Promise of the Rose (53 page)

“Why do you cry thus?” he asked harshly. “I am sorry, so sorry, if I have hurt you so.”

She clung to him tightly. It was a long time before she could be coherent. “I have lost my mother, my father, my brother, and I almost l-lost y-you. And you ask me why I cry?”

Stephen was silent, trying to be strong, but in truth thoroughly undone. He continued to stroke her and hold her. Gruffly he said, “I am sorry Mary, I am sorry about Malcolm and Margaret and Edward. I wanted to punish you, but never did I wish to see you suffer so for the loss of those you love. I have always been sorry—there was just not the circumstance to tell you.”

She needed to tell him. “Malcolm disowned me. When I went to him and asked him to—to stop the war—he t-told me—he t-told me …” She could not continue. She collapsed against Stephen’s chest. She gripped him hard, as she would a lifeline.

“What did he tell you?” Stephen managed, ashen.

“That I—that I was not his daughter anymore. That his daughter was a brave Scottish lass, not one as I!”

Stephen cursed Malcolm and held his wife, rocking her. “You are a brave Scottish lass, Mary, the bravest I have ever known.” He tilted her tear-streaked face up to his. “Did you really go to him to ask him to stop the war?”

Mary looked at him. “I was not running away from you. I swear it, Stephen.”

Stephen pressed her head back to his chest and closed his eyes. Once again, he wanted to believe her. He supposed it was possible. If any woman had the daring and audacity to confront a King and attempt to dissuade him from war, that woman would be Mary. And did he have a choice? He had fought her for so long—he just could not continue to do so. He had fought his love for so long, but now he had identified it, realizing it would never leave him be. He could not be the cause of such suffering on her part. She needed him. She had needed him for some time. And he had not been there for her. Stephen was sick at the thought. Dear God, if he had known how he was hurting her, he would have never sent her away. If he had known how she suffered, he would have gone to her immediately. “It does not matter,” he finally said. “What matters is that you are my wife, and you carry my child, and that I cannot live apart from you.”

Mary stared, stunned. “You cannot live apart from me?”

“Not happily.”

“Stephen,” she whispered. “Does this mean you will forget the past?”

“I am not a man who can forget easily,” Stephen said honestly, gravely. “But I am giving us a third chance. We shall start over from this day, Mary.”

Mary blinked up at him, her tears finally subsiding. It seemed miraculous, as if Stephen himself was healing her, for the anguish, the real physical pain which had been searing her breast, had diminished to a dull throb, one she could very well live with. Indeed, there was genuine joy coming forth from somewhere deep in her soul, joy that threatened to displace much of the grief.

He gazed at her steadily. “Promise me, here and now, on the life of the child, that you will not imperil our marriage again. I must believe that I can trust you, Mary.”

“You can trust me. I will never disobey you again, Stephen,” Mary vowed.

And finally, Stephen’s expression eased. His mouth quirked. “I do not dare to hope for such respect, madame. Acting with care and circumspection is enough.”

And Mary smiled broadly, snuggling against him. She had won. Stephen was hers again.

R
ufus had just returned from a day of successful hunting, and he was in high spirits. As he descended from his private chambers to the Great Hall, he threw his arm around Duncan, who was at his side. “Undoubtedly today was an omen,” he told his longtime friend. “We shall snag far greater prey soon.”

“I am counting on it,” Duncan said tersely. These days he could hardly smile, he was so tense and anxious. Although the King had only hinted to him of his plans, Duncan had heard enough hearsay to know that soon, very soon, a great Anglo-Norman army would march north to depose Donald Bane and Edmund. He craved the position at that army’s head—and then upon Scotland’s throne.

Rufus ambled through the hall, which was overflowing with courtiers, pausing repeatedly to exchange words with his favorites. His eyes widened and his spirits lifted even more when he saw a dear and familiar face at his table, close to and just below the dais, a face he so rarely saw. Although Stephen had remained in London since the New Year, when he had escorted the three sons of Malcolm
Canmore to their fate, he rarely came to the Tower, and then only when his personal presence was necessary or summoned.

Rufus stared at his handsome profile for a beat longer than necessary. With reluctance he dragged his gaze from Northumberland’s heir and marched through the crowd, which gave way to him immediately, no longer dispensing any conversation.

“Sit with me,” Rufus said amiably to Duncan. Together they climbed the dais. Rufus’s gaze strayed unerringly to Stephen again. His smile died instantly.

Stephen was feeding his wife a morsel of lamb.

It was only polite, of course, for him to do so. But there was nothing polite about the way he stared at her, or about the way his eyes smoked and his nostrils flared. Indeed, even from this distance, Rufus could smell the scent of his arousal.

He looked at Mary. Her face was full, her breasts big, disgusting. Undoubtedly if she stood, she would waddle and resemble a cow. A woman in her condition should not be out in public, and he was infuriated to have to tolerate her in his hall. Not only that, he knew, beyond any doubt, that Stephen had been bedding her since his damn stupid brother had brought her to London, and that he would do so again. From the look on his face, he would probably plow her the moment they left his table.

Duncan followed his gaze. “Amazing, the power my little half sister holds over that man. Amazing—and dangerous.”

Rufus looked at him. “She indeed poses a threat to you, dear Duncan.”

“We have never spoken of it, you and I, Sire. But do you think de Warenne covets Scotland?”

Rufus shrugged. In truth, he was almost certain the man did not, but he had an interest now, one he wanted served. “He can never claim the throne himself, my friend, but of course, what man would not want to see his son crowned? De Warenne is like his father, ambitious and determined in the extreme.” Purposefully Rufus did not finish his thoughts.

“Perhaps the brat she bears will die.”

Rufus laid a restraining palm upon Duncan. “We need
Stephen, Duncan; never forget that. He must support us in our efforts to regain Scotland for you.”

