Arabella liked the king. He was kind and soft-spoken, even if he did find it difficult to make decisions. One decision he did make was to teach his young sister-in-law the history of his land. Each day before the dinner hour the Countess of Dunmor came to her brother-in-law’s private rooms in Stirling Castle, beautiful rooms designed by the king’s late favorite, Robert Cochrane, where she sat at the king’s knee and listened as he spoke of Scotland’s history. She was soon familiar with the savage and fierce Malcolm Canmore and his queen, Margaret, who had attained sainthood. It was this gentle Margaret of England, a princess of Alfred’s line, who brought Scotland its first taste of civilized living, and in the process, lessened Celtic power and influence. That had been four centuries back.
Two centuries ago William Wallace of Elderslie had leapt into prominence following King Edward I of England’s brutal subjugation of Scotland. Wallace, a young man of great height who was renowned for his strength and his courage, led Scotland in its War of Independence against the English. Eventually captured and viciously executed by the English, Wallace’s legend of bravery encouraged the Scots to choose another leader, one Robert Bruce. It was Bruce’s daughter, Margery, who married Walter, the High Steward of Scotland, and from whom the Royal Stewarts were descended.
Arabella was fascinated by it all, for she had not really known how closely intertwined the two countries really were, or fully understood the reasons for the deep and often painful bitterness engendered between England and Scotland. She now comprehended better the king’s desire for peace with his southern neighbor. It was not weakness on James’ part. It was survival. The English, united as a nation for centuries, had been able to grow and prosper. The Scots, divided by petty rivalries, had not. They were two hundred years behind their neighbors to both the south and upon the European continent itself.
Prince James frequently joined them in their lessons. His love for his father was evident, even if his respect was not. Jamie did not understand the king’s need for friends who were of a humbler rank than he, and yet the prince was no snob. Still, he was uncomfortable in the presence of the king’s physician, William Scheves, and William Elphinstone, a wise and kind jurist whom his father had raised from a lowly church office to the important bishopric of Aberdeen. These were men with no power or wealth or rank behind them. Nonetheless, the prince came often, if only to flirt with Arabella Stewart, who, in spite of herself, had begun to succumb to the charming side of his personality, even if she did not approve of his licentiousness.
One afternoon the prince escorted her to the Great Hall of Stirling Castle after her lesson with the king. “Why,’’ he asked her bluntly, “will ye nae lay wi’ me, Arabella Stewart? Am I nae fair to look upon, and surely ye hae heard that I am an excellent lover.”
As startled as she was by his directness, Arabella could not help but reply in kind, despite his rank. “My lord,” she said, “I know that the women of this court are loose in their behavior, but I am not. I love my husband, and I honor his name, even as he honors mine. I do not approve of infidelity, though it may flourish about me. I would be your friend, my lord, but if you persist in this foolish and reckless pursuit of my person, I shall be forced to speak to my husband and to your lady mother regarding your behavior.’’
“Madame, you are hard,” Jamie Stewart replied, his hands placed over his heart for effect.
Arabella laughed. “My lord, do not think to weasel me with your charm, for I am determined not to be taken in by you.’’
The prince stopped, and taking her hand, drew her about to face him. “This is nae coyness, madame? Ye mean what ye say? There is nae hope for me?” he demanded, searching her face for a sign, however small, of some encouragement.
“I am resolved to be faithful to my lord husband, highness,” Arabella said quietly.
“He is a fortunate man,” the prince replied.
“I am a fortunate woman, my lord,” Arabella said softly.
“If I could but find a love like yers, madame…” Jamie Stewart said.
“In time, my lord, you will. You are young yet, despite your great height and your wicked ways,” she teased, and he chuckled.
“But I may count upon yer friendship, Arabella Stewart?”
“Aye, my lord, you have it,” she told him.
They arrived in the Great Hall of Stirling Castle to learn that King Henry VII had finally, on the eighteenth day of January, married Princess Elizabeth of York at Westminster.
“He didna dare wait any longer,” the Earl of Angus said. “The commons petitioned him at Christmas to stop dragging his feet and marry the wench. Henry Tudor’s claim to his throne is nebulous at best. His wife’s claim could be said to be stronger, and if the truth be known, young Edward, the boy Earl of Warwick, has the strongest claim of all, being the last surviving, legitimate male Plantagenet. His late father, the Duke of Clarence, was older than King Richard.”
