"You have a beautiful home here, Cousin," The young Abbot of Syon leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head.
His hostess arched an eyebrow, "Indeed. And I'd rather like to keep it that way, so have a care how you hold that cider, my Lord Abbot. I had these rushes swept not a week ago."
"Heavens above, I'd never spill this! It's the finest cider I've ever tasted! Breton, is it not?"
"It is, yes."
"Marvellous stuff. It tastes like liquid gold. We don't get nearly enough of this sort of quality at Syon."
The young Abbot took a deep draught of the cider and smacked his lips appreciatively. The woman opposite him did her best to look disapproving.
"I should hope not. Poverty, chastity and obedience. Weren't those the vows you took when you entered Holy Orders?"
"Well, yes… but I don't know what you're complaining about. It's hardly as though you stint yourself, My Lady Lancaster."
George glanced askance at Bessie as he spoke. Something passed between them and they both burst into gales of laughter. For a few long moments, the room rang with nothing more than their pealing merriment.
"Anyway," Bessie choked at last, wiping her eyes, "Pleasant as this interlude is, and delighted though I am to see you, I doubt you came here solely to wax lyrical about Kenilworth's myriad charms and the cider I choose to serve. What truly brings you here, little brother?"
"Don't be obtuse, Elizabeth," George cut his older cousin off with a withering look, "It doesn't suit you. You know why I'm here."
In an instant, all the levity was gone from Bessie's face. She jerked her head in what was supposed to be a nod.
"Arabella."
"I don't understand how she hopes to get away with it. Papa adopted Rachel in an inviolable ceremony. He invested her as Duchess of Rothesay as well as naming her Crown Princess of Albion. In all the ways that matter, she's his daughter. Scotland is hers by right. Arabella must know that."
"Does she? Does she really, George?" Bessie was too impatient to stay seated. Setting her glass down, she paced to the window, exhaling sharply.
"Well, of course she does! Mama and Papa never hid the fact that Rachel was the heiress to Albion!"
"No, George! They never hid the fact that Rachel was their chosen heiress to Albion. Details I know, but as King James used to say…"
"The devil's in the details," George chorused. Bessie nodded.
"Aunt Anne and King James may have always treated Arabella as their second-born, but the fact remains that, by blood, if not in law, she's King James's firstborn daughter. There are bound to be at least some Scottish nobles who will ride for her because they feel she's been cheated out of her inheritance. And I've got to be honest, Aunt Anne and King James have brought this upon themselves."
"What do you mean?" George's voice drifted with confusion and Bessie spread her hands.
"You may not have realised. I don't know how much time you truly spent with Arabella when she was little. She was never treated the same way as the rest of us were. I was in and out of Court and the nursery all the time and I don't remember a single time she was ever singled out for praise. Aunt Anne loved her, yes, but, as you may have known, your mother wasn't marvellous with babies. She tended to leave the nursery to King James, particularly when Arabella was very young, and I think the only time he ever paid Arabella any attention at all was if she was naughty and needed to be punished. Did you know they used to keep a special chair in the nursery for Arabella to be put in if she was having a tantrum? It pinned her in at the waist and had notches out of the legs so that it would tip over and throw her to the floor when she wriggled. And I'm sure King James ordered her whipped when she was older, and had grown out of the chair."
George's jaw dropped, "None of us were ever treated like that! Ever!"
"Exactly! Now do you begin to see why Arabella might begin to resent her childhood?"
"Well…yes…But I still don't see what that has to do with her rebelling against Rachel and having herself proclaimed Queen of Scotland!"
"Don't you? You said yourself Aunt Anne and King James never stinted on any chance to underline that Rachel was to be heiress to both thrones. Arabella's not stupid. She'll have picked up pretty quickly that, were it not for King James having adopted Rachel before she was even thought of, she'd have been born the Duchess of Rothesay, the King of Scotland's cherished eldest daughter and the child of the woman he loved more than anything else in the world. Now, who do you suppose Arabella would resent most in that scenario?"
This time, the answer sprang, fully formed, from George's lips, "Rachel."
"Indeed. And let me ask you one more thing. Who was Arabella closest to, growing up? I know you didn't spend much time with her, but she was fairly obvious about it."
"Alexander. Alexander and Margaret Drummond."
Bessie paused, waiting for George to come to the realisation himself. A moment later, the penny dropped. He looked up at her in horror.
