The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when Margaret knocked on the door of Arabella's bedchamber, before letting herself in with a quick curtsy. Despite the early hour, however, the younger woman was already awake, her grey eyes sparkling.
"Good morning, My Lady Queen," Margaret smiled, "You look happy this morning, if I might be so bold."
"Oh, Aunt Margaret, how can I not be?" The young woman swung her legs out from under the eiderdown, padding over to a stool in front of a large, ornate looking glass, before turning her back for her aunt to loosen her hair and braid it up again, "With Her Grace of Dunfermline set to declare in my favour today, how can I not be awash with delight?"
"Madam…Are you quite sure that the verdict will go in your favour?"
Margaret hated to burst her niece's bubble, but she felt she had to warn Arabella. She seemed to be so convinced that the meeting at Dunfermline Abbey would go her way…
Arabella tossed her head before Margaret could continue, sniffing dismissively.
"Of course it will, Aunt Margaret. How can you even begin to think anything else? The Abbess promised to release the terms of my father's will so soon after I wrote to her to ask for her support. Of course she's going to declare in my favour."
Arabella's tone brooked no argument. Margaret took a deep breath and steeled herself to nod.
"Very well. We'd better dress you in your finest, then, hadn't we? We can't have the Queen of Scotland looking any less than her best on such an important day, can we now?"
Arabella smirked and nodded, settling herself more comfortably on her stool as her aunt went to the door and summoned an army of handmaidens to come and work their magic.
Half an hour later, she rose to her feet, a vision in violet silk and silver velvet. There was a discreet amount of colour rubbed into her usually pale cheeks and her hair was woven into a half braid, before the remainder of its length was left free to tumble to her waist out of her silver, amethyst-encrusted hood.
The style suited her and she knew it. "Perfect," she breathed, her lips quirking up into a self-satisfied smile. No one who saw her would dare suggest she didn't deserve the throne of Scotland, not when she looked this young and strong and radiant.
Spinning away from the mirror, she raised a hand. Her ladies formed up around her without a word.
She jerked her head at Margaret. Her aunt flung the bedchamber's door wide for her, then curtsied and fell back to take her place at the head of Arabella's ladies. Arabella's lips twitched and she swept into the corridor without a backward glance.
"Let me speak to her! Let me warn her!"
George stood with the Abbess of Durham, pleading with her in an undertone. As he spoke, he shot Arabella an alarmed look from beneath his eyelids, which were half-closed against the sun.
His little sister had arrived in the courtyard of Dunfermline Abbey in a blaze of fanfare, great echoing trumpet blasts heralding her arrival a full five, even ten, minutes before she cantered into sight on her elegant grey palfrey, her chosen device of a golden unicorn snapping in the breeze above her head. She had yet to dismount, as if she felt that remaining in her vantage point in the saddle, from which she could look down on everyone and force them to look up at her, garnered her some sort of control over the situation.
To outsiders, she might seem perfectly poised, but not to George.
"Please, Your Grace! We both know how much is riding on this for Arabella. And God bless her, but she's impulsive. I fear that if she isn't warned…"
"I said no, Your Highness!" The Abbess cut him off, tone just this side of being too acidic to be polite, "The reading of His Majesty's will must be seen to be unviolated. I cannot allow Your Highness to so much as dream of leaking the terms, even at this late stage. Especially not to one of the main players in this budding conflict."
George opened his mouth to argue, but then saw the sense in his superior's words. He sighed and subsided.
Seeing the fight had gone out of him, the Abbess of Durham softened fractionally.
"I am sorry," she said quietly, so that only he could hear, "I know you mean well. But think on this. How would you explain to the Lady Arabella that you know what her father's will says and she does not?"
Before George could formulate a response to that, the Abbey bells rang out, once, twice, summoning them all to take their places for the reading of the will. The Abbess swept into the church in an immediate rustle of satin. George hesitated just long enough to see Arabella slide to the ground and be sure that she would follow before he turned and did the same, heart in his mouth.
Arabella's heart was thudding in her ears, so loud it drowned out all else. Not that that mattered. She'd heard all she needed to hear.
Her throat was dry and the sweet taste of anticipated triumph had turned to ash in her mouth.
There was only one thought in her mind: Papa didn't care. He'd never cared. Never!
