The Spitfire (41 page)

“Your daughter is with you?” The king seemed surprised.

“Aye, Sire, she is. Margaret is far too young to be separated from her mama, and I could not bear to be far from her,” Arabella admitted.

“But the rigors of travel,” the king protested.

“Margaret is a strong and healthy lass, praise God, and she seems to thrive on travel,” Arabella told him.

“Would that my son Arthur be the same,” the king said softly.

“May the queen bear your majesty a fine, strong son before year’s end,” Arabella said graciously.

“I will send to St. Mary’s when I wish to see you again, Lady Grey,” the king told her in dismissal.

Arabella curtsied low and kissed the king’s outstretched hand, but as she arose, her lovely face plainly bespoke her concern.

“I will not keep you waiting more than a day or two, madame,” Henry Tudor reassured her. “I am certain, given the importance of your visit to court, that you can manage until then.”

“Of course, my lord,” Arabella said, her face now composed, even as her mind recalled the number of coins left in her purse. Traveling was more expensive than she had anticipated. With another curtsy to her sovereign, Lady Grey hurried back up the garden to bid the queen farewell and to thank her for her kindness. “God bless your grace,” she said. “I will beseech our Lord for your safe delivery and a healthy son come autumn.”

Elizabeth of York smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Lady Grey. I pray that your audience with my husband, the king, has been a successful one, and that I have truly been of aid to you.”

“I have hope, your grace,” Arabella said quietly, not wishing to appear smug, although her heart was racing with excitement.

She was almost certain that Henry Tudor would return Greyfaire to her!

“Then I have done my duty toward you as your queen,” came her gracious reply. “If I do not see you again, Lady Grey, I bid you Godspeed.”

Arabella curtsied a final time, kissing the queen’s beringed hand gratefully, and backed slowly from her presence accompanied by Father Paul.

“The king has granted your request, madame?” the priest asked.

“Not yet, Father, but he has promised to render his decision to me within two days’ time,” Arabella told him.

“Then he will,” Father Paul answered, “for Henry Tudor is a meticulous man in all matters. He is not like so many of these great ones who promise yet do not find the time to grant. You will hear. You will hear.”

Arabella reached into her purse. God, there were so few coins left, and yet she knew she must reward the priest for his intervention on her behalf. Almost reluctantly she drew a silver coin forth and pressed it into the cleric’s hand. “I wish,” she apologized, “that it might be more, Holy Father, but I have little left, a long journey ahead of me, and my child to consider. Still, I would thank you for all your kindness toward me, and ask that you remember my mother, the Lady Rowena, in the Mass.”

“Of course, my daughter,” Father Paul said in kindly tones, fingering the coin and mentally computing its value without even looking at it. He moved to help her mount her mare when an unpleasantly familiar voice interrupted their conversation.

“Christ’s bones! Is it you, Arabella, my pet?”

Her head snapped up and her angry eyes met those of Sir Jasper Keane.

“By God,” Sir Jasper drawled admiringly, his gaze boldly assessing her, “you’ve grown into a rare beauty, my pet! Why, you’re fairer than your mam, I’ll vow.”

“Do not dare to speak of my mother, you foul devil,” Arabella said in a tight, angry voice. “She lies dead because of you!”

He laughed nastily. “She lies dead because she could not keep her legs closed to me.”

Arabella hit him with all her strength, the Grey signet ring on her finger opening a cut upon his cheekbone just below his right eye. She was speechless with the violence of her anger.

Stunned by the fury he saw in her face, Sir Jasper Keane stepped back a pace, his hand clutching at his wound, which was pouring forth blood all over his fine sky-blue satin doublet.
“Bitch!”
he finally managed to grate out. “You will pay for that, I swear it!”

She felt no fear at his words, only a cold and deep rage that seemed to spread throughout her entire body, numbing it. “Should you ever approach me again, sir, I will kill you where you stand,” she said icily, and then turning, mounted her horse.

Shocked by events he could not understand, Father Paul climbed upon his mule, and not knowing what else to do, rode off after her. “My daughter,” he said when he finally managed to catch up with her, “what manner of behavior is this that you would strike a gentleman? Men were put upon this earth by our God in order that they might rule their women and the beasts. Your disrespect has, I fear, placed your mortal soul in great jeopardy.”

