"To my dearly beloved and honoured wife and Queen, Rachel of Albion, from David, Prince of Scotland, Prince Consort of Albion, High Steward and High Admiral of the Isles, Greetings.
I am delighted to inform you, My Lady Queen, that although my host failed to catch the Lady Arabella and Prince Alexander before they closed the gates at Stirling, my spies inform me that our harrying them across the Northern Marches at such speed had one wished-for effect. The garrison at Stirling had nowhere near enough warning to gather in sufficient provisions for the hundreds of extra mouths that have suddenly descended upon them like locusts. With winter holding Albion fast in its grip and the weather inclement, half our job as besiegers is done for us. We have little need to bombard them, and must simply sit and wait. God Willing, we'll starve them out within a month or two and bring the ringleaders to you in time for the Easter Assizes, if the weather is kind enough to speed rather than hinder our travel…."
Rachel looked up from David's letter, and glanced around. Realising that, as usual, her ladies had known she would want to be alone to see what her husband had to say, she leaned back on her couch and rubbed a tired hand over her face.
She knew David meant well by his words, that he was seeking to bolster her flagging spirits by reassuring her that they were on the brink of avenging their daughter, but in truth, the boldly-penned lines only twisted the knife deeper into the wound. For, even if he was right and it was mere months before she had Arabella, Margaret and Alexander in her power here in London, what was she supposed to do with them? Oh, Margaret was easy enough. She could be beheaded on Tower Hill without any compunction for her particular part in driving Arabella's little uprising, but Alexander and Arabella's fates were nowhere near as simple. As her half-siblings, they shared her blood. Punishing them as harshly as their treachery legally demanded would brand her a kinslayer, no matter that she'd been driven to it. Oh, the people of Albion itself would sympathise with her if she spun the judicial murders as vengeance for Beth. They did so grieve their late Duchess of Carnarvon. But the same might not be said for foreign states. Even if they did profess to sympathise with her in public, the shadow would always be there – the shadow that she was so weak a Queen that she'd had to kill her own younger sister, the very woman who ought to be her staunchest defender, in order to be secure on her throne. That was not something she wanted hanging over her, especially not given she was a young Queen on the throne of a newly-created country still struggling to secure a proper foothold on the chessboard that was international politics.
And then there was the whole idea that punishing Arabella and the others as severely as they deserved might actually assuage her grief for Beth. Oh, David didn't say as much in so many words, but she knew that was what he would be thinking. He was too much of a man not to be. He'd buried his grief for their daughter in action, in chasing Arabella to Stirling. Like any warrior in his situation, he'd assume that his wife and Queen would be able to do the same.
Rachel knew herself better than that. She knew she was like her mother in the way that she shut herself off, in the way that griefs and hurts could still shadow her like puppies nipping at her heels months, even years, after they had occurred. Mama had never spoken of her older sister Cecily to her, or of her birth father, Lord Southampton, but her regret at their passing had been obvious, if only in the way she'd insisted on going to Leicester every March and had cloistered herself away with none save the Graces around her on the days of their anniversaries. Almost before she could walk, Rachel had known that, no matter how much Mama doted on her, she would never be able to replace Cecily, the Princess of Wales who had never been allowed to grow up, or indeed, even to grow old enough to be invested with her rightful title.
Her hand strayed unconsciously to her belly, which had begun to burgeon in the last few weeks, enough that it might show a little, if you knew how to look.
"Oh, little one," she murmured, "Your father means well, but he'll never be able to understand a mother's grief for her lost child. He'll never see that vengeance won't necessarily help. But I know I can't let him see that, not when he's trying so hard to help. So what in Heaven's name am I going to do about your aunt?"
Rachel was brought out of her musings by a knock on the door. She dropped David's letter in an instant and glanced towards the heavy slab of oak.
"Yes?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but Lady Lancaster is here. She insists on seeing you." Lady Hastings curtsied nervously, her eyes darting about the room, lighting anywhere but on Rachel.
Rachel hesitated. She hadn't seen her cousin since the day Bessie had brought her the dreadful news about Beth being kidnapped. She'd deliberately avoided her, unsure whether her temper would survive being in the same room as the woman who had failed her so very deeply.