"But they hated Mama, and Rachel with her! They never liked the fact that Papa had married her and named Rachel his daughter! They're going to tear the country apart to spite Mama's memory, aren't they? And they'll use Arabella to do it!"
"That's what I fear, yes."
"How can she? How can she let them use her like this?"
George's voice rose in anguish. Bessie met his gaze, sapphire eyes cool.
"Because she, like them, has no reason to want to honour your parents' dreams of a united Albion."
Protest sprang to George's lips. Seeing it, Bessie held up a hand.
"I'm not saying they're right to, George. I'm not saying I don't believe Rachel has the right to be Queen of Scotland as well as England. I'm just saying I can see Arabella's position as well."
"But then, what do we do?" George looked to Bessie for guidance, as he had always looked to his older sister-cousin in the nursery. To his consternation, she ran a hand through her hair.
"I don't know."
"What? But you always have an answer to everything. Papa Henry always used to say that when we were little."
"Not this time. If I could judge Rachel's reaction, then maybe, but she can be so unpredictable…" Bessie trailed off, deep in thought, "I shall go to Lancaster," she said at last. "I shall go to Lancaster tomorrow and await Rachel's instructions there. Please God she comes up with something before this escalates too far."
"Do you think she'd be open to meeting with Arabella?"
"Possibly. If we could bring the two to terms… But that would mean convincing them both, and Alexander and Margaret Drummond that it was in the country's best interests, and that would require St Christopher himself to be on our side, I think," Bessie trailed off as she realised just how intently George was hanging on her every word, "If were you, little brother, I'd go back to Syon and try to keep your head down."
"But!" The knight in George balked. He was Rachel's older brother. Surely it was his duty to offer Rachel his sword if she needed it?
"You're an Abbot, George. You've sworn never to shed blood," Bessie reminded him gently.
"Do you truly think my sisters could go to war over this?" George blanched at the very idea.
"The crown of Scotland – and possibly even Albion – is a glittering prize," Bessie evaded George's question, but what she didn't say hung heavy in the air between them.
George chewed the inside of his cheek in the silence.
"Bessie?" he said at last, "I can't help but ask… I've heard rumours that Rachel isn't…well, that she isn't Papa Henry's daughter at all. Is it, is it true?"
"It doesn't matter, George!" Bessie returned sharply, "You're an Abbot, you know what canon law says. "Mater semper certa est." By all the laws of inheritance, it doesn't matter who Rachel's father is, not as long as we know who her mother is. All that matters is that Aunt Anne's blood runs in her veins, and you'd never deny that, would you?"
"Of course not!" George's eyes went wide, "That would be treason!"
"Exactly. And you said it yourself, King James's adoption of Rachel was inviolate. It was signed and sealed before the Abbesses of Canterbury and St Andrews themselves. The highest spiritual authorities on either side of the border. So, if you and I cannot keep the peace between your sisters, we'll have no choice but to stand with Rachel, come what may."
Bessie saw the pain in George's eyes and spread her hands, "I don't say it lightly, little brother. You know I don't. I'm Arabella's godmother, for heaven's sake! But you also know I'm right. If it really does come to war, we'll have no choice but to stand with Rachel, even if we tear ourselves apart doing it."
There was nothing more to say. George sighed and got to his feet. He bowed over Bessie's hand without another word.
At the door, however, he whirled around.
"Why did they do it?" he blurted, "If they knew – or even suspected – what it would bring, why did Mama and Papa favour Rachel so much?"
Bessie exhaled, avoiding his eyes.
"I don't think they did," she said at last, "I don't think they did. But even if they had, I doubt they would have done anything differently. Their dream of a united Albion meant too much to them both for that. Besides, Aunt Anne was hardly unused to playing favourites. I should know."
George froze at Bessie's words. She ignored his horror-stricken look, keeping her eyes fixed on the tapestry before her until she heard his footsteps receding down the stairwell. Only then did she sink to her knees.
Anne's face swam in front of her eyes as though they'd parted only yesterday.
"Oh, Aunt Anne, why did you put George in the Church and not Arabella?" she cried, unable to help herself, "We'd be in a lot less trouble now if you'd raised your younger daughter to take Holy Orders!"
George paced his study, hands behind his back. His eyes roamed his shelves with their precious collection of holy texts and costly trinkets, but, for once, he didn't truly see them. In his mind, he was hundreds of miles away, pleading with Arabella to give up on this foolhardy venture of hers.
