Promise of the Rose (43 page)

She would be a hero, a savior,
the
savior, and finally she would have proved herself to Stephen.

Mary was so stunned by the thought of a final and complete exoneration that she barely heard the countess when she sent her off to begin her task with a small pat on the shoulder.

Mary had been given the perfect excuse to leave the tower. She rushed into the bailey, where servants scurried back and forth, dragging huge barrels of drinking water inside, as well as sacks of grain and dried foodstuffs. Others were moving casks of oil to the walls. If they were truly sieged, the oil would be boiled and placed on top of the walls and overturned on the attackers as they tried to scale them.

No attention was paid to Mary. She thought that she could probably walk right out of the bailey and across the drawbridge, lowered now for the constant influx and outflux of traffic, pedestrian and vehicular alike, but too much was at slake for her to take a chance of being recognized and stopped. Mary hurried towards the back of the keep where the kitchens and pantries were—where several young boys about her size usually worked. One of the lads was lugging a sack of cornmeal into the kitchen. Mary immediately drew him aside. She gave him a penny for his trouble, which
delighted him, as well as a cape for his modesty. He assured her that he would have no difficulty replacing his clothing. Mary took everything he wore, his clogs, his hose, his rough wool tunic and his rope-braid belt, and most important, his torn, hooded cloak.

Tucking the clothing under her arm, Mary rushed past the kitchens and turned the corner. She needed absolute privacy to change into her disguise. An empty wagon provided it—or so she thought

She had just finished dressing and was carefully hiding her own garments in the wagon under some empty sacks when Isobel said, “Whatever are you doing, Lady Mary?”

Mary’s heart lurched with sickening force. She straightened, her visage undoubtedly a hundred shades of guilty red. Isobel was wide-eyed, taking in every inch of her appearance. “The cowl is too big,” she remarked.

Mary grabbed Isobel and pulled her into the shadows cast by the wagon. Her heart was pounding madly. What reasonable explanation could she offer to the clever girl for her ludicrous manner of dress? She realized she must appeal to the child’s sense of adventure, she must trust her with the truth.

“From a distance,” she said softly, “do I look like a lad?”

Isobel backed up, regarding her seriously. “Perhaps if you dirty up your face and hands. What are you doing?”

Mary pulled her close again. “Isobel, I need your help. I need your promise of secrecy.”

Suddenly Isobel’s expression became accusatory. “You are disguised so that you might run away!”

“Yes, but not for the reason that you are thinking!”

Isobel was white. “You would run away from all of us, from Stephen, now? Abandon us? I thought you were a friend!”

“Please listen to me!” Mary was desperate. “I am not running away!”

Isobel stared.

“I am going to my father to beg him to cease his part in this war!”

Isobel appeared shocked. “And Stephen does not know?”

“He does not know. He left before I even thought of this plan. But even if he did know, he would not let me go. A man does not allow his wife to serve such purposes.” She would not tell the child that her brother did not trust her, and would think, as Isobel had, that Mary meant to run away.

Isobel’s eyes glowed. She smiled eagerly. “If you can stop Malcolm, why, the bards will tell stones about you and the minstrels will sing of you! No longer will they speak only of your beauty—but of your courage! And Stephen—he shall no longer be so angry with you! He will love you again!”

Mary was silent. Her heart was wrenched hard by the child’s words, words that accurately reflected her own hopes. How much did Isobel know? More important, how much did Isobel understand? It seemed as if the child comprehended Mary’s predicament completely. How could one so young be so astute? “Then you will help me, by keeping silent?”

Isobel regarded her. “You will come back?”

“Of course.” She saw that Isobel was uncertain enough to hesitate. “I love Stephen, Isobel.”

And Isobel’s eyes danced. “I will help you. I will help you to stop this war and I will help you gain Stephen’s love again!”

Late that day, as dusk fell upon the land, Mary was escorted by a single rider around the enemy lines—her husband’s lines—as they approached the Scottish army’s camp.

