Promise of the Rose (26 page)

She eyed him, defiant, frightened, trembling.

“Whatever you are planning,” he said abruptly, “I suggest you end it, now.”

“Your imagination runs wild,” she said through stiff lips. “There is no scheme between us.”

“We shall soon see. I suspect,” he said flatly. “Are you interested in joining me for the noon meal?”

“No,” she said. “No, I have a terrible headache, I cannot.”

There was nothing graceful about his acceptance of her words; irritation and anger hardened his features one by one. Mary ducked her head away from him and turned to leave him. He stopped her, gripping her shoulder. “Wait.” He gestured to one of his men, who had followed him up the stairs, who now came forward with the bolt of Flanders wool, carefully wrapped in cheap colorless linen. His mouth turned down. There was no pleasure in the giving, none at all.

“What is this?” Mary whispered, her eyes huge.

“For you, mademoiselle,” Stephen said curtly. He nodded in parting. “I hope your megrim soon eases.” He found he could not give her the rest of her gifts. Apparently the war was not over yet.

   Geoffrey strode through the great hall. His golden face was flushed with anger, anger he must at all costs hide. For the third time in as many weeks, he had received a royal summons. But this time he was not being made to wait. This time the summons had been delivered by the King’s own men, who had escorted him posthaste back to London, who even now accompanied him to the King.

The sergeants who stood at attention outside the royal chamber stiffened and stepped aside. Geoffrey was ushered within immediately, and only then did the two knights leave his side.

Geoffrey almost faltered as he came across the room, approaching Rufus, who sat upon a throne that was the exact replica of the one in the hall outside. For three men
were present with him, Duncan, Montgomery, and his father, Rolfe de Warenne.

The Earl of Northumberland’s eyes flashed to his, with warning.

“How pleased We are, dear Geoffrey, to see that you have come to Us so swiftly,” Rufus said.

Geoffrey’s mind whirled. He could think of no reason for this summons other than to be put to the test—the King would demand the knights owed him.

Geoffrey knelt briefly on one knee and rose at the King’s bidding. “Sire?”

“The time has come for you to make your choice,” Rufus said, smiling as if he had just asked Geoffrey about the weather.

Geoffrey’s heart skidded wildly, then resumed its steady beat.

“Will you swear fealty to your King, Archdeacon? In front of these three men, with God also as Our witness?”

Geoffrey blanched. He had been wrong. The King was not demanding mere service after all.

He was demanding far more: that Geoffrey swear homage to him in front of witnesses. Recently some churchmen claimed that no cleric should ever swear fealty to their King, that their real allegiance was only to God, and therefore, the Pope. These reformers refused upon investiture to make such vows, and their refusal was encouraged by Rome. These prelates also disputed the King’s power to appoint and invest clerics. So far, Rufus continued to follow in the footsteps of his father, demanding and exercising his rights over the Church when it was necessary, such as when he had appointed Anselm Canterbury’s archbishop. He was demanding those rights now, from Geoffrey.

“And when would this act take place?” Geoffrey asked. His mouth was dry; he wet his lips. He was sweating.

“Today. Here. Now.”

Geoffrey forced his stunned mind to think. There was no time to maneuver himself out of this new dilemma. The King demanded homage now. Normally an archdeacon was hardly a significant prelate. In fact, having run Canterbury ever since Lanfranc’s death, Geoffrey had risen to an unprecedented
position of power and preeminence. For the past four years, in the absence of an archbishop, he had battled the Crown head-on as he ruled Canterbury. Rufus was pushing their ongoing battle to its final conclusion. For Geoffrey had two choices, yea or nay, and he had little doubt that refusal would precipitate his direct descent to the dungeons below. Rufus had done far worse to those who defied him.

“You hesitate,” Rufus said, his smile no longer pleasant. “Are you a fanatic then?”

His jaw clenched; a muscle ticked there. “I am no fanatic.” Geoffrey forced himself to smile. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” And he dropped to his knees.

Someone gasped, perhaps Montgomery.

