The doors of Rachel's Privy Chamber had no sooner crashed shut behind her and David than there was a cacophony.
"My Lady! You cannot mean to execute Lady Arabella, surely? When you have spared Prince Alexander's life!"
"It's he and Mistress Drummond who have been behind this entire rebellion, not the Lady Arabella!"
"Lady Arabella is your sister!"
Rachel didn't respond to any of the exclamations, only swept to the head of the table, her hand on David's arm. That being said, however, the bruises he found blooming on his upper arm the following morning were testament to how her grip tightened in response to the words being thrown at them.
He pulled her carved chair out for her, but, though she waved him and their councillors to their seats, she didn't sit herself, only gripped the edge of the table and fixed Lady Paulet with a gimlet stare.
"Need I remind you, Lady Paulet, that by law, I now have no sister?"
The ice in her words rippled through the room. Rachel gave them a few seconds to sink in and then raised a hand to gesture towards David.
"It was agreed upon by every Lady in this room that, when my husband and Lord Brandon rode north to face the rebel forces, His Highness would have full authority as my Prince Consort and High Steward and High Admiral of the Isles. We agreed that, although his first priority was to bring our beloved Duchess of Carnarvon home safe and well, His Highness was also to do whatever he could to bring this war to an end. Did we not?"
There was a pause before someone found the courage to murmur, "Well, yes, My Lady, but…"
"Did we not?" Rachel repeated, cutting across the halting protest harshly. This time, knowing what their self-confident young Queen wanted of them, the councillors answered in chorus.
"Yes, Your Grace."
A swift bob of the dark head was all the acknowledgement they received. Rachel's eyes, so like her mother's, raked the room with all the ferocity the late Queen Anne's had ever done.
"Prince David may have failed in the first of his objectives, but he succeeded in the second. His Highness wrote to me of the terms he had offered Prince Alexander, Mistress Drummond and Mistress Stewart-Howard following their capitulation at Stirling, and I approved them. They would be brought to London, and if they swore allegiance, swore never to raise the country against me again, I would spare their lives and give them the choice between permanent exile and taking Holy Orders. If not, well… need I go on?"
Pausing to draw breath, Rachel glanced at Lady Paulet, and then the Countess of Arran, one of her Scottish councillors, whom she knew had always had at least a little sympathy for Arabella and the way their parents had pushed her aside in favour of Rachel, though thankfully, enough respect for the late King James to refrain from siding with the younger girl.
She blew out her cheeks, "Prince Alexander was the only one of the three to accept our terms."
"That's as may be, Madam, but surely you didn't have to strip the Lady Arabella of her royal status?! Whatever Her Highness may have done, she is still your sister!" Lady Arran couldn't restrain herself this time, "Your Grace hasn't stripped Mistress Drummond and everybody knows that she was one of the driving forces behind this rising, if not the driving force!"
"I didn't do it lightly, Lady Arran!" Rachel snapped, her voice shaking slightly as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, "By God Above, I didn't do it lightly, but Mistress Stewart-Howard seized my daughter. She killed my daughter! And that, I cannot forgive!"
Tears swam in Rachel's dark eyes, and she squeezed them shut to hold the signs of weakness at bay. Unable to help himself, David reached out to touch her shoulder, and though she stiffened at the public comfort, she didn't pull away. Nor did she protest when he rose to stand beside her and speak for her, which spoke volumes for how shaken she was.
"Prince Alexander swore on St Andrew that neither he nor Mistress Drummond thought up the plot to kidnap the Duchess of Carnarvon. As he told it, that was Arabella's idea alone, and she carried it out alone, scandalising most of her forces in the process. That means that Arabella was the chief rebel against my wife, not Mistress Drummond or Prince Alexander. She has to be treated more harshly because of it."
"Forgive me, Your Highness," Lady Harrington of Hornby, Rachel's newly-appointed Lady Chancellor, asked, her voice soft and tentative as she prodded gently at such a dangerous topic, "But how do we know we can trust Prince Alexander's word on this? After all, he too was, until recently, a rebel against Queen Rachel."
