Lona giggled, confiding in her mistress and friend, “He’s got quick hands, ‘Bella, and a sweet kiss, I vow.”
“And will you wed him if he asks?”
“Perhaps,” Lona smiled, “but first I would be courted a bit by the man. Ohhh, ‘Bella, he has the bluest eyes!”
The winter came, and with it a strange calm settled over Scotland. The king still mourned his wife, but the queen was now dead six months, and those who negotiated peace in England also seriously considered Elizabeth Woodville as a possible replacement for Margaret of Denmark. Tidbits of news always reached Dunmor first, for messengers returning from England always stopped at the castle. The king’s half brother was known for his loyalty and his hospitality. Archibald Douglas, whose border castle of Hermitage was not too far distant, found to his irritation that he was not considered as generous a host. He was forced to visit Dunmor in order to learn what was happening firsthand, for he found that secondhand gossip was usually unreliable.
“Elizabeth Woodville would destroy yer brother,” he told Tavis Stewart one night as he enjoyed the earl’s fine wine in the Great Hall of Dunmor Castle. “They say she’s a woman of great passions. Not at all to Jemmie’s taste, though perhaps Jamie would enjoy her favors.”
“I hae nae doubt that Henry Tudor would like to rid himself of his mother-in-law,” Tavis said, chuckling. “She is a most troublesome jade, I hear, and I dinna think his own mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, considers her wi’ much kindness either. The negotiators play wi’ each other, Archie, and ye know it even as I do. ‘Tis peace that is the main order of business between our countries. I dinna think forcing poor Jemmie to the altar wi’ that English harpie would lead us to a lasting peace.”
“But it might lead yer brother into a good fight wi’ the English,” the Earl of Angus laughed.
“There will be nae match between the king and that particular lady,’’ Tavis Stewart said quietly. “The peace treaty is ready for signing, and Henry Tudor has other troubles to worry about that take precedence over Elizabeth Woodville.”
“The lad in Ireland,” Archibald Douglas said.
“There’s talk of crowning him in Dublin,” Tavis Stewart said. “That canna set well wi’ the Tudor.”
“He’s got an heir now in Prince Arthur,” Angus said.
“Aye, but there are still some diehard Yorkists who would choose a boy prince of York over a Lancastrian king,” the Earl of Dunmor answered him.
“But the lad is an imposter, or so Henry Tudor says. Why, only recently I hear he dragged the poor little Plantagenet out from the Tower to display.’’ The Earl of Angus thought a moment and then said, “If, of course, the little laddie is therealYork prince. Mayhap this boy in Ireland is the real York heir.”
“It makes no difference to Scotland,” Tavis Stewart said. “Let the English fight amongst themselves and leave us in peace.”
“Or to gain back Berwick,” Angus said slyly.
“Will ye nae ever cease singing that tune, Archie?”
“My lord!”
The earl looked to see Lona. “Aye, lass, what is it?”
“My mistress bade me come and tell you that the babe will shortly be born,” Lona said excitedly.
Tavis Stewart leapt to his feet. “Is she all right, lass? Does she nae need me?” He didn’t know which way to turn, to Angus’ amusement, for Archibald Douglas had never thought to see the Earl of Dunmor so at loose ends, and all over a bairn to boot.
“I do not think she would mind if you sat by her side, my lord.”
“My mother!”
“Her ladyship has already sent for Lady Fleming,” Lona replied.
“A priest!” the earl cried.
“God’s foot, man, yer wife isna dying, and the bairn will nae need christening until he’s born,” Angus said good-naturedly. “Go on to yer woman, Tavis. I dinna mind my own company as long as yer fine wine holds out.”
Lona had already departed the hall, and the earl hurried after her. When he reached Arabella’s apartments he was met by Flora, who said matter-of-factly, “Yer mam will nae get here in time, my lord, for never hae I seen a bairn so eager to be born than this one. Why, one moment yer lady was sitting quietly wi’ her embroidery hoop, and in the next minute she was laboring to bring forth the bairn.”
“Flora!”Arabella’s voice sounded stridently.
“I’m here, my lamb,’’ the older woman said soothingly, “and here’s the cause of all yer troubles himself.’’
Arabella was half seated in a birthing chair, her legs spread and raised upon two wooden runners. Her beautiful face was flushed, her brow dappled with beads of perspiration, yet she smiled when she saw her husband. “Ohh, Tavis! The babe is coming! Before the night is out we shall have our child!’’
“More before the hour’s out,” Flora muttered beneath her breath as the earl bent to kiss his wife.