Geoffrey was not a fanatic, yet his cause was the Church. He supported most of the suggested reforms, he supported the rights of the Church against the claims of the King, and he would continue to do so. But the past four years had proved that he could not best the King in open war. To what good had all his efforts so far been? The King’s last accounting had resulted in another rape of the see to the tune of several thousand pounds.

The time had come to change his tactics. Could he not become an ally of the Crown, yet surreptitiously continue to further the interest of the Church and God?

“How wisely you have chosen,” Rufus murmured. Then his voice turned sharp. “Let us be done with it!”

Before the gathered witnesses, Geoffrey swore to uphold and obey his liege lord, King William of England, in all manner and for all time. In turn, Rufus surprised him by granting him a small but exceedingly rich manor farther in the south. Geoffrey kissed the King’s knee and was allowed to rise.

Their gazes met. There was no mistaking Rufus’s satisfaction. “Prove that you are worthy of the trust I place in you, and you shall go far,” Rufus said.

Geoffrey could not mistake his meaning. The test was not done yet. And should he continue to submit to the King’s will, there would be more for him personally to gain. As he was only an archdeacon, Rufus very obviously referred to a more significant appointment. Geoffrey did not feel elated.
Instead, his insides constricted painfully. Instead, he felt a moment of frightening despair.

The choice he had just made would be nothing like the choice he must soon make, if the King spoke true.

Rolfe came over and gripped his arm, his smile reassuring but not overly bright. As he prepared to leave, the King called out. “Wait, dear archdeacon, wait.”

Slowly Geoffrey turned.

Rufus smiled. “I am afraid your work has hardly begun. You see, just this morning Anselm has refused me. He will not muster the knights owed to me. He refuses to use the power of Canterbury, he says, to further my own bloody ambition.” Rufus stared. His next words rang like a question. “You, of course, will bring me the vassals owed.”

It was the first test. Geoffrey did not pause. Regardless of what might eventually come. “When—and where?”

“In two weeks time we advance upon Carlisle.”

Geoffrey reeled. Beside him, his father stared at the King in shock. Then the father and son who were such exact replicas of each other exchanged glances, alarm mirrored equally in both of their eyes.

Rufus smiled and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Malcolm will never suspect our plans, coming as they do just days before the union of his dear daughter and our dear Stephen.” Rufus crowed. “We cannot possibly fail! The Scot is finally doomed!”

   Mary could not sleep. At supper Adele had given her the “yes” signal that they had agreed upon. She was filled with despair. If she dared to analyze her thoughts more closely, she might very well learn that she had no real wish to escape her betrothed.

But she must. She must flee this hateful marriage. How could she wed him now, after all that had passed?

Had he not destroyed her life?

She rolled onto her side. The bell had tolled lauds and soon the sky would gray, soon she must begin her attempt to flee all that was abhorrent to her. For some wild reason, a sob seemed to be working its way up from her chest. She gulped it down. An image of the gorgeous red wool, the gift
Stephen had brought her, filled her mind yet again.

His page had made sure she knew that his lord had ridden all the way to Cheapside to do the picking himself.

Mary turned onto her stomach, feeling lost. She could not fathom why he had brought her the present that he had after she had flung her hatred of him in his face. It was making her feel miserable. For tonight she would repay him with treachery.

His dark image swam before her. His even darker words as he told her that she should be wary of Adele, that friends did not exist. He was a lonely man. How clearly she recognized that now. He most certainly needed a friend, a helpmeet, a wife.

But it would not be her. He had ruined her life. He had, and Mary knew she would never be able to forgive him for it.

Her temples throbbed as they so often did since she had arrived at Court and learned the obvious truth, that her father intended no ruse, but a real alliance. Mary closed her eyes. Still, tears seeped. Although she intended escape, what would happen to her once she reached her home? Would Malcom welcome her—or send her back?

If he was the man she thought he was, he would welcome her with open arms, and he would be proud of how she had deceived the Norman enemy. Surely he had been coerced into forsaking her. Mary had thought long and hard and had yet to find a single advantage that her marriage would bring to Scotland, other than peace. And Malcolm scoffed at peace, bent as he was on extending his borders until Scotland was as it had once been.

