Promise of the Rose (45 page)

M
ary raced towards Edinburgh. The night was thickly black and icy cold, promising snow. Clouds of vapor hung in the air, formed by their blowing mounts. The pace of Mary’s escort was relentless. They kept their straining horses at a hard gallop, as if pursued by the Norman army, but in truth both armies were now far behind them. Mary suspected that they were under orders to see her to safety as soon as possible and to rejoin their troops immediately. She could not care. With every pounding hoofbeat that brought her closer to the home of her childhood, Mary was also brought one step closer to her doom.

She was numbed with exhaustion from having ridden all that day and most of that night, but not so numb that she could not still feel the heartbreaking pain of her father’s cruel rejection. But that hardly seemed to matter, considering that her destiny was being wrenched from her own control and set upon a course leading to disaster and heartbreak. Far more important was the fact that she was being sent to Edinburgh. She should be racing towards Alnwick, where she belonged. Alnwick was now her home. She should be there when Stephen returned from war. Instead, she
was being swept deep into the heart of Scotland, into the stronghold of Stephen’s enemies, enemies he would soon be engaged with in mortal combat.

This time, she thought, he would never understand; this time, she knew, he would never forgive her.

She did not want to ride north. As they galloped on, pushing their lathered mounts past the limits of exhaustion, again and again Mary had the urge to suddenly saw hard on the reins and whip her mare around and flee for home. It was insanity. She might be able to elude her escort, but her poor horse would never be able to race all the way back to Alnwick, and even if the brave mare could, it was suicide to ride through the war that would soon begin.

And at dawn, at that time when, some miles to the south, the horns of battle were blowing, the first heavy swords clashing, when the sun was just breaking the ash gray sky with pale slivers of ghostly white light, Edinburgh loomed ahead. The dark, near black burgh of weathered wood and ancient stone was set upon the same precipitous hill as the keep, a steep upthrusting of rocky mountain that had protected the burgh and castle since time immemorial from any would-be invaders. Above the village the fortress of the King of Scotland, as dark and black as the rocky island it sat upon, thrust into the sky. The premonition of doom rushed over Mary again.

They raced through the burgh, past an old woman pushing a cart of firewood, past two boys hawking salted herring, past a pack of scavenging dogs, and up the steep, frozen path to the fortress. The gates were thrown open, and within moments Mary was inside walls that should have been familiar and comforting. Instead, as the portcullis slammed down behind her, her skin tingled alarmingly. The sensation of being locked inside a prison was unmistakable.

But this was not a prison, this was her home, Mary told herself. She could not shake her bleak spirits. Sliding down from her horse, barely able to stand, Mary thanked the two burly men who had been her escort. She did not have to ask after her mother. At this hour Margaret would still be in the chapel celebrating the early morning mass of prime.
Mary hurried to the chapel as fast as her tired body could manage it.

At last, the sight that greeted her was reassuring. The slight, elegant form of Margaret, kneeling before the altar in a moment of private, personal prayer, the mass obviously concluded, brought Mary to a quick halt. She gulped down a deep breath, feeling perilously close to tears. If she needed anyone right now, she thought, she needed her mother. She needed to be able to tell her everything: how Stephen mistrusted her, how she had left Alnwick in the hope of averting a war, and how endangered their marriage now was. She needed to tell her mother, too, about the horrible interview with her father. And she would tell her about the child. Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, Mary impulsively moved forward and sank down beside her mother. Margaret did not acknowledge her, but Mary had not expected her to. She bowed her own head and prayed.

She prayed for a speedy end to the war and she prayed for a lasting peace. She prayed for the safe return of her father and her brothers, and a safe return for Stephen.

She wiped away another tear. She hesitated. It did not seem right to ask God for help with her own problems, not when she had never been devout or obedient before. Yet somehow she saw God as benevolent and understanding, not a deity one bargained one’s good behavior with. She took another breath and made the most important request of all.

“Dear God, please guide Stephen to see the truth,” she whispered aloud. Then she added, “Please let him love me.”

Mary remained kneeling for a long moment, blessedly unthinking, suddenly somewhat unburdened and almost relieved. She realized that she was more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Not moving was welcome. Her body ached from the endless hours she had been in the saddle that day, and her mind was now, finally, numb. Then she saw that her mother was standing. Mary rose also, her muscles protesting the effort.

Mary had her first good look at her mother. Margaret’s eyes were deeply shadowed as if she had spent many sleepless nights, and they were also dark with worry. Mary
gasped, for her mother was not just obviously fatigued, but thinner than she had ever been, and pale enough to make Mary wonder if she had been ill. “Mother.” Mary hugged her. “Have you been sick?”

“No.” There was a catch to Margaret’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been a terrible fool,” Mary confessed. “I tried to convince Father to turn back from this war. And Edward deemed it too dangerous for me to return to Alnwick, so he sent me here instead.”

Margaret took her hand. “Well, I am glad to see you, dear. This time, alone here with just my women, waiting for word—I cannot bear it.” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and her hand, in Mary’s, trembled.

“Mother, what is it?” If her mother had not been ill, then either she was sick now, or terribly distressed.

Margaret’s mouth quivered slightly. “I cannot shake this feeling I have, a terrible feeling of disaster. I have never been so frightened in all of my life.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I am so afraid for Malcolm and my boys.”

Mary squeezed Margaret’s hand, but her own heart was beating heavily, and she recognized the feeling roiling within her as dread. Had she not had the same premonition? “They will be fine, Mother,” she said very brightly. “Malcolm is the greatest warrior in this land, he is invincible; surely you know that. And my brothers are all of the same line. Do not fear. You are worrying yourself needlessly.”

