“Nay, I dinna, but I dinna hang him either.”
“Introduce me to yer wife,’’ the Earl of Angus said and turned his gray eyes on Arabella. “Jamie was correct when he said she was a rare beauty, for all she’s English.”
“Many of Scotland’s queens have been English, my lord, and I do not think Scotland has suffered for it,’’ Arabella said pertly.
The Earl of Angus laughed. “So the rumor is correct, and she’s a spitfire as well,” he said. “Is it true ye wed her after tearing the clothes from her fair form, Tavis?”
“My wife, Arabella,” the Earl of Dunmor said through gritted teeth. “Arabella, this ‘gentleman’ is Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, whom we call ‘Bell the Cat.’ “
“Why do they call you that, my lord?” Arabella demanded.
“The summer we lost Berwick to England, madame, his nobles were, for the most part, in disagreement wi’ the king. We sat in the kirk at Lauder discussing what we would do,” the Earl of Angus began. “The king had—and here I believe even yer husband will agree wi’ me—put his favorites, all of them incompetent, in command of his armies, bypassing the logical choices. No one dared to confront him wi’ this until Lord Grey—perhaps a distant relation of yers, madame—said, ‘Will no one bell the cat?’ meaning speak wi’ the king. For a long time there was silence, and then I said that I would bell the cat. From that time on I hae been called ‘Bell the Cat Angus,’ and I am proud of it, madame, for on that day we rid Scotland of several men who took the king from his duties.”
“Ye murdered wi’ out trial or just cause most of poor Jemmie’s only friends,” Tavis Stewart said. “I agree wi’ ye, Angus, that my brother was wrong to put these men in charge of the armies, but ye could hae solved the situation wi’ out murder. Jemmie is a good king who has kept peace for Scotland most of his reign. The arts have flourished under my half brother’s benevolent rule. Surely ye dinna want the chaos of constant war like the damn highland lords. Those uncivilized wild men live for strife to the detriment of their people, and ye know it.’’
“The arts! Pah! Music, architecture, painting, and poetry! What twaddle, Dunmor! These things are best left to the French and Italian courts. Foreigners all! These things hae nothing to di wi’ the Scots, or wi’ Scotland!’’ the Earl of Angus said.
Before Tavis Stewart might speak up again in his brother’s defense, Arabella said spiritedly, “Just what does this have to do with Scotland and the Scots, my lord? Have you any idea of how you look to the rest of the world? A land where men run about in skirts, their lower limbs bare to the elements? A gray land where many of the peasants still live in turf houses because they have no strong claim to the land they work and cannot, or will not, build warmer, safer stone houses for fear of being evicted. A land that makes music by blowing through a sheep’s innards! Though I wear silks, velvets, and damasks, my lord, and there are figs, almonds, raisins, and dates in my kitchens and fine wines in my cellar, these things, as well as most of our furniture, come from England, France, Spain, and Italy. The Scots export little save animal skins, wool, and fish. Their reputation abroad is for brawling and bold women. King James attempts but to bring some of the beauty of Europe to this northern land. What is wrong with that, my lord? The king’s own grandfather, James the First, was a poet of some renown.”
“A man who spent eighteen years as a captive in England, and then came home wi’ an English wife,” Angus said sharply. “He was a good king though, madame. Arealman who rode, and wrestled, and was bloody skilled wi’ both the bow and the spear. He had great strength, and he loved the machinery of war. He knew how to govern!”
“He was a poet and a musician as well as a soldier, my lord,’’ Arabella told the Earl of Angus.
“Perhaps, but he was a soldier first, madame, and this James who rules us now is nae. Why, the poor bairn can barely sit a horse,” Angus said scornfully.
“He does not need to in order to keep the peace between England and Scotland, sir!”
Archibald Douglas looked down from his great height into the blazing green eyes of the Countess of Dunmor, and he began to chuckle. She was a wee bit of a lass, but she was not in the least afraid of him, or even slightly intimidated by him. “Tavis Stewart,” he said, “are ye certain this wife of yers is English? She sounds more Scot to me, and she’s surely as brave as a Scot.”
“I was not aware, my lord, that the Scots had a priority on bravery,” Arabella snapped, and turning on her heel, stalked off back toward the queen.
The Earl of Angus broke into guffaws of laughter. “She’ll breed ye up a feisty quiverful of bairns, Tavis, but God bless me, she’s got the sting of a dozen wasps in that tongue of hers.’’
“Arrogant, pompous ass!” Arabella muttered to herself as she stamped across the room, not particularly watching where she was going until she bumped into another person. “Ohh, Sire,” she gasped, mortified, and her eyes focused themselves. “I do beg your pardon!” Blushing, she curtsied quickly.
“Nae fault, lassie,” the king said in kindly tones, “but yer pretty face tells me yer angered. What has distressed ye?”
“The Earl of Angus is a damned fool, Sire!’’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
The king nodded sagely. “There are times, madame, when I would agree wi’ yer astute judgment. What hae he said that hae distressed ye so?”
“Sire,” Arabella said, “I am only a woman, and I have not had the advantages of a great education, but common sense tells me that peace is better than war. War destroys lives and property. Progress cannot be made in times of strife. I know that there are times when men have no other alternatives than to fight, but it seems to me, Sire, that the Scots prefer to fight first and find the cause for their war after the fact.’’
James Stewart chuckled, vastly amused by his petite sister-in-law’s clever judgment of his race. “Why, lassie, ye hae lived but a short time amongst us, yet ye know us well,” he said.
“Sire, I have had the Scots at my back door my whole life. How could I not know them well?” Arabella said.
“Angus hae always been critical of me, lassie,’’ the king said. “He hae ever been a hothead. He does nae understand that a king must rule wi’ his head as well as his sword.’’
“He does not understand the arts, Sire,” Arabella said earnestly. “While all about us in Europe and England there has been a great flowering of music and poetry and painting, here in Scotland all that is encouraged is to grow cabbages and carrots!”
Now the king laughed openly. He had not enjoyed a conversation so very much in months. His half brother’s lovely bride was a delight. “Which of the arts di ye prefer, Arabella Stewart?” he asked her.
“Music, I think, Sire. Mind you, I am not a musician myself, but my mother and I loved to sing together in the hall at Greyfaire. My father always said ‘twas a waste to give shelter to a roving Irish minstrel, for we two sang the songs better. Mother and I, however, insisted that the minstrels be invited in, for how else could we have learned new songs? Ohh, Sire, there is so much to know, and I know so very little!” the young Countess of Dunmor declared passionately.
He was touched. Learning was not a virtue well appreciated by the Scots at this point in time, although Scotland possessed two fine universities, one at Edinburgh and another at Glasgow. There were no laws requiring education of even the gentry’s sons. It was not thought that a good Scotsman needed to learn how to read, or write, or do simple sums so that his bailiff would not cheat him. A good Scotsman needed to know how to fight well, die well, and futter a woman well enough that he might be reasonably certain that his sons were his own. As for Scotswomen, if a man did not need to know how to read or write, certainly a woman didn’t.
“What is it ye would learn, lassie?” the king asked her.