Now that it was all over, Arabella could admit, even if only to herself, that she'd never truly expected Papa's will to vindicate her cause. She'd pretended she had, because she had to brazen her actions out, but, in her heart of hearts, she'd known Papa would choose Rachel to succeed him as Queen of Scotland. He was too stubborn a man not to, after all the years he'd spent pushing her claim at the expense of Arabella's own.
But she had expected him to make it up to her in other ways, at least. She might have swallowed her pride and followed the hem of Rachel's gown, as she'd always done as a child, if Papa had showered her in lands of her own, given her an income befitting her status as a Princess of Scotland, of Albion. But he hadn't. He hadn't!
Oh, he'd asked Mama – and Rachel, if Mama predeceased him - to ensure that Arabella's marriage to Lord Charles of Portugal went ahead, if it hadn't been finalised already, and set 8000 crowns aside to help finance her household as a married woman, but aside from that? Nothing? Nothing aside from a few meaningless trinkets.
He hadn't even given her an estate of her own. Instead, he'd asked only that Rachel make whatever provision she deemed fit for Arabella. Indeed, he'd placed caveats on even that, stating that, if he predeceased their mother, Arabella was not to be given the title of Lady of the Isles, for he wished that title to be bestowed upon "my most dearly-beloved granddaughter, the Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Carnarvon, in recognition that the succession of a united Albion is to be forever bestowed upon her and her heiresses."
Rage boiled in Arabella's veins. How dare Papa dismiss her like this? How dare he? She'd make a far better Queen of Scotland than Rachel ever would, even with David at her side. Everyone knew that. Arabella had been born and raised within its borders, unlike her Sassenach of a sister.
Tears started in her eyes and she swiped them away angrily. She'd been humiliated enough without the shame of crying in public as well.
Suddenly, as though a light had been switched on, her rage crystallised into a single cool thought, and she knew what she had to do. Papa didn't care for her, did he not? Well then, she'd be damned if she'd care for his last wishes either!
Arabella whirled on her heel and stalked from the Abbey, ignoring the scandalised whispers she left in her wake.
George saw Arabella storm from the gathering from his place of honour. As she shoved past him, he realised her eyes were both steely and bright with tears. Instinctively, he murmured his apologies to his neighbours and rushed after her, his feet carrying him smoothly from the Abbey before he'd even had time to formulate a coherent thought.
His longer strides enabled him to catch up to her easily, hampered as she was by her ceremonial skirts.
He caught hold of her shoulder, "Bella, wait!"
She flinched from his touch and whirled around to face him.
"What do you want?" she spat, her tone accusatory, defensive.
George sprang back to give her space, throwing his hands up in surrender.
"Nothing! I just… I'm sorry. I wanted to say I'm sorry."
"No, you're not! Don't pretend you are."
Arabella's voice was hard, but beneath the snarl, tears were threatening, George could see it. And no wonder. Arabella was so young, barely fourteen. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, sitting in the Abbey church in full view of everyone as it was made publicly clear that her own father thought so little about her that he was willing to leave it to her older sister to care for her welfare rather than make provision for her himself.
Slowly, careful not to startle her, he lowered his hands and reached out to touch hers, feeling her quiver beneath him.
"I'm not sorry Papa didn't vindicate your cause," he admitted, "But I am sorry you had to find out like that. I wouldn't have had you do that for the world. I begged Her Grace of Durham to let me tell you in private, or at least to let me warn you so that you could surrender with some dignity, but she -"
"You knew, didn't you?!" Arabella flung herself back from him, eyes aflame, "You knew Papa had left everything to Rachel, David and Beth! You knew!"
In the face of her accusation, George felt there was no point in lying.
"Yes, I knew," he said gently, "Papa allowed me to witness his will when he wrote it last summer. But Bella, I know this hurts, and I know it seems unfair, but -"
"Oh, you know, do you? You know what it's like to sit in that crowd and realise your own father has left you nothing?! Nothing!"
"8000 crowns is hardly…"
"You heard the will, George! That's for my household if and when I marry! I won't see a penny of it until then, and I'll have to go, cap in hand, to Rachel for anything else I want. To Rachel, of all people! Papa knew how much I'd hate that! He knew and he didn't care! He didn't care!"
"Rachel's hardly going to leave you impoverished. If nothing else, it would demean you as her sister. Why, she told me herself that she plans to invest you as Duchess of Gloucester and Ross as soon as you swear your loyalty to her."