David raised one shoulder. "I know my brother, Lady Harrington," he said flatly, "If he swears on the patron saint of Scotland, you can trust him."
Lady Harrington nodded and made a note on a piece of parchment spread before her.
"I wouldn't have done," Rachel said hoarsely, "I wouldn't have done. If Arabella had only bent the knee and acknowledged her wrong-doing, if she'd shown me even a glimpse of the sister she used to be, I wouldn't have stripped her of her rank. But when she wouldn't even bow her head to me…"
Rachel trailed off and David tightened his hand on her shoulder, "What's done is done, My Lady Queen," he reminded her, "You've made a public proclamation declaring Arabella to be Mistress Stewart-Howard because of her murder of our daughter Elizabeth. You cannot be seen to go back on that now or you'll be thought of as weak, precisely when you need to be strong to unite the country. All that remains is to decide her fate, and that of Mistress Drummond."
"If I may, Your Grace," Lady Arran offered, and while David narrowed his eyes at her, he nodded at her to continue, "Might I suggest that you make the executions as merciful as possible, given the closeness of the traitors to Your Highnesses in blood? I suggest a private beheading by a skilled swordsman for Mistress Drummond, and for Mistress Stewart-Howard, well, perhaps she might be allowed to choose her own method of execution. There is, after all, precedent for this in the execution of Lady Jean Stewart, who tried to have herself crowned Queen of an independent Ireland in defiance of Queen Margaret of Scotland."
"Lady Jean was Duchess of Albany and cousin to the Queen," Rachel pointed out, raising her head to look Lady Arran in the eye, much to David's relief, "Regardless of her treason, she was of rank. Mistress Stewart-Howard is not."
"Only by proclamation," Lady Arran persisted, "Proclamations make little difference to the hearts of the common people. No matter what you say, Your Grace, no matter how many times you call Mistress Stewart-Howard by her new name, she will still be their Lady Arabella and your true-born sister."
David and Rachel looked at each other, before Rachel stood up and beckoned him to join her in the window embrasure, their backs to the Privy Council.
"It's up to you, love," he whispered, low enough that no-one else could hear, "I'll stand by you, whatever you decide, but something has to be done. And she can't live, you know that. Not after what she did to Beth."
"Do you think I should let her choose how she dies? For the sake of our blood ties, if nothing else?"
David shrugged, "I don't know. There's precedent for it in Scotland, though I'm not sure about here. But then Arabella always saw herself as a Princess of Scotland over and above anything else, and it's a sort of mercy, I suppose. I'm sure it would make Lady Arran feel better, if nothing else."
Rachel bit the inside of her cheek and glanced back at the Privy Councillors, who were all determinedly pretending they weren't eavesdropping.
Then she nodded. "All right," she said quietly, "So be it."
Turning back to the table, she nodded toward Lady Arran, "It shall be as you suggest, Lady Arran. Mistress Stewart-Howard shall have the mercy of picking her own method of execution, if only for the sake of the girl she once was."
"Your Grace," Lady Arran bowed her head gratefully, "I'll ride for the Tower at once."
"No," Rachel held up a hand, "I'll not have you go. Not when everyone knows you sympathised with Mistress Stewart-Howard as a child. I might be seen to be sending the wrong message. No, the messenger has to be someone who is loyal to me and me alone."
Rachel's eyes raked the room, but everyone knew who she meant even before her gaze lit upon the fair-haired young woman who stood discreetly in the corner of the room, waiting to be called upon.
"Nora. You'll go."
"My Lady!" Lady Harrington protested, "Allow me to go, or another Lady of the Council, perhaps even Lady Lancaster, if you won't let Lady Arran. To trust such an important message to -"
"To my half-sister, personal attendant and closest friend," Rachel cut the older woman off sharply, her gaze snapping to her, "I can think of no one better."
"My Lady," This time it was Nora herself who protested, "Lady Harrington has the right of it. Let Lady Lancaster go."
"I'll not make Arabella's own godmother tell her she's going to die!"