If she was honest with herself, she still wasn't convinced she'd be able to bear seeing Bessie again, but at the same time, she couldn't avoid the Duchess forever. It was probably best to get the first dreadful meeting over with before it became too much of a hurdle.
Exhaling heavily to steel herself, she waved a hand.
"Very well. Let her in. Let's see what she wants."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Lady Hastings vanished with a murmur, only to be replaced a few moments later by Bessie, who threw herself at Rachel's feet with a strangled gasp of pleading.
Taken slightly aback by Bessie's sudden ferocity, Rachel hesitated. She got to her feet slowly, buying herself a few moments to absorb the sight of her red-headed cousin kneeling at her feet. Bessie was as pale as death, her normally bright blue eyes swollen and rimmed with scarlet. The long black gown she wore was creased beyond repair and thick with candle dust.
Even in the midst of her own grief, Rachel's heart twanged with pity for Bessie's obvious pain and self-flagellation. She reached out a hand to help her cousin to her feet.
"You've heard, haven't you?"
"Who has not!" Bessie's eyes swam with tears, "Rachel, please! I am so, so sorry. I realise now I signed Beth's death warrant the moment I handed her over to Arabella. I have come to you to plead with you: punish me in whatever way you see fit, for God knows I deserve it!"
"No," Rachel said softly, Bessie's dramatic grief cutting through her own and allowing her to think clearly for the first time in days, "No, cousin. I'll not do that to you. Not now."
"What? Why? I as good as killed your daughter, why won't you punish me?!"
"Because we need to stand united. I have my own brother and sister in rebellion against me, I can't be seen to be punishing you for doing what was no more than your duty as both Beth's and Arabella's godmother. I've had time to think since you came to me and I realise that you were desperate and torn. As Arabella's godmother, it was no more than your Christian duty to do what you could to bring her back into the fold. I'm not surprised you fell for her ruse. You were right when you said I probably would have done the same. I wouldn't have wanted to believe my little sister capable of such deception either. And when your plan to bring Arabella south to face my justice failed, well, you couldn't have risked Beth's life by forcing Arabella's hand there and then. You tried your hardest to keep everybody safe, and I cannot fault you for that. Not when it's such an intrinsic part of you. You always were our childhood peacemaker. Nor can I forget that, if I hadn't given you the orders to bring Beth to London in the first place, we might yet have avoided all this disaster, because you might all have been safe behind solid castle walls and not trapped at an indefensible manor house somewhere on the road. So, no, Bessie, I am not going to punish you for what happened. I wish to God it hadn't happened, but I will not lay the blame solely at your feet. And I pray to God that you won't either."
A long silence, heavy with all that was left unspoken, hung between them. Bessie glanced past Rachel, to the tapestry that hung on the wall behind her.
"St Ursula and the 11,00 virgins. How very appropriate."
The whisper was thick with gall. A muscle in Bessie's neck twitched as she fought to control her emotions. In one swift motion, she tugged her heavy gold signet ring off and fell to her knees, holding it out to Rachel.
"If you won't punish me yourself, then allow me to make my own penance, My Lady. I hereby renounce my titles as Duchess of Lancaster and Countess of Albany. I renounce my titles and swear on this symbol of my earthly power that I shall go on pilgrimage to the shrine of St Nicholas in Bari to plead with him to watch over our beloved Duchess of Carnavron in Heaven."
Rachel reeled back at her older cousin's words.
"Bessie… Do you know what you're saying? If you renounce your titles, if you ask me to hand them down to Anne, then you're declaring yourself legally dead. Are you sure this is what you want? There's no coming back from that."
Bessie lifted her head at Rachel's words. Their eyes locked before the copper head bobbed once in confirmation.
"I am sure. All I ask is that, on my return from Bari, you allow me enough money from my estates to finance my living at Syon House as a lay sister."
Stunned beyond words at Bessie's sudden declaration, Rachel searched the older woman's face, desperately seeking any trace of falsehood. She couldn't imagine life without her sister-cousin at her side and, reeling, was keen to do whatever she could to keep Bessie with her, no matter how much Beth's death might have damaged their relationship. Finding none, however, she turned sharply on her heel and forced herself to count slowly to 100, so that her racing heart and mind had a chance to process this new development.
