London, 1537
Messengers flew between London and David's rapid march south from Stirling as fast as a string of hunters could bear their riders. The contents of the sealed messages they carried were a source of great speculation throughout the country, but, as befitted trusted royal couriers, their bearers said nothing. All the curious could do was wait with bated breath for the two sisters to meet at last, knowing that, however the meeting went, however it was staged, it would most likely set the course of Albion's history for decades to come.
Rachel chose her attire very carefully the morning David brought Arabella before her. Her overskirts pooled around her in lavish yards of golden velvet, slashed with underskirts of royal indigo brocade. Her hair, long recognised as one of her crowning beauties, rippled loose down her back, threaded through with gleaming chunks of bloodstone, mother-of-pearl and rubies
Standing on the steps of the Guildhall, with all the great ladies of England arrayed behind her, just as her grandmother Queen Elizabeth had done when she'd welcomed Lord Ormonde and Sir William Brandon home in triumph after their victories in the Scottish Marches, she looked every inch the Queen she had been born to be.
In a calculated gesture, her mother's old banner rippled above her head and her stomacher was laced just tightly enough to leave the swell of her belly unmistakeable, even in the panelled gown she wore.
England's premier noblewoman, the Duchess of Suffolk, stood at her shoulder, and, as the crowds announced that David had turned down past St Paul's, that it wouldn't be long before he was with her, the older woman took advantage of the fact that she was Rachel's godmother to reach out and squeeze her hand, the comforting gesture hidden in the way their bell-like sleeves brushed against each other's.
"You're doing the right thing. Arabella's submission to you has to be as public a gesture as we can manage. You're doing the right thing."
Eyes locked forward, her head held high enough to hide any unease from prying eyes, Rachel said nothing, only pressed her lips together and relaxed her shoulders just the tiniest bit. But Sybil Brandon hadn't been a Queen's confidante almost all her life without learning to pick up on miniscule gestures of communication.
Reassured, she followed Rachel's gaze to where her older brother Charles, the Lieutenant and Constable of the Tower of London, was just cantering into view at the top of the road.
The Brandon siblings locked eyes for a moment as Charles neared the steps, before he drew rein and dropped to one knee before Rachel.
"Your Grace! The Lord David and I seek permission to bring the heinous traitors, the Lady Arabella, Prince Alexander and Mistress Margaret Drummond before you!"
Rachel held out her hand for Charles to kiss and then inclined her head, "Granted, Lord Charles. Bring them forth."
At her words, the murmuring crowd sucked in its collective breath and paused, quivering with anticipation.
What happened next couldn't have been more perfect if God Himself had had a hand in it. As David led Arabella's palfrey forward to the base of the stairs, a sudden gust of wind unfurled Rachel's standard to full length, holding it there for a moment, as though it were pinned to the bright April sky.
Arabella's eyes flickered upwards to trace it, and the realisation that Rachel was using their mother's personal emblem: a black griffin perched on the back of the Scottish unicorn, both animals enclosed in a golden love knot, thereby staking a silent claim to be Queen of a united Albion, made hatred ripple nakedly across her young face.
Before she could say anything, however, David was at her horse's side, lifting her down from the saddle and forcing her to her knees in the dust with a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"You'll kneel before your rightful Queen, Lady Arabella, and make a public plea for her most gracious forgiveness," he ordered brusquely, his every syllable ringing out above the crowd.
Silence followed. Arabella's brown brocade skirts pooled around her, the colour a potent, enforced symbol of her humility, but she said nothing.
Slowly, she raised her head, her grey eyes meeting Rachel's brown ones in a silent challenge.
There were gasps at her scandalous behaviour, but Rachel stilled those by jerking her hand upward in a quelling motion.
The sisters looked at each other for several long seconds, before Rachel sighed softly.
"Very well, Bella. I see you leave me no choice," Rachel snapped her fingers and her herald sprang forward, unrolling a heavily beribboned scroll.
"Our sovereign lady Queen Rachel, understanding that her own trueborn sister, the Lady Arabella, has wilfully imagined and conspired toward the usurpation of the throne of Albion and the concurrent subversion of the lawful succession of the Crown, as well as towards the destruction of Her Grace's royal person, and having succeeded in the malicious infanticide of the blessed innocent, Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Carnarvon, hereby wishes it to be known that, from this day forth, she has no sister. Her Highness the Lady Arabella, has by the grievous nature of her crimes, both real and considered, forfeited her right to bear a title of any sort and is to be stripped of her royal status with immediate effect. Henceforth, she is to be known as Mistress Arabella Stewart-Howard."
The proclamation fell like a millstone into an icy stillness. Shock held every person within earshot captive. No one could quite believe that the good-natured Rachel, who, less than a year earlier, had appointed her sister Head of the Scottish Council against all advice, had just stripped Arabella of the right to bear any mark of status at all.
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
In the years to come, no one ever knew who had muttered those words, but in that moment, all who heard them were profoundly grateful to them for breaking the horrifying spell that they seemed to find themselves under.
Rachel shook herself at the interrupting murmur and lifted her head to meet Charles's gaze, dismissing Arabella more successfully with her actions than with a thousand words.
"I give Mistress Stewart-Howard into your custody, Lord Charles. She and Mistress Drummond will watch Prince Alexander swear his oath of fealty to me and then you'll escort them both to the Tower with immediate effect."
Stunned though he was by Rachel's chosen course of action, Charles, like any Brandon, was a skilled enough courtier that he could muster the presence of mind to nod and take Arabella to one side, where a group of men-at-arms stood waiting for them both.
After that, Alexander's swearing of loyalty was something of an anti-climax, though the Prince was ordinarily handsome enough to draw every eye. He knelt before Rachel, as Arabella had done before him, and clasped his hand on a jewelled cross the Abbess of Canterbury proffered.
"I, Alexander, Prince of Scotland, promise and swear by the faith and troth that I owe to Almighty God, that I shall never do, urge to be done or consent to, publicly or privately, anything that might be, or seem to be, injurious to the natural life of Her Grace Queen Rachel, or anything that could be said to hurt or demean her royal state and dignity, or Her Grace's freedom or liberty, either by violence or by any other means. If any person should do or countenance any such thing as the aforesaid, I shall, with all my might and power withstand it, and cause it to be withstood. So help me God, the Holy Virgin, and all the Holy Evangelists."
Like David's before him, Alexander's words rang out over the crowd. Rachel waited for the last echoes of his vow to die away and then waved him gravely to his feet.
"Never let it be said that I trust you, Prince Alexander," she announced, "Never let that be said, for I do not, and I will not lie in the presence of the Holy Cross. But you are my father's son and you have sworn never to take up arms against me or my cause again. As such, it pleases me to commute your deserved death sentence to one of life banishment. I will give you until Pentecost to set your affairs in order here in Albion, but understand that, if you are found within twenty leagues of any of Albion's shores after that holy day, any man or woman who sees you will have my blessing to shoot to kill."
As the last word left her mouth, Rachel extended her hand to Alexander. Knowing what was expected of him, Alexander dropped to one knee and kissed her signet ring.
"Thank you for your mercy, My Lady Queen," he breathed.
Nodding, Rachel waved him away. The dismissal was clear, and, if anyone happened to see Rachel leaning into her husband's arms in thinly-disguised grieving relief as Arabella and Margaret Drummond were hustled on to horses and escorted away under heavy guard, well, no truly loyal subject would have dreamed of breathing a word.