Her attempt to claim the Scottish throne was doomed to failure. Why couldn't she see that?
Groaning, George sank to his knees, head in his hands.
"Jesus, Lord of all, I beg You, guide me. How can I sit back and watch as my sisters rend the country asunder for their ambitions? I know I swore an oath upon Your Holy Cross that I would never shed blood, but surely there must be something I can do?"
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."
He heard the words as clearly as though they had been spoken from six feet behind him. At once, his heart lightened. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it before?!
Closing his eyes, he crossed himself and rose. He sent for his writing desk, quills and ink, then sat back and waited, crafting the missive in his mind as he did so.
To my well-beloved sister, Her Grace the Lady Arabella of Albion, from her cherished brother and mentor in all things spiritual, the Lord Abbot of Syon. I write to you with a heavy heart, beseeching you to tell me why you are acting in such an unfaithful and unsisterly manner towards our sovereign lady, Queen Rachel…"
Baynard's Castle was one of the prettiest palaces in London, situated as it was on the bank above a wide sweep of the river Thames. Rachel had long since appropriated it as her primary residence when in London, much like her sister-cousin the Duchess of Lancaster had done with Coldharbour.
Normally, Baynard's Castle rang with merriment, but the day David rode in from Rhuddlan, its lavish walls echoed with shock.
David knew the yard was too quiet the moment he dismounted. His heart skipped a beat.
"Where's the Queen?" he shouted, throwing his reins at the nearest stable hand.
"In her bedchamber, Your Grace."
"Good. I'll go and find Her Majesty there. Make sure we're not disturbed."
"Very good, my Lord."
Whirling round, David pounded up the castle steps, heart in his mouth. This was wrong; severely wrong. The last he'd heard from Rachel was that her first meeting with her Privy Council had gone off without a hitch and that she hoped he and Beth were both well. She'd been talking of joining them in the Scottish Marches and investing their daughter with the titles of Duchess of Cornwall and Rothesay, with the title of Crown Princess to follow when she reached the age of reason. Based upon that, Baynard's Castle ought to be humming with celebration and triumph, even if they were mourning both Mama and Papa. Yet it wasn't.
Racing along the passage that led to Rachel's private rooms, David couldn't help but be relieved that he'd decided to leave little Beth to go north in the capable hands of her governesses and ride to London to escort Rachel to join her. Whatever had happened since he'd been travelling, Rachel would need him at her side. She might not have asked for him. She might not even have realised that she'd need him, but she would.
Lost in thought, he nearly crashed into Nora Rose, who was just coming out of Rachel's rooms. She started at the sight of him.
"My Lord, we weren't expecting you!"
Impatient, he raised her from her curtsy before she'd even properly begun it, "Nora. Is my wife in her rooms?"
"Her Majesty is indeed, Sir, yes."
David nodded and went to move past her, but Nora, unexpectedly daringly, caught at his sleeve.
"Between you and me, Your Highness," she breathed, so low that David had to strain to hear her, "The Queen will be pleased to see you. Her Grace is sorely in need of counsel."
"Why? What on Earth has happened? Has Rachel taken our lord father's death harder than we expected?"
Nora shook her head, "It's not that. But it's not my place to say, Your Grace. I'll let Her Royal Highness tell you."
She scurried away and David stepped into Rachel's rooms, holding up a hand to forestall the guard who would have announced him. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched his wife for a few seconds. The more he saw of her, the less he liked what he saw. Rachel was holding herself so tightly her movements were stilted. When her maids spoke to her, she scarcely seemed to respond. It was as if she was terrified that her self-control, so carefully cultivated, could snap at any moment. She was clearly operating in a state of deep shock.
"My dearest wife," he said at last, waving the maids away as he spoke.
Rachel spun round, eyes wide, "David?"
He bowed at the waist, "My Lady Queen."
"David! Oh, thank God, David!"
In an instant, she was in his arms, having flung herself at him so hard she nearly pulled him off balance. He barely straightened from his bow in time to catch her.
"Darling! What on earth's wrong?"
He knew they were breaking every rule of protocol in the book, but in that moment, he knew Rachel wouldn't take kindly to protocol. He stroked her back silently as she wept with relief, yet still struggled to find some semblance of composure.
"It's Arabella!" she cried at last, "She's proclaimed herself Queen of Scotland!"
David wrenched back, snatching Rachel by the shoulders in his shock, "What?! Are you sure?"
When Rachel nodded, he swore.