Promise of the Rose (49 page)

She looked up at the sky. It was a pale, washed out blue, but it was blue nevertheless, and the sun was a bright, clear yellow. Mary smiled. It was sometime in March, and now she could smell spring in the air. She took a deep breath. Her depression lifted in that moment. She had survived a long, dark, and dreary winter, and suddenly she was filled with hope. Spring meant renewal and rebirth. At the very least she could look forward to pleasant days and, with summer’s advent, the birth of her child. How her heart leapt at the thought.

And it could not be very long now before Stephen would come.

   “Riders, my lady!”

Mary looked up from the dais where she sat alone at her noon meal. She dropped her knife. “Riders?”

“They’re too far off for me to make them out, but ’tis a goodly sized contingent, flying a banner, my lady,” the man said. He had just come running in from the single watchtower and was breathless.

Mary did not move, but her heart thundered so hard, she was faint. ’Twas Stephen. She knew it. Oh, God, she knew it. She was filled with elation, with excitement and fear. Oh, God, she must do everything right! She must win him back!

Mary lurched to her feet. She was five months pregnant, but as her build was so small to begin with, her condition was still not obvious while she was fully clothed. Of course, he would notice that she had gained weight immediately; her face was fuller, her breasts heavier. Suddenly Mary was
doubly afraid. What if she was no longer as pretty as she had been?

She fled up the stairs and to her room to check her clothes and pat every hair back into place beneath her wimple. Then she froze. Stephen so loved her hair. Married women did not wear it unbound, but it was her glory now that she had lost her figure. Mary hesitated … She would let it down. With a banging heart, her hands shaking, she quickly unpinned and unbraided it. It fell in a riotous, brilliant, sun gold mass past her waist. If Mary was sure of one thing, it was that her hair had never looked better. Yet her hands still trembled while she quickly brushed it.

Mary was so nervous now that she felt sick. She had heard the men entering the hall below. Mary tried to take a few deep breaths. Oh, God. What if he still hated her?

Mary paused at the door to her chamber and said a quick, brief prayer. Then she straightened her shoulders and held her head high. She slid the heavy door open, paused, then went slowly down the stairs.

She entered the hall and stopped. Her eyes widened in disbelief. There was a man sitting at the table, but it was not Stephen. Instead, on the dais as if he were Tetly’s lord, Prince Henry lounged. And when he saw her he smiled, and in that smile was all of his intent. As he had promised that dark, solitary night out upon the ramparts at Alnwick, he had come to her in her exile.

   Mary stared. Henry stared back. His regard was amused in response to her shock, and it wandered over her, going first from her face and then to her hair and finally down her body. When he looked back at her, his gaze had become intense. “How beautiful you are,” he said.

Mary’s heart lurched in dread.

His gaze moved to her voluptuous breasts, which strained the fabric of her tunic. “You have never been more beautiful, Mary,” the prince said.

Mary’s heart slammed. She came to life, regretting her foolish action in letting her hair down. But it was too late now. Pale, frightened, and resolved to send Henry on his way—after she had learned of Stephen’s whereabouts and
doings—she slowly came forward. “Good day, my lord,” she said with a slight curtsy. “This is a surprise.”

He waved her up, then took her hand and helped her ascend the dais. Mary instantly slipped her palm tree of his. His gaze was again amused. “Why have I surprised you?” he asked. “Did I not tell you I would come to you in your exile?”

Dread again washed over Mary. But with outward calm she sat down beside him. “It is very kind of you to come visit me in such a lonely time,” she said, refilling his cup of wine. “But I find it hard to believe that kindness was your sole motivation. Tetly is out of the way for all travelers.”

“Indeed, it is isolated and forsaken. What a dreadful place! But you appear to be faring more than well. You glow, Mary. Are you so happy apart from your husband, then?” Henry sipped his wine, but his eyes never left hers.

Mary turned to face him. “I am not happy apart from Stephen, my lord. I love him. I long for the day when he will forgive me and call me back to his side.”

Henry smiled. “I do not think that day shall ever come, Mary. You betrayed him, and he is not a man who ever forgives his enemies.”

“I am not his enemy. I am his wife.”

