “is a little keep, Neddie. Your castle of Middleham is five times as big. Besides, my husband must come and live with me, for Greyfaire helps to protect the Middle Marches from the Scots. A king must travel all about his kingdom. I cannot be your wife, but can we not remain friends?”

“I suppose so,” the prince said, sounding somewhat disappointed, and then he brightened. “Would you like to see the new puppies that my father’s best bitch has just whelped? She’s in the kennels here. They are mine to do with as I please, my father says. Would you like one, cousin Arabella?”