Promise of the Rose (44 page)

“Vows made to the enemy are meant to be broken! Especially vows made to the likes of Stephen de Warenne.” Malcolm fought for calm. His ruddy face was flushed. He towered over the daughter he had just disowned. “Now, madame, what is it you have to say? Speak quickly and be gone.”

Mary lifted her chin ever so slightly. “I have come to plead with you to end this folly. Please, retreat. Please retreat before hundreds of men die, before this border is awash in innocent blood.”

Malcolm was incredulous. “Your husband did send you! Is he a coward after all? Afraid to face me on the battlefield?” Malcolm laughed. “He knows that this time I canna lose! This time I will win! Never has there been such a Scot army, and victory is ours!”

“But at what price?” Mary whispered.

“No price is too great!” Malcolm cried.

Mary turned away. More silvery tears fell down her cheeks. Someone, Edward, put his arm around her and led her away. Mary told herself that she must not cry. She had failed to avert a war. It had been sheer insanity to think that she could dissuade Malcolm from warfare.

Stephen. How she needed him now. Stephen!
She must return home immediately.
She must return home before he ever found out that she had been gone—before he thought the worst.

   “I will go now, Ed,” Mary said unsteadily sometime later. Her smile was so sad that it brought tears to Edward’s blue eyes. “I was mad to think I could persuade him from his course. Can you get me a fresh horse and an escort?”

Edward tilted her face up, then gripped her arms gently. “Mary, he does not mean it. He cannot understand, or accept, that you owe your loyalty now to de Warenne first. He will get over it. In time.”

She looked at her brother tearlessly. “He has disowned me.”

Edward inhaled. Her too bright gaze and her almost even tone distressed him far more than any shrieking or weeping could. But he knew his brave little sister. She would never descend into such hysterical behavior. Then it occurred to him that he hardly knew her at all anymore. When she had slipped away from Liddel to rendezvous with Doug Mackinnon, she had been a reckless child. The valiant woman who faced him now with a broken heart she attempted to hide was just that, a brave and peerless woman. “He will change his mind. I am sure of it.” He was careful to make certain that she could not see into his eyes, for he was hardly sure of the words he spoke.

Mary pursed her lips and did not speak for some time. “I do not know him, do I?”

Edward stroked her arm. “You have always seen him as a mighty god, but in truth, Malcolm is merely a man. He is not a bad man, Mary, but he has his flaws, as we all do.”

She looked at him and choked.

“If you cry, you will feel better,” Edward said, taking her into his arms.

But she pushed him away. “No. I will not cry.” She sniffled once. “It does not matter. All that matters is that I have failed. There will be a horrible war. Men will die. Perhaps even …” She choked. “Please, God,” she whispered, “not Stephen.”

Edward took her hands. “He is a great knight, Mary; do not fear for him.”

“But I do.” She gazed at him, trembling. “And what will be next? There is no hope for a future of peace between our families, Ed, not now, not once this war begins.”

Edward paused. “I believe in the future, Mary. I believe that it is up to us, the sons, to rectify the wrongs of the fathers, to defy the past.”

“What are you saying? That you think that one day, when you are King, this bloody border warfare will stop?”

“I believe so.”

Mary stared, then she gripped Edward’s hands, hard. “You know something that I do not! I can see it in your eyes! What is it?”

“There is hope,” Edward said after a moment’s hesitation. “There is hope, if Stephen is a man of his word. Is he?”

“Yes.”

“I think so, too.”

“What has he promised you, Ed?” Mary gasped.

“One day, when the time is right, Stephen will support me in my quest for Scotland’s throne.” He paused, then added, “God willing.”

Mary gasped again.

Edward smiled and patted her hand. “So feel better, little sister. All is not lost. Your husband and I will become allies. In time.”

“When was this alliance made?” Mary cried. “How come I was not told?”

Edward laughed. “That’s my Mary! Dear, why in God’s name should you be told of a pledge made in secret between two men?”