"I shouldn't have to! Those titles should be mine by right! Scotland should be mine by right!"
Furious tears were flooding down Arabella's cheeks. Half-blind, she fumbled the reins of her horse where it was tied outside the abbey, too upset to care that she was demeaning herself by not waiting for a groom to do it for her. All she wanted to do was get away as quickly as possible.
Despite everything, George's heart went out to her. He grasped her by the waist and hoisted her into the saddle.
"For what it's worth, Bella, I truly am sorry," he murmured, as he let her go.
Arabella glared down at him.
"You don't get to apologise," she hissed, "Not when our parents made sure to provide for you – for all of you – but not for me."
She wrenched her horse's head around and galloped away before George could do more than gape at her, stunned into silence by the realisation of just how bitter she was.
"Get word to the men. I want them all ready to march at daybreak."
Arabella strode through the circular chamber, her skirts swishing around her, issuing orders as she went. Her blonde hair bounced on her back, falling into her eyes, but, although she pushed it back impatiently, she refused the hood a maid tentatively offered her. It was a point of pride with Arabella never to wear her hair bound if she could help it. It made up for all those years her parents and governesses had insisted she wear her hair up while Rachel's tumbled down her back in an ebony waterfall to signify her royal status.
Alexander bowed, "Of course, My Lady Queen. It shall be done."
He signed to a page, who nodded and scurried out of the room. It was Margaret, however, who dared brave Arabella's wrath to ask what they were all thinking.
"May I ask why we're riding south? Since we're taking an army, I assume it is not to come to terms with Your Majesty's sister?"
Arabella scoffed, "No, Aunt Margaret, it is not. Quite the opposite. We all know Rachel has summoned her little girl to London to invest her as Crown Princess of Albion. It is my intention to ensure that little Elizabeth never gets there."
Silence reigned for a beat or two as the full import of her words sank in.
Alexander swore bitterly.
"You want to kidnap the Duchess of Carnarvon?"
"Why not?! Why not! Rachel stole everything from me before I was even born! Why shouldn't I hit her where it hurts? Why shouldn't I steal what means most in the world to her?"
It took all of Alexander's self-control not to shake his younger sister. "Bella, are you mad?!" he snapped, "This is not about personal revenge! We have to be above that and play the long game. Strike too hot, too early, and we could lose everything! If we kidnapped Princess Elizabeth, we'd kill our cause before it's even grown out of its cradle!"
"Would we? Would we, really? Or would I prove myself adept at the strategems of war; prove myself the warrior Queen Rachel can never hope to be?" Arabella let her eyes trail over each of the others in the room before coming to rest, once more, on Alexander.
"Sister, I am begging you not to do this," he breathed, but she shook her head, eyes burning.
"Papa taught you war, Alexander," she whispered, as though they were the only two in the room, "He taught you to always gamble when you had to. Papa's will is already a blow to our cause. The men will bleed away as soon as it becomes common knowledge, and you know that. How much more support will we lose if we don't react decisively? Don't you see? We need to stop the Princess Elizabeth from reaching London. We need to hold my sister's only daughter in our hands to use as our pawn. It's the only way I'll ever be able to force Rachel to take me seriously now."
Horror filled every heart in the room. Arabella wasn't serious, surely? The Princess Elizabeth was an innocent child, beloved by many on both sides of the border. Kidnapping her would no doubt drive many of those nobles that had yet to declare for either Howard sister flocking to Rachel's banners, should she choose to raise them. And raise them she would, if she thought her only child was at risk. Hell's flames were as cold as the first snows of winter compared to a mother defending her young. Everyone knew that.
Heedless to the stunned silence she had just precipitated, Arabella carried on talking, outlining the plan she had spent most of the time since she had fled Dunfermline Abbey in high dudgeon formulating.
"We'll ride out as early as possible tomorrow and march all night if we have to. I mean to intercept the little Princess's household if it's the last thing I do."
Arabella swept from the room before any of her councillors could formulate an even halfway coherent response. All that was left for them to do was stare after her in shock.
She wasn't serious, was she? Trying to seize control of the little Duchess of Carnarvon was far too large a gamble for this stage of the game. It could cost them everything. Everything. Her Majesty must know that, surely? Surely?
Eventually, Margaret voiced what every one of them was thinking, "If Arabella holds to this, then may the Lord have mercy on us."