“I am certain that you do,” Arabella replied, removing the chain from her own neck and slipping it about her daughter’s. “He is a grand playmate, I’m sure, but you have only been visiting with Arthur. Now we must go home again. Would you like to ride with me upon my horse?”
Margaret’s eyes grew interested. “Arthur has a pony,” she said, and then added slyly, “Can I have a pony too?”
“When we get to Greyfaire,” answered her mother cleverly.
“A pony of my very own?” Margaret persisted.
“Aye! And no one else shall be allowed to ride it but you, my wee Maggie,” Arabella promised her.
Margaret Stewart moved out of the corner and into her waiting mother’s arms for a hug. “Let’s go home and get my pony,” she said. “Then I will bring him back to show Arthur. May I bring it back to show Arthur, Mama?”
“Someday,” Arabella said, picking Margaret up. “Someday, my Maggie!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Arabella Grey looked at what had once been a prosperous and fruitful orchard. The land was waist-high in weeds, and there was not a sign of the young trees she had so carefully overseen the planting of some fourteen months ago. Her eyes turned to the village that had once clustered snug and cheery at the foot of Greyfaire Keep. It was gone. Nothing remained of the neat street of cottages where generations of Greyfaire’s people had been born, had lived, and had died, nothing but a few piles of blackened stones, now wet with the summer rain. As Arabella and her party continued up the road to the keep, she noted a few scrawny sheep grazing in the overgrown meadows. Wordlessly she looked to FitzWalter.
“We’ll know soon enough,” he said grimly.
The drawbridge to the keep was raised in a defensive position, but as they neared it, it began to lower. The wooden drawbridge had been scorched with fire recently and bore the open marks of axes, pikes, and other sharp weapons.
FitzWalter halted their little party. “We don’t know who’s inside, my lady,” he told her. “Let them come to us. We’ll not be lambs walking into the lion’s maw.”
A single rider came forth from the keep, and Arabella said excitedly, “Tis Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!” She waved at him, and hearing her voice, he spurred forward to greet them.
“Lady! Thank God and His blessed Mother, ‘tis you! Quickly! Into the keep! We never know when they will strike anymore.”
“Who, lad?” FitzWalter said, putting his hand upon his son’s bridle to stay him. “Have the Scots done this to Greyfaire?”
“The Scots?Nay, Da, ‘twas not the Scots who destroyed Greyfaire. ‘Twas Sir Jasper Keane. Please come now! We must get the drawbridge raised back up again. Even with your few men we have not the force to defeat them should they get the advantage over us.”
They followed Rowan into the keep, and the drawbridge was raised, creaking behind them. Within the small courtyard Arabella was shocked to see a number of small wooden huts that had been constructed against the outer walls. She did not need to ask. The stench of human waste and from an overpopulation of farm animals sheltering within the Courtyard was overwhelming.
Lona’s eyes were wide with amazement. “God help us all!” she said and clasped little Margaret against her bosom.
“Is the keep habitable?” Arabella demanded.
“Barely,” came the reply.
Arabella dismounted her horse and hurried up the steps into her castle. Within she found a variety of damage. All the windows in the Great Hall were broken, as was most of the furniture. The floors were badly scarred. There was dust and general filth everywhere. Whatever had happened, she thought angrily, there was no excuse for this!
“Why has your mother not seen to the castle?” she said to Rowan.
“She ain’t here, my lady. When the troubles got bad, and most of Greyfaire’s folk went south to seek safety and a new life, I sent my mother and little sister to my eldest sister, Wanetta, in York. She didn’t want to go, but I knew Da would have done the same thing, given the chance. All that’s left here, lady, are the old and the stubborn,” Rowan finished gloomily.
“Are there any women capable of working among the stubborn?” Arabella said dryly, and when he nodded, she continued. “Send them to me at once. We must talk, Rowan FitzWalter, but until this hall is habitable, I will not listen to anything you have to say.” Arabella turned to Lona. “Take Margaret to my rooms and make them livable if they are not, Lona. Go with her, Fergus MacMichael, and help her.”
“Aye, my lady,” Lona answered her, glaring at her brother furiously. Rowan certainly did not have a great deal of practicality in his nature, Lona decided as she carried her charge upstairs.
Several women, ageless and openly dispirited, came into the hall bearing brooms and buckets of water. Arabella directed them herself, wielding a broom with which she helped to sweep the hall.
“If you cannot find men to repair this furniture,” she raged at Rowan, “then find me some furniture that isn’t broken, damnit! I do not care how hard the times have been here. You should have kept the hall in readiness for my return.”
He scuttled off, chastened. FitzWalter himself had gone back out into the courtyard to check the stables to see to his men and to get what information he could. Among the remaining women he found several who were capable, and he sent them to the kitchens with instructions to get the ovens going and to prepare food. He was furious at his only son, but he also understood that the boy had done his very best under the circumstances. He had assumed he was leaving Rowan with an easy task. Too many years of soft living, FitzWalter considered, had left him unprepared for the unexpected. An older, wiser man would have pursued Sir Jasper Keane and his men after their first attack, wreaking as many casualties as he could. An older, wiser man would have made certain that Sir Jasper did not come back after that first raid.
By nightfall they had managed to restore some semblance of order to Greyfaire. The windows in the Great Hall were shuttered closed, and a good fire burned in the fireplaces, removing the dank and musty chill from the room. Outside it had begun to rain heavily. The large oak trestle had been returned to the highboard, and several chairs as well. The sideboard was clean and shining with beeswax. On the table were the remains of two capons and a trout. There had been a bowl of peas, but it was now empty. A newly baked loaf had been almost totally consumed, and there was but a shred of cheese left. Arabella did not stand on ceremony this night. FitzWalter, Lona, Fergus MacMichael, and Rowan had all joined her. Wee Maggie was sleeping safely above, watched over by an elderly woman named Nora, who, upon seeing the little lass, had immediately claimed her as her own charge.
Arabella sat back at last, draining her cup empty and looking to Lona to refill it. She finally fixed her gaze on Rowan FitzWalter, saying, “Begin at the beginning, Rowan, and leave nothing out. You have done your best, I know, and I am not angry with you.”