“That
man is responsible for my mother’s death, Father. He was to wed with me, and when I was carried off by the Scots, he forced my mother to the altar, thereby causing her death from shame,
and
all in order that he might steal my property! He is a dreadful man! A devil out of Hell!”

“But,” the priest admonished her gently, “he is a man.”

Arabella snorted impatiently. She was grateful to Father Paul for having gotten her an audience with the queen, but the man was an innocent fool. “And is that dangling piece of flesh between a man’s legs God’s way of conferring superiority, Father? I would think that those of us chosen to conceive and bear life were far superior.”

The priest’s eyes grew round with his shock, and he mouthed the word,
Blasphemy.

To soothe him, she softened her tone and said, “I will pray for God’s forgiveness for my evil temper, Father, and I will pray for my enemy as well that I may learn to forgive him.” Blessed Mother, how she dissembled in order to get her way. If she had erred, then that was surely her sin, not her personal belief that women were as equal as any man, and in some cases superior. How often Tavis had teased her that though she be English by birth, she was a Scot in her heart and mind. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he had been right about a lot of things. She was no close to regaining her heart’s desire, and yet she was unhappy.
Why?

Sir Jasper Keane stood watching her departure. Now that the surprise of seeing Arabella Grey here at Sheen was fading, he was beginning to wonder what had brought her here. Where was her husband, that border bandit bastard who called himself an earl? There had been no one with her but a priest, and that in itself was strange. He would have hardly thought a single priest a fit escort for the King of Scotland’s aunt by marriage. Where was her retinue? Her servants? Had she indeed even been married, or had it been but a hoax to embarrass him? Most important of all,
why was Arabella Grey here?

Sir Jasper Keane hurried to his lodgings and sent for his man, Seger.

“My lord, your face…” Seger began, his voice actually concerned.

“It is not important,” his master told him. The wound had already begun to clot. “I have just seen Lady Arabella Grey, Seger. She was coming from the queen’s garden. I would know why she was there. Why is she not in Scotland? I would have answers, man. Quickly!”

“Very good, my lord, I will see what I can find out, but you really must let me take care of that cut upon your face. It is quite deep and will surely scar your handsome face if not properly treated. How badly depends upon how quickly I may treat the wound,” Seger fretted.

“Very well,” Sir Jasper replied ungraciously, “play physician if you must, but then find me the answers that I seek, for I will not rest easy until I learn why she was here.” He suddenly realized that the gash Arabella had opened upon his cheek was beginning to pain him. “She will pay,” he said almost to himself. “That curst spitfire will pay for all her insults to me!”

“If we could but find where she is staying, my lord, perhaps we might take her back to Greyfaire, where you could bring the bitch to heel until she was like a tamed hound, fawning and licking at your feet,” Seger suggested knowingly.

“She has become a great beauty, Seger,” Sir Jasper said almost musingly. “She has far surpassed her mother, and has a look about her that only comes to a woman well-loved. I should not be unhappy to have her in my bed for all her vile temper. If she were in my clutches, I should beat the devil right out of her, I swear it!”

“She is really yours by right, my lord,” Seger murmured evilly. “If we could but get her back to Greyfaire…”

A look of stunned comprehension suddenly lit Sir Jasper’s handsome face. “Greyfaire!” he shouted at Seger. “She has come for Greyfaire! Of course! Why else would she leave her life in Scotland but for that damned wretched keep she so prizes?”

“But Greyfaire is yours, my lord,” the captain said.

“No, it is not,” his master answered. “King Henry has yet to confirm my rights to Greyfaire, and now that that troublesome bitch has come to claim the keep for herself, my claim has been challenged.”

“Surely the king will not award such a strategic keep, even one as small as Greyfaire, to a mere woman, my lord,” Seger soothed.

“Nothing is ever certain when dealing with royalty, you fool!” snapped Sir Jasper. “Remember that lest you lose your head one day by making such an error in judgment.”

“What will you do then, my lord?”

“What I planned to do in the first place, Seger. You will learn the truth of Lady Arabella Grey’s visit to the queen, and then you will tell me. Though I feel it in my bones that the wench has come to usurp my position, it is but idle speculation until proven otherwise. Come and let us bind up my wound. Then you will seek out the answers that I need to my many questions.”

“She cannot hope to prevail against you, my lord,” Seger said with certainty. “She is but a woman.”

