The Spitfire by Bertrice Small

Author:Bertrice Small
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc.
Published: 2015-11-27T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Henry Tudor looked curiously upon the man before him. His name was Jasper Keane, and he was a knight from the north. The king had a certain instinct where men were concerned, and that instinct was now warning him to be cautious with Sir Jasper Keane.

“So you see, my liege, with my wife dead in childbed, there are no longer any Greys left at Greyfaire Keep. I have been master there for almost three years, and I would beg your majesty’s leave to continue on in my duties with the hope that someday I might be considered worthy to be confirmed in my wife’s inheritance.” Sir Jasper smiled toothily, bowing obsequiously.

“I am not quite certain of the recent history of Greyfaire, Sir Jasper. You must refresh my memory. Your wife was the heiress of Greyfaire? She was born a Grey?”

Jasper Keane considered lying, but then thought better of it. There were too many alive and even now in the king’s favor who could tell Henry Tudor the truth. “Rowena, may God assoil her sweet soul,” he began piously, “was married to Henry Grey, the last Grey Lord of Greyfaire, Sire. When she was widowed, I wed her.”

“There were no offspring of her first marriage?” the king queried.

“A daughter,” Sir Jasper said shortly.

“She is dead?” the king pressed gently.

“The wench was carried off in a border raid by the Scots,” he said.

“She is dead?” the king repeated.

Again Sir Jasper considered lying. When several days after Arabella’s abduction the word had come that the Earl of Dunmor had married her, Jasper Keane had been made a laughingstock in the district. There had already been a great deal of nasty talk about his hasty marriage as it was. Yet, here again, he dare not lie. “I understand the girl was married off to some nobly born bastard, Sire, but I could not say for certain. She has not communicated with me, even when her mother died. She is a feckless, spoilt wench who cares for naught but herself, I fear.”

“Still,” the king considered aloud, “she is Greyfaire’s rightful heiress.” Seeing the play of emotions cross Sir Jasper’s face, Henry Tudor knew he was wise not to promise the man anything concrete. There had been fury in the man’s eyes for a brief moment before he had quickly masked his emotions. “Have you land of your own, Sir Jasper?” the king asked in pleasant tones, not quite ready to shut the door upon this man.

“My home was destroyed by the Scots,” Sir Jasper Keane said tightly.

The king nodded. “So Greyfaire Keep is now your home?”

“Aye, my liege.”

Sir Jasper Keane obviously did not have the wherewithal to rebuild his own house, the king thought. He was hungry for legal possession of Greyfaire Keep. With it he might attract a wife with some substance of her own. He motioned to his secretary, who bent down to hear his master’s words. “This Greyfaire. Is it important? Rich? Large? In other words, is it worth having?” he demanded in low tones.

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