“Henry Tudor,” the king said, taking up the tale, “and his wife are both great-great-grandchildren of John of Gaunt and his third wife, Katherine Swynford. They had four bairns, three lads and a lassie, but the bairns were born illegitimate, for after the death of his first wife, Blanche of Lancaster, the Duke of Lancaster was forced by political necessity to wed Constanza of Portugal despite the fact he hae already fallen in love wi’ Lady Swynford. After his second wife died, John of Gaunt wed wi’ his true love and legitimized their bairns, who had taken the family name of Beaufort. The Tudor’s mam is Lady Margaret Beaufort, the great-granddaughter of the duke and his last wife, descended through the line of their eldest son, John Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset. Elizabeth of York, however, descends through the line of Joan Beaufort, the only daughter of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford. She was wed to Ralph Neville, the Earl of Westmorland. She was his second wife. His first had borne him nine children. Joan Beaufort bore him fourteen more. It was the youngest daughter of that match, Cecily, who wed Richard, Duke of York, and together they fathered King Edward IV and King Richard III, among others.”
Here Arabella took up the tale from the king. “My mother was a Neville,” she said. “She was raised by the Earl of Warwick, Richard Neville. I have seen Lady Cecily Neville many times. She was called the ‘Rose of Raby’ in her youth, for she was very beautiful. She still is, though she be an old lady. But all of this still does not tell me why King Henry lagged in his duty to wed with Princess Elizabeth.”
“I think,” the king said thoughtfully, “that Henry Tudor wanted to affirm his own rights to England’s throne before taking the York heiress to wife. There are some, I am told, who support him only for the sake of his wife’s family. ‘Tis hard on a man for his people to feel that way.’’
“And there is trouble yet brewing for that Welshman,’’ Angus said. “The boy earl will be a rallying point for the Yorkist rabble, for all King Henry’s lodged him in the Tower and made good his promise to marry the York heiress. That bodes well for Scotland, for the English canna give us difficulties when they hae their own difficulties at home. ‘Twould be a good time to regain Berwick back, I think.”
The other lords in the hall hearing his words nodded in agreement, but the king said, “I want peace wi’ England, Angus, and ye need nae shake yer head at me either. The violence that goes on on the border is horrific. It must be stopped once and for all!”
“Aye, and we’ll stop it only when we regain Berwick and teach the English nae to meddle wi’ the Scots!” Angus roared. “Yer weak, Jemmie Stewart! Yer father, God assoil him, and yer grandfather, God assoil him, would nae have sued meekly for peace as ye do!”
The king said nothing, but in his dark eyes there was a hopeless look, for he knew men like the Earl of Angus would never understand his policies.
“So you would wage war along the border, would you, my lord?” Arabella said furiously. “If you lived upon that land as I have lived my entire life, you would not be so eager to cause trouble! How dare you criticize the king for keeping the peace! You sit in the hall of your fine castle, safe from your enemies, planning havoc upon innocents, and you smugly think yourself the better man because you are as quick with your sword as you are undoubtedly to take offense. You never smell the smoke of burning cottages, do you? Or care that the hooves of your horses have destroyed kitchen gardens meant to feed a family through a winter? Do the cries of innocent women being raped by your men even reach you, or does the bloodlust ringing in your ears deafen you to them and to the shrieks of their children being murdered? You and your ilk make me ill, my lord, and lest you think I single the Scots out in this matter, be assured that I despise my own kind for the similar crimes that they commit here in Scotland. The madness must stop, and I for one support the king in his efforts. He is the best man of you all!’’
For a moment the Earl of Angus was rendered speechless by Arabella’s outburst, and then he said scathingly, “Dunmor, can ye nae keep yer woman under control?’’
Tavis Stewart saw it coming, but for the life of him he was unable to react swiftly enough. His countess, ever quick with her fists, doubled her small hand and hit Archibald Douglas a mighty blow that staggered him, much to his surprise and his deep embarrassment. The earl, thrown off balance, tottered backward a brief moment and then he grew beet red in his face. “Jesu Christus!” he roared, his hand going to the dagger at his waist, his gaze locking onto the Earl of Dunmor.
“Oh no, my lord!” Arabella shouted at him. “‘Tis not my husband with whom you have a quarrel, ‘tis me! Do you think I am afraid of you? I am not! Choose your weapon, and I will meet you anywhere to settle this matter, should you feel your ‘honor’ has been compromised.”
Now the Earl of Angus was truly rendered speechless, and all about them the court gaped between them, trying to make sense of the entire matter. The queen found herself close to laughter, and bit her lip sharply to contain her mirth. How many times, she thought, she had wanted to smack the arrogant Archibald Douglas herself, but she had never considered that a woman would do such a thing. Tavis Stewart swallowed back his own mirth, all the while wondering how the hell he was going to extricate both himself and his wee termagant of a wife from this mire she had gotten them into. It was then that the king spoke.