The Scot who rode with her was a strong lad who had been eager to help her once she had revealed her identity to him and his kin at their small croft on the eastern edge of the Cheviot Hills. It was no secret that Malcolm’s huge army was camped on the flats just north of Liddel, just as it was no secret that the Norman armies were camped on the gentle slopes just south of Carlisle. Upon leaving the small farm, they had traveled directly west into the hills, using deer trails. Soon they had turned south. There had been some need for caution. The two armies were firmly entrenched and many leagues south of them, but armed Normans and Englishmen, vassals or allies of her husband, were still riding across the land to join forces with him. They did
not dare use the old Roman road, but followed more paths on the hills just above it. Twice Mary and Jamie had to stir their old horses into a gallop and rush off of the trail to hide in a copse of trees or a gully. They had crouched beside their mounts in fright as the fully armed Norman knights pounded by on their big destriers on the road below them, menacing and dangerous. If Mary had not realized how perilous her scheme was before, she certainly realized it now. If she was caught by these knights, not one of them would believe her to be Stephen’s wife. Her fate, and Jamie’s, did not bear thinking about.

The irony of it was vast. Stephen’s troops had become the enemy, when she loved him so dearly.

When the sun was hanging low, the light faded and gray, it was time to leave the old Roman road behind The River Tyne forked south and the two riders forked west, leaving the road and slipping into the woods, earnestly in search of Malcolm’s camp now. Not too many leagues ahead lay Carlisle.

Jamie had a ready wit, which he had used all day to keep Mary distracted from the danger they were in. Now his gap-toothed grin was gone and sweat sheened his fair skin, although it was cold out. Mary perspired as well. Her heart thudded with dread. The Scot army was not far away, but neither was the Norman army, and undoubtedly there would be many patrols out all that night. Both she and the young lad were terrified now at being discovered by a Norman patrol. She still feared a horrible fate, as did he, but more important, capture would mean that her mission had failed—when they were so close to success.

Ten minutes after having left the road, they were challenged by a patrol. The rough Highland burr gave away the scouts as Scots immediately, and Jamie laughed with relief. Mary did, too. Dear God, they had made it! Somehow they had sneaked past hundreds of Norman troops, evading their patrols, and reached safe Scottish territory!

Despite her disguise, Mary was recognized the instant she threw off her cowl, before she could even reveal herself. The big, burly Scotsmen, all on foot and wearing their plaids, were incredulous. No one asked what she was doing there,
but their incredulity had given way to pleased grins. Mary knew what they thought. They thought that she was coming home, a traitor to her husband.

Night was falling rapidly, but Mary could see well enough to be shocked at the size of her father’s camp. Jamie had boasted about its size, boasts based on rumor, and Mary had not believed him. Now she turned to one of the brawny men striding along beside her tired plow horse. “He must have gathered five hundred men! Why, there must be a dozen different clans here! I see the Douglas colors, and the Macdonalds, and the Fergusons, too! They have not supported us in all the years I can remember!”

The big Scot whom she had addressed flashed her a roguish grin, then winked. “Yer da has taken the bit between his teeth, lassie. He’ll win this one, ye can be sure.”

Mary was not sure, but defeat was by no means a glaring probability now. What, she wondered, had Malcolm offered these clans in exchange for their support? And what, dear God, would happen when the Scot army met the Norman one? She was afraid. The destruction would be horrendous, the loss of life on a scale impossible to imagine. Now she understood why Alnwick prepared for a siege. Malcolm’s army was massive enough, forbidding enough, to raise the specter of such a fearsome event.

Now was not a time to be selfish, but Mary could not help from choking on a sudden lump in her throat. She could imagine herself cowering in the solar at Alnwick with the other women while the tower was bombarded with stone and metal missiles and Greek fire, while the walls were being buffeted by heavy battering rams. If she failed to dissuade him from war, would it come to that? Would her father attempt to destroy Alnwick, her husband’s home, even while she remained within its walls?

She must not think so dismally. Mary blinked twice to clear her vision and gazed out upon the panorama of so many weather-stained tents spread out on the rolling green fields ahead. Malcolm’s tent was on a small rise, no bigger or grander than anyone else’s, and Mary saw him immediately. Malcolm squatted before his campfire, surrounded by many powerful lairds, as well as Edward, Edmund, and Edgar.
Mary forgot about her escort, Jamie, and the scouts. She urged the old horse forward. Edgar saw her first. He stared, shocked. Then he ran towards her, a glad cry escaping his lips. Mary dismounted, sliding into his arms. She was glad to see that be had full use of both of them.

