The Spitfire (56 page)

Arabella let the queen chatter on, for she was delighted to learn everything she could about Margaret’s year. When at last they reached the nursery, having sent Lady Varden to pack her possessions, the nursemaids hurried forward to greet the queen, carrying her son, who, at almost four, was still frail, although quite capable of walking, and a pretty, rosy infant of almost eight months who crowed and clapped her hands happily at the sight of her mother.

“Where is Lady Margaret Stewart?” the queen demanded. “Her mother has come to fetch her.”

The eldest of the nursemaids turned and called out in a wheedling voice, “Come, my lambkin, yer mam has arrived to take you away now. Be a good little lass and come to old Sarah, my little sweetheart.”

“
No!”
The word was issued from a dark distant corner of the nursery.

“Lady Margaret,” the queen said sternly, “come forth at once!”

“No!
Will not!”

Arabella swallowed back her laughter, and following the sound of the voice, moved slowly across the room. There, in a dim alcove, stood her child, and the queen was correct. Margaret had indeed grown. She was now three years old. Arabella knelt down. “Do you remember me, Maggie?” The child shook her head in the negative. “I am your mother,” Arabella continued, “and I have come to take you home with me to Greyfaire.”

“I want to stay with Arthur,” the little girl said stubbornly, reaching out to finger the gold chain about her mother’s neck.

“I am certain that you do,” Arabella replied, removing the chain from her own neck and slipping it about her daughter’s. “He is a grand playmate, I’m sure, but you have only been visiting with Arthur. Now we must go home again. Would you like to ride with me upon my horse?”

Margaret’s eyes grew interested. “Arthur has a pony,” she said, and then added slyly, “Can I have a pony too?”

“When we get to Greyfaire,” answered her mother cleverly.

“A pony of my very own?” Margaret persisted.

“Aye! And no one else shall be allowed to ride it but you, my wee Maggie,” Arabella promised her.

Margaret Stewart moved out of the corner and into her waiting mother’s arms for a hug. “Let’s go home and get my pony,” she said. “Then I will bring him back to show Arthur. May I bring it back to show Arthur, Mama?”

“Someday,” Arabella said, picking Margaret up. “Someday, my Maggie!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
rabella Grey looked at what had once been a prosperous and fruitful orchard. The land was waist-high in weeds, and there was not a sign of the young trees she had so carefully overseen the planting of some fourteen months ago. Her eyes turned to the village that had once clustered snug and cheery at the foot of Greyfaire Keep. It was gone. Nothing remained of the neat street of cottages where generations of Greyfaire’s people had been born, had lived, and had died, nothing but a few piles of blackened stones, now wet with the summer rain. As Arabella and her party continued up the road to the keep, she noted a few scrawny sheep grazing in the overgrown meadows. Wordlessly she looked to FitzWalter.

“We’ll know soon enough,” he said grimly.

The drawbridge to the keep was raised in a defensive position, but as they neared it, it began to lower. The wooden drawbridge had been scorched with fire recently and bore the open marks of axes, pikes, and other sharp weapons.

FitzWalter halted their little party. “We don’t know who’s inside, my lady,” he told her. “Let them come to us. We’ll not be lambs walking into the lion’s maw.”

A single rider came forth from the keep, and Arabella said excitedly, “Tis Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!” She waved at him, and hearing her voice, he spurred forward to greet them.

“Lady! Thank God and His blessed Mother, ‘tis you! Quickly! Into the keep! We never know when they will strike anymore.”

“Who, lad?” FitzWalter said, putting his hand upon his son’s bridle to stay him. “Have the Scots done this to Greyfaire?”

“The Scots?
Nay, Da, ‘twas not the Scots who destroyed Greyfaire. ‘Twas Sir Jasper Keane. Please come now! We must get the drawbridge raised back up again. Even with your few men we have not the force to defeat them should they get the advantage over us.”

They followed Rowan into the keep, and the drawbridge was raised, creaking behind them. Within the small courtyard Arabella was shocked to see a number of small wooden huts that had been constructed against the outer walls. She did not need to ask. The stench of human waste and from an overpopulation of farm animals sheltering within the Courtyard was overwhelming.

Lona’s eyes were wide with amazement. “God help us all!” she said and clasped little Margaret against her bosom.

“Is the keep habitable?” Arabella demanded.

“Barely,” came the reply.

Arabella dismounted her horse and hurried up the steps into her castle. Within she found a variety of damage. All the windows in the Great Hall were broken, as was most of the furniture. The floors were badly scarred. There was dust and general filth everywhere. Whatever had happened, she thought angrily, there was no excuse for this!

“Why has your mother not seen to the castle?” she said to Rowan.

“She ain’t here, my lady. When the troubles got bad, and most of Greyfaire’s folk went south to seek safety and a new life, I sent my mother and little sister to my eldest sister, Wanetta, in York. She didn’t want to go, but I knew Da would have done the same thing, given the chance. All that’s left here, lady, are the old and the stubborn,” Rowan finished gloomily.

