The Spitfire (42 page)

“Hmmmmm,” Henry Tudor considered, “I had not thought of that, madame, but do you tell me you have no garments but those you wear?”

“I brought but one dress suitable for your court, Sire, when I journeyed from the north. My other gowns are barely suitable for traveling.”

“Why is that, madame? Was your husband not generous with you?” The king looked thoughtful. “Scotsmen
are
rumored to be penurious.”

“Tavis Stewart was most generous, your grace, but as I divorced him, I did not think it right I take anything but the barest essentials. I left the bulk of my wardrobe and jewels at Dunmor, bringing only this one good gown and the oldest of my garments.”

Henry Tudor was astounded. Women, his wife and mother excepted, were a greedy and rapacious lot, he knew, and yet here was this radiant beauty claiming otherwise. Once again he felt a small twinge of guilt in his treatment of Lady Grey, but he thrust it away, for a man could not be a strong king if he allowed a nagging conscience to overrule his good sense. “You must not appear wealthy, madame, for then the question will arise from whence your wealth comes,” the king considered. “Still, you must have decent clothing, I will admit. As I must confide in the queen regarding your child, I shall have to seek her aid in this matter as well.”

“I shall need clothing for my maid as well, your grace,” Arabella said, feeling braver now. “Lona must come with me, for no lady of quality, even a poor one, would travel without her servant. I will take several of my own men-at-arms too. I cannot travel unprotected in a foreign land. My own people will never betray me. I need, however, to confide in them the true purpose of my trip to France if I am to retain their loyalty. They are simple men, and they have borne much for my sake. I cannot strain that trust further and keep their unswerving support. Their lips will stay sealed if I ask it.”

The king nodded his agreement. “An allowance, clothing, and your own people about you,” he said. “That should suffice you, should it not?”

“I must have money to transport my horses as well, your grace,” Arabella told him. “Do not forget that my people and I will have to travel from the French coast to Paris. I could, of course, send my beasts home, but would it not seem strange that in my mad flight I took the time to act in a logical manner? Besides, I imagine transporting my own horses is probably less expensive than buying new ones in France.” Arabella was more than well aware of the king’s penchant for economy.

“Indeed, yes,” Henry Tudor agreed. “You will have an allowance for the horses as well, madame.
Is there anything else?”

“There remains but the matter of my funds, Sire,” Arabella said sweetly.

“They will be delivered to you by my wife’s waiting woman when she comes to fetch your daughter,” the king said.

Arabella shook her head. “Nay, your grace, I would have the monies now. If you do not give me enough, I am unable to argue with you, for I have no further excuse for an audience.” She did not trust the king’s generosity.

“What, madame?
Would you haggle with me as with a fish monger?” he demanded, outraged.

“I must be certain that what you give me is sufficient, your grace,” Arabella said stubbornly. “I am not only responsible for myself in this matter, but for Lona and my men as well. I cannot ask them to come with me into another country unless I know that I have the means by which I may at least feed and shelter them. Remember that once I get to Paris I must find a place for us all to live. It may be some time before I can attract the
proper
suitor. If his nature is not a munificent one, I may still be forced to pay for my own shelter.” She smiled mischievously at the king. “Wealthy and powerful men are not always of an extravagant and philanthropic nature. The Scots do not have a monopoly on that sort of behavior, do they now, your grace?”

Henry Tudor looked sharply at the beautiful young woman standing before him. Was she mocking him? Until this moment he had not believed her capable of such real cleverness, but as it was beneath him to argue with her, he walked across the room to an oak cabinet, and pulling open a drawer, pulled out a velvet pouch of coins. Thoughtfully he weighed the bag in his palm for a moment, and then he handed it to her.

Arabella hefted the pouch and then handed it back to the king. “‘Tis not enough,” she said bluntly.

Henry Tudor glowered at her. “Madame, your extravagance will beggar me,” he snapped.

“Would you have me starve to death before I am able to be of service to you, Sire? A bony woman will offer no attractions to a lusty man, and Frenchmen, I am told, like their women pleasing to the eye,” she told him boldly.

He reached again into the open drawer of the oak chest, this time drawing out a larger bag, which jingled appreciably with its weight of coins.

