“We will not keep you any longer,” the king said, reverting to a more formal tone.
“Sire.” The earl bowed politely a final time and backed from the audience chamber.
He waited in the courtyard at Sheen for less than an hour before a young, tonsured priest joined him, saying that he was the clerk sent by the king.
“I ride well, my lord, and I will not keep you,” the priest said.
Resigned to the fact that he would not even be allowed a small glimpse of his daughter, the Earl of Dunmor mounted his stallion, and signaling to his small party, rode from the English court. He had spoken to no one but the king and the king’s secretary. He had seen no one, for Henry Tudor had given him an early audience, and few if any courtiers were about. Had they been, they would not have recognized him, although they might have been curious. Now, however, it was as if he had not existed at all for the English court.
If Henry Tudor was foolish enough to believe that he would be satisfied to simply sit back and wait for Arabella to return to England from France, the earl reflected, then he would find he was sadly mistaken. He would not ever endanger their daughter, but Scotland and France were old and strong allies. England and France were not. He had to respect Arabella’s duty to Henry Tudor. She had done what any man would have done, he was surprised to realize, to regain her property. She was playing at the game of politics and power, but he wondered if perhaps she was not out of her depth. What could she possibly learn for Henry Tudor that would be of value to him?
More importantly, he suddenly perceived, washowshe would go about gathering that information. She had neither wealth nor a powerful family or friends helping her. She had but two assets in her favor. Her intelligence,and her beauty.It was the latter that concerned him. Did the English king actually expect Arabella to barter herself in her effort to gain information? The dawning realization that that was exactly what Henry Tudor expected sickened him. Arabella was no wanton, but he knew she would do whatever she had to do to regain her property.
God, what a fool he had been! Tavis Stewart thought helplessly. If he had only supported his wife’s efforts to regain her birthright, instead of treating her needs as those of a willful child. That had been his problem from the start. He had seen Arabella as a stubborn child, and she was not. She was a strong woman who would not be gainsaid in a matter in which she believed herself to be in the right, and who was to say she was not?
The French were a hot-blooded race. Arabella would be but helpless prey to some lustfulmonseigneur. She was alone and unfamiliar with the ways of the world. No matter Henry Tudor! He must go to France to protect his wife.His wife.She was no longer his wife in the eyes of the church. She was a free woman. Free to do as she pleased. Free to remarry, if some gentleman should take her fancy.Remarry.She could not! Yet what if it suited the English king’s plans that she marry some Frenchmonseigneur? Tavis Stewart bared his teeth in a grimace. He’d kill any man who would attempt to marry Arabella!
Tavis Stewart arrived home at Dunmor to find his nephew’s personal messenger awaiting him. He was to join the king at Falklands Palace immediately upon his return. The messenger had been at Dunmor for over two weeks. With a sigh of resignation, the earl spent one night in his own bed before heading north. He could not ignore his own king’s direct summons.
“Ye took yer damned time,” Jamie said in aggrieved tones when they finally met.
“I only arrived back at Dunmor four days ago, Sire,” the earl said.
“Ye were in England.”The king’s tone was accusatory.
“Aye. I saw King Henry himself,” Tavis Stewart replied.
“Did ye now? And who else did ye see? Were any of those Scots traitors who fled my justice there fawning over the Tudor and plotting my demise?”
“I saw no one but the king and his secretary,” the earl replied. “I went for one reason, and one alone.Arabella.I want my wife back.”
“Yer wife divorced ye, Uncle. Accept it and leave it be. ‘Tis time ye choose another wife.”
“Jamie,” the earl said quietly, “if ye were nae my king, I should thrash ye wi’in an inch of yer young life. Why did ye allow Arabella to divorce me? Nay, ye dinna answer, for I already know.”
“Ye do?”James Stewart shifted his feet nervously.
“Aye, I do. The little wench felt wi’ out yer aid or mine she could nae go to King Henry as a Scots earl’s wife requesting the return of her property. So she convinced ye to help her gain a divorce that she might return to England a free woman wi’ no divided loyalties. Yer a romantic young fool, Jamie, to hae let her cajole ye into such an action, but I forgie ye, nephew. At least ye understood Arabella’s distress better than I. I could only see that she was being stubborn.”
James Stewart felt a trickle of sweat roll icily down his back in his relief. When his uncle had said “he knew”, the king expected that possibly he might end up like several of his kingly ancestors, dead before his time at the hand of a family member. Obviously Tavis knew nothing of his brief idyll with Arabella. The king felt uncomfortably guilty over the incident. His uncle had always been loyal, and more than that, he had worked unceasingly to help quiet the highland lords that Scotland’s wounds might be healed, that their country emerge from the medieval mindset that held it back from the progress being made in other lands.
He was king, James Stewart thought ruefully, and yet he had used his power childishly, wielding it to compromise a virtuous woman who needed his help. He felt not just guilty. James Stewart felt ashamed that he had permitted his lust to overrule his kingly honor. He was a man who loved women, but in loving Arabella he had hurt her. He had allowed her to destroy her marriage to his uncle, a man she loved so deeply that she would leave him rather than bring discredit to his name. Would that his moral principles had been as high.
“I want to go to France,” his uncle was saying. “Arabella is there.”
“What is she doing in France?” the king demanded, astounded.
“Henry Tudor confiscated her property because of her family’s relationship with King Richard,” the Earl of Dunmor said carefully, remembering his promise to the English king, but regretting that he must dissemble with his own liege. “Having no place in England, and feeling she could not return to Scotland, Arabella fled to France. She is living at the French court, I am told, on what little she has. It cannot be easy for her.”
James Stewart nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, “I could see that she was sent a small income, Uncle, until you can get to France.”
“‘Tis kind of ye, Jamie, but wi’ yer permission I intend leaving almost immediately. There’s always a vessel at Leeds sailing for France,” the earl said.
“I canna gie ye my permission, Uncle. Not right now. I need ye to go into the highlands once again. I need ye to go to Glenkirk Castle. I hae decided to send out ambassadors to several European nations, even as the English are doing. The Lord of Glenkirk is the man I want as Scotland’s ambassador to a small duchy on the Mediterranean called San Lorenzo. If Scotland is to prosper, we must expand its trade with other lands. I am determined that we will. We will need a haven of safety in the Mediterranean where our ships can replenish their supplies and their water on long voyages. Though the French be our allies, I do not want to be entirely dependent on them. We will also be in competition with them, for I intend that our trade be more than just furs, hides, and salted fish. These we will sell in exchange for luxury goods to be either resold in European markets or here at home.
“Patrick Leslie is a man of great culture, for all he is a highland lord. He is widowed and shows no signs of remarrying at this time. Other than his two children, he has no obligations but to his lands. I shall arrange for his cousin to manage them while he serves me,” the king said.
“Is he aware that he is to ‘serve’ you, nephew?” the earl asked dryly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from Jamie.