Duncan flushed with exultation at hearing the King speak so openly of his fondest dream. And his mind raced forward. Did he dare remove the threat that Mary and her child posed to him and his ambition? He feared her child more than he did her three young brothers, more than he had ever feared her. He could imagine, too well, Stephen declaring himself a Prince Regent.

“Clearly I have erred in arranging the match,” Rufus said in a low voice. “Perhaps there will come a time to rectify the matter. Perhaps, when you are secure upon the throne …” Rufus trailed off.

Duncan said nothing.

Rufus loudly demanded his wine.

And the meal continued as if the pact had never been made. But Duncan had just been given royal sanction to do what he must to insure that Stephen de Warenne’s ties to Scotland’s throne were severed once and for all.

   “Why do we return to Alnwick now, so suddenly?” Mary asked as Stephen ordered his squire to prepare for their immediate departure. The lad ran from the chamber. “What passes, that we must leave this very day?” Her voice was high.

It was early May. Mary had been at Court for four weeks, but she was not bored. She was too busy rediscovering her husband’s body, his smiles, his kindness.

Stephen faced her slowly. “I would prefer you bear the child at Alnwick, Mary. As I must return immediately, ’tis ideal for me to escort you to Northumberland.”

“But you have not answered my question, my lord!” Mary cried, panicked. For there had been rumors circulating about the Court, rumors she could not help hearing. Rumors, Edgar had told her bitterly, that Rufus was going to attempt to put Duncan on Scotland’s throne. But such rumors could not be true.

“You do not wish to go home? You wish to bear our child here in the midst of summer? London is not so pleasant then.”

Home.
Mary tested the word in her mind. Her heart warmed at the thought of returning to Alnwick and giving birth to their child there. But… all was not innocence. Or there would not be this rush to leave. “I will deliver our babe wherever you tell me to,” Mary said earnestly. “The choice of Alnwick suits me, Stephen, of course it does. But will you not answer my question?”

He was grave. “I go to war, Mary.”

Mary cried out. She had known it. She had known with some shrewd sixth sense that the damnable rumors were true, and that Stephen would be at the head of the army that would invade Scotland and depose her uncle and her traitorous brother. She could not believe that Stephen would break the vow he had given her father, to see his eldest son upon the throne. Edmund had betrayed the family, and Ethelred was a priest, so that left Edgar. Edgar must be Scotland’s next King!

And if such a sickening circumstance were not enough, fear consumed her. ’Twas only six months ago that she had lost her parents and brother because of war, and she had yet to stop grieving. Indeed, there were mornings when she awoke consumed with soothing dreams in which they were all together, when she forgot that they were dead. On those mornings she expected to see her mother smiling at her and standing there at the foot of her bed. It was the most dark, grievous moment when the cobwebs of sleep were cleared from her brain and she was struck by rude reality. That her mother, her brother, her father, would never be with her again. She could not help being afraid for Stephen now. She had lost those dearest to her in one war, she could not bear to lose Stephen in another one. She would not be able to live without him. “Do not go,” she heard herself say. Stephen’s jaw tightened. “Do not speak like a fool.”

Mary closed her eyes. “How can you do this?”

“The King is determined to depose Donald Bane.”

Mary stared, blinking at tears. “You despise your King. Must you follow him always?”

Stephen’s tone was as sharp as the point of his sword. “Madame, I am his vassal, and as you have sworn to uphold and follow me, I have sworn to uphold and follow him.”

She walked away from her husband. She knew she had just angered him even more by turning her back on him with such obvious displeasure, for his breath hissed as he drew it in, but she could not care. Her growing belly had made her somewhat swaybacked now, and unconsciously she rubbed the aching muscles at her spine. She stared out of the window, noticing the profusion of blue wildflowers in the meadow without interest. She was well aware that she must tread carefully. She must not interfere in her husband’s affairs. It had almost destroyed them once.

“Would you really have me disobey my King, Mary, to whom I have sworn fealty on bended knee?” Stephen asked tersely.

Mary could not lie. “You uphold your oath to your King, but what of the oath you made to my father—my King?”

Stephen was at once both disbelieving and furious. “I beg your pardon?”

Mary inhaled. “What of the promise you made, the sworn promise, to put Edward upon Scotland’s throne?”

Stephen stared.

Mary cried, “Surely you would not default on such a pledge now! Surely you intend to launch Edgar, not Duncan!”

He advanced towards her, only to stop in the center of the room. His countenance was thunderous.
“Did I not make myself clear when we reconciled?”

Mary lifted her chin. She had gone too far and she knew it, but she could not retreat. The fate of all three of her brothers hung in the balance. They might be treated as exalted guests now, but they were royal prisoners, nothing more. They had nothing to their names, not a single coin, not a single estate, nothing but the clothes upon their backs, Rufus’s goodwill, and Stephen’s pledge. “Yes, you did,” she whispered. “But I am your wife. Your cares are mine. I do not mean to upset you, only we must—”

“‘
We’?”

Tears filled Mary’s eyes.

“There is no
we
—not in matters politic.”

She blinked back the tears, telling herself it was because of the child; she cried so frequently these days. “What of Edgar?” she heard herself whisper.

Stephen’s eyes were black, his jaw rigid. “I do not even want to know how you have discovered my most secret pledge, Mary.”

“Edward told me,” Mary whispered, “the night before he died.”

Stephen’s expression changed in an instant—from anger to sympathy. “Edward would have been a great King.”

“Edgar will be a great King!”

“You tread dangerously, madame, into the affairs of men.”

Recklessly Mary cried, “Can you justify deposing one monster in order to crown another, my lord? Can you?”

Stephen was incredulous—then furious. “You dare to question my actions? My integrity?”