"Rachel, please," Nora locked eyes with the other woman, ignoring the gasps as she called her by her first name, "You know how Arabella hates me, how she scorns the fact that you are so close to someone whose mother betrayed your own. Sending me… it's not a good idea."
"Mistress Stewart-Howard lost the right to question the company I kept the moment she raised her banners against me, Nora," Rachel scoffed, "Indeed, given the fact that she probably learnt her treason at Mistress Drummond's knee, I doubt she ever had it. I don't want to hear another word. You'll ride for the Tower as soon as we've finished here. Is that clear?"
Nora Rose might have known Rachel since they were both in their teens, but she'd never been the kind of woman who would challenge her Crown Princess. Her sister Matilda had inherited all their father's boldness, as well as his red-gold hair, while Nora was much more her mother's daughter. Faced with a Stewart-Howard Queen in full blaze, it was beyond her to resist.
She dipped down into a curtsy, "As you wish, My Lady Queen."
Rachel looked down at her bent head for a moment and then exhaled.
"Very well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, Ladies, what else have we got to talk about today?"
She resumed her seat, and waved David back into his.
Uncertain silence prevailed for a moment or two, before Lady Harrington pulled a scroll towards her.
"Well, Your Grace, with Mistress Stewart Howard and Mistress Drummond in custody, perhaps we should begin to discuss your coronation at long last?"
"That was an interesting move, delaying your coronation until the child is born. I'd have thought you'd want it done as quickly as possible, to shore up your reign," David commented, as the doors shut behind the serving maids who had cleared their supper, leaving him and Rachel alone in her solar.
Rachel rubbed her eyes as she stood from the table and retreated to a low couch by the fire. She pulled him down beside her and leaned her head on his shoulder. He felt her weight slump against him as she let herself go in a way she only ever did in private.
"Do you have any idea, David, how tiring my coronation is going to be? Mama used to tell me it was hard enough doing it full of energy at sixteen! I can't imagine what it would be like doing it all six months gone with child!"
"Your great-grandmother was crowned when she was with child, wasn't she? I seem to remember Mama saying something about it at one point – that her Uncle Edward was born very soon after her grandmother had been crowned Queen."
"Yes, and he was early and always sickly," Rachel retaliated, groaning as the child moved within her, "The stress of the pageantry brought Great-Grandmother's labour on, I'm absolutely certain of it. Besides, you know how often I have to use the close stool when I'm pregnant. How do you think I'd get through a banquet?"
"We could always put two of your maids under the table with a chamber pot. Nobody would notice," David shrugged, and Rachel reached up to swat him lightly.
"David! That's vile!"
But she was laughing at the mental image his words presented, and David leaned down to kiss the top of her head lightly. It had been far too long since they had been able to be like this together, free from all the cares around them, even if only temporarily.
"You can't tell me there's not one or two of your ladies you wouldn't like to punish with such a back-handed honour. What about the Ferrers brat?"
The giggle Rachel stifled with her hand was enough of an answer. He chuckled himself, and then carded his hand through her hair, gently tugging out the jewelled pins she was wearing. Seven years of marriage had taught him that she preferred wearing her hair down when she was heavy with child, that it eased the migraines she was often plagued with in pregnancy.
"What are we going to call this child then?" he asked, "It's high time we discussed it, you know. You'll be in confinement before you know it."
"If it's a boy, I want James after Papa," Rachel murmured, drowsiness slurring her words as she leaned into his caress.
"He'd be honoured, sweetheart. And continuing in that vein, Anne for a girl, after Mama?"
Rachel shifted her head on his shoulder in demurral, "We tried a family name for Beth and look where it got us. I thought we might try something new."
"Oh?"
"Mama named me for an Old Testament heroine. I thought we might honour her by doing the same for our Crown Princess, as and when she arrives."
"An Old Testament name? Are you sure? Those can be so…" David trailed off as a horrifying thought struck him, "You don't want something outlandish like Bathsheba, do you? That really doesn't work with Stewart-Howard, you know!"
