“Where will you go, Tony, now that your service to Henry Tudor in France is over?” Arabella asked her friend. They sat together in a private dining room eating a wonderful meal of good English beef, English cheddar, and October ale. Upon the sideboard was a basket of strawberries and a bowl of clotted Devon cream.
“Hal always promised me my own estate, my dear. Hopefully it will be somewhere near York, where my family comes from originally,” Lord Varden told her.
“Have you any family left?”
“My elder brother, Simon, who will undoubtedly be relieved to learn that I am not the rebel he was at first so pleased to believe I was. Simon is slow of wit, you see. He was delighted to see me discredited before our father, whose favorite I was. Only when it dawned upon him that my ill fortune might reflect on him did he fret. It will also be a relief to him to learn I have my own properties.” Lord Varden chuckled. “I shall also ask the king for a wife, that I may forestall any matchmaking on my brother’s and his wife’s part. They are singularly sour people and would undoubtedly choose for me a pious female with neither beauty, intellect, nor humor about her. I do not know if I can ever love another woman as I did my first wife, but I would hope to enjoy her company at least. Particularly as she will be the mother of my children.”
Arabella nodded. “It seems as good a basis as any to make a marriage on, Tony.”
“And you, my dear? What of you?”
“It is as I told Adrian yesterday, Tony. I have given up everything for Greyfaire and for my wee Margaret. I have accepted that and will build my life around those two.”
“What of the Earl of Dunmor, my dear? Do you not think he could find it in his heart to forgive you? Could you not make a new beginning with him?” Lord Varden said hopefully.
“Nay, Tavis does not want me back, and why should he, Tony? ‘Twas I who divorced him, after all. When he came to France, we fought almost immediately, and then he did not even bid me farewell when he departed for Scotland. Nay, he considers himself well rid of me and who knows, perhaps he is right. My own Lona once accused me of being a bad wife to Tavis Stewart. It was a courageous judgment for a maidservant to make against her mistress, but she was correct, I fear, and though she not be my equal in rank, we are friends. I cannot fault her. Besides,” and here Arabella smiled almost mischievously, “I do not think I have done anything Tavis Stewart need forgive me for, Tony.”
It was a pointedly honest assessment of the situation, and Anthony Varden was once more impressed with Arabella Grey’s grasp of the state of her circumstances. He did not know another woman who would have been so direct, so honest, and he wasn’t certain that he was comfortable with her bluntness. Women, he believed, should be a bit softer, a bit more dependent upon a man than Arabella Grey was. Still, he liked her.
Early the following morning Anthony Varden and Arabella Grey appeared before King Henry at Sheen. The sun was barely up, and the king had come directly from Mass. Henry Tudor wanted as little fuss as possible regarding the restoration to his good graces of Lord Varden and Lady Grey. A careful man, he wanted no probing questions asked concerning his decision to return these two to his favor. His advantage over France was in keeping secret his knowledge regarding King Charles’ marriage plans. How he would use the information obtained by Arabella Grey he did not know yet, but use it he eventually would. He chuckled aloud to himself. The little French king was more dangerous than he had thought, for like most, he assumed the young man a dullard, but Charles was not a dullard at all. He was the Spider’s son, and blood would always tell. Maximilian of Hapsburg was a damned fool to believe he might snatch Brittany away from French domination. Aye, this information that Arabella Grey had brought to him was most valuable indeed.
“Tony!” The king clasped his old friend in a royal embrace, and stepping back, smiled, his little blue eyes bright with friendliness. It was the first real smile Arabella could ever remember seeing Henry Tudor smile. “It is good to have you back with me again, my old friend,” the king said warmly.
“Sire,” Lord Varden said, his voice thick with emotion and near tears at the gracious welcome.
“What, Tony? Not Hal? Whatever we may be to each other in public, we are still Hal and Tony in private,” the king reassured his old friend.
“Thank you, my lord,” Lord Varden told the king. “It is good to be in England after so long a time away. Riding up from Dover, I realized that I had almost forgotten how fair a place England is.”
“You have been a great help to us, Tony, and we are grateful,” the king said with sincerity. He put a friendly arm about Lord Varden. “You will remember I once promised you that when you returned home, I would see you suitably rewarded for your valiant service to the crown.” The king lifted a sheaf of papers from his desk. Arabella could see the royal seal upon them. He held them out to Lord Varden. “These papers grant you a barony and make you the owner of Whitebridge, an estate north and west of York. It consists of some several hundred acres of land, both pasture, fields, and woods, as well as a fine little castle. By royal decree it will descend through your family in perpetuity. Take it with our grateful thanks, Tony.”
Lord Varden accepted the packet, bowing low to the king as he did so, and then he said, “I would have one additional boon of you, Hal. ‘Tis bold of me to ask it after your great generosity, but frankly, I need a wife. Do you think the queen might know of a lady whom she would like to favor and who would make me a good wife? I have been away from England so long that I know of no young ladies I might consider. I must throw myself at your mercy, Hal.”
The king nodded thoughtfully. “You would want a young woman, one who could have children, of course, Tony. The queen has a young maid of honor, an orphan, Lady Anne Millerton, for whom I know she would like a husband. Mind you, the girl’s dowry is modest, which has, of course, made it difficult to find a suitable match, but she is a pretty and obedient wench and has, I am told, a most merry disposition. I cannot, however, give her to you without the queen’s permission, for my Beth does dote on the girl. She is just fifteen and reminds the queen of her younger sister. Still, as I do not wish a great deal of emphasis put upon your return…” Henry Tudor considered a moment and then called loudly, “Peter, my lad, to me!”
Almost immediately an apple-cheeked young boy ran into the king’s chamber and bowed. “My lord?”
“Go to the queen and tell her that I would have her and Lady Anne Millerton wait upon me immediately.”
The lad, who was the king’s personal page, bowed again and ran from the room.
Henry Tudor now turned his glance upon Arabella. “Welcome home, Lady Grey. Tony tells me that this vital piece of information regarding King Charles’ marriage plans is due to your cleverness, madame. Is this so?”
“Aye, my liege, it is so,” Arabella replied simply.
“Then you have certainly earned your right to Greyfaire, madame, though I am as yet concerned with the thought of a woman holding that particular keep. Still, there is no war between Scotland and ourselves, and there will be none in the future, God willing. It is a poor place, your Greyfaire, so I am told by the clerk who visited there. Are you certain that you would not accept from us a more prosperous estate for yourself and your child? I would not be mean with a woman who has given so much of herself for England.”
“No, my liege, but I thank you for the offer,” Arabella said. “‘Twas Greyfaire for which I fought, and ‘tis Greyfaire only that I want and will accept from you.”
“The Percys will not have your lass for their bastard slip, madame,” the king said quietly. “They think your lands valueless and not worth having. Lord Percy would seek higher for his brat.” He looked at her to see what effect his words would have.
“Lord Percy is a pompous, hotheaded fool, my liege. I would not trust him if I were you,” Arabella replied. “Margaret is too young for me to worry that I have not yet found a husband for her. There will be someone in time, Sire, and you will approve of him, I know.”
The king nodded. “Very well, then, Lady Grey.” He handed her a sheaf of papers similar to those he had handed Lord Varden. “These are yours, madame. Greyfaire belongs to you once more, and it may descend through either the male or the female line of your family in perpetuity.”
“Thank you, my liege,” Arabella said gratefully, and she curtsied low to the king.
At that moment the queen hurried through the door into the king’s chamber, a young girl in her wake. Both Lord Varden and Lady Grey made their obeisance.