“Do not be a bigger fool than you already are, Seger,” his master told him. “The church teaches us that even God could not prevail against a woman, for did Eve not disobey him? Women are dangerous creatures, and you must never forget that.”

“But God punished Eve, my lord.”

“Yet she survived, Seger, and so does her sex. They survive to drive men to madness, but I will not let Arabella Grey best me in this contest of wills. Greyfaire will be mine. There is no way I will let her win.”

Chapter Sixteen

Arabella Grey stood once more before her king. Two days had passed since she had last been at Sheen. She had been brought with much public display through the king’s antechamber, where a roomful of petitioners milled about, awaiting a chance to present their cases before the king or to one of his favorites who could gain his ear. There had been no other women in the throng. As she curtsied low, Arabella wondered if the king would notice that she was wearing the same gown she had worn the other day. They were alone, for the king had dismissed all his servants and advisors.

“Sir Jasper Keane has petitioned me once again to assign the keep at Greyfaire over to him,” the king began.

Arabella remained silent, instinctively knowing that Henry Tudor was not through. Still, her upper teeth worried her lower lip as she wondered what was to come.

“With the peace between Scotland and England, Greyfaire does not really hold the importance it once did. I have investigated the matter carefully, and I can see no reason to give the ancestral home of the Greys to Sir Jasper Keane. He must return to Northby, and those men now in his service who have been impressed from Greyfaire and wish to return home will be told that they may do so.”

Arabella fell to her knees, relief pouring through her. “Thank you, your grace,” she half sobbed.

The king pulled her to her feet. “Get up, madame, you have not heard
all
I have to say.” He drew her across the room and, after seating himself, indicated that she sit in a chair opposite. “Nothing, madame, is free in this life. Everything has its price, and I will not dissemble by pretending otherwise with you. I will return you your beloved Greyfaire, madame, but only on certain conditions.”

Her face was ablaze with joy.
“Anything,
Sire!” she told him.

“A poor choice of words, madame,” the king told her dryly. “You leave yourself nothing with which to bargain.”

“
But I will do whatever I must to regain Greyfaire,” Arabella told him earnestly.

“Will you indeed?” Henry Tudor said, feeling almost sorry for Lady Grey, who was, he had finally decided, really quite innocent of the world for all her time at the Scots court. Still, that innocence could, and would, be useful to him. He fixed Arabella with a piercing look and said, “You are really a most beautiful woman, madame. There is something about you…something mysterious, and yet there is an artless ingenuousness that charms me. A freshness, a naiveté, for all your marriage and the fact that you are a mother. You are a most alluring little creature.”

Holy Mother
, Arabella thought.
He wants to lie with me!

Henry Tudor saw the look that quickly crossed her face and was quickly gone. His laughter was brief and harsh. “Put all thoughts of carnality from your mind, madame,” he reassured her. “What little passion flows through my veins I reserve for my queen.”

Arabella flushed, but wisely held her tongue.

“Charming,” the king noted, observing the blush, “and it is just that sort of charm that can be useful. I want you to go to France for me, madame.”

“France!”
Such a request had been the furthest thing from her mind.

“France,” the king said.

“But why?” Arabella asked. She didn’t want to go to France. She wanted to go home to Greyfaire!

“Because I need eyes and ears in France, madame. The French would plot against me, and I must know before they even attempt their perfidy what it is that they would do.”

“But, how can I be of help in such an endeavor, your grace? I am a simple country woman. I have no knowledge of politics or court intrigues. Are the French not your friends, Sire? Did they not support your desire to be England’s king?”

“The French did indeed support me, madame, but they supported me because it suited their convenience to do so. As long as Duke Richard and Duke Henry fought over that fine, meaty bone called England, the English were well-occupied and could not cause the French difficulties elsewhere. Now, however, I am England’s king,
and now
I sit firmly upon my throne. France is once again the enemy, although there is no outright war between us, nor do I expect one. I do, however, need to know if the French will continue to support me, or if they will conspire with my enemies to dethrone me, even as they did your late cousin Richard. I need eyes and ears at the French court. Eyes and ears who will be trusted because it is believed those eyes and ears are my enemy’s. This is no matter for diplomats who spend so much time couching their language in fine terms that no one can understand what it is they are saying. I want you to be my eyes and ears, madame.”

