Promise of the Rose (19 page)

William Rufus needed Rolfe’s sincere guidance. Rolfe never stopped trying to steer the King onto the path of a more just and equitable administration of his subjects and realm. Indeed, in the past four years since the good Archbishop Lanfranc had died, Rufus’s penchant for arbitrariness and decadence had worsened. Lanfranc, like Rolfe, had sought to morally guide the King while he was alive. Rolfe knew that should he leave the King’s side, Rufus would be influenced only by his cronies, men with the same—or worse—shortcomings as he.

And of course, always, Rolfe protected the interests of his family and Northumberland.

Now he intended to further those interests as never before.

Rufus had dismissed Duncan as well as several other retainers. As they paraded out, not a man among them could conceal their curiosity; each and every one was determined to learn, as quickly as possible, what the King and Rolfe de Warenne deemed important enough to discuss so privily.

As he left, Duncan shot Rolfe a piercing glance. Rolfe wondered what he would think had he known that Mary was hostage at Alnwick. For he was Mary’s half-brother.

When they were gone, the door firmly closed behind them, Rufus chuckled. “Jealous vultures, aren’t they? They all pant to know what news you bring; each and every man fears that you shall ingratiate yourself further with me and be awarded some priceless boon. And poor, dear Duncan is near frenzy, for of them all, he must know what passes so close to his birthright.” His gaze turned sharp. “So tell me, Rolfe, why are we closeted thus? What intrigue brews?”

“Stephen has taken Malcolm Canmore’s daughter hostage, Sire.”

Rufus choked on the sip of wine he had just taken. “God’s blood!”

Rolfe let the King absorb this momentous information.

Rufus began to smile. He rubbed his hands together greedily. His face was redder than ever, a ludicrous combination with his orange hair. “What luck. Ahh, Stephen, how well you have done. What shall we demand? Oh, he shall pay now!” He chortled. “And I shall find a way to reward your son.”

Rolfe said nothing.

“So what shall we demand?”

“A dowry.”

Rufus stared. “And who shall the lucky groom be?”

Rolfe stared back. “If Stephen marries Canmore’s daughter, a real and lasting peace if possible. What better way to reward my son? And if there is peace in the North, you can devote yourself completely to Normandy.”

Rufus smiled without mirth. “You want peace, Rolfe, or more power? Is not an earldom enough?”

“Have I ever betrayed you? Have I not supported you in your time of greatest need?”

“Have I not given you more than I have given anyone else?” Rufus replied.

“I seek to protect England and you, Sire.”

Rufus’s smile was bitter and even self-mocking. “I know you well, Rolfe, and never have you misled me like so many others. As
much
as I can trust anybody, I trust you. In this quagmire we call a Court, amongst all the greed and ambition, you seek only to protect my
father’s
legacy—do you not?”

“I seek to protect England and you, Sire; never doubt that,” Rolfe repeated firmly.

“Dammit,” Rufus said irritably. “I would have loved to rub his face in the muck!”

“His face is in the muck, Sire. He cannot be very pleased about this turn of events.”

“Stephen is betrothed to Beaufort’s sister,” Rufus said pointedly.

“Betrothals can be broken,” Rolfe said quietly.

“And when Malcolm dies?”

“When Malcolm dies, Northumberland supports England, as always.”

“And when you die?”

“My pledge is Stephen’s pledge.”

“So we are back to Stephen,” Rufus murmured. “We grew up together, as you know, but there is no great fondness between us,” he said grimly.

“Fondness means nothing; honor means everything. Are you impugning my son’s honor?”

“No!” Rufus heaved himself to his feet. “No, I am not. No man would be so stupid as to question Stephen’s honor. Is there a man in existence with more? I doubt it.”

Rolfe watched him. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and hypnotic. “I have ever been loyal to you, Your Grace, just as I was loyal to your father. Yes, I confess that I want a lasting peace on the border. I confess that I want this princess bride for my eldest son. But you, you must have Normandy.”

William Rufus fell still, silent.

“What happened five years ago will happen again,” Rolfe continued in the same seductive tone. “You have too many vassals with landed interests in Normandy, vassals who belong not to you alone, but to your brother Robert as well. Like Odo of Bayeux and Robert of Mortain, they are pulled in two opposite directions constantly. It is an insufferable situation. These magnates want one liege lord, not two. They must have one, and it must be you.”

Rufus’s gaze burned. “You think I do not know well what you speak of? There are many who connive even now to put my brother Robert on my throne.”

“And there are many who know he is too weak to be King of England. Robert could not possibly unite England with her sister land.”

They stared at each other. Many minutes passed. Rufus finally sat down and leaned back in his chair. His face was hard and grim. There was no mistaking the magnitude of power the proposed alliance would bring to Northumberland, or the potential that existed for disaster should the de Warennes become too friendly with Scotland. There was also no doubt that Rolfe spoke the truth. He must be free to devote himself to regaining Normandy—if he wished to remain England’s King.

“Tell me,” Rufus suddenly said, “is she fair?”

Rolfe was startled. “The princess?” The King’s question was bizarre.

“Yes, Canmore’s daughter. Is she fair?”

“I do not know,” Rolfe said slowly, wondering where Rufus could be leading.

Rufus suddenly shrugged. “There is no woman more beautiful than Adele Beaufort, I suppose. And he was not taken with her.”

Rolfe said nothing. There was nothing to say. Whether Stephen might find his bride fair or not was more than irrelevant.

Rufus smiled, and it was mocking. “Enough. The idea is entertaining—and I will entertain it.”

Rolfe nodded and bowed slightly. “That is all I can ask, Sire.” But when he left the chamber he was smiling. And some time later he had sent a messenger north, riding hellbent to Malcolm Canmore.