Arabella took the pouch from him, and opening it, spilled the gold coins out upon the table, swiftly counting them. “I will also need a bag of silver, and one of coppers as well,” she told the king. She scooped the gold back into its velvet container even as the king, past arguing with her, drew forth two other bags and handed them to her.

“Are you
now
satisfied, madame?” he asked her sharply.

Arabella carefully secreted all three pouches upon her person, and looking up at the king, said with a small grin, “I must be certain not to jingle as I hurry through your antechamber cursing you, your grace.”

“Why do I entertain the notion, madame, that that is the part of our little charade that you will enjoy the best?” he said.

“How astute of your grace,” Arabella told him in even tones.

“Our business is concluded, madame,” the king said.

Arabella curtsied at his dismissal and then inquired, “Shall I begin to weep and howl now, Sire?”

Henry Tudor nodded, and then started at the piercing shriek she emitted.

“Ohhhhhh! ‘Tis not fair, your grace! Ohhhhhh! Where shall I go? What shall I do? How shall I feed my poor daughter?” Arabella howled.

“You should have thought of that before you left your husband to come on this fool’s errand, madame. If you are wise, you will return to Scotland and beg your husband to take you back. If he will not, at least if you are fortunate he may care for the child you have in common,” the king said in a loud voice. “You have made your own bed, and now you must lie in it.”

“
Never!”
Arabella sobbed. “Never will I return to that Scots barbarian! Have mercy, your grace! Have mercy! Give me back Greyfaire!”

“Give a border keep to a woman?” the king’s voice boomed scathingly through the door into the antechamber. “Madame, surely you jest with me. Ah-hah! Hah! Hah! A woman defending a border keep in England’s name? What nonsense! Begone, madame! Begone from me this instant!” The king strode over to his door and flung it wide, sending the several courtiers who had been listening at it scattering across the room. Henry Tudor was hard put not to laugh, which would have undoubtedly caused even more gossip amongst his court, for he was not a man easily given to mirth. “Go back to Scotland where you belong now, madame, and take your brat with you! Greyfaire Keep is no longer yours!
Begone!”

Arabella paused long enough in the doorway to allow the roomful of people a good look at the tragic figure she wished to portray. Her pale gold hair glistened in the afternoon light coming through the windows. She looked particularly beautiful, very fragile and painfully vulnerable. Turning once more to look at the king, she shouted willfully, “I will not go back to Scotland!
I won’t!
You cannot make me!” Then bursting into fulsome tears, she pushed right through the astounded crowd of gentlemen in the king’s antechamber, sobbing piteously and bitterly as she went.

She had to hurry, Arabella thought as she went. She was going to begin laughing if she did not make her exit quickly. Her keen eye had already spotted Sir Jasper Keane across the room, a smug smile of triumph upon his handsome face. She suddenly realized that Jasper Keane was becoming jowly with too-good living. His handsome visage had begun to coarsen, and he would definitely run to fat with age. What had she ever seen in him? What had Rowena ever seen in him?

She was almost to the door on the far side of the room when she remembered, and turning a final time, she half sobbed, half shouted at the king, “Damn you, Henry Tudor! Damn you for the usurping devil you are, and damn you as well, Jasper Keane!” Then she fixed her gaze upon the rest of the chamber and said in clear and poignant tones, “What help is there for any of you here, my lords, when this king whom you have taken to yourselves would rob a helpless woman of her patrimony?” More tears filled her eyes and spilled down her beautiful face, drawing sympathetic signs from several. “What am I to do?” she whispered pathetically. Then turning, she was gone from them.

There!
she thought, as she hurried out into the courtyard to find her horse.
That
would certainly set tongues to wagging! Particularly as she knew Sir Jasper Keane would, in an effort to appear even more important than he actually was, add to the story his own version of the events that brought them to today’s little drama. What a shame women did not go on the stage. She had been quite convincing, she believed. She had even seen a few looks of pity cast her way.

Arabella mounted her horse and rode away from Sheen at a brisk trot, returning to St. Mary’s-in-the-Fields convent, where she gathered her people together. Shepherding them out into the orchards where they would not be overheard, she told them of her interview with the king. FitzWalter was angry.

