“My lady.” Lona was entering the dayroom carrying Margaret, who now rested, was bright-eyed and alert.
“Oh, what a beautiful little girl!” the queen cried. Her hand went to her belly. “Though I know I must give England more sons, I do hope this babe is a daughter.”
Lona’s eyes grew round with recognition, but she wisely remained silent.
“Margaret,” Arabella said, taking her child from her servant,
“I must go away for a little while, and you are to stay with this kind lady. She has a little boy your age, and a new baby to come.”
Margaret looked at the queen, who smiled at her. “Pretty lady,” Margaret said. “I take my kitten!”
“Oh, Margaret, I do not know,” Arabella said.
“Of course she may take her kitten,” the queen agreed, smiling again at Margaret.
“We go now,” Margaret said. “Lona, get Mittens!”
Arabella nodded, and Lona ran to fetch the little gray cat with the two white front paws that Mother Mary Bede had given to Margaret.
“Get down,” Margaret said, squirming impatiently.
“Can I not give you a farewell hug and a kiss?” Arabella laughed, squeezing her daughter lovingly and kissing her pink cheek.
“Down!”Margaret demanded.
The queen chuckled. “She is like her mother, I think.”
“And her father too,” Arabella admitted. “There is much that is Scot in Margaret, I believe,” she said, reluctantly placing her daughter upon the floor even as Lona returned to put Mittens in the little girl’s arms.
Margaret slipped a trusting hand into the queen’s hand, and looking up at her, said, “We go now!”
“Bid your mother a sweet farewell, Lady Margaret Stewart,” the queen said in kindly, but firm tones.
Margaret half turned and curtsied to her mother. “Farewell, Mama,” she said brightly. “I go now with pretty lady.”
Arabella knelt before her daughter. “You must call the pretty lady, ‘your grace,’ Margaret.”
“Your grace,” Margaret parroted.
“Very good,” Arabella said, and then she took the little girl’s face in her two hands. “I love you, my child. Do not forget that, and do not forget me. I will come back to fetch you, and we will go home to Greyfaire soon. God protect you, my Margaret, and keep you safe until we meet again.” Arabella kissed her daughter a final time.
Margaret smiled. “Farewell, Mama,” she said again, and then turning, trotted off with the queen without a backward glance.
Arabella remained kneeling, feeling the very heart drain out of her, but Lona said in practical tones, “‘Tis always that way with little ones who know they are loved. They are never afraid to do something new. She’ll be safe, ‘Bella. Imagine the queen herself coming to fetch our Margaret! She’s a great lady, our young queen.”
Chapter Seventeen
France.Its coastline glowed distinct through the pearlescent haze of dawn. Arabella gazed upon it with a sense of disbelief. Only yesterday she had been in England, but fair skies, a brisk wind, and swift seas had transported her from Dover to Calais in less than a day. Calais, of course, had been in English hands since the Battle of Crécy in 1346. It had been captured by the third King Edward after a siege that had lasted almost a year. It was from here she would set off for Paris, and although they had brought their own horses, Arabella intended purchasing a small carriage and animals to draw it. Even if she must play the poor exile, she would do it with the kind of elegance she knew the French would appreciate. Though she spoke excellent French, and she knew FitzWalter had a knowledge of the language, it would not do for her to bargain for her vehicle and the horses. Better they land at Calais where they could do business with their own kind.
By coincidence the captain of their vessel had a brother-in-law who, he said, could help them, and upon landing they were directed to the inn of the Six Burghers, which was owned by that worthy gentleman. FitzWalter had polished his cuirass until it shone brightly and he wore a helmet of the same metal upon his head. His men were equally impressive, despite their simple breastplates of leather. Riding up to the inn with their lady, they were immediately recognized for gentry, and several stablemen hurried out to help with the horses.
“Where is your master?” FitzWalter demanded of one of the grooms. “Fetch him at once!”
As the man hurried off, FitzWalter winked at Arabella in conspiratorial fashion.
The innkeeper, a large, tall man with a distinct limp, came forth to greet them. “My lady, welcome, and how may I be of service to you?” he said.
“I wish to purchase a coach and horses,” Arabella said. “I have been told by Master Dennis of theMermaidthat you have such equipages for sale.”
