"Arabella has done what?!" David gasped, almost striking the table with his fist in a reflex action of fury, before reining in his ire and contenting himself with a fierce, stifled oath. He was Prince Consort of Albion now, he had to prove he could control his passionate, warlike tendencies better than other men.
Despite his best efforts, however, the herald before him still trembled and stuttered as she curtsied and repeated her most unwelcome message.
"The Lady Arabella has – has taken Edinburgh, Your Grace."
"How in Heaven's name did she manage that?! Edinburgh was always loyal to my parents, to my father especially. Stirling, I could just about understand; the burgesses there knew Arabella as a little girl and could therefore be expected to show her some loyalty, but Edinburgh? Given how loyal they have always been to my Lord Father and Lady Mother, I would have expected the citizens of Scotland's own capital to acknowledge Rachel as their Queen without a moment's hesitation."
David exhaled in irritation, running a hand through his close-cropped auburn hair, "I wonder that they do not."
Lady Fleming, David's Secretary, bit the inside of her cheek. Her master and his wife had both believed since childhood that it was their God-given right and duty to rule over a united Albion. How was she supposed to counter that in a single conversation, if only to try to lay bare their opponents' motives?
Several seconds passed before she ventured anything at all, "Begging your pardon, Sire," she murmured at last, "I don't believe the matter is as simple as Your Grace thinks it is. It is true that Your Grace's father adopted Queen Rachel, but it is equally true that the Lady Arabella is His Majesty's first true-born daughter. There are those who see it as unjust that Her Highness was robbed of what would otherwise have been her birth right before she was even born. Further, there are those who would wish to see Scotland independent of England, whatever the cost, and see crowning Your Highness's younger sister as a way to achieving that end. Prince Alexander and Mistress Drummond are said to have used the current of disaffection to their advantage. According to our spies, Mistress Drummond swore before all the Saints that His Majesty often spoke to her of his regret that a Stewart would no longer sit on the throne of Scotland after his death and that, if he had outlived Queen Anne, as indeed he did, His Majesty King James would have sought to revoke his adoption of Queen Rachel and invest the Succession instead in the Princess Arabella and her heirs female. Moreover, she is said to have repeated her oath – in front of the Stone of Destiny no less."
"But that's preposterous!" David burst out, spluttering almost incoherently in his rage, "No one who knew my father even a little would lend such a claim the slightest credence. My father made no secret of the fact that he was delighted to know that the united Albion he and Mama had always dreamed of would survive them. Heavens above, the fuss he made over Princess Elizabeth's baptism alone should have proved that beyond all doubt!"
"I don't doubt that in the slightest, Your Highness," Lady Fleming soothed, "However," she went on, before David could respond, "It may be that Your Grace's father never saw the need to make his desires public. It is possible that, although Your Highness and Her Majesty Queen Rachel feel you know what the late King would have wanted, His Majesty never verbalised such a wish, at least not in a way that filtered down to the burgesses and up into the Highlands. In the eyes of those people, therefore, the claims that are being made on Lady Arabella's behalf are strong enough to merit support."
Lady Fleming paused to let that sink in, before spreading her hands and sinking into a half-curtsy, "And at the end of the day, Sire, isn't the truly important thing, the true challenge to your wife's authority as Queen of Albion, not what we believe His Majesty King James would decree if he were here, but what Prince Alexander has managed to make the people of Edinburgh believe? Unpleasant as they are, the facts remain: His Highness persuaded Edinburgh's Mayoress and Alderwomen that it was their matriotic duty to throw the city's gates open to the Lady Arabella and to render her cause such support as they can muster." Lady Fleming blew out her cheeks as she finished.
Too incensed to stay still, David leapt to his feet and began pacing the room, thinking furiously. His quick, determined strides ate up the ground beneath him as he strode in rapid circles. Suddenly, he froze, nodding to himself as an idea began to crystalise in his mind.
"Send word to Dunfermline," he ordered, "This challenge to my wife's rights cannot be allowed to stand."
"The Abbot of Syon to see you, Madam."
Rachel hardly heard the announcement, she was so distracted. She waved a hand absently and it was only when she looked up from her papers to see George standing before her in his riding cloak that she caught her breath and straightened.
"George, how good it is to see you! What brings you here?"
She raised him from his bow and kissed his cheek, smiling against him even as he stepped back and fixed her with a surprisingly inscrutable look.
"My Lady," he began. She cut him off, raising a hand.
"Sister," she reminded him gently, "I was your sister long before I was your Queen."
"Sister, then," George chuckled softly, "I have come to ask your permission to go north to Scotland to try to treat with our wayward sister, the Lady Arabella."
Rachel couldn't help it. Her eyebrows arched, just a fraction.
"You think you can get her to see reason?"
George shrugged, "I can try. In fact, I think it would only behove me to do so. After all, no one can deny I am supremely placed to understand both the personal and spiritual effects of what could happen if she continues to persist with such an outrageous claim. I assume from your question that I have your permission to go?"