“If only you are right,” Margaret managed listlessly.

Mary had never seen her mother like this before. Queen Margaret was calm by nature, poised and serene, not a woman to be stricken with anxiety to such excess. Mary had wanted to unburden herself and confess all to her mother, but found she could not do so now. Later, she told herself. When the war is over and Father and the boys are on their way home, then I will have all the time in the world to tell her of my problems.

Mary smiled at Margaret with forced cheer. “Let us break the night’s fast, Mother. I don’t know about you, but I am famished.”

Margaret spent the entire day sitting in her chair in the women’s solar by the hearth, her needle moving mechanically over a delicate piece of embroidery, awaiting word of the outcome of the first battle. And when that word came later that evening, amidst a light flurry of snow, it was uplifting—at least for the Scots.

The Scot army had not made any progress in its effort to retake Carlisle, but that no longer seemed significant. For while the Scots and Normans were brutally engaged in Cumbria, another force, led by Malcolm himself, had slipped around Carlisle and into the western reaches of Northumberland—and then into the heart of the fief itself. Alnwick was now under siege.

There was great rejoicing in the hall among the servants and women. Except for Margaret, who did not smile even once, whose face remained a mask of fear. And except for Mary, who was so shocked that she could not remain on her feet. She sank shaking into a chair.

Alnwick was under siege.

Her very first thought was for Isobel and the countess.
Dear God, let them be all right!
Mary closed her eyes, stricken with anguish. The countess was a strong, determined woman. If anyone could hold Alnwick together in the face of this attack, she could. Then Mary realized exactly where her loyalty lay. She had no sympathy for the attackers, only for the besieged. Only for the de Warennes.

And the full implications of what was happening struck Mary fully. Malcolm, her father, had attacked Alnwick—his own daughter’s home. His vengeance knew no bounds.

But she was no longer his daughter, was she? She had been disowned.

Mary looked at the messenger, a short, bulky man who, though tired, was too elated to sit down. He was reassuring Margaret that all was well with Malcolm and her sons. Mary turned to him. “Is it possible that they can take Alnwick?”

The man faced Mary with flashing eyes. “ ’Tis only a matter of time.”

“But you do not have time. When my husband finds out that his home is threatened—he will ride with his men for Alnwick to rescue it.”

The man faced her directly, in the stance of one ready to do battle, with his legs braced apart. “But your husband, Lady de Warenne, is currently engaged in a vicious battle, one he cannot easily leave. And unless someone at Alnwick dares to sneak past your father’s army in the hope of sending de Warenne a message begging for rescue, ’twill be a long time before anyone learns of the siege.” He smiled. “ ’Tis as Malcolm planned.”

Mary was aghast. But the messenger was right. Stephen was in the midst of battle, and no one at Alnwick would have any way of sending him word about their dire straits. If Mary had not been sitting, she would have undoubtedly collapsed.

How clever Malcolm had been.
Mary was furious.

Then Mary became aware of the silence of the hall. Every single person within was staring at her, except for her mother, who gazed unseeingly at the tire. And each and every person there stared at her with loathing and accusation. Mary surged to her feet and fled the room.

That night the snow began to fall heavily, the winds howling so loudly that sleep was impossible. Mary listened to the eerie, horrible sound, trying not to dwell upon what was happening to her family and her home. She thought about her mother, so distraught that she was unquestionably ill, she thought about her brothers, fighting in battle, perhaps even a part of the siege itself. She tried not to think about her father, but that was impossible. He had disowned her, he had attacked Alnwick. For an instant, a wave of hatred washed over her, but then it was gone, and she was weak and exhausted and numb.

Stephen probably had yet to team that she had escaped Alnwick. Mary was hardly relieved. She had made a monumental mistake in fleeing without his permission, she had failed in her mission, and when he learned what she had done, he would be convinced of her treachery. After Edward’s visit to Alnwick, he would think her escape some prearranged scheme; he would think that she had fled from him to his enemy. But the great irony was that in her flight, she had been confronted with the ironclad truth—as much as she loved her kin and country, as much as she loved Scotland,
her home was Alnwick, and her loyalty was owed the red rose of Northumberland.

Mary knew that her very life depended upon convincing Stephen to believe her innocence. And the more time that passed, the more convinced he would be that she had run away from him. Despite his mistrust, she loved him wholly, she belonged to him and she always would, and she wanted to be with him, the way it had been before. If he would exile her, she could not bear it. Too clearly Mary recalled his very explicit threat to do just that. She must return home immediately, yet how could she? How long would this war go on? If Malcolm was successful, she realized with sudden horror, the war would never end. Stephen and his father and the other Normans would fight until they died to avenge the destruction of Alnwick.

Mary sat upright and shivered. She must hope for a speedy end to the war, she realized, which meant she must hope for Malcolm’s defeat. After his terrible rejection, she owed him no loyalty, yet she could not find it in her heart to yearn for his downfall. She had been his daughter for too many years.

Mary listened to the roaring, high-pitched wind. Outside the night was white from the blizzard. Was she insane enough to take a horse and try to return to Alnwick by herself? Did she love Stephen enough to risk her life for him?

Mary swallowed. She was not a madwoman, to venture out into a snowstorm and risk death. But she did love Stephen enough to risk her life for him, if ever she had to. That time had not yet come; hopefully it never would. But Mary knew now that she could not sit idly by and wait for a truce in order to return home, if ever a truce might come. She would wait for the blizzard to end and for the roads to become passable. If the war had not yet ended, she would set out for home by herself. And nothing and no one would stop her.