Arabella was astounded. “But I am not your majesty’s enemy,” she said. “What could I possibly learn in France that would help your grace?”

“Would you be my enemy if I refused to return Greyfaire to you, madame, and instead awarded it to Sir Jasper Keane?” he demanded.

“But you promised…” she began, her voice a half sob, her heart plummeting.

“Put not your trust in princes or in any child of man,” the king said. “My mother taught me that. She had it from a priest, she said. I think it a fine motto, but do not look so stricken, madame. Hear me out and all will make sense, I promise. Greyfaire is yours. I would be less than the king I am if I did not uphold your rights in this matter. The papers will be drawn making Lady Margaret Stewart your heiress to the keep. This, however, will not be made public. Instead it will be believed that I have denied you the return of your keep. You have no husband. No home. No place in either Scotland or England. You are an outcast thanks to Henry Tudor, and so you will flee to France to join other exiles at the French court. Who will suspect that you are my eyes and my ears under those circumstances, madame?”

“I have no monies with which to travel,” Arabella said, her practical nature reasserting itself.

“You will be provided for, madame, but not on any lavish scale, mind you. Your genteel poverty, along with your beauty, should aid you in attracting suitors. Associate only with those who are powerful and can aid you with their loose talk.”

“My lord, just what is it you are asking me to do?” Arabella was clearly aware that King Henry was not merely suggesting a simple visit to France.

“Whatever you must, madame, to gain your ends,” the king replied bluntly, his eyes meeting hers and never wavering for a moment. They were hard eyes.

“Do you ask me to whore for you?” she demanded softly.

“No, madame, I ask you to whore for England if you must,” he answered her.

“You are England,” Arabella said quietly.

A slow smile briefly lit the king’s stern features. “So I am, madame, and it is good that you recognize it. I hold the power of life and death over all in this land.”

“For how long must I play this game, your grace?”

“A year at the most. No longer,” he promised her.

“A year!”
It sounded more like a hundred years, and she sighed deeply. “My daughter—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Lady Margaret Stewart will remain in England, madame. I will have nothing deterring you in your purpose, and a child would make you vulnerable. She will come to live in the royal nurseries with my son Arthur and the new baby that the queen is to bear in the autumn. She will be quite safe. You cannot send her to Greyfaire, for it will not publicly belong to you any longer. Besides, her father might come galloping over the border seeking her return, madame, and I am certain you do not want that.”

“But how will you explain her presence, your grace?” Arabella asked the king.

“Why, I will say that I have taken pity on the Scots king’s wee niece whose willful mother ran off to France in a vile temper when I refused to grant the silly woman the rights to her family’s keep,” Henry Tudor said with a frosty smile.

“There is no other way?” Arabella said.

“Did you yourself not say
anything,
madame?”

“But to take my baby from me,” Arabella cried. “‘Tis cruel!”

“Perhaps,” the king agreed, “but ‘twill guarantee me your good behavior, madame. You are hardly likely to betray me while I hold the life of your daughter in my hands.”

“Should I hear anything of note, your grace, how will I communicate it to you?” Pushing her turbulent emotions aside, Arabella was beginning to think of the difficulties and the dangers involved in what the king was demanding of her.

“Lord Anthony Varden will be your contact, madame. Whatever it is that you hear, you will pass on to Lord Varden. He will see that your news reaches England. You can trust him with your life, madame, but God willing, you will not have to do so. Tony Varden is believed to hate me because of a quarrel between his family and my stepfather’s family. He has lived in France for many years, and he is one of my loyalist friends, though none know it.”

“He must be to have given up his estates and his country for your grace,” Arabella said quietly.

“Tony is a second son,” the king replied. “He was destined for the church, but desired it not. The quarrel between us is entirely fabricated. He was with me in Brittany when we decided to try this ploy against the French. Since it has appeared to work, he has remained in France for several years now. He will be your mentor, madame, telling you whatever it is you will need to know. Trust him.”

“It would seem, Sire, that I have no other choice,” Arabella answered the king.

“You have a choice,” Henry Tudor told her. “You may refuse me, madame, without any fear of my ill will.”

“But if I do, your grace, you will not return Greyfaire to me, will you?”