"Of course."
Rachel would never admit it to anyone, but it felt as though a weight had fallen from her shoulders at George's words. He was right, his being both a member of their family and of the clergy would lend his words a weight that no one else's could ever hope to muster. He might be no more than an Abbot, but in many ways, he, not the Abbess of Canterbury, was the strongest figure in the country's Church. Faced with his implacable reason, Arabella would soon come to see that Margaret and Alexander had been lying to her all along; that Papa had never intended to disinherit Rachel to make her Queen of Scotland. She'd realise how foolish she'd been to let her aunt and brother make her into their figurehead, and she would come to London and seek to make her peace with Rachel.
For a moment, Rachel forgot George was there as she was swept away by the shimmering image that rose in her mind's eye, a picture of what it would be like the day Arabella sought her pardon.
Arabella would be wearing dove-grey, a colour eminently suitable to her role as a penitent. Her hair would be modestly bound beneath a linen coif. She herself would be in regal purple, her dark hair woven with glittering diamonds. She'd have Beth in her arms. The little girl would be wearing a half-size circlet, modelled on the one that had been hers as Crown Princess of Albion. Together, they'd symbolise the future – a future Arabella had squandered her place in by joining Margaret and Alexander in rebellion and would only regain by submitting herself to Rachel's mercy.
The heralds would blow their trumpets and Arabella would advance on the dais, curtsying deeply three times as she did so.
She'd fall to her knees and weep, begging Rachel to forgive her for her folly in allowing Margaret and Alexander to lead her astray.
"Sister?" George's voice broke into her daydream and she had to remember herself very quickly to keep from scowling at him for ruining such a glittering image.
"Yes?"
"May I ask… If I do manage to make our sister see reason, what Your Grace intends to do with her?"
The pause between his words and hers stretched for a beat too long, pregnant with anticipation.
"Arabella will be forgiven," she said at last, "Bella is so young and burning for some power of her own, it's no wonder Alexander and Margaret have managed to lead her astray. Alexander and Mistress Drummond will have to pay the price for their treason, of course, but I don't see why Bella can't be brought back into the fold. As long as she bends the knee to myself and Beth, I'd be perfectly happy to welcome her home."
George knew he should be happy to hear Rachel promising to be so magnanimous towards their sister, who, after all, was an out-and-out rebel, one who had captured the greatest city in Scotland. Despite himself, however, George couldn't help but wonder…would it work? Arabella was such a proud little thing, who was to say she'd accept her proffered pardon, even on terms as generous as these?
"Bella has her pride," he warned, "I'm not convinced she'd want to bend the knee without getting something in return for it."
"Oh, I know," Rachel said confidently, "I have no intention of leaving Bella with nothing. If she swears her loyalty to Beth and myself, I'll have her invested as Duchess of Gloucester and Ross, as I know Mama and Papa would have wanted. Who knows, if she proves herself to have learnt from her youthful errors, I may even allow myself to be persuaded to grant her the title of Lady of Ireland and allow her to rule it as a Palatine one day."
Rachel paused, and laughed lightly, although it had a note of effort about it, "How could Bella ever refuse such an offer? I'm suggesting I give her almost as much power as either Mama or Papa had at her age. Certainly more than Aunt Mary ever had, and she was a second daughter, too."
George flinched before he could stop himself. He loved Rachel, but sometimes she could be so blind. If Arabella could have contented herself with the limited power of a second daughter of a ruling house, she would never have let herself get caught up in Margaret and Alexander's schemes in the first place.
But it wasn't his place to say so. Not now, not when they were in no position to even begin considering bargaining terms.
As such, he simply murmured something noncommittal, sketched Rachel another bow and made to back out of the room before she could prevent him.
"Your Grace will come North, of course?" George pressed, as he stretched his cramped legs out before the fire in the Abbess of Durham's private chambers.
"Of course, my son, you need have no fear of that. I've known you since you were a boy of twelve. I've never known you dissemble about something you feel is this important. If you truly feel that my presence in Dunfermline can help, then make no mistake, I shall ride with you."
"Thank you, Your Grace. It gladdens my heart to hear you say that, truly. Their Ladyships of Chester and York are meeting us at the border as well, then I hope to persuade the Abbesses of Dunkeld and Moray to join us as we ride for Dunfermline."
"We'll be a glittering company," the Abbess commented, as she took a draught of wine, "Are you sure we need to be gathered in such numbers?"
George nodded fervently, "It grieves me to say so, My Lady, but I fear we do. My sister Arabella has ever been impulsive. Given what is soon to happen, I can only hope that being surrounded by such august company will restrain her hand enough for me to at least attempt to dissuade her from doing anything she is bound to later regret for the rest of her life."
He sipped at the hippocras he held and then exhaled, "At the very least, having so many Abbesses in Dunfermline ought to keep anyone from doubting the veracity of the document, from suggesting it has been tampered with before it was read out to the public."