“My dear lord,” the queen said anxiously, “what is it that you would send for me so precipitously?” Her pretty face was livid with distress.
“Calm yourself, Beth. This is Lord Anthony Varden, my old and dear friend of whom you have heard me speak. He has been in France these many years, and he has rendered us many a valuable service,” the king told his wife meaningfully. “He has returned now with Lady Grey. You do remember Lady Grey, madame? She will be leaving today for her home at Greyfaire, and has come for her daughter. Tony will also be going north to his estate, Whitebridge. He has asked me if I would make a suitable match for him so that he might take a wife with him.” The light of understanding dawned instantly in the queen’s eyes, and she looked to young Lady Millerton, who, not being a dense girl, also understood where this was leading. Glancing quickly in Anthony Varden’s direction, Lady Millerton blushed. She was a pretty girl with brown-gold hair and soft gray-blue eyes. Lord Varden suddenly looked shy and stared down at his feet.
The queen’s eyes twinkled at this silent exchange. She liked Anthony Varden’s appearance, and he had the look of a good man. “Am I to understand, my dear lord, that you would like to marry my little Anne to Lord Varden?”
“If the lady has no strong objections, madame,” the king replied.
The queen turned to her maid of honor. “Anne, what say you? It is an honorable offer, and Whitebridge is a pretty estate. I know it well, for it once belonged to my uncle George, and later to my uncle Richard. I know that my dear lord, the king, would not offer you to just any man, for he is well aware of how I dote upon you, and of the fact that you will always have my friendship.”
Anne Millerton stood perhaps two inches taller than Anthony Varden. She walked across the room to where he stood, and looking into his face, said in a gentle voice, “What say you, my lord? Do you find me pleasing despite my great height? I have heard from his majesty, the king, and I have heard from my lady, the queen, but I have heard nothing from you. I know ‘tis most bold of me, and I am not bold by nature, I assure you, but what say you to this match, my lord?”
He was entranced by her, and it was written all over Anthony Varden’s face. She was nothing in face or form like his dead wife, but there was a sweetness about Anne Millerton that caught at his heart.
“I say, Mistress Anne,” he told her, “that I had forgotten how pretty English girls were, and that if you would consent to be my wife, you would make me the happiest of men. I am a good man, I promise you, and go to Mass regularly.” He stopped, not knowing what else to say.
“Why then, sir, if you will so generously have me to wife, I will be right glad to have you as my husband,” Lady Anne Millerton said, curtsying to him.
“Good,” the king said brusquely. “Then that is settled! Send for my confessor, Peter, my boy, and we will celebrate this marriage at once.”
“My lord!”The queen was shocked. “There are the banns to be read, and Anne’s trousseau must be made ready, and I would fete her even as her own dear parents would were they yet living. This will be no hole-in-the-wall affair if I have anything to say about it!”
“Lord Varden must go north as quickly as possible,” the king said firmly.
“I do not mind a quick wedding,” Lady Anne interjected. “The king has been so generous in choosing me a good husband, madame, that if I must give up the frivolity that usually surrounds a marriage celebration, I will gladly do so and make no complaint afterward.”
“You see, Tony? You are a fortunate man, indeed. She is a most sensible girl!” the king said, pleased. “Fetch the priest, Peter. We will meet him in my private chapel.”
“May I go and fetch my daughter now, my liege?” Arabella asked.
“No!” the king replied. “You will witness Lord Varden’s marriage to Lady Millerton, for Tony would not have it any other way, would you, my friend?”
“But a few minutes more, Arabella,” Lord Varden begged her. “I have not a doubt that Hal will send us all packing before the morning is out.”
“Indeed I will,” the king said. “In time, Tony, you may return to court, but for now you must go home to Whitebridge.”
The king’s confessor came and protested volubly at the king’s wishes, but Henry Tudor overcame the cleric’s objections so that he waived the reading of the banns and performed the marriage ceremony without further delay, uniting Lord Anthony Varden to Lady Anne Millerton in holy wedlock. The queen, and the king, and the king’s page, Peter, and Lady Arabella Grey witnessed the sacrament, and afterward toasted the somewhat dazed couple with a goblet of wine.
“We must pack Anne’s belongings, my lord,” the queen finally said, “and, of course, Lady Grey would like to regain the custody of her daughter. You and Lord Varden must certainly have a great deal of catching up to do. As the hour is yet early, perhaps you will take this time to be with your friend before your day begins in earnest. The ladies will meet you in the courtyard within the hour, my lord. Lady Grey is, I assume, traveling north with you, Lord Varden?”
“She is,” he admitted.
The queen shepherded the new Lady Varden and Arabella from the king’s chamber, Arabella having thanked the king before she departed. “You will find that your daughter has grown taller in the year she has been with us, madame,” the queen told Lady Grey. “She is a delightful little girl, if perhaps a trifle willful. Prince Arthur adores her. More so than his own baby sister, but perhaps that is because he can play with your daughter and not with his own sister yet.”
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.