I
t was a trick.

Mary knew it was a trick. When she had finally calmed down, she had thought very carefully about the situation. Malcolm loved her, and while she did not think he would ever allow her to be stigmatized with a bastard, she was also certain that he would not hand her over to the enemy before he even knew whether she was with child or not. He hated the Normans too much.

The words she had overheard, the apparent bargain being made, had been a part of his very clever ruse.

Mary hugged herself. The night was cool, but there was also a terrible chill in her heart. Despite her certainty.

The moon rose, full and white. She watched its ascent, watched it part pearly gray skies. A thousand stars unfolded in accompaniment, and silvery moonlight danced within the chamber. She stood at the window slit, staring unseeing into the night. Isobel slept soundly and peacefully on the bed they shared behind her. The stars seemed to blur, losing their brilliance.

If only she had had a chance to speak with her father alone. If only he had taken her aside, if only he had comforted
her, if only he had told her of his love and explained this ruse!

But he had not. He trusted her, knowing her to be loyal and clever, just as she trusted him to outwit the Normans in the end. And no one was more adept at outwitting the Normans than her father. He had been fighting them nigh on twenty years, fighting them tooth and nail, deceiving them as he must in order to survive and safeguard Scotland. As he now outwitted Stephen de Warenne.

For that was the only explanation why Stephen truly believed their marriage to be based upon some kind of political alliance. He had been duped.

Mary collected herself, wiping a teardrop away with her sleeve. There was no earthly reason for her tears. She must be strong, she must survive each and every day to the best of her ability, with pride and fortitude, and she must not conceive his child.

It was late, but her captor was still downstairs. That evening the hall had been unusually festive, much to Mary’s dismay. The men had caroused in an obvious celebration of their lord’s apparent success. As the hours passed, their voices grew more slurred. Now the hall below was silent; all had gone to bed.

Except Stephen. Mary could not imagine him drunk, but after this past night, he must be deep into his cups. She was being handed a golden opportunity. Stephen’s wits would be dimmed. Would there ever be a better occasion to confront him? To demand the details of all that had transpired between him and her father? To reassure herself of what must be the truth?

Mary did not hesitate. But as she hurried from the solar, her heart thumped. He found her desirable. Did not the bards tell tales of men who lost their wits to dangerous seductresses? Would it not be better to be a seductress than a firebrand? Dare she take on such a role?

Mary tried to ignore the warmth of her cheeks and the too rapid fluttering in her breast as she entered the hail. As she paused on the threshold, it occurred to her that she played a dangerous game. That she very well might wind up on her backside with her skirts about her ears.

She glanced around, trembling. The dying fire in the hearth still glowed, and she could see that the retainers within were all asleep. Occasional snores and moans sounded.

Her gaze shot to the dais; she expected to see Stephen there. No one graced the platform. She felt distinctly uneasy, disbelief welling up in her. She approached the two thronelike chairs in front of the fire from behind, thinking that perhaps he sat in one. But both chairs were vacant. Mary wrung her hands.

He was not upstairs abed and he was not in the hall carousing. She knew damn well what he was about. It was what all men were about at this ungodly hour, assuaging the stiff prick between their legs. Mary could not move, consumed with sudden fury.

Abruptly she turned. Her anger was misplaced. She did not care what the bastard did—no woman could expect fidelity from her lord, and he was barely that now and would never be that in the future.

Mary turned and marched back upstairs.

   Stephen was not drunk. Far from it, for he was not a man inclined to overindulgence. He set the candle holder carefully aside. He had no intention of burning his own stable down.

“My lord?” the maid asked, breathless and unmoving.

Stephen was not exactly pleased. She was not to his taste. Her breasts were huge, her hips abundant. Once her softness might have pleased him. At the very least, he liked her hair. It was pale blond.

His lust was huge. This night, like the night before, he was unable to sleep, his manhood swollen and distended. Despite his better intentions, he had found himself fantasizing about his bride like an adolescent boy. He was a man used to assuaging his appetite when it was raised. He had never spent a moment in fantasy before, even as a lad. And he knew he could not spend another night like the one just passed.

And taking Mary to bed now was out of the question. She was his betrothed for all intents and purposes even if the betrothal had yet to formally take place. Such callous use
of her would be the height of disrespect. She was no laird’s by-blow, no villein. She was of royal stock and blood, and she was his bride. He could not treat her in the manner he would a leman, not anymore. There was no privacy in any keep, much less Alnwick. Unless he tumbled her in the stables in the dead of night, one and all would know of their shared intimacy. The former was out of the question, the latter another kind of abuse he could not inflict upon her. One day she would be his countess; if he treated her with disdain, an example would be set.

Now he eyed the maid standing breathlessly before him. She was a poor substitute for the woman he desired. It did not matter. For it would be absurd to continue this way for a full month until he married Mary. What mattered was the fact that he was in great pain. When she had sat upon his lap in the great hall not too many moments ago, his shaft had raised itself against her buttocks like a pillar cleaving the sky.

Stephen motioned to her. A moment later he had her on her knees, and she was taking care of his huge pain.

   Mary did not fall asleep until after dawn. She no longer brooded upon the dangerous game of war and treachery in which she was the most prominent pawn. She was furious and she was hurt, two emotions she had no right to. She could not stop herself from imagining Stephen with some faceless lowborn servant. She should not care what he did and with whom—but God help her, she did.

As the morning grayed, Isobel still blessedly asleep, Mary found herself faced with brutal facts. She had thought about this man numerous times since she had first seen him at Abemathy. It had been impossible not to recall him, stricken then as she was by his virility and his power. Despite the fact that he was her enemy, the attraction had been there from the first.