He did not hug her. He shook her wildly instead. “By all the saints! What are you doing here, Mary? Why are you not with your husband?”

“And I’m glad to see you, too,” she said tartly, giving him an embrace. He shrugged free. He had never been demonstrative with his affection, thinking it unmanly. Now he was disapproving. “I hope you have a good reason for being here and not at Alnwick, where you belong!”

She looked at his young, stem face. Edgar was never disapproving of her, they had spent their lives defying authority together and defending each other. Mary realized that he might think that she was betraying Stephen, too. “I have only come to have a word with Father. I intend to return to Alnwick this night.”

He gaped. His expression was so boyish, so much like the old Edgar, that she smiled. He opened his mouth to speak, but Edward and Edmund were upon them. “Mary?” Edward was also disbelieving. “How in hell did you get here?”

“More importantly,
why
is she here?” Edmund said.

Mary looked at Edward, saw his concern, and looked at Edmund, saw his distrust. “I must speak with Father.”

“Do you carry a message from your husband?” Edmund asked skeptically. “Does the mighty bastard now hide behind a woman’s skirts?”

Mary clenched her fists, livid. “He would never hide, not from anyone, and especially not from the likes of you!”

Edmund growled, “You show your true colors, sister.”

She flushed. Her defense of Stephen had been automatic, but not diplomatic. “I bring no message from Stephen. He does not know I am here.”

Edmund raised a skeptical brow. Edward looked worried. “Dear God, Mary, why are you here? You shouldn’t have come! There were skirmishes today; we lost three men already, and the fighting has yet to begin! You could have been caught in one of them!”

“I had to come,” Mary said stubbornly. “I must speak with Father.”

“And what is it that is so important that you rode all this way to see me without your husband’s permission?” Malcolm asked.

Mary whirled. Malcolm stood behind her, his face carved in stone, as cold as his tone. He had never addressed her in such a manner before. Her glad cry of greeting died in her throat. She stopped in her headlong rush to embrace him. “Father?”

“I asked you a question.”

Mary drew herself upright. “Might we have a private word?” What was going on?
What was wrong?

“Why? Have you something to hide from your brothers?”

“Why are you speaking to me so coldly?” Mary asked, trembling. “You act as if you’re angry—as if you hate me!”

“I am angry!” Malcolm roared, his deep voice carrying through the night. Men at other tents and fires turned to look at them. “You disobeyed me, and I’ve not forgotten it! Did I not explain to you why I allowed you to marry that bastard in the first place? I could have sent you to France! I could have married you to some old, poor northern laird! But ’twas the perfect opportunity—to have my own daughter married to one of them, well within their midsts.”

Mary was frozen.

“You failed to warn me of Carlisle’s invasion—because of your treachery, Carlisle is lost.”

Mary could not breathe. She felt close to fainting. She wanted, then and there, to die.

“Speak your piece and quickly,” Malcom said. “I have no time now to dawdle. But if you come here as Edmund has suggested, to speak words your husband should bear, do not bother. There shall be no more words between us. The time for words is done. The time for swords has come.”

“I did not betray you,” Mary finally managed. The darkening night blurred her vision, or was it tears? “I took vows, father, vows to obey my husband. ’Twas wrong of you to ask me to break them. ’Twas even more wrong of you to
agree to the marriage thinking to make me a spy from the start.”

Malcolm raised his hand. Mary screamed. Edward and Edgar leapt upon their father, restraining him before he could strike her down. Yet he came to his senses, and panting, he dropped his clenched fist. “You are no more my daughter,” he said harshly.

“Father!” Mary cried out.

“Do you hear me?” Malcolm shouted. “You are no more my daughter!”

“But I love you!”

Malcolm ignored her, livid. “My daughter is a brave, loyal Scottish lass, not one such as you!
You are not my daughter!”

She had been crying, but silently and soundlessly, and now miraculously she stopped. Somehow she straightened her spine, her shoulders. Inside she felt dead. Dead and old—so very old. But her mind wasn’t dead. And in her mind there was her husband’s powerful image. Her father was wrong to disown her, but it did not matter now. She belonged to another, to Stephen de Warenne. “I took vows before God,” she whispered. She heard herself and was surprised that she could sound so calm and dignified when her heart was so shattered, so broken.