“Come, madame,” the king replied, not truly answering her question, “why so squeamish? You tell me that you can hold your keep in the event of an attack, and I have accepted your word for it. I treat you as I will wager no man has ever treated you…as an equal. I have returned your home to you, and in return I ask that you serve the crown as any man would serve it.”

“Would you ask a man to whore for you, Sire?” Arabella demanded tartly.

“If necessary, madame, aye! Men and women fight with different weapons, a fact of which I am certain you are well aware. Tony Varden has proved a most valuable spy for England. I cannot be certain that some of his information was not gained in pillow talk. You need not compromise yourself, Lady Grey, if you do not choose to, but a man is more apt to confide in a woman he is enamored of than simply a mere acquaintance. Remember, you go to France to be of use to me.” The king reached over and took her chin in his hand. “You really are beautiful, madame. I think there is much a man might dare for you, and though you blush most becomingly at my words, you are nonetheless a woman grown. You have no maidenhead to protect. If the thought of taking a lover is unpleasant to you, madame, and perhaps that is a side of your nature you find distasteful, swallow your qualms and remember what you do you do for England, for Greyfaire, and for your most grateful king.” He loosed his grip upon her chin and smiled his brief smile.

“A year at the most? You swear it?” The thought of leaving Margaret behind for a year was unbearable.

“At most,” he promised her, and sensing her concern, continued, “Lady Margaret will be cared for with kindliness, I assure you. If it will set your heart at ease, I will confide in the queen that you are not the heartless creature you appear, but in truth a gallant and brave Englishwoman who has gone to France to valiantly serve her country in thanks for our generosity toward her. I will explain that the child had been left behind for her own safety, and indeed, that is the truth.”

“Your majesty is most thoughtful,” Arabella said with wry understatement. “How will I contact Lord Varden? Will it not seem odd if I seek him out?”

“Tony will seek you out. One exile aiding a beautiful countrywoman will appear most natural to the French, who brazenly claim to appreciate womankind far more than other races,” the king told her.

“And how will we begin this charade, Sire?” There was little left to discuss, Arabella realized.

“You will run weeping from my closet, madame, cursing my name as you flee through my crowded antechamber which, at this moment, is filled to overflowing with every petitioner, gossip, and sycophant at court. Sir Jasper Keane is undoubtedly there himself right now. I have sent for him to tell him that he may not have Greyfaire, but that the crown has decided to confiscate it. I will then give your Greyfaire men the choice of staying with Sir Jasper or returning home under royal protection. It will take little time for word to travel, madame, as to the cause of your distress. Though disappointed himself, Sir Jasper, I suspect, will ease his own great dissatisfaction by spreading his version of these events and blackening your good name.”

“My daughter? How will Margaret find her way into the royal nursery?” Arabella was still concerned.

“I shall have the queen send one of her women to St. Mary’s-in-the-Fields late this afternoon to fetch the child and smuggle her into Sheen.”

“So soon?”

“You leave for France tomorrow, madame. I want you gone quickly before one of the more gallant members of my court, moved by your beautiful face, pities your plight and attempts to petition me on your behalf. I will give Sir Jasper several days to gloat, even while he is publicly complaining that I would not give him Greyfaire. The French have spies in my court, and the story will be in France perhaps even before you are, legitimizing your arrival at King Charles’ court. Sir Jasper tells me that you are called the ‘Spitfire’ because of your quick temper. Your behavior will, therefore, seem quite in character.”

There was no escape, Arabella realized, from King Henry’s will. If she wanted Greyfaire back, then she must go to France. The king had said it plainly. Without Greyfaire she was homeless. How could she care for Margaret under such circumstances? “I have not lied to your grace when I said I am virtually penniless,” she told him. “I have but two silver pieces and half a dozen copper coins left to my name. If I am to depart on the morrow, I will need monies now. You have spoken bluntly to me. Now I would be plain with you. I do not mean to give offense, my lord, but it is said that you are close with a coin. You tell me you cannot be lavish with your support, and yet you expect me to travel to France, join the French court, and attract important men that I may gain information useful to England. How am I to attract them, Sire, without funds? I have no monies and no clothing. Frenchwomen are known for their elegance of garment. I will be a drab English sparrow, lost in a court of radiant peacocks. If I am to be a fine jewel to tempt your enemies, your grace, then you must fit me into a proper setting,” Arabella concluded, looking directly at the king.