“Does Malcolm know?”

“He knows, but he does not think Stephen will keep his word, and he is too inflamed by Carlisle to care much now about the future.” Edward’s tone was somber—sad. “’Twas your bride-price, Mary.”

“Oh, God!” Mary moaned. She covered her face with her hands.

“What is it?” Edward asked, worry rising instantly. Mary was usually indomitable, but tonight, tonight he sensed that she was far from that. Her fragility frightened him.

“I comprehended that I was a political sacrifice,” she finally said in a low whisper. She was crying. “But for you—I would not have minded. How I wish I had known the truth sooner—but now it changes nothing.”

Edward did not know what to say. The secret alliance did not change the fact that Malcolm had so cruelly disowned his daughter on this day, an act Edward feared Malcolm might obstinately refuse to reverse. Malcolm was hardly a reasonable man when he held a grudge. “You love your husband, and that is what matters now, Mary.”

She raised her gaze to his, her eyes shining. “He will do it, you know.” She started to choke on tears again.

“What is disturbing you so greatly, Mary? ’Tis not just Father, is it?”

“I must get home.” Her voice pitched high. “I must get home immediately—before it is too late.”

“Mary,” he began, uncertain of how to continue.

She interrupted, her fingers upon his like claws. “Can you arrange the horse and escort, Ed?
I must leave now!
”

“Mary, I cannot.”

“What?”

“Listen to me,” he said urgently. She was pale with shock. If he had slapped her face, it could not be worse. “You took a terrible chance coming here as you did, on a plow horse escorted by a farmer who carried nothing more than a rusty knife! God’s blood, Mary!”

“I had to try,” Mary said weakly.

Edward saw that she was beginning to shake. “ ’Tis too dangerous to go back now, Mary. Even if I sent you back amidst fifty men. For tomorrow at dawn the battle begins.” He hesitated only slightly, but Mary was so distraught that
she did not notice. He decided to say nothing about Malcolm’s plans for Alnwick, but he would not send her there, not now. “You must trust me. ’Tis too dangerous, and I will not send you back.”

“I see,” Mary said faintly. Her voice was barely audible. Edward worried that she was close to fainting—a feat he would have never dreamed his boyish sister capable of. But she did not faint. She stood, unsteadily. “I understand,” Mary repeated. She tried to smile but failed. “ ’Tis only a delay. When all is finished, I will go home.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed. But he looked at her strangely, his heart wrenching even though he knew it was as it should be. “When it is all over, you can go home, Mary.” And he trembled, unable not to feel sad. Mary no longer belonged to Scotland.

“I am suddenly very tired. Should I sleep in your tent?”

“Good God, no! I am afraid you will not sleep this night, Mary. I will not allow you to stay here in our camp. I am sending you to Edinburgh, where you will be safe.”

And Mary turned deathly white.

   That same night, just a few miles away but several hours later, Stephen lay upon his pallet, unable to sleep. Soon it would be dawn. Yet he had only just gone to bed, for he had been in a counsel of war. His father and his brothers had been present amongst the dozen magnates who would lead the Norman troops. As always, Rolfe’s military stratagems were indispensable, while Geoffrey was commanding Canterbury’s forces, Brand a captain of the royal troops. Prince Henry had also attended, for he had been persuaded to field his own Norman mercenaries in the name of his brother, the King. And the King, a shrewd general himself, had come to command them in this time of war.

Everyone was fully aware that the army they faced on the morrow was far greater than any Malcolm had ever before assembled. The coming war would be the bloodiest waged in years, and perhaps, just perhaps, victory might elude them.

Stephen wondered if the peace he so dearly sought might ever be obtained upon the border. It did not seem likely, it seemed like a dream. Stephen’s regret was vast.

But this time it was also bitter. For if ever a real peace ruled the land, there might be a real peace between him and his wife.

