Bessie was sitting in the Great Hall at Lancaster Castle, hearing petitioners, when Rachel's orders reached her. Taking the scroll from the maid, she broke the seal depicting Rachel's private emblem of the rising sun and scanned the closely-packed lines of text, nodding in approval to herself as she finished them.
Taking little Beth to the safety of London and then Wales was a sound move, as was investing her with the title that had once been Rachel's. Not only did it take the precious little girl away from the danger area of the North, but it also countered Arabella's vaulting ambitions without doing so militarily, which, personally, Bessie considered all to the good.
Oh, she knew that, as Duchess of Lancaster and Rachel's cousin, her loyalties ought, by rights to lie firmly with the older Stewart-Howard daughter. But despite knowing that, she couldn't help but remember the little girl Arabella had once been. The little girl who had wanted nothing more than to please her parents, to be praised and acknowledged the way her older siblings, particularly her sister, were. Who had cried in Bessie's arms more than once when she'd been rebuffed, for reasons her childish mind could never have understood; reasons that went far deeper than a simple matter of incompatible personalities. Reasons that had to do with something Arabella could never have helped: her parents' histories, their childhoods and dreams.
If only for the sake of that desperately unhappy little girl, Bessie was loath to see Rachel wage war on Arabella, even though she knew the woman her youngest cousin had grown into deserved it for her treasonous behaviour.
Exhaling, Bessie waved the rest of the petitioners away. This might be her customary time for hearing audiences, but, given the circumstances, orders from London overrode custom.
Rachel might not explicitly say as much in her letter, but her nerves must be utterly on the raw. No doubt she'd not rest easy until her only child was safely in the capital. God only knew Bessie would be the same in her position.
Mind made up, Bessie sprang to her feet. She glanced at her secretary, Lady Catesby.
"Get word to Lady Stanley. Tell her to prepare the Princess's household for a hard ride to London. And tell the stables I ride for Cockermouth at dawn."
Lady Catesby nodded, "Of course, Madam." She turned to leave, before pausing, "I'm loath to say this, my Lady, but… do you want me to call out your banners? Princess Elizabeth is such a precious child. We wouldn't want any harm to come to Her Highness."
Already halfway out of the room by another door, Bessie froze mid-stride. Her heart stopped for an instant as she considered her secretary's low-voiced query. She hadn't thought of that. Did she want the Lancaster retainers forming up on her behalf, to help her protect the Princess, if it came to that?
A moment later, she shook her head, "No. I thank you for your concern, Lady Catesby, but let's not borrow trouble by acting too aggressively. Not before the Lady Arabella has even crossed into England, at any rate. Let's just focus on fetching Her Highness from Cockermouth and getting her to London safely."
If Lady Catesby had misgivings about Bessie's decision, she prudently kept them to herself. Time was of the essence, after all.
"Very good, Madam."
"And send someone to fetch my daughter Anne from the schoolroom. I need to speak to her before I go."
Without so much as looking round to see if Lady Catesby had acknowledged her last order, Bessie strode off, mind whirling. She was delighted Rachel trusted her enough to ask her to escort her goddaughter south, but it did mean she had a lot to do and very little time to do it in. It was just as well her eldest was such a sensible girl. She was going to have to step into Bessie's shoes in Lancaster for the time being. It was perhaps a little bit earlier than either of them had anticipated. Then again, Annie was about the same age she herself had been when Aunt Anne had sent her North for the first time, and she'd relished the experience. Annie might well do the same.
Lady Stanley and Lady Erskine would never have admitted it to anyone, but they exchanged a look of alarm when they read the Duchess of Lancaster's hastily scribbled note. Her Grace wrote of their having to prepare to ride for London with all speed. Her Grace had clearly never travelled any true distance with a child of so young an age. Otherwise she could never have written such a letter.
However much the Princess's governesses adored their charge, they would never have said she was an easy travelling companion. Princess Elizabeth was sickly and therefore fractious at the best of times. In the close confines of a litter or carriage, Her Highness's behaviour was often even worse. And at the moment, when she was both coming out of a heavy cold and teething…well, it didn't bear thinking about. Her Highness would most likely fidget, fuss and whine all the way to London and the Marches, especially since she was still too young to understand the need for haste.
And, Lady Stanley thought, who was to say that a push for speed wouldn't actually end up being detrimental to the Princess's already fragile health?
On the other hand, however, with all this worrying news coming out of Scotland, there was no doubt that the little girl did need to be kept safe. Taking her south was the best way to do that. Moreover, the idea of Princess Elizabeth becoming Crown Princess of Albion at just a year old was a glittering honour indeed.
Before either of them could voice or act on any of these thoughts, the Princess woke from her nap.
"Er'ee! Er'ee!" she shrieked imperiously. Her governesses exchanged another glance.
Although neither of them could see the Princess, they both knew that little Beth, as her parents called her, would be sitting up in her crib, stretching out her arms and straining to be picked up…but only by Lady Erskine. Her Highness could be very particular about who held her, especially when she'd just awoken.
"You go and tend to Her Highness, Jean," Lady Stanley sighed, "I'll go and order the maids to start packing."
Arabella reined her powerful dappled mount back within sight of the gates of Edinburgh. The October whistled past, surprisingly brisk, even for the time of year, so she turned up the collar of her cloak against it.
Despite the cold and wind, however, she wore no hood or veil, meaning her honey-gold tresses were whipping back from her face. She paid them no heed, her grey-blue eyes fixed on the great iron gates of the city as she willed them to open.
A moment or two passed. Eventually, her aunt rode up beside her.
"Don't fret, My – Majesty," she murmured, low enough for the wind to cover her words, should anyone be trying to listen in, "No one can resist Alexander when he puts his mind to it. Edinburgh will be ours, I promise."
Arabella held up a hand, "I'll believe it when I see it. Give the order."
Margaret nodded, took a speaking trumpet from the nearby captain of the guard and turned it up towards the battlements.
"Open up! In the name of Queen Arabella, open your gates!"
Several long seconds passed. Arabella kept her eyes fixed on the great iron gates, the colour draining from her cheeks with every passing second.
Suddenly, inch by inch, the gates began to creak open enough to allow a single rider to pass through.
Alexander galloped out, brandishing something that glinted in his hand as he brandished it above his head.
He was shouting, but it was only as he drew closer that Arabella was able to distinguish the words.
"The keys! I have the keys!"
A weight fell off Arabella's shoulders. As Alexander wrenched to a halt beside her and flung himself into the mud at her feet, she beamed down at him, jubilant.
"Edinburgh is yours, My Lady!" he panted, "Edinburgh is yours!"
"My Lady Queen," Arabella corrected, but she was too happy for her rejoinder to have any of its usual bite to it. She leaned down and took the keys from his hand.
"Thank you, brother. I'll not forget the service you have done me today," she said breathlessly, before spinning her mount in such a tight circle that he had to scramble to his feet to avoid being trampled by the skidding hooves.
She held the keys aloft, as Alexander had done, so that her army could see.
"Edinburgh is ours!" she roared.
A raucous shout went up in return. Arabella whirled her horse about again. Alexander scrambled into his saddle. Reaching out, he caught her hand in a breach of protocol she only allowed because of the magnitude of their shared triumph.
"We hold the capital," he breathed, "Sister, we hold the capital."
"I know!" she laughed back, suddenly seeming very young as her eyes lit with triumph.
Hand in hand, the siblings cantered into the city, drunk on their own power.