“Leave the child with me,” Mother Mary Bede instructed Arabella. “She may play in the kitchens, where there are new kittens, and Sister Mary Grace is baking honey cakes.”
Although Arabella was worried that Margaret might be frightened without her, the little girl put her hand trustingly into that of the gaunt nun and trotted off.
“Well, that’s one less worry,” said Lona, who was accompanying her mistress to court.
The horses had been combed and curried, and their coats glistened as they rode slowly down the road to Sheen. The king and his family inresidence, the road was a busy one this day, with much going to and fro. There were those who provisioned the king and court, carrying or driving their wares. There were merchants hoping to gain favor. There were courtiers, and hangers-on and their servants. There were soldiers. Lena’s eyes were wide and curious, her head swiveling every which way at some new sight, but Arabella rode, eyes straight ahead, refusing to be distracted, considering for the hundredth time just how she should approach the queen. To her surprise, it turned out to be far easier than she had anticipated.
Elizabeth of York was a sweet-faced young woman with thick flaxen braids and beautiful light blue eyes. She received her guest in a small private garden, for the afternoon was pleasant and warm. She had with her but one attendant, a discreet lady who busily plied her embroidery needle without even looking at her mistress’s visitor. Arabella, kneeling meekly before the queen, was asked to rise and state her case. The priest who had brought Arabella to the queen also remained by her side.
Kissing the queen’s hand, Arabella then stood and explained as carefully as possible her difficulties regarding Greyfaire. She finished by saying, “So you see, madame, if I might just lay my case before the king and win his approval, I could return home to reassure my people. They do not understand any of this and are frightened, as you may well imagine. I am, however, a woman of no great importance, your majesty. Had it not been for Mother Mary Bede’s brother, Father Paul, I should not have even had a means of redress to you despite the letters I carried. I only want my rights, and those of my daughter Margaret, confirmed so I may return home. I am no woman of the world, merely a simple country woman.”
“Why is your husband not with you, Lady Grey?” the queen asked, curious.
“I divorced my husband, madame. He swore a sacred oath that he would aid me in my quest to regain Greyfaire, and yet he did not. He swore an oath to me that he would give our daughter, at age six, into the keeping of an English husband so that King Henry would be assured of Greyfaire’s continuing loyalty, and yet suddenly he began to speak of matching Margaret with a Home or a Hepburn.”
“You are certainly a woman of strong character, Lady Grey,” the queen noted, just a trifle shocked. “Did your husband not oppose this divorce?”
“King James believed my cause was just, madame, and he is my husband’s nephew,” Arabella replied, not quite answering the queen’s question. “The Archbishop of St. Andrew’s also concurred. It is not a decision I made lightly, madame. I love my husband.”
“Then your pain is certainly doubled, Lady Grey,” Elizabeth of York answered, “yet I understand better than many what it is to lose everything you hold dear. In my case I could do nothing and was at the mercy of others to solve my problems. You are very brave, I think, to attempt to right your own wrongs. I will certainly bring your plight to my husband’s attention as quickly as possible, and I will arrange for you to have an audience with the king.”
“For whom will you arrange an audience, Beth?” Henry Tudor had entered the queen’s garden and overheard the last part of his wife’s sentence. He was a serious-faced man, already slightly stooped with the worries of his office. He had a long, prominent nose, and fathomless eyes that seemed to register little if any emotion, and yet those eyes softened when they gazed upon the queen.
Elizabeth arose and curtsied prettily to her husband. “This is Lady Arabella Grey, my lord, and she needs your majesty’s aid greatly.”
“You would have an audience of me, my lady? Then say on, for you have my ear,” the king told Arabella, who curtsied deeply at the king’s entry and handed him James Stewart’s letter of introduction.
Once more Arabella told her story.
When she had finished, the king said, “A border keep such as yours, however small, needs a man.” Henry Tudor briefly scanned the parchment she had given him before handing it to his servant. He vaguely remembered a recent communiqué from the Scots king regarding this matter.
“I have a man, Sire,” Arabella answered. “FitzWalter, who was my father’s captain, has had Greyfaire in his keeping ever since my father was killed seven years ago. His son Rowan stands behind his father, ready to take his place one day when he is needed. We are a small keep, Sire, but we have ever been loyal.”
“Sir Jasper Keane is loyal,” Henry Tudor said, curious to see what reaction his words would have. He was not disappointed.
“Jasper Keane is loyal to himself first, Sire!” Arabella said furiously. “He murdered a noble Scots woman, and then refused to give her betrothed husband the satisfaction of honorable combat. Instead he hid behind an elderly priest to save his cowardly skin, thus endangering all of Greyfaire. His actions have caused the difficulties that I face. His marriage to my mother was an open scandal, and he was responsible for her death as well. Jasper Keane betrayed King Richard in an effort to steal my property. I cannot believe a man of your majesty’s nobility and good reputation would retain such a man as a friend, or reward such a craven creature for his shameful perfidies!”
The queen and the few about her were somewhat aghast by Arabella’s angry words, but the king’s mouth twitched with frosty amusement.
“You speak bluntly, madame, for a humble petitioner.”
“Sire, I have given everything I have to regain my home. If you refuse me, what more can I lose?” Arabella asked honestly.
“Tell me how you came to be involved with Sir Jasper,” the king said. “Did your father match you?”
“No, Sire, King Richard matched us.”
“Yet you claim to be a woman of no importance,” the king said craftily.
“I am not, Sire, but my mother, may God assoil her sweet soul, was Anne Neville’s beloved cousin and friend. When my father was killed in England’s defense, my mother, who was a gentle creature and helpless without my father’s counsel, asked Queen Anne to arrange a match for me for Greyfaire’s sake. Sir Jasper Keane was King Richard’s choice. Neither my mother nor I had ever laid eyes on him prior to the king’s decision; and Sir Jasper, wicked knave he is, had no sooner laid eyes on my mother than he seduced her, poor frail lady she was.”
“Do you seek revenge then, madame?” Henry Tudor asked.
“If I were a man, Sire, I should have long ago had satisfaction of Sir Jasper Keane, but alas, I am a weak woman. I must meekly swallow my anger and pray God for my poor mother’s soul, but I would do those things on my own land. Jasper Keane has no right to Grey lands. He has his own lands at Northby, though his house was burned by the Scots,” she concluded, a small smile touching the corners of her mouth.
“What of another husband for you, madame?” the king inquired.
“I would prefer to not marry again, Sire,” Arabella said. “Managing Greyfaire so that my child’s inheritance is safe and prosperous will take all my time. I would not have the time for another husband, or other children. Life in the north has never been easy, my lord, and Sir Jasper has neglected Greyfaire badly while forcing our young men and boys into his service that he might impress your majesty.”