“Are there any women capable of working among the stubborn?” Arabella said dryly, and when he nodded, she continued. “Send them to me at once. We must talk, Rowan FitzWalter, but until this hall is habitable, I will not listen to anything you have to say.” Arabella turned to Lona. “Take Margaret to my rooms and make them livable if they are not, Lona. Go with her, Fergus MacMichael, and help her.”

“Aye, my lady,” Lona answered her, glaring at her brother furiously. Rowan certainly did not have a great deal of practicality in his nature, Lona decided as she carried her charge upstairs.

Several women, ageless and openly dispirited, came into the hall bearing brooms and buckets of water. Arabella directed them herself, wielding a broom with which she helped to sweep the hall.

“If you cannot find men to repair this furniture,” she raged at Rowan, “then find me some furniture that isn’t broken, damnit! I do not care how hard the times have been here. You should have kept the hall in readiness for my return.”

He scuttled off, chastened. FitzWalter himself had gone back out into the courtyard to check the stables to see to his men and to get what information he could. Among the remaining women he found several who were capable, and he sent them to the kitchens with instructions to get the ovens going and to prepare food. He was furious at his only son, but he also understood that the boy had done his very best under the circumstances. He had assumed he was leaving Rowan with an easy task. Too many years of soft living, FitzWalter considered, had left him unprepared for the unexpected. An older, wiser man would have pursued Sir Jasper Keane and his men after their first attack, wreaking as many casualties as he could. An older, wiser man would have made certain that Sir Jasper did not come back after that first raid.

By nightfall they had managed to restore some semblance of order to Greyfaire. The windows in the Great Hall were shuttered closed, and a good fire burned in the fireplaces, removing the dank and musty chill from the room. Outside it had begun to rain heavily. The large oak trestle had been returned to the highboard, and several chairs as well. The sideboard was clean and shining with beeswax. On the table were the remains of two capons and a trout. There had been a bowl of peas, but it was now empty. A newly baked loaf had been almost totally consumed, and there was but a shred of cheese left. Arabella did not stand on ceremony this night. FitzWalter, Lona, Fergus MacMichael, and Rowan had all joined her. Wee Maggie was sleeping safely above, watched over by an elderly woman named Nora, who, upon seeing the little lass, had immediately claimed her as her own charge.

Arabella sat back at last, draining her cup empty and looking to Lona to refill it. She finally fixed her gaze on Rowan FitzWalter, saying, “Begin at the beginning, Rowan, and leave nothing out. You have done your best, I know, and I am not angry with you.”

FitzWalter sent her a grateful look, and even Lona’s eyes misted as she poured wine into her mistress’s pewter goblet.

“Two months after you left,” Rowan began, “Sir Jasper Keane came back to Greyfaire, my lady. The king’s clerk was here, cataloging everything he could find. He had told us that the king now owned Greyfaire and that you had been sent into exile in France. The lads who came back, however, reassured the people that you and the king were but playing a game. They said that you would come home soon. At first our folk believed it, but then Sir Jasper came.

“At first he pretended to us that Greyfaire was now his by right of past possession, but the king’s priestly clerk told him no and bid him begone. It was then that Sir Jasper and his men went on a rampage and wrecked the inside of the keep. They stripped the king’s clerk, and several of Sir Jasper’s men—led by that devil, Seger—used him most foully before they whipped him like a dog from the castle. I can still hear his howls. The poor fellow’s buttocks were raw and he could not sit without pain for several weeks. We hid him in the caves until he healed well enough to travel. Then we sent him on his way, my lady.

“Sir Jasper, however, left after his men had finished with the poor clerk. We thought ourselves safe, but he was soon back, and he kept coming back. Each time he came, he destroyed a little more of Greyfaire. We never knew when he would strike. He came at all hours of the day and the night. He waited until the harvest was in last autumn, and then he stole it from us. This year he fired the fields each time the crop grew high enough to show promise. We finally stopped planting, my lady. What was the use of it? Sir Jasper destroyed the orchards last spring, just as they were coming into first flower. He drove off the sheep, but for the few you saw that remain. There wasn’t enough food to see our people through the winter, and so many families left after Martinsmas, before the hungry times came. I sent Mother and my little sister to York after Christmas.

“In early summer Sir Jasper and his men came and destroyed the village, or what was left of it. No one was hurt, for those remaining had taken to living in the keep by that time. Since then he has been attempting to break into the keep itself. He has stated that if he cannot have Greyfaire, then he will tear it down stone by stone until nothing remains. We have managed to hold him off so far, my lady, and that is the end of my tale.”

“Did King Henry know of this?” Arabella wondered aloud.

“I think not, my lady, else the king would surely have sent his troops to rout Sir Jasper,” Rowan said innocently.

“I’ve spoken to everyone,” FitzWalter said quietly. “Sir Jasper Keane has become an outlaw, my lady. Although his blackest venom is saved for Greyfaire, he has taken to raiding the helpless throughout the entire Middle Marches; and there seems to be no one strong enough to stop him at the present. Certainly someone in the king’s household knows of this, yet no aid has been sent. Therefore, no help will be sent, for though this matter be important to us, it is of no account to the king, who has greater problems. Sir Jasper, after all, poses no threat to Henry Tudor, my lady.”