“A dangerous combination. A fatal combination, as he well knows.”

Mary looked away, angry. She forced herself to be calm. This was her first visitor all winter, and she was determined to learn of Stephen and her brothers and Scotland. They’d had no news these past few months, none at all. “How is he?”

“He is well.”

That told Mary nothing. “And… my brothers?”

“They are well, also. They are enjoying William Rufus’s hospitality. Edmund, of course, enjoy’s Scotland’s throne, with your uncle Donald Bane.”

Mary said nothing, for the news that her brothers were now royal prisoners was hardly surprising.

Henry eyed her. “You are so calm. Did you know that Stephen is there, as well? He has been there for most of the winter.”

Mary could hardly believe it. Stephen hated the Court. Her brothers had been summoned there, and Stephen had undoubtedly escorted them, but she could not understand why Stephen had remained as well. “What is Stephen doing there?” she asked cautiously.

Mary had tried very hard these past few months not to think about what her husband might be doing to take care of his very virile needs while apart from her, and she had been successful. No more. There were so many beautiful women at Court with the morals of whores. Mary thought that she could bear his using a whore—prostitutes were dirty and ugly, and a man’s use of one was impersonal. But she could not stand the idea of his bedding a beautiful lady, and if he had been at Court for so long, he would not solicit whores.

“There is little to do at Alnwick in the long winter months, as you must know. I imagine he is amusing himself with all sorts of intrigues,” Henry said blandly.

Mary looked at him. He was cruel. She knew he was not referring to political intrigue. And suddenly she had had enough.

She was Stephen’s wife. This estrangement had gone on for far too long. If Stephen had taken another woman as his mistress, she would vent a fury such as he had never seen. She could imagine him entwined with Adele Beaufort. It was a horrible thought. She was his wife. If he had needs, he could sate himself on her.

“What of Adele Beaufort?”

“She married Ferrars in February,” Henry said with a grin. “Not that that stops her from her wicked pursuits.” His grin widened. “She has not left the Court, either.”

Mary’s bosom heaved. Was Henry insinuating that Adele and Stephen had resumed their relationship? Impulsively she leaned forward. “Take me with you when you leave. I wish to go to Court and join my husband there.”

Henry’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “How much gall you have! I cannot bring you with me, Mary, although it would almost be worth it to see the look on Stephen’s face when you arrived. But he has exiled you, and rightly so. If I were your husband, I would have put you away in a convent for the rest of your days.”

“But you are not my husband, are you?” Mary’s tone was tart.

“No.” Henry leaned close. “And your husband is not here.” He smiled at her. “The winter must have been long and hard for you.” “Not as long nor as hard as you would like,” Mary said coldly. “I am not interested in your attentions, my lord. Despite all that has passed, I love my husband and I shall remain faithful to him.”

“Even when I tell you he is not faithful to you?”

God, how those direct words hurt. “Even so.”

“I think I admire you, madame,” Henry said. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. But his eyes gleamed.

   That night, Mary could not sleep. Henry’s words haunted her. She ached with hurt over Stephen’s infidelity. She kept imagining him with the beautiful, immoral Adele Beaufort, who must now be Adele le Ferrars. Mary tried to think of a way to escape Tetly and go to Court, to reclaim her husband and her position as his wife. But escape from Tetly was impossible. The only way out was through the front gates, and she was expressly forbidden past them. Had Henry come with a wagon, she would attempt to hide in it as it left, but he had not. Mary tossed in her bed, finally turning onto her side. The only thing she could do was to send a letter with Henry. Surely the self-serving prince would deliver a missive to Stephen for her.

Mary stiffened. Through the racket of the roaring wind and the distant thunder of the surf breaking on the shore, Mary thought she had heard the creak of a wood door. Henry had the only other chamber on this topmost floor, and by now he must be fast asleep. She strained to hear, and thought it came again. Surely Henry was asleep, and there was no one else on this floor to be creeping about. Mary’s pulse raced. But when the wind finally quieted for a moment, when there was only the soft, lulling sound of the waves beating the shore far below the keep at the base of the cliffs, she was reassured, for she heard nothing.