"No!" Rachel snorted, "But they're not all like that. I've had plenty of time to think while you've been in Stirling, and I've decided I like Esther. After the Queen who saved her people. After all, our Crown Princess may well be saving us, if she stabilises the succession."
"Esther Stewart-Howard, Crown Princess of Albion," David rolled the name around in his mouth, testing it.
Several long moments later, he nodded, "I like it. I'm not entirely convinced, but I like it. I could be persuaded."
There was no response.
"Rachel?" he probed, glancing down at her in surprise… only to find that her exhaustion had caught up with her and that she'd drifted off to sleep against him.
"You've a visitor, Mistress Stewart-Howard," Charles announced, sliding back the bolt on Arabella's door.
"Uncle Charles, please. If you won't call me by my rightful title, at least call me by my name," Arabella sighed, pushing herself to her feet and turning to face him.
Charles hesitated, but, like any Brandon, he'd always had a weakness for the Howard women, particularly when they fixed him with their intent gazes as Arabella was doing.
"Arabella, then," he allowed, rationalising that Rachel would likely never know and that, even if she did find out, it was little enough courtesy to extend to the fifteen-year-old he'd always seen as a niece, particularly when everybody knew that her days on this earth were numbered, now that she'd refused to yield to her sister and seek her clemency.
He stepped to one side and waved Nora Rose into the room. Arabella stiffened instantly.
"Well, well," she sniffed, "If it isn't my sister's little dog. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at Court with all the rest of her yes-women, rolling over and begging for scraps of favour that a traitor's daughter like you doesn't deserve?"
If Nora Rose was incensed by Arabella's sneering welcome, she didn't show it, only glancing at Charles to say he could leave them alone, before shutting the door behind him and turning back to face Arabella.
"I'll not beat about the bush. I've come straight from a Privy Council meeting. You've been sentenced to death for your crimes against the Crown, but, thanks to the good offices of Lady Arran, Her Majesty has been persuaded to allow you the mercy of picking your own method of execution."
Silence fell for several long seconds before Arabella scoffed.
"So. My sister doesn't even have the courage to tell me herself. Forget Rachel's dog, you're her moll, Eleanor Rose. Her moll, do you hear me?"
When Nora didn't respond, Arabella tossed her head, her ruffled blonde locks whipping the air in disdain.
"Very well. If Rachel is letting me choose how I meet my Maker, then I shall pick something that shall mean I shall never be forgotten. Something that will render her a laughing-stock forevermore for how she chose to kill her sister. You may tell my sister, Mistress Rose, that I ask her to drown me in a butt of malmsey wine."
Nora's jaw dropped, and Arabella laughed, the sound ringing harsh and bitter off the stone walls.
"Now I've startled you, haven't I? But that's what I want. Run back to Richmond and tell my sister like the good little messenger girl you are."
The two young women stared at one another for a moment, before, realising she wasn't going to get any more out of Arabella, Nora sighed and turned to knock for Brandon to come and let her out.
Hand in the air, she paused and looked back at Arabella.
"I pitied you as a little girl, you know. As did Rachel. It was so clear that she was your parents' favourite, and that whatever you did, you'd never match up to her. We felt sorry for you because of it. Rachel would have been good to you, if you'd only stayed loyal. But you threw all that away. You threw it all away, and for what? A ridiculous mummer's death, fitter for a play than for a former Lady."
Before Arabella could respond, Nora knocked to be let out. Her order was followed, Brandon dipping his head to her as she passed him, "Mistress Rose."
Nora held up a hand to stop him shutting the door and turned to look Arabella in the eye.
"You've sneered at me and belittled me for as long as I've known you, Arabella. But Rachel is my sister too. Rachel is my sister too, and by God, I would never have behaved towards her as you have done. May God have mercy on your soul, for I have none."
The look of shock that flickered into Arabella's eyes as she registered that her sister's meek shadow had spoken to her so boldly was the last thing Nora saw before Brandon slammed the heavy oaken door shut and escorted her to the Tower courtyard.