“Arabella!”His voice cut into her heart like a knife, but she did not falter as she moved away from him.
“My lord, come with me and we will talk,” Lord Varden said, escorting his companion out of Notre Dame and into the great square in front of the cathedral. “I have been expecting you for some months now, my lord,” Anthony Varden said bluntly. “The king wrote me that you had been to Sheen.”
“I understood that you were an exile, Lord Varden,” the earl said. “An enemy of King Henry.”
“So it is said,” Anthony Varden replied with a gentle smile. Then his voice became urgent. “My lord, you must not interfere with Arabella. Soon she will have what she has come to France for, and King Henry will return Greyfaire to her. You took Greyfaire from her once, my lord. Do not do it again, for she will certainly then never forgive you.”
“What do you know of me and of Arabella?” the earl asked angrily. He was beginning to realize that he was in the middle of a situation he could not control.
“Everything, my lord, for Arabella and I have become good friends,” Lord Varden said gently, seeing the earl’s rising frustration and feeling sympathetic toward him. “Exiles often do, you know. My home was near York.”
“You are a spy,” the earl said softly, suddenly comprehending, “and you and Henry Tudor have made my wife a spy as well.”
“Your wife has fought for her property as hard as any man. That her methods and weapons have not been what you would use does not matter, my lord earl,” Lord Varden told him.
“Are ye nae afraid that I will betray ye, sir?” Tavis Stewart said.
Lord Varden grinned up at the big Scotsman. “Now why would you do that, my lord? Do you not love Arabella Grey? Are Scotland and England not at peace? Has not King Henry offered his infant daughter, the Princess Margaret, born last November, to your own king as a wife? Why, my lord, we are practically family.”
Tavis Stewart could not help laughing at his last remark. “My nephew will nae accept an English wife, man, but yer right. Our countries are at peace. Still, I dinna like the idea that Arabella is in any danger.”
“You love her greatly, I can see,” Lord Varden said. “It’s written all over your face, my lord, but under the circumstances, I would prefer you masked your cow eyes toward Lady Grey. When she has returned to England, my lord, then you two may settle your differences and reacquaint yourselves. France is not the place to do this, and now is certainly not the time. Go home, my lord earl. Arabella is in no danger except through you. The Duc de Lambour is a very jealous man.”
“She is my wife,” Tavis Stewart said stubbornly.
“Shewasyour wife,” Lord Varden answered him.
“I dinna recognize the divorce,” the earl replied.
“You do not have the luxury of that choice, my lord,” Lord Varden told him. “You say you love her and you fear for her safety, yet you persist in endangering her. I do not understand you.”
Tavis Stewart groaned with despair as the reality of the situation hit him. He had stumbled into something that had absolutely nothing to do with him, and what was worse was that Lord Varden was correct when he said that if he, Tavis, could not mask his passions for Arabella, he would endanger her safety. He had to go. Besides, he could not bear to stay and watch the Duc de Lambour being so possessive of her without soon giving in to jealousy and rage. “I will leave tonight,” he said to Lord Varden.
“She’ll be home soon, my lord, and once she is at Greyfaire, perhaps you will come raiding again,” he finished with a smile.
“She told you how we met?” the earl said.
“Aye,” Lord Varden told the earl. “‘Twas a bold thing you did when you carried her off.”
“And she has never forgiven me for it,” the earl said sadly.
“But she will once she has regained Greyfaire,” said Lord Varden wisely, “for she loves you too, my lord. She has never denied it.”
The wedding guests adjourned to the palace, just a short stroll from the cathedral, where a small banquet was served to celebrate the Duc de St. Astier’s nuptials. Afterward, and with almost indecent haste, the king and his friends departed for the Loire. The king feared that the cherries in his orchards at Amboise would ripen and spoil before he got there. They were his favorite fruit.
“We shall have a fete, Adrian,” he said loudly to the Duc de Lambour, “and you,ma petite rose d’Anglaise, will rule over my fete as its queen of beauty and love. Will you like that?”
Arabella smiled winsomely at King Charles and curtsied most prettily. “I shall be honored, Sire,” she said.
“You look exactly like a cherry blossom in that gown of yours, madame,” the king continued. “‘Tis a most fetching pink, is it not, Adrian?”
“I adorema Bellein any of her gowns,” the duc replied gallantly.
“Or without them,” the king said wryly, and led the ensuing laughter.
The new Duchesse de St. Astier looked hard at Arabella, and turning to her husband, asked softly, “Why does the king make such a fuss over the Duc de Lambour’s whore?”
Jean-Claude Billancourt blanched. “Marie-Claire,” he said in quiet but disapproving tones, “the Duc de Lambour is the king’s close and dear friend. As for Madame Grey, perhaps she is indeed the duc’schere amie, but there is no harm in it. She is a most charming and delightful woman who is well-liked by all here. She has many friends and is quite respectable. Perhaps you are not used to such things, coming from an uncivilized and backward land like Scotland, but here certain relationships are tolerated as long as they are discreet. You will have to learn to hold your tongue, chérie, else I dare not let you associate with polite society.” He patted her hand. “I’m certain that you will learn quickly, Marie-Claire,ma belle femme,n’est-ce pas?”