“King or no, Henry Tudor is wrong to ask such a thing of you, my lady!”

Her men-at-arms murmured their assent, but Arabella held up her hand to still their complaints.

“What other choice have I, FitzWalter? You know there is none if Greyfaire is to be saved from strangers,” she told him.

“What could the king do if we merely returned home and held the keep against him?” FitzWalter demanded.

Arabella shook her head. “I am no traitor, old friend, and neither are any of you. To defy the king would be to commit treason. There is no choice but to do the king’s will. Lona, FitzWalter, I will want you and six of the men to accompany me to France. The rest of you will go home and reassure our people that I have not truly deserted them. You cannot, however, tell them the truth of the matter lest you compromise my value to the king, and he, in a fit of pique, deny me Greyfaire after all. Rowan FitzWalter will continue to be in charge of the defense of Greyfaire. The king, I imagine, will see to the rest, as he is pretending to confiscate the keep from the Greys. Decide among yourselves who is to go, but I will take none who has a wife, save FitzWalter, for we are likely to be gone a full year.”

She moved away, walking through the orchard in an effort to calm her distress over her daughter’s imminent departure. Perhaps she had been wrong to bring Margaret with her to England. Perhaps she should have regained her family’s rights to Greyfaire first, and then returned to Scotland for Margaret. She had stolen Margaret from her father, from her grandparents, from her native land. Now England’s king was taking Margaret’s mother from her. She would be placed in a strange nursery, alone, with people she did not know. What if she cried in the night? Would someone hurry to comfort her, or would they leave Margaret to weep alone and frightened in the dark? Arabella suddenly realized that she was crying, the tears slipping hot and fast down her face. “Oh, Holy Mother,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

“‘Tis a fine time to be asking that, my lady,” Lona said, joining her. “Margaret will be all right. She’s healthy, and like her parents, adventurous. Mark my words, m’lady, she’ll enjoy her time in the royal nursery, and the queen will see there is no unkindness done to her.”

“How do you know it is Margaret I weep for?” Arabella demanded, not a little aggravated to be so transparent.

“Greyfaire is yours again, ‘Bella, so you cannot weep for it, and you only weep for the earl in the night when you think I’m asleep and can’t hear you,” Lona said matter-of-factly. “So ‘tis your child you break your heart over, for you are a good mother, even if you were not the best of wives.”

“What do you mean I was not a good wife?” Arabella demanded, outraged by Lena’s searing honesty. “How dare you speak to me so!”

“‘Tis true you are the Lady of Greyfaire, and I but one of FitzWalter’s lasses,” Lona said quietly, “but the difference in our births has never before lessened our friendship, ‘Bella. I have always spoken plainly to you, and I always will. The earl loves you with his whole heart despite your odd beginnings, but you always put Greyfaire ahead of everything else, including your own heart. I think you a fool for it, and I think even you have begun to question the wisdom of your actions. Your arrogant pride will drive you to France, and God only knows what fate awaits us there. If you could but swallow that pride and return to Scotland, the earl would, I know, pardon you and take you back. Forgive me if I offend you, my lady. You may send me home if you so choose, but I cannot keep silent any longer.”

Arabella stood stock-still as Lena’s words assaulted her. In one sense Lona was right, and Arabella knew it, but on the other hand she was wrong. Lona could not possibly understand the ties that bound her to Greyfaire Keep. “I will not send you home, Lona,” she told her servant and friend quietly. “Though your words wound me, I would not have you mouth lies in an effort to please me. I value your friendship far too much, even if we cannot agree on this matter.”

“Do you love the earl?” Lona said.

“Aye, I think I do, though I try to deny it to myself, but there is no going back, Lona. Disabuse yourself of any such notion. If you think my pride great, the Stewart pride is greater yet. I have dealt Tavis Stewart’s dignity a mortal blow, and he will never forgive me.” Her light green eyes filled with tears and she turned away from Lona in an effort to hide her sadness.

Lena’s own eyes grew moist with sympathy, but before either of them might indulge themselves in a good cry, FitzWalter joined them.