Arabella thought for several long minutes. She seemed to be wrestling with herself over something, and then she said, “We must send to Dunmor, FitzWalter. The earl has a long-standing grudge to settle with Sir Jasper Keane. I have no doubt that he would welcome the opportunity to do so.”

“And you, my lady, are the bait to trap Sir Jasper,” FitzWalter said with a chuckle. “‘Tis clever! Aye, ‘tis clever, and it just could work.”

“It must work, FitzWalter, or we shall never again know any peace. I cannot rebuild Greyfaire for Margaret if we are under the constant threat of attack from Sir Jasper Keane.” She turned to Rowan. “You will carry a message to the earl for me, and you will leave as soon as I have written it. Sir Jasper Keane, even if he is aware of my return, has not had time to assemble his men. It is unlikely he will attack us in such foul weather. He thinks he has the leisure of time on his side, for he believes us to be helpless. You must ride quickly, for as soon as the weather turns fair, Sir Jasper will seek to strike out at us as quickly as he can.” Arabella turned to Fergus MacMichael. “I would send you, Fergus, but that I need your good sword arm, and FitzWalter, your experience in battle. Will you stay with us?”

“I will, m’lady,” the young clansman replied, and then he boldly said, “but I would have a boon of ye.”

“I think I know what you would have,” she told him. “‘Tis my Lona to wife, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“You have my permission, but ‘tis FitzWalter who must have the final say, as Lona is his daughter.”

“I’ve no objection,” FitzWalter spoke up, “but let’s free ourselves of Sir Jasper Keane first.”

Lona brought her mistress parchment and pen before she might even ask, and stood by her shoulder reading the words as Arabella wrote them, for she had learned to read with her mistress when they were children.

I have returned to Greyfaire.

Sir Jasper is even now planning to attack the keep.

Margaret is with me.

Arabella Grey of Greyfaire

“You have not asked him for his help at all, my lady,” Lona said, puzzled.

“I do not have to,” Arabella told her, “and, therefore, Tavis Stewart will never be able to say that I did. He will come because of his daughter, who is in danger.”

Lona’s eyes grew round, and then she said bluntly, “‘Tis wicked, you are, my lady! Plain wicked!”

Arabella laughed as she rolled the parchment tightly, and sealing it with wax, pressed her signet ring into it hard. “No, Lona, I am not wicked, but I am proud. If there was any way in which I could remove the sting from Sir Jasper’s tail myself, I should do it, but I cannot do it alone. I need the Earl of Dunmor’s help, and in exchange I give him Sir Jasper Keane, with whom he has had such a long-standing feud. ‘Tis more than fair.”

“Da?” Lona turned to her father for support, but FitzWalter was grinning broadly.

“‘Tis clever whether you like it or not, Lona lass. ‘Tis damned clever, and no one will appreciate that better than the earl himself,” FitzWalter said.

Arabella handed the rolled parchment to Rowan. “Go,” she said, “and remember, Rowan FitzWalter, that the fate of Greyfaire and all who remain here is in your keeping, my lad.”

“I won’t fail you, my lady,” Rowan promised, and hurried from the hall.

“How long do we have?” Arabella asked FitzWalter.

“Not tomorrow,” he told her. “We did not arrive until late today. It is unlikely Sir Jasper has a watch posted in the rain to spy upon the keep, for he had no idea that you would return, and the king’s lack of interest in Greyfaire has given him confidence to do anything he wants at any time he desires to do it. Possibly the day after, if the word gets out—and these things do, though God knows how. With luck the earl will be here before Sir Jasper, and if he is not, we will certainly be able to hold out. You are certain that he will come?”

“He will come,” Arabella said, assured. “Not for my sake, but for his daughter’s sake.”

“Perhaps Lona is right.” FitzWalter chuckled again. “Mayhap you are wicked, my lady.”

And Arabella Grey laughed aloud, feeling truly amused for the first time in many months. “Aye,” she admitted to him, “perhaps I am wicked, FitzWalter.”

The men upon the walls watched carefully all the following day, but the countryside about them was wet and peaceful. More peaceful, it seemed to the frightened residents of Greyfaire, than it had been in many months. The day, however, was gray and rainy. ‘Twas not a day a man who believed himself to have all the time in the world would choose to attack his enemies. The night fell and the rain continued, heavier now.

When night had barely fallen, there came a rapping on the postern gate, and looking out the grille, the man on watch saw Rowan FitzWalter, the Earl of Dunmor, and behind them a large group of riders.

“Lower the drawbridge, Wat,” Rowan FitzWalter said, and the man-at-arms at the postern gate gave the order to do so.

The earl and his clansmen poured into the already crowded castle courtyard, their horses jostling against people and cattle as they came. FitzWalter was immediately there, directing the men and horses to the stable area where they might shelter the wet beasts. A stableboy ran up to take the earl’s great stallion, and the earl smiled at him.