As her breathing resumed its normal pattern, she realised that, in actual fact, she should have seen something like this coming. Bessie had always been dramatic. Of course she'd want to make up for her colossal blunder at Broughton by making a grand gesture of repentance. This wasn't at all out of character, not now that she'd thought about it.
It remained to be seen if Bessie would keep to her vow once things settled down, but for now, there was no harm in allowing her to make the pledge, if it would give her a measure of peace with herself. It would be easy enough to argue that she'd made the vow under duress if she changed her mind once the whole disaster had blown over.
Mind made up, Rachel blew out her cheeks and turned back to her cousin.
"I'm not letting you go now," she warned, "Not with everything likely to come to a head with Arabella sooner rather than later. I need you here for that. But once everything has settled down, if you're still adamant that this is what you want, then so be it. I'll let you go. And in the meantime, you can make your vow in front of the Abbess of Canterbury herself, if that's what would please you. And you needn't worry about Annie or Kate. I'll take them into my household and raise them for as long as is necessary, as Mama once raised you, when you were a motherless girl yourself. You have my word on that."
As Rachel's last words died away, Bessie caught at her hand and kissed it, squeezing her eyes shut to stop tears of painful gratitude spilling over.
"Thank you," she croaked, "Thank you. I'll not let you down this time, cousin. Not this time."
David sat in his tent behind the siege line, listening to the booming of his artillery as the gunners fired the bombards at the walls of Stirling. Oh, he'd written to Rachel claiming they wouldn't need to fire on Stirling to take it, and he'd hoped that would be the case, but Arabella seemed to be remarkably stubborn, even on what by now must be starvation rations. Besides, it was winter and bitterly cold in Stirlingshire, especially in a siege tent. If the ground was frozen hard enough to enable them to bring the cannons to bear, why shouldn't they use them, if it would speed the process of surrender up somewhat?
"We'll march Arabella, Alexander and Margaret down to London just as soon as we possibly can following their surrender. I'll not rest easy until they're all safely under lock and key in the Tower, secure in Rachel's heartlands," he snapped, glancing up at his oldest friend, James Bethune, brother to the Countess of Arran, who had been in his household since the day it had been created upon his betrothal to Rachel.
James nodded, "Of course. I'd expect nothing less. Will you bind their hands so they can't ride alone, as you would with other prisoners?"
David considered it, clapping his gloved hands together to stir some warmth into his blood as he did so.
"No," he said at last, "Whatever they may have done, Alexander and Arabella are my blood, a Prince and Lady of Scotland. I'll not dishonour them so far as to tie their hands like those of a common criminal. But you will find them spavined nags to ride upon, and we shall take the bridles away and replace them with halters, so that they must ride on a leading string like children first learning to sit a horse. That, in itself, will be punishment enough for them both, particularly for proud Arabella."
"As you wish," James leaned over the trestle that stood between them and made a few slashing notes on a scrap of parchment, "Will you take charge of Arabella?"
David shook his head. "No. I shall ride at the head of the forces, as befits a Prince Consort returning to his wife in triumph. I intend to give you and Charles Brandon the oversight of the prisoners. It is Brandon's duty as Lieutenant and Constable of the Tower of London, after all. But I will lead Arabella into London when we get there – or into any other big city where a show of power may be necessary en route."
If James was surprised or annoyed by being made the rebel Lady Arabella's minder for their journey south, he didn't show it, only nodding and making another note on his parchment.
As the silence fell, David's restlessness rose up again.
"They can't hold out much longer!" he snapped, "It's been a full six weeks, and we harried them so well that they won't have had time to gather in much by way of stores."
He ran an impatient hand through his sandy hair and James hummed non-committally, knowing it was always useless to try to reason with David when he was this jumpy.
"Send for my horse," David said suddenly, snatching his helmet and gauntlets from where he had thrown them on the bed a couple of hours earlier, "I'm going to go out and encourage our men."
No sooner had he spoken, however, than there was a sudden shout from outside the tent.
"White Flag! White Flag! Tell the Prince Stirling is running up the white flag!"
The words echoed round the camp and the two young men glanced at one another. A savage gleam entered David's eyes.
"Excellent," he breathed, "It looks like my dear little sister has seen sense at last. Mark my words, James, it won't be long before we're home now."
Then he strode from the tent, helmet under his arm, every inch of him the imposing commanding officer he had been raised to be.
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