Stephen was angry. Their relations should not hang in the balance of war and peace. She owed him her loyalty and love whether or not he fought in battle, and regardless of with whom. And because his responsibilities were such a great burden, he needed her. Never before in his life had he allowed himself to feel such a need for anyone, to admit to such a need. He was only a mortal man, hardly invincible. He needed his wife standing beside him in all matters great and small. But she did not stand beside him, she stood behind him—with a dagger poised at his back.

Mary had tried to send him to the enemy, into a trap. It would take more than this lifetime to forget it.

He regretted allowing her the rope to hang herself. God, he did.

He regretted falling in love with her. He regretted loving her now.

How had his life come to this?

He was hardly strong, and it was his own secret. He was weak, in love with a woman who had tried to deceive, outwit, and betray him numerous times. How could there be so much pain when there was love? How could he withstand this torment for the rest of his life?

If only… He was not a man to waste his time in idle dreams, but the haunting refrain came to him, not for the first time.
If only she were as she seemed.
He could forgive her anything if he could but trust her.

Which he knew he could not.

He laughed aloud, once, the sound pain-filled, echoing harshly in the dead silence of the night. He had almost believed her last night. He had wanted to believe her. And that was why Mary had become so very dangerous.
He had wanted to believe her sincere.
And for a moment he had.

Which was insanity.

And he still wished to trust her.
Stephen closed his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should consider, again, the very minute possibility that Mary’s words had been honest last night. Stephen knew that Mary saw Malcolm only as a
daughter should, as a hero, not as the man he truly was. She had no idea that her father was a ruthless liar and an ambitious cheat. She could not know that he broke his word as often as the wind changed its course. She could not know that Malcolm loved war and revenge far more than he could ever love peace.

Stephen could not be unkind in this instance. He hoped the day never came when she learned the truth.

And of course, although Stephen knew Malcolm for exactly what he was, he did respect him. He was a dangerous opponent, for he was a clever man as well as a strong leader. Had he not been ruthless, dishonest, and self-serving, he would have never united the ever-warring Scot clans into one nation, then kept them under his heel for thirty-five long years. As a King, Malcolm was without peer.

But such a leader would never harken to his daughter’s wish for peace, especially not when it came from the mouth of his sworn enemy.

Stephen tightened his fists. Here was the real danger that Mary poised to him. He knew better than to believe that she had sought for him to go to Malcolm and convince him to seek peace instead of war, knew it with every breath he took, yet he lay awake in the night, succumbing to her charm, even from afar. He was only a heartbeat away from choosing to believe the best of her, instead of the worst.

If he continued in this vein, surely, one day, she would destroy him.

Stephen stood and walked outside. The night was very cold, and his breath made puffs of vapor in the air; he welcomed the chill. It was cloudy, too, and tomorrow might well bring snow instead of rain. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. He would not think about Mary anymore. There was just too much pain.

Stephen stilled, listening. Someone was approaching through the shadows. He realized that it was his father. It was too early for Rolfe to be up, and his father was an old campaigner, one fully capable of deep sleep just before battle. Foreboding filled Stephen. He could only be bringing bad news.

Rolfe paused. “I have just received a messenger from Alnwick.”

Stephen’s jaw clenched. It could not have anything to do with his wife, he told himself.
It could not.

“Your wife is gone.”

“Gone?”

Rolfe explained that Mary had disguised herself as a peasant lad and had escaped Alnwick. Stephen’s shock was so great that he did not hear any more. It was so great that he reeled, causing his father to reach out in order to steady him. But Stephen was not aware of Rolfe.

She had left him.

Mary had run away, to her family, to Scotland. On the eve of war, she had left him, proving her treachery once and for all.

His wife had left him.

And something in his heart died a little, then something else, powerful and consuming, roared to life.

“Stephen?” Rolfe asked.

He did not answer. He could not. Instead, Stephen felt the fury, and he welcomed it.