But only for a moment. In the next heartbeat Henry had slid into bed behind her with a chuckle, pressing his long,
aroused body against hers, holding her close. Mary gasped in shock.

“Don’t be surprised, sweet,” Henry murmured, rubbing his distended groin against her bare buttocks. With one hand he fondled her full breasts. “I know you must yearn for a man.”

Mary could not reply. Henry, thank God, had yet to undress for bed, but she was stark naked. And—dear lord—it had been so very long since she had felt a man’s touch, and her own body was so starved that the feel of him had sent her pulses rioting. She loved Stephen, but Henry was a virile man, and her body knew it.

“You are hot,” Henry said thickly, squeezing her breast gently and toying with her nipple. “God, I knew it.” He kissed her neck.

Mary recovered her sanity. “Get out of my bed! Get out of my bed—this instant!”

“You want it,” he returned, rubbing himself lazily against her.

Mary closed her eyes, wishing it were Stephen lying there with her, then in the next breath cursing him for leaving her like this, so she might be in such a situation. And for one second, she allowed herself to feel the sensations stealing across her body. Then she took a deep breath—and jammed her elbow into Henry’s rib cage with all of her might.

He gasped. Mary scrambled to her hands and knees. Henry made an angry sound. He jerked her abruptly back down on her belly, hard.

Mary cried out as he came down on top of her, fumbling with his braies. “The babe, damn you! You’ll hurt my babe!”

Henry froze. An instant later he had lifted himself off of her, his hand on her protruding belly. He froze again.

Mary scrambled out from under him and off of the bed.

Henry sat up. “God’s blood,” he said, clearly shaken.

Mary stood before the fire, looking wildly around for a weapon. Her eyes settled upon the poker. She grabbed it and held it up threateningly.

Henry stared at her. His gaze focused instantly on her round, obviously pregnant belly. Then he looked at the vee
between her thighs and at her quivering breasts. He sat up straighter. “There’s no need for that,” he said dryly. “Rape was never my intention.”

“It was not?” Mary asked, her voice high and cracked. She began to shake. She did not care what he said. The prince had almost raped her.

Henry’s answer was to slide from the bed and light a taper. He held it up, looking at her again. “Stephen doesn’t know.” His voice had changed, all the dryness gone—it was cold and hard. It was the voice of a displeased aristocrat.

Mary realized that she was naked. She set the poker down and whipped a fur from the bed, wrapping it quickly around herself. She forced herself to be calm, to meet the prince now carefully, in full possession of all her wits. “No, Stephen does not know.”

“Is it his?”

Mary bristled. “Yes, my lord, ’tis Stephen’s.” Her voice was a hiss. “I have never lain with another man, and I never will.” Tears suddenly blurred her gaze. “No matter how hungry my body might be.”

Henry was grim. “ ’Tis his right to know.”

Mary was in agreement, but she froze. Her only hope of seeing Stephen lay in his thinking her not pregnant, so that he would come to get her with child. Of course, what had happened with Henry would happen with him. The minute he got her tunic off, he would see that she was already with child—if he did not guess as much before. But at least he would be there with her, face-to-face. She must confront him; it was her only chance of righting their relationship. But if Henry told him she was already with child, he would send her away as he had promised to do. Mary was stricken with a horrible thought. A scene flashed through her mind that was far worse than anything that had already happened to her: giving birth to her babe and having it taken away from her while she remained behind, locked up in a cloister in France, forever. “You cannot tell him!”

“I shall tell him. He must know immediately!”

“What a fine friend you are!” Mary spat. Tears came. She hated to beg, but beg she would. “Please, let me tell him.”

“When? After the child is born?” Henry was sarcastic.

“No.” It occurred to her that the solution to her dilemma—the answer to her prayers—had just arrived. “I asked you before, but for a different reason. Now I ask you again.
Take me with you.
I will tell him the moment I see him. Please. ’Tis my right.”

Henry stared. Mary could not discern what was going on in his mind; his eyes were opaque and unreadable. Yet finally he nodded.

Mary swooned with relief. She was going to Court—to Stephen. To tell him of the child, and to fight for her life.

Part Five
Promise of the Rose