Mary was not sure she could go through with it. She kept recalling Malcolm’s words that day upon the moors. “Mackinnon brings me vast support. What do you bring me?” And she kept seeing Stephen as she had last seen him that afternoon, his face dark with disappointment when she failed to thank him for his gift.

“Mary,” Adele whispered in her ear. “ ’Tis time, you must go!”

Now was not the time to have second thoughts. Mary slipped from the bed, trembling. Her gaze met Adele’s. The
heiress’s black eyes glittered with triumph. Soon she would have Stephen to herself—as she planned.

Stephen de Warenne poised the largest threat to the scheme Adele had designed. He was too shrewd, suspecting what was afoot. That night, at supper, Mary had followed Adele’s suggestion and put several drops of poppy into his wine. Stephen had downed several glasses of the narcotic-laced burgundy, and Mary had watched him growing sleepier and sleepier. When she had left him at her chamber door, he had been blinking at her, bleary-eyed. She had not a doubt that right now he was sound asleep, and would sleep that way for many hours more.

Adele gave Mary a shove. Mary could delay no longer. Outside the narrow window, through the costly colored glass, the night was no longer ink-black. Quickly Mary slipped on the clothes she had left within easy reach. Adele crept back to bed but watched her like a cat. None of the other women in the chamber stirred, and it was so quiet, she could hear her own slightly uneven breathing. She hurriedly pulled on her slippers, and feeling very much like a thief, she stole one of the lady’s cloaks.

Adele waved at her furiously to hurry and go.

The first gray light of dawn began to filter into the room as Mary let herself out. The guards questioned her while she explained that she needed to use the garderobe, shivering as if with cold, an explanation for the cloak. Her gaze drifted over Stephen. It was very dark in the corner where he’d made his pallet, and it was impossible to see him clearly, but he did not even snore. At least she need not worry about him; he would still be under the influence of the poppy. Her nerves fluttering, Mary followed one guard down the dark, empty corridor.

She slipped into the garderobe, ignoring the foul smells, waiting. It struck her then that she would never see Stephen again—unless Malcolm sent her back. Jesu, what was she doing!

Mary jumped, hearing a loud thump. She dared to slip out. The guard lay upon the floor as if dead, while another man stood over him, his face masked. He gestured at her angrily and then fled before her down the back stairs.

Mary dared not pause, just as she dared not think, other than to pray that the guard had not been killed on her account. She saw no one who was awake as she flew down the back stairs in the wake of the man hired by Adele.

Mary exited through the kitchens. By now she had her cloak pulled up over her head, shadowing her face. Once outside, she began to run.

If anyone saw her as she darted across the open courtyard to the stable she had been directed to, no one called out. She did not expect anyone to. With her mantle pulled up over her head, she could be any woman, and no doubt these guards had seen more females furtively crossing the bailey for their assignations than not. Mary rounded the stable and hurried through a door in the thick outer wall, down steep stone steps, across a narrow corridor, and out another door. She was outside and beneath the castle walls, on the wharf. She had made it.

Why did she not feel triumph?

The day was growing light. The rising sun appeared as a fuzzy apricot ball on the smoky horizon. It was fiercely cold, and for a moment, as Mary stood there searching for the oarsman, she was strangely elated, thinking he had not come. Then she saw a small boat being rowed towards the dock, and her heart hammered wildly. This was it. If she wished to leave, she must do so now.

She paused on the edge of the dock, trembling with the awesome decision she must make—a decision she had thought firmly made. It was hardly that, she realized, for she was filled with hesitation, with reluctance. She edged closer to the landing’s edge, fists clenched, praying for guidance. Stephen’s image haunted her.

She was suddenly loath to leave. In the span of a fortnight, he had become the focus of her life.

Slowly the rowboat approached. Mary began to cry. At first she was not aware of it, but then she felt the wetness on her cheeks. Was he really to blame for all that had passed?

She shoved a fist against her mouth so she would not make any sound and alert the guards upon the watchtower. She was the one who had slipped from Liddel in disguise against all better judgment in order to rendezvous with
Doug. She was the one who had refused to yield her identity to Stephen, yielding instead her virtue. And dear, sweet Lord, Malcolm was the one who had handed her over to Stephen, without even giving her a single word of comfort, without even